Diamond Play, Part Deux

For those who weren't up late last night, you probably didn't see the Thursday blog. Due to an insane work day, I was unable to bring the funny during normal office hours, and therefore had to wait until 11 pm. The point being is I did slide it in before the clock struck 12, keeping my consecutive weekday con blog streak alive since inception, now 69 days and running. So before you are graced by the Big 7-0, scroll down to read yesterday's post. This one will make a helluva lot more sense. Go on, I'll wait.

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Oh, your're back? Good. Without any additional attempts at unneccessary exhibitions of verbosity, (Damn.) I give you the Curses of the National League.

(Why did that sound like I am selling a calendar? Oh well.)

New York Mets (1986) - The timing doesn't seem quite right on this one, but the Shea-faithful are knee deep in the Curse of the McCarver. Tim McCarver, the color analyst for Fox's World Series coverage, was once the Mets radio broadcaster. As a result, many of the players have slammed their head against the dugout concrete due to some of his enlightenments, putting any postseason success completely out of focus. McCarver: "One thing about groundballs, they go out of the ballpark." Huh???

San Diego Padres (1969) - The Curse of the Missing Savior. The Padres, because of their name, have always had strong ties to the clergy. And while priests everywhere spend hours in prayer concerning the Second Coming of the Son of God, the Padres' front office are signing free agents who, well, just aren't in the same league as Jesus. While you were busy signing Phil "Career Underachiever" Nevin to a long-term deal, the Sox found Christ and put him in centerfield.

Montreal Expos (1969) - This is a Curse of Mistaken Identity. Apparently Canada didn't realize they had a baseball team in Quebec. Local sports equipment outfitters didn't realize there was more to sport than hockey, and since the club's inception 35 years ago, the Expos have been stepping to the plate with the finest bats CCM can make. (Makes Andre Dawson even more impressive.)

Cincinnati Reds (1990) - Attention People of Ohio: Just because Chris Sabo went the way of Spuds Mackenzie doesn't mean you're team isn't cursed. Back in 1991, then-owner Marge Schott attending the annual owners meeting in Palm Beach. Steinbrenner, also in attendence, challenged her to America's favorite dice game, Yahtzee. As a bet, Schott put up her dog, Schottsee, while Steinbrenner countered with minor league prospect Derek Jeter. Sadly for Reds fans, when 5 threes came out of cup, Schott cried, "Schotzee!" instead of "Yahtzee!" and Steinbrenner took the canine pride of Cincy.

Florida Marlins (2003) - Just last year, the Marlins shocked the world with a 74 year old manager who took a wild card team to a world championsip. In the off season, the Marlins fought a bout with the Curse of Some Bad Chinese. They ordered the Hee Sop Choi.

San Francisco Giants (1954) - The Curse of McCovey Cove sure sounds like a Hardy Boys casefile, if you ask me. If that's the case, if they ever want to win again, Barry Bonds needs to figure out if Joe Hardy was really that witty, or just firing off quips as a sense of insecurity and inferiority in relation to Frank. I've always wondered this.

Chicago Cubs - (1908) - The longest drought in the majors, eclipsing cross-town the Comiskeyites by 9 years. In 2003, Sammy Sosa was found with a corked bat. In 1908, there was no such thing as a corked bat. But there was a borked cat. (I actually have no idea what this means, but I think it sounds funny. Ooh, shiny!)

Colorado Rockies - (1993) - For those in Denver, the Curse of the Elway has stricken their bats with no hope of ever playing in October. My theory is this: a sports city is allotted a set amount of karma when it comes to that little bit of edge that gets a team over the top. John Elway, former quarterback of the Denver Broncos, sucked the karma marrow out of the Mile-High City in order to win a Super Bowl in his last year in the NFL. This was great for the Broncos, especially since Terrell Davis fell victim to the Chunky Soup Curse the following year. This was terrible for the Rockies, who now have to deal with the thin air's effect on visiting hits all by themselves.

Pittsburgh Pirates (1979) - In 1979, Pittsburgh last found themselves hoisting the trophy in October. One month later, Steeltown's newest resident was tiny Sicilian infant named Liz Grimm. In the name of Andy Van Slyke, it appears it's on the shoulders of Grimm to lead the Bucs back to the promised land. Too bad she's living in DC. Simply hateful.

Houston Astros (1962) - We all remember 'em. Back in the 1980s, when the 'Stros had their best chance of overcoming the odds (and the Mets), the longest running musical in Houston was "Nolan Ryan and the Amazing Technicolor Away Jerseys." After the 86 Series, the show was cancelled, and so were their postseason dreams.

Philadelphia Phillies (1980) - It's been 24 long years since the Fightin's have had reason to celebrate. We've survived the Steve Jeltz era, Veterans Stadium, Rich Kotite sharing our home venue, John Kruk's violent eating rampages, and Pat Burrell's singing career, "I got a Huge Hole, in My Swing." If that's not curse after curse, I don't know what is.

Milwaukee Brewers (1969) - Never won, never will. Drunks.

Los Angeles Dodgers (1988) - There's this episode of the critically-acclaimed hit sitcom "Saved By the Bell" where Zack skips school to go to a Dodger game on a Jewish holiday. (Smith is putting in that ep right now.) Jesse's stepbrother Eric catches him in the act (no thanks to Screech) and a two-part episode is born. I contend that had Zack not been caught (by a New Yorker, no less), the boys in blue would have won three straight titles in the late 90s.

Arizona Diamondbacks (2001) - You guys have a freaking hot tub over the center field wall. It's not like you are even trying anymore! Rumor has it that in a homestand against the Dodgers, Milton Bradley slipped some mayonaise into the jet stream of said tub, making anyone in a 50 yard radius violently ill. (So that's why Steve Finley wanted to be traded. Ohhh...)

Atlanta Braves (1995) - Sure, it's only been 9 years, but it's more than just the declining skill of Chipper Jones that's keeping them out of the record books in the 21st Century. Turns out that the Tomahawk Chop put the entire Hotlanta fan base in the operating room to get Tommy John surgery. Home games just haven't been the same since.

St.Louis Cardinals (1982) - Congratulations, guys. The Bambino has just moved to the Show-Me State.

Diamond Play

I know this needs about to be about the World Series. I know this needs to be about the Boston Red Sox. I know this was so anti-climactic...

One thing I do know is that last week I beat the Washington Post to the punchline. If you recall (or more likely, scroll down to last week's post), you'll see that I used my creative bone to coin the phrase Greenmonsters, Inc. Part Pixar flick, part Fenway monolith, it seemed like a rare original thought from Condon. Three days later, the Post led with a Monsters, Inc. headline in the sports section with a picture of Derek Lowe and Bronson Arroyo standing in front of the most famous left field wall in the bigs. Do you think they read the blog?

If so, please tell Stephen Hunter to take a flying leap off the balcony at his local cineplex.

Here's one more story you're not going to find the Post breaking: Boston's Curse may have been reversed, but other hexes still lurk in the dugouts of Major League Baseball. That's right, Babe Ruth may have faded off into the sunset, but there's there's still some supernaturality in the batting circles of the other 29 pro teams. Somethinghad to account for each team not winning the World Series in 2004. What? Did you think championships are won with pitching? Clutch hitting? Please. It's all about the legend.

As a public service, here's the specters that haunt the rest of the American League. (with last World Series win in parenthesis)

New York Yankees (2000) - How do they make it to the playoffs every year since 2000 without winning another title? Easy. It's the Curse of the Knoblauch. Formerly a Minnesota Twin, Knoblauch came to the Yanks to boot ground balls, earn clutch strikeouts, and accidentally step on George Steinbrenner's cat. Poor, poor Irabu.

Anaheim Angels (2002) - It may have been only two years since their last pennant, but the Angels have been doomed ever since thanks to the Curse of Rally Monkey. The lovable primate with the superlong arms may have gotten them past the Giants, but he's been rendered helpless once he found out the Man with the Yellow Hat works for Balco.

Chicago White Sox (1917) - The Curse of the Bambino was born an entire year after the Curse of the Kinsella. Kevin Costner may have brought Chicago back to life in Field of Dreams, but once he had a (not played) catch with his father, the Sox' Series hopes sunk faster than Waterworld at the box office.

Kansas City Royals (1985) - The Pine Tar Incident, unfortunately for KC, did not end with a frantic George Brett tirade. It seems that some of the tar in question found its way into the Missouri River, stunting strength and agility for the Royals of the future. See Hamelin, Bob.

Seattle Mariners (1977) - The biggest movie in the year of Seattle's maiden season was Star Wars. Ever since, it's been like they've been trying to pitch to Kenny Baker. Call it the Curse of the Droid Strike Zone. (I always thought Jay Buhner's head resembled the Death Star, too.)

Detroit Tigers (1984) - No curse here. The Tigers suck.

Tampa Bay Devil Rays (1998) - They've only been around for six years, but the Bambino has taken up a summer residence in the Sunshine State. They spelled out their doom by retiring career BoSock Wade Bogg's number in their third year of existence, while Beantown had yet to recognize their best 3B in history. That's poor planning.

Minnesota Twins (1991) - Double Your Pleasure, double your fun! Too bad the Twins can't hit or pitch, it's Doublemint Gum! Ta da!

Oakland Athletics (1989) - In 1989, Oakland was the first California team to down the Giants in the World Series. They did it with the Bash Brothers and a huge freakin' earthquake. Unfortunately, the tremor cursed the A's up to the present. In a related story, Tremors came out in 1990, cursing the acting career of Reba McEntire. Go fig.

Cleveland Indians (1948) - Yes, you've all seen Major League, and know if there's any team as tortured as Boston, it's the Tribe. You may not have known that Cerrano's native land of Zaire was threatened with the worst drought in history in '48, and ever since Cleveland's hopes have dried up, too.

Baltimore Orioles (1983) - Strangely enough, Cal Ripken was just another everyday shortstop when the Orioles hopes were dashed. While the streak will go down in the books for seventy years (until Carlos Beltran's grandson snaps it on the Alberquerque Radioactive Sox), it did nothing to get the O's another title. In 1983, the #1 song was "Every Breath You Take" by the Police. Marylanders ares till holding theirs.

Texas Rangers (1961) - In the 44 year history of the team, they have only had one year where they had a guy actually named Walker (Duane, 1985). Cursehunters, start searching here.

Toronto Blue Jays (1993) - Still bitter over the Canadians' win over my hometown Fightin's in 1993, I called upon a Voodoo Expert to put a curse on Joe Carter and his teammates by casting a spell.
Wait, I was just a kid. In that case, replace "Voodoo Expert" with "Joe Brescia" and "casting a spell" with "tripping over a fence at track practice."

Boston Red Sox (1918) - Oh, wait. Scratch that.

Best Company Ever, Chapter 2

Back on September 10th, I introduced the first of a sweeping set of changes when I take over the company a few years down the road. I realize in my efforts to achieve this end, I am going to have to do something of profitable value in order for the board of directors to realize my cost-savvy talent. We're a contracts company - all of our revenue is earned via performing engineering and scientific work for our customer, who more often than not, is the federal government. In order to do well in this business, a firm has to generate some sort of competitve advantage over its rivals, something that will distinguish SAIC from the other acronymonic (yep, made that one up) companies in the area. My solution: Bring the industry into the 21st century and refer to all projects not as contracts, but as contrax. It just fits with the current trend, where adding this spin to a product yields unlimited profitability and commercials with Method Man. So, like I said, SAIC will now deal in contrax.

Yeah, that'll hook 'em.

With that stroke of genius in the rear view, it's time that I unleash another round of innovative human dynamic strategy sessions on the world. Once H-Arr is up and running like a deck that needs no swabbing, I will turn to the energy source of the building: the cafeteria.

We are currently doing a recompete of the dining vendor who runs the Newton Cafe downstairs. Aramark has been here for three years, but things have gotten a little bland. The salad bar is on the decline, the sandwich special is all too often the same, and no one has yet touched the rice krispie treats for sale circa 1994. On a whole, Aramark isn't bad. But we need a change.

I vote for Hollywood stunt doubles.

If there's any way I can infuse some excitement to my employees' lunches, it's by hiring a group of people who have no fear to run my culinary services. Imagine the intensity! Imagine the adrenaline! Imagine the high-octane cole slaw! Anyways, I'd hire Keii Johnson as my head chef. Among his blockbuster stunts, he was also Bruce Willis' double in North. North! Now that's range. And when it comes to the role of head chef, I want this guy to be versatile so that the menu is varied. With Johnson at the helm, here's how I picture the lunch hour rush on any given Hun-gray.

"As I walked through the door of the Newton Cafe, something just wasn't right. I suspected foul play when a chilling, dry fog crossed by path, condensing on my loafers. Was this a sign of supernatural influence? Nay.

Someone had left the walk-in freezer wide open.

That was a little unnerving. Knowing that time was short and Joe is shorter, I hurried over to the salad bar to get my daily fixin's of veggies and sweet, sweet ranch dressing. Where the hell are the tongs? Oh, I see that the gentleman to my right's hand was clutching them for dear life. Life, unfortunately, had already escaped him, as he lay hunched over on the sneeze guard. So that's what that stupid glass shield is for, I thought. Ok, let's see - open freezer, deceased salad bar patron, should I be a little more caref-

Zoing-g-g-g-g.

The pizza cutter sailed by my left ear and stuck in the wall in front of me. Whirling around, it was no surprise to find the guy who works the pizza station, Kevin (aka "The Slicer") staring me down in a fit of rage. This is when lunch got interesting.

Lunging to my left to dive behind the bagel rack, I eluded his follow-up toss of frisbee-esque dough and retreated behind the buffet table.

"Hey, Kevin. Pick on someone your own size."

The sandwich station's attendant, Brock, had stepped out from behind the loaves of bread and stared down the Slicer. By the way, the Slicer hates being called Kevin.

As an intimidation technique, Kevin had reached his hand into his brick oven of Mayhem and now had one arm completely engulfed in flames. (This is easy for stunt doubles.) Brock, for no reason whatsoever, ran to the two-story dining area, climbed over the balcony and fell an entire story onto a poorly-constructed table. This apparently, was a duel of guys "who can do cool stuff without getting credit for it." Since the best I can do is spin a folding chair on my finger, I was no match for the cafeteria gods. I grabbed a salad out of the "To Go" case, threw a few bucks down near the awe-struck cashier (who, by the way, can take a bullet like it's going out of style) and went back up to my cubicle on 2."

Like an Orange on a Toothpick

(name the reference, you cine-philes...)

Halloween is fast approaching, and while I thought that the days of dressing up were long gone, I'm under the gun to come up with something for the office party on Saturday. The trouble is, my co-workers have very high expectations because of my role in the organizational culture. I'm the funny one in the office - they count on me to have something witty to say (or to strike someone down with a stress ball when they least expect it.) And while they might not be expecting a funny costume, my people demand creativity, or at least a little bit of thought on my behalf.

Translation: Wearing a baseball cap with a leaf hanging down from the brim and coming as a "leaf-blower" isn't going to cut it.

So I've got an idea that I am fairly pleased with, but there's a hitch. I need a hat to pull it off. "A hat you say? You've got lots of hats, Condon." No, for two reasons. 1) I don't have the type of hat I need. 2) My roommate is a hat thief. Of course, there's a larger problem in this plan.

That larger problem is my head.

Caput Magnum, man.

The hat industry would probably say that they cater to those of us who are nogginally-enhanced: with sombreros. Don't get me wrong - sombreros are a good time, but it's not the kind of hat I'm looking for in order to complete this ensemble. Thinking back, every costume I've ever head needed special attention to headgear.

• I was Yoda when I was like 3 years old. It was one of those plastic masks with the elastic band that the Surgeon General has since outlawed in 43 states. I may have caused suffocation, but it didn't singe my head.
• I remember being Dick Tracy one year, probably when I was 9. I had a plastic fedora that had a way of popping off my head, but it was roomy enough to hide gum that I got Trick or Treating. Mom wasn't a fan of the gum.
• I was a football referee in 7th grade. For the costume, I had to wear my little league baseball cap. Little league was always good about catering to my type. The caps were always big enough to fit, but I hated going to the plate with the medium helmet cause guys like Chris Smith would have the only X-Large one and he would be on base. Ow.
• Every year from 15 on when I've had to dress up, I've been a hockey player. I bought my own helmet, so I know it fits. Even if it didn't, it really didn't matter. No one really looked at me funny considering I'd rollerblade around the neighborhood with a 6'0" giant blue Cookie Monster.

Well, I think I've found the solution to my problem that won't cause cranial bleeding come Halloween. Maybe this weekend I'll finally figure out how to use pictures on this thing.

"Here, you throw this out."

Complete strangers tell me this every day, and they don't even know it.

What "See 'em all, hate 'em all" Stephen Hunter is to movies, I am to unsolicited advertising. I have never procured somebody's merchandise or services because of something that was given to me without asking. It just won't happen. Don't get me wrong - having menus for take-out dining options in nice, but ordering from the distributing establishment will not happen in my house as a matter of principle. It's protest on account of taste. Same rationale for not shopping at Old Navy from 1998-2001 on account of those irratating commercials. Morgan Fairchild? She's not of this world.

So when I find that I am now burdened with paper promoting the new dentist in town or the Vietnamese buffet now open across the street, I can only picture what the responsible vendor must be asking of me. It's a favor alright. It's not "Hello, resident, please patronize my place of business." It's really "Insert Blog Title Here."

Killing trees, people.

The range of recyclables I receive from this faceless base of commerce is indeed broad, and their methods of delivery are varied. However, no matter how crafty the attempt is, two things are constant.

1. I will not be considering your offer.
2. Exit, trash can right.

Some examples:

• The most common "HYTTO" repeat offender is the restaurant district. Vocelli Pizza is a local chain in the DC area. Instead of looking to expand their business to other states, they choose to spend corporate funding on bi-weekly door hangars for yours truly. This is the coward's promotional technique. You have a representative of your business on my doorstep. You could offer me a free sample by knocking. OR you can stealthily give me a means to a paper cut when I get home from work later. Revenge - Order 50 pizzas from Pizza Hut. Deliver them to Vocelli.
• The "splatter and scatter" method: Most favored by law practices and doctor's offices, these places send an clerk on their lunch break to get the partner's name out into the community. As a result, we'll get seven flyers on our landing, and if lucky, one will actually have hit someone's doormat. Problem is, there's only four doors on our landing. This is a second degree offense, as now I have to actually bend over to pick up this trash in order to properly dispose of it. Revenge - Collect the good lawyer's literature, and re-distribute it in SouthEast. He'll get plenty of new business.
• The "screw marketing research" method: These are normally in the form of mass mailings. I have a shoe that's bigger than our mailbox. Not shoes. A shoe. Occasionally, I get mail that's actually functional - a birthday card, bank statement, Ikea catalog, whatever. More times than not, these letters are crumpled in the back of this postal coffin due to big glossy brochures meant to aid my decision as to where to spend all that discretionary cash in my paycheck. Oh, great, I can but a house out in Sterling starting at $840k. Come on, people. I live in an apartment, with a roommate, in a low-rent district of Falls Church. Why do you even bother sending me this? Revenge - Spring-loaded boxing glove in the mailbox. Always funny.
• Finally, we get to the latest offender - the "Door Crack Attack." Solicitors with a litte too much time on their hands will actually slip their flyers under the door onto our small, hardwood landing. The latest offender - the Kerry-Edwards Campaign. Two flyers came under our door late last night, toting the candidates' platform. What makes you think forced reading will be looked upon favorably??? In high school, they forced me to read Jane Eyre. As a result, I had a very traumatic "reading aloud in class" episode where Mrs. Newman had to tell me that it's not pronounced "Jane Ear-ey." If you want to let me know your political position, tell me on the television. I can't slip and break my ankle on the television. Revenge - Pester the Kerry camp to see if their health care proposal includes campaign-related leg fractures.

got blog?

I had no idea that milk was such a confusing substance.

It's white. It comes from cows. I even hear it's been known to "do a body good." But I think when in comes to accounting, they've got their bovine employees crunching the numbers. You see, IMDB reported this week that Lindsay Lohan, thanks to a recent photo shoot, has become the 200th celebrity to grace one of the famous "got milk?" magazine advertisements. First off, good for Lindsay. She makes much better movies and picks better scripts that Hillary Duff, as Duff has just reeled off two terrible films back to back (Raise Your Voice, Cinderella Story). Milk know who's a trendy pick to promote their dairy, and as Lohan has proven (by rising above her father's idiocy) that she has some staying power. Congrats, you are Miss 200.

Or are you?

My idea for today's blog was to sift through the stacks and stacks of milk mustaches to find the 5 most unworthy recipients of this honor. While compiling my list (which I assure you, I will get to at some point. So wordy, so clean), the list presented by www.whymilk.com did not appear to be, well, complete. From my cybertravels, I found many names and pictures of celebs who did this farm shoot, only to find their name omitted on the all encompassing list on the website. Who knows how may famous people have drank milk?!? This whole news story is a sham. More free publicity for Lindsay Lohan. What a conspiracy.

(calling Oliver Stone)
(ringing)
C.C.: Uh, yes, Mr. Stone? Oh, good. Have I got a story for you!
O.S. : Does Colin Farrell get to fight an elephant in it?
C.C. : Well, no...
(Click)

Let's just get to the list, shall we...

1. Brad Johnson - He's a quarterback in the NFL, and my guess is he got asked to show the 'stache when the Buccaneers topped the Raiders two Super Bowls ago. That's great and all, you can have all the milk you want now that you're third string in Tampa. Hey kids, you can drink your milk, and then you can lose to the Redskins, too!
2. Billy Ray Cyrus - Milk does not, I repeat, does not do a mullet good.
3. Carson Daly - MTV lackey turned late enough night talk show host, Daly has soared through life by being (as according to Jimmy Fallon) "completely average in every way." At least now his bone composition won't deteriorate like his viewing audience.
4. Arthea Franklin - No, that's not a typo of one of the greatest motown singers of all-time. Arthea is actually listed on the got milk? site. While Aretha can't get any R-E-S-P-E-C-T from the dairy farmers of America, Arthea is living the high life.
5. The Phantom. - Of the Opera? Nope. The Flyers minor league squad? No, sir. A certain Lucasfilm "Menace?" Nice try. Billy Zane, as the late nineties comicbook movie hero, The Phantom, is seen sitting peacefully in a cave with a streak of white across his lip. Ah, a pitchman from a $45 million dollar movie that brought in only $17 million? The dairy farmers had to put half their employees out to pasture after this blunder.

Harford, best of luck with your version of "The Daily Show!"

Why Sports Matter

The feel good story of the year: Greenmonsters, Inc.

I'm a Philly sports fan, born and raised. In my lifetime, the Fightins' took the pennant in '80, the Sixers in '83, and then this sentence comes to a screeching halt. I don't remember either one since, well, it was so long ago I have a better shot of remembering climbing into a laundry hamper for Hide-and-Seek only to have my sister shirk her seeking duties and take a nap. I grew up in one of the three most tortured sports cities in the country, the others being Boston and Cleveland. I've yet to have had the option to blow off school or work for a parade downtown. But I frequently have the option of living in agony after any given NFC Championship, Eastern Conference Finals, or September pennant race. Worst option ever.

Because of my role in the sports fan universe, I have to live vicariously through my bretheren in defeat, the sports fan in Boston, Mass.

Game 7.

I was watching the news this morning, (read: Cold Pizza) and they had sent their Boston native intern to Faneuil Hall to join in the revelry and report on the biggest comeback in the history of baseball. InternDude got a hold of a Southie who was clenching a baseball with an iron grip. Southie explained that he had picked up the ball two strikes before David Ortiz (the guy who ate Kenny Lofton) jacked a 12th inning pitch in Game 4 stave off elimination and the 2004 implementation of The Curse. Southie hasn't put the ball down since.

He's gone to work for three days, eaten every meal, showered every morning, and even slept an hour or two each night without letting go of that ball. Pennant Fever got to this guy so much that he believed driving with one hand in order to hang on had a greater impact on the ALCS than any swing A-Rod, Matsui, or Sheffield could have taken. That's intense.

Human nature thrives on competition, it's simply a part of our being. All men were created equal, and it is free will that makes the Ego think that he can be better off than the next guy. (Ig, on the other hand, would like to forget competition and hit Tim McCarver in the mouth with one of those Whack-a-Mole hammers.) As a result, people need to seek out modules of society that can channel the want to achieve more than thy neighbor. Enter sports.

People can be passionate about just about anything. But what heightens passion to a fanatical level, more times than not, is the drive for competition. You can become a food critic (Lord knows my coworker is), and be passionate about the taste of culinary art. You can be a movie buff, and live for the screentime that two great actors finally share. You can be a music enthusiast, and feel the soaring melodies of dueling guitars in your veins. Art, cars, literature, whatever. No matter what the topic, you can live your life with passion.

What most passions lack is this infusion of competition. Most of what I have mentioned are personal interests. They can make you feel alive inwardly, and can take to a competitive forum if someone challenges with a counter opinion. With sports, there is always a counter opinion. The whole idea behind sports is the pitting of two opponents against one another for one common outcome:

Victory.

You watch sports, and you take a side, no matter how far removed from conventional reasons your rationale might be. Maybe you like the uniforms. Maybe you've got relatives in the home team's state. Maybe Pokey Reese sounds funny to you. Whatever the reason, you've got an opinion. So does everybody else.

Once a person picks a side, an attachment forms. You follow the team through the year, even if that means staying up late to watch their west coast games. You buy a hat or a jersey or a bumper sticker, so that everyone else knows where your allegiance lies. You read the local paper for any and every insight they can muster. You believe in curses, and that there's something you can do to help your team defeat the other team, 86 years of history, and make it to the World Series.

Good job, Southie. Way to hang on to that ball.

Hack the Planet

Yesterday, I forgot my badge at home.

It's not a big deal, really. My badge is this photo ID with an accompanying magnetic card that allows me to get into my building. The picture's not bad, although it is a little strange that everyone I talk to all day is equally represented by small color photos around their necks. One day, we'll do away with current forms of communication, put all of our badges on a conference room table, and let them doing the talking for us. That give my mouth more time to eat this bagel on my desk that I haven't yet gotten to.

(I am so off-topic right now. You know I'm not going after badge reform today.)

When you leave your badge at home, you pay the price. By paying the price, I mean stand in the lobby to get a temp badge from the uberfriendly reception staff. By lobby, I mean the throngs of people milling about uneasily, waiting in line for medical attention. By medical attention, I mean SAIC-issued annual flu shot.

(Getting closer to my point. Man, I'm wordy.)

When I saw this yesterday, I became cursed. (It seems to be en vogue this time of year.) All day long a haunting voice blared on inside my head. Not just any voice; the voice of the worst female acting performance I have ever seen.

"RAB-bit, FLU-shot, someONE TALK to ME."

For Lorraine Bracco, the early 90s were a sinking ship. It started off so well for the model turned actress - she played Ray Liotta's wife in the 1990 hit Goodfellas. This was the apex. After an ugly divorce with Harvey Keitel, several movies who can't crack the IMDB 6.0 Line of Mediocrity (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Medicine Man, Switch), and co-starring with who would become her second divorce years later, Bracco landed in the Ian Softley project, Hackers.

I like Hackers. It's one of those movies that can get put on anytime, anyplace, and be entertaining. It's got early screen time for Angelina Jolie, Matthew Lillard, and Mr. J-Lo.

Unfortunately, it also has Lorraine Bracco.

Bracco plays a high-powered executive for energy company that will go nameless (because I can't remember its name. Ellington?) She and the corporate network specialist (Fisher Stevens) find a way to skim millions of dollars out of the company drink. The plot centers around a group of meddling kids who use their technological savvy and 28.8 bps modems to try and take down big business and Ms. Bracco.

(Matthew Lillard honed his meddling chops in this flick. He would go on to meddle in the Scooby-Doo movies. Man, can that guy meddle.)

Despite all the makings of a cinema classic (as well as Razor and Blade), Lorraine Bracco steals the show. She then puts the show in a cardboard box, sets it on fire, and kicks it down a rocky hill. Her delivery is just atrocious. It's mainly the inflection that gets me. Her dialogue is spoken as if she was hopping on one foot on a sheet of ice: up and down with the potential for falling flat on its face. Let's not forget the distorted facial expressions. Kind of made me want more scenes to take place at night. Or in a dark room. Or in a black hole. Anything.

So if tonight you want agonizing moments of gut-wrenching tension, watch Game 7. If you want some more tomorrow (masochists, all of you), please watch Lorraine Bracco try to ruin Hackers.

Receiving Criticism

Yesterday's SportsCenter could have been at least three hours. With the Red Sox winning Game 4 (not to mention G-5 last night), the NLCS becoming the best playoff series that nobody will ever see, a full week of NFL games to report on, and the last hot dog grabbing headlines, I could have easily seen Stu Scott and company stretch the show to twice the length.

And when the sports pile up, the amount of guaranteed airtime for the hot dogs (of the NFL variety) is cut screechingly short. Only the worthy become famous for their antics, and worthiness is determined by originality, creativity, and the ability to push the envelope. (By push the envelope, I mean "take that cornerback to school.") (for more info, please see here.) It has to be fresh, and it has to be merited. I'm glad that T-O comes up with something new each time he punches in for six. I've always loved the Amani Toomer "can't get the ball off of my hands 'cause I'm like glue" showing, and the Packers "photo-shoot" antics with Ferguson-Driver-Walker is a nice away game switch from the Lambeau leap.

This said, not all celebrations fit with the elite. Those people should be punished.

The NFL's system of fining a player when they go over the top needs revision. When Owens sharpied the ball in Seattle or Joe Horn pulled a "Can you hear me now?" in New Orleans, they both got fined for pre-meditated acts and excessive celebration. Fine. (heh, get it? Woo!)

People love talking about these things - it adds an element of individuality to a team sport, and therefore it should not be encouraged, but at a minimum tolerated. I propose a revised system of fines for celebrations as follows:

1 - Celebrations are voted on by pretty much anyone but the media and players on either team involved. Fans are to be included.
2 - Celebrations will be voted on using a good scale of Not to So. So good gets the celebration 1 point, and Not good gets a zero. Creativity, originality, and merit should be considered by voters.
3 - The celebration must warrant a 80% success rate in order for it to go unfined, meaning 4 out of 5 people thought it was So Good! That fifth person is the margin of error - Cowboy fans.
4 - Deciles below the 80% pass rate serve as ranges that determine the fine assessed for a subpar celebration. 70%-80% is a $2.5k docking, 60%-70% is $5k, and then fines double from there on. That means if you get less than ten percent fan approval - (think Warren Sapp's bunny rabbit dance.) $320 thousand dollars 'cause you so lame.

Standard, every day touchdown celebrations are not eligible for the program, so you can continue your spiking the ball, dunking on the uprights, and flexing those guns.

My conclusion is that this will cut down on the number of overall celebrations, as receivers should know if they have the goods to not get served with a bill for no creativity. Only the strong will survive.

I wrote all of this to complain about Chad Johnson, who sent Pepto-Bismol to the Cleveland secondary this week because he thought they'd get sick from covering him. His line from Sunday - 3 catches, 37 yards. Good words eaten by a receiver who isn't even the best receiver named Johnson. (Keyshawn, Andre, Lyndon B.)

Billy Joel, sort of

Homecoming Monrovia
(a parody of Downeaster Alexa)
Music by Billy Joel
Words by Chris Condon

Well I've gone to Homecoming Monrovia,
And I'm cruising down I-95.
Actually, there's a whole lot of traffic.
Luckily, I convinced Dave to drive.

Looking forward to reliving days of yore
Once we hit our exit off I-64.
I'll stay at Powhattan for 20 bucks, that's right.
Oh God, I pray the hottub makes it through the night.

When I recall my Homecoming Monrovia,
Where I go to escape from D.C.
And the Cheese Shop is slightly expensive
As for waiting in line, that is free.

Got frisbee to play in every parking lot,
As for parking, well, six spots are all we've got.
That's not a problem, park your car at PBK.
I'll just park in fac/staff like back in the day.

The football game at Homecoming Monrovia,
Where you'll sit with alums in the stands.
"Oh my God! Haven't seen you in ages!
But I can't hear you over the band."

(instrumental)

One Accord's at Homecoming Monrovia,
Where we're asked to sing with the new folks.
But by singing they must mean percussion.
'Cause I'm sure "Tss-tss-cuh" aren't even notes.

I know that Sunday will too quickly roll around,
Have breakfast at IHOP, one last walk on campus grounds,
The weekend's over, and there's so much still to do,
There's always next year for the Class Two-Thousand-Two.

Yie-yie-yiiiiiiiiiie-yoh.

Signature Service?

Yep, just got back from Jiffy Lube.

My car is a method of getting from Point A to Point B (and more recently stopping at Quiznos somewhere it between) . It's a functional tool. (Like Dave, but with, well, function.) And they tell me that every 3000 miles or so I should take it to my local Jiffy Lube to change out the oil. (They meaning the corporate fat cat advertising executives who insist you must come in about 2000 miles before you really need to.) Figuring I had 20 minutes to burn between finishing planning and going to Williamsburg, I stopped in.

By 20 minutes, I meant an hour.

Since Jiffy is clearly a misnomer for a organization who I have successfully counted on the past for quick, signature service, I realize that something must be up in order to account for this ridiculously long wait time. And since I don't have the energy to was through boxes upon boxes of documents concerning the history of Jiffy Lube, I'll just offer some suggestions to rename the company...

• Spiffy Lube - We may not be the quickest, but at least we got nice shirts!
• Iffy Lube - We may not be the quickest, but is that a car???
• Griffey Lube - We may not be the quickest, but you can coun-Ow! My ankle!
• Cliffy Lube - We may not be the quickest, but we'll get the mail delivered before we hit the bar.

Sorry folks, I'm tired. I'm pulling a Nordberg and phoning it in.

Stick this in your Medicine Hat

Well, it's about time. Jim Carrey is an American citizen.

It's really hard to maintain my blanket opinion that Canada=Bad when it does its best to lure me with its exports in the collective world of movies, music, and sports. It's just so easy to pick on our neighbors to the north. If I ever stoop to an ethnic joke, it's normally to mock the canucks. But like I said, all too often I really get behind the cause of promoting somebody out there and then the bottom drops out when I found out they have "O, Canada" on repeat on their IPod.

The way to eliminate this "Oh, snap, you got served" reaction is by having my favorite Canadian musicians and actors come to the land of the free and the home of the brave. Just take the citizenship test already, BNL. You know you want to.

So in preparation for this post, I did a little research on famous Canadians, ya know, to see who we need to bring over to our team. We're like the Yankees; give them enough money, and Canadian patriotism goes the way of William Hung. (btw, it seems that even William Hung can strike out Johnny Damon these days. Wow.) In my cybertravels I came across a page that listed the Top 10 Myths about Canada and Canadians. A well-constructed document, it proclaims the "inaccuracies" that Americans hold as "truth," and then "clarifies" them "using" "rationale" "and" "logic" "."

Mom should never have let me use quotation marks as a kid.

The nice thing about having a website to post these rebuttals on is that there is no forum to refute you on your statements. Well, www.canadians.ca, that's all a changin'. Bring it, eh?

1. Myth: "We live in igloos."
Clarify: "We live in houses, and they are very well built houses."
Condofied: Don't you mean very well built hooses? An igloo has to be well-built. The domed shape structual integrity is sheer brilliance.

2. Myth: "Canadians do not have the same technology as Americans."
Clarify: "Canadians have access to the same technology as Americans and the rest of the civilized world."
Condofied: Ok, then explain why in that Molson commercial the giant bear gives the girl a giant Pez dispenser. That company is based in Orange, Connecticut. Invent your own oversized novelty candy distribution mechanism!

3. Myth: "There is snow everywhere all year long."
Clarify: "Anyone who has spent a summer in Vancouver will strongly disagree with this."
Condofied: Has to be a lie. All of the igloos would melt.

4. Myth: "We don't get the same movies Americans do."
Clarify: " We get the same movies, on the same day, and our censorship is less severe."
Condofied: I just read a review of Friday Night Lights by a Toronto film critic, and he gave it a C-. I saw it, and I loved it. You guys just don't get the same movies we do.

5. Myth: "Canada does not have a film industry."
Clarify: "We have a thriving industry, and many major studio pictures are filmed here."
Condofied:Yeah, we have Vancouver to thank for Air Bud and Catwoman. Thanks!

6. Myth: "Canadians all say "eh" and "aboot."
Clarifiy: Sure, some of us, do, but Canada is a big country with many different people who speak many different languages."
Condofied: Good point. What's the French word for "aboot?"

7. Myth: "Everyone is Quebec speaks French."
Clarify: "There is also a large number of Anglophones and Allophones."
Condofied: No matter who their cellular provider is, people in Quebec speak French!

8. Myth: "Canadians have less than Americans."
Clarify: "Canadians have just as many, if not more."
Condofied: Guns don't kill Canadian Stanley Cup dreams. The Calgary Flames kill Canadian Stanley Cup dreams.

9. Myth: "Canada's national sport is hockey."
Clarify: "Our national sport is lacrosse."
Condofied: Hockey is the best thing about Canada, and almost makes me forget about Celine Dion. Why do guys go with lacrosse? That's like having a U2 rock concert and promoting UB40 as the headliner.

10. Myth: "Canadian policemen are all mounties dressed in red uniforms.
Clarify: "Our cops are the same as American cops."
Condofied: "Yes, but on horses and in red uniforms. I saw Dudley Do-right.

USA! USA!

The French Toastmaster

Yes, yes, I'm at work.

It's earlier than usual, around 7, and I haven't been here this early in about a year. With midterms, planning due tomorrow, and my pending day off for Homecoming, I've learned the definition of the term, "time crunch." In order to accomplish all there is to accomplish, I needed to get out of bed when the alarm goes off the first or second time for once, and come to work. It's not like it was that hard - I must have fallen asleep without turning the sleep function on the TV. As a result, I opened my eyes to TBS' Mama's Family re-runs.

Like getting hit in the face with ice water.

Anyways, I had forgotten some of the small rewards you can get for coming early and forgoing SportsCenter (or Saved by the Bell, depending on the ep.) Like for one, my car is a heck of a lot closer than it normally is to the door. Good thing, too; it's COLD at 6:45 in the morning. Like Johnny Damon 0-4, with 4 strikeouts cold.

There's also the fringe benefits when getting the morning sustinence. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And desperate measures call for Pepsi. (What? Me drink coffee? Maybe if we went to DEFCON WOW again.) Said times also call for the bagel, and today I got to experience what my fellow bagel-eaters enjoy every day. I had a full selection down in the cafeteria. We're talking everything. Not that I strayed from my half-'n-half, but man, I could have. I could have. The cream cheese also lay as pristine as the ice over at the MCI Center - that's what happens when you lock out the guys with the ice skates, Bettman.

I don't toast the daily bagel, but the hi-tech mechanism that saws said bagel in half sits in front of the toaster, so I found myself reading the "side-of-appliance" literature this morning. For something as simple as a toaster, there sure are a lot of instructions...

"When emptying crumb tray, please disconnect power source before removing."
"Debrescher avant de nettoyer le plateau a mettes."

???

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that the bottom one meant the top one. But French? Do the French have some sort of competitive advantage or special skill set that makes them more qualified than other nationalities to empty crumb trays? Most second language postings are Spanish in the states, apparently with the exception of heat-injecting bread warmers. I looked around the cafe looking for someone who looked French. Unfortunately, (as Dave can attest to), I think all French people are probably Gerard Depardieu, and he went into hiding post-My Father the Hero. (Which, I might add, gets schooled in the "family-on-a-boat-comedy" by good ole' Captain Ron.)

Knowing that my French is a little rusty, (ok, I've never spoken it in my life) I did my best to exclaim to those surrounding my disgust that there's no one French around to empty the crumb tray. Cycling through my best francophrases, I inhaled and yelled,

"TOUR DE FRANCE!"

I should stick to English.

Curses!

Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat, and brand-new pair of shoes
You know I think it's time to give this game a ride.
Just to hit the ball and touch 'em all - a moment in the sun
It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!
- John Fogarty

And while this may not be strongest set of lyrics the Creedence frontman had ever penned, it does capture the excitement that comes with Major League playoff baseball. With the Atlanta Braves getting ousted last night by the Astros, we're down to the final four. Thank God.

Unlike football, there are no fantasy implications riding on any pitch from here on out, so I can sit back, relax, and enjoy the drama. There's a sort of electricity that accompanies most playoffs in sports, but it really takes baseball a tier above. Football and hockey are exciting all during the regular season; they don't need this little bump that baseball and Fox needs. Every game seems close, a lead is never safe, and did I mention the Atlanta Braves lost last night?

Oh. It appears I already did. Whatever.

Yes, yes, we all know that the World Series is th champion-determining round. However, in a repeat performance of last year, the climactic series yet again is the American League Championship Series. Redsox Nation vs. the Bronx Bombers. Definitely one of the top sports rivalries there is. Aw, what the heck, here's my list of Top 5 Current Rivalries in Sports:

1. Boston Red Sox vs. New York Yankees
2. Michigan vs. Ohio State College Football
3. Duke vs. North Carolina College Basketball
4. Detroit Red Wings vs. Colorado Avalanche
5. Washington Redskins vs. Fans' Skull-Crushing Expectations

Part of the intrigue with the Sox-Yanx series is the long-standing belief by the state of Massachusetts that ever since Boston traded Babe Ruth to New York, their chances of winning the pennant are about as good as Shall We Dance? taking this week's box office.

The following are a list of things that the Red Sox need to happen in order to avoice getting Bucknered yet again in 2004.

• Pedro Martinez is going to have to fight more people than Don Zimmer to decimate that line-up. Hey Pedro, why don't you try taking on somebody actually in the line-up.
• Johnny Damon in his Christ-like visage must find a way to transubstantiate singles into triples.
• David Ortiz has to eat Kenny Lofton.
• The Red Sox need a new catchphrase that the Boston faithful can take hold of and proclaim. Last year, "Cowboy Up" didn't exactly pan out. This year's suggestion: Cowboy Wheeee!
• They must, at all costs, avoid staring into the eyes of Derek Jeter. He's dreamy, I hear.
• Convince the Yankees that the starting pitcher in Game 2 should be none other than Mayor McCheese.
• Play Aaron Boone in a game of season-ending, foot-breaking basketball so that he can't hit a walk-off homer this year. Oh...ok, that one's a lock.

"It's 'cause the other teams can't stop staring at those damn pinstripes."

Hello darkness, my old friend...

Last Saturday, I did everything I could to get into my apartment, courtesy of the Case of the Missing Keys (sounds like a Hardy Boys book...). This past Saturday, I did everything I could to get back out. Being cut off from the outside world is very unsettling for me. My weekend-long radio silence stems from the following three ocurrences (listed in order of increasing degree of annoyance.)

1. My roommate has a cell phone. Granted, he hates it. It's one of those new-fangled models that only works when using it on his right ear. Apparently, Verizon is seeking phase out peoples' left ears, so by creating phones that utilize the right size, their strategic model has quite the northpaw bias. Personally, I always thought God was a fan of anatomical symmetry. We'll find out if CNN reports some smiting on the Avenue of the Americas in NYC later today.
Not that my lefty-tilted ways could have benefitted from the phone this weekend - he was up in New Jersey seeing J-Vo as he, too, has underestimated the drawing power of the Garden State. And where roomie goes, cell phone will follow, and thus, my backup mode of communication didn't dress for this weekend's game.

2. Round 2 of the Cox Communications vs. The Tandem at the Random was in full swing starting on Friday. While Round 1 went to the tag-team Monrovians, the Round 2 points go to the ISP (Internet Suppression Provider). Our cable modem is on the fritz. It's probably old-fangled. And without the 'net, my fantasy football teams were in a state of flux. (wait, it doesn't matter, I'm awesome no matter who I play...) Ok, at least a state of Unimportance.
So if you tried to e-mail me, IM me, send a carrier pigeon through my monitor in the last two days, it would have been as productive as kicking a basketball against the side of an apartment building at 7:30 am this morning.

Stupid neighbor kid. I told him that Christopher Columbus would have slept in today, and he should too.

3. The real reason sitting in my apartment this weekend cut me off from all contact from the outside world -- IT WAS CONVULSOR.

When you are in Business School, there are some classes that are just too hard to take with A.) a straight face and B.) open eyelids. The practice of giving nicknames to classmates began in a class I took in 2000 with Chris Nordberg, and it became a bit of a phenomenon. Most people who ended up with nicknames got them because they deserved to be singled out for their ridiculousness, and the names never got outside of Nordberg, Jasen, Sara, and occasionally MeWhee. Here's a sampling of the classics:

• Shoe Girl - Amanda Weil - a different pair every day, and minimum heel height was around 7 inches.
• Trophy Wife - Christy Boardman - self-admitted aspiration the first day of Consumer Behavior. It stuck.
• Dante - Tony Rea - looked just like protagonist from Clerks. But less-motivated.
• Finance Dork - Chris Nordberg. Self-explanatory.

And while I thought I had traded in the practice when they handed me a diploma back in 2002, I was not yet considering the fact that someday I'll enter grad school, and there, too, will be people just begging to leave behind their given names for a new "C.C. Special." Enter CONVULSOR.

Convulsor has a real name, but her actions literally speak louder than her GQ-issued name tent. The way I like to describe her as a combination between "comedian" Wanda Sykes and the woman from Seinfeld with the awful laugh that Jerry goes to heckle in her office. (Toby?) Everything this woman does is with her entire body. She's the one in class who answers rhetorical questions. She's the one who laughs with her entire body, slamming her hand on the desk (or my shoulder) in glee. She's the one who when responding has talked non-stop and uninterrupted for 4 minutes and 28 seconds (I time her now.) She's the one who stole my cell phone.

What?

Since I have the cheapest Verizon phone on the market, and the same GW-issued bag as 95% of the class, I can understand the mix-up. Class ended late at 1:06 pm Saturday (since Convulsor had one final point to make.) And while I was speaking with another classmate about the aforementioned Garden State, she made the common mistake of assuming good ole' "You're a Phone" was hers, put it in her bag, and fled to her Castle Convulsor in Silver Spring. Once I got to my car, I realized my lack of cellular communication apparatus, and realized the horror. Even if she realizes she has my cell phone, what is she going to do - call me?

If anyone needs to know brevity is the soul of voice mail, it's her.

I got 99 problems but the Fitch ain't one.

And from the Slow News Desk in Indianapolis, the Associated Press has reported a bitter rivalry more fierce than any vice-presidential debate we'll see this year. That's right the Behemoth of Popular Influence known as USA Gymnastics has called for a nationwide boycott of the clothing retalier Abercrombie and Fitch. A&F has added a highly controversial shirt to its new fall line of "Stuff Kids Wear to Make a Statement for Statement's Sake." It's a green t-shirt depicting a male gymnast on the rings with legs out in front. To the graphic's right is the uberwitty phrase, "L is for Losers."

Gymnasts, everywhere, revolt.

Most blogs out there are soapboxes for their writers to rip society for its unfairness and bias. I try and stay away from the rants, but sometimes I just have to give in. Sometimes you have to yell to make it known that there's something out there you should avoid all cost (Babies cannot be that smart!!!). And sometimes you need to just let all parties involved that Idiot Store called, and they want their merchandise back.

Problem Number 1 - This shirt idea doesn't have a whole lot of creativity flowing from its sleeves. L is for Losers? Come on, babies who aren't even remotely geniuses could have come up with that. Thus, I conclude that USA Gymnastics needs to do a little research before that drag the names of both Abercrombie and Fitch through the mud. I'm sure this shirt was not a collaboration between the two, so rephrase your press release when you find out that Abercrombie is a madman who took over the silk screen press while Fitch was vacationing in the Caymans.

Problem Number 2 - When Fitch gets back, he's going to realize that Abercrombie is doing his best to kill off their consumer base, one popular high school sport at a time. There's one thing I know and that one thing is, Gymnasts Love Abercrombie and Fitch.* According to the popular magazine, Inside Gymnastics, Nicole Childs and her fellow athletes at the World Olympic Gymnastics Academy (WOGA) "love shopping. It’s immediately what they go to. [Her favorite stores are Abercrombie [& Fitch], 5 7 9, Forever, Hollister, a million more!" Do you hear that Fitch? A million more! You clearly don't have an iron grip on the almighty parallel bar-loving dollar.

* - No idea what I'm talking about. It's Friday.

Problem Number 3 - USA Gymnastics - how effective can this boycott actually be? Don't you guys wear leotards or athletic tanktops with pants and socks anyways. I'm not just talking when you're on the mat, but all the time. I know every gymnast I've ever seen wears that stuff. Last time I checked A&F doesn't sell a whole lot of "Chalk-covered Apparel."

Problem Number 4 - LFO likes girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch. You don't want to be those girls.

Problem Number 5 - I want to be a part of the World Olympic Gymnastic Academy! I'd throw WOGA parties for all my friends, and I'd may everyone wear white sheets like the Greeks. We'd have a balance beam, a pommel horse, and Otis Day and the Knights performing on the main stage. WOGA! WOGA! WOGA!

Problem Number 6 - Problem number 6 is that problem number 5 wasn't really a problem at all, but more a meer daydream from the sleep deprived. Oops.

Problem Number 7 - It's not even a good shirt, people. It's just part of that retro-wear-a-shirt-that-looks-like-it's-from-the-80s-but-it-makes-you-look-trendy-and-cool thing that we're getting sucked into again. What statement is it making? Save the money and buy an Eagles jersey.

I got 92 more problems, and I still ain't done. But that's good for now.

Red 5 Standing By

Influence: (n.) - A power affecting a person, thing, or course of events, especially one that operates without any direct or apparent effort.

Because of my hobbies, I live in two worlds. One world involves coming to work, going to school, sleeping a little, and talking in my sleep. The world relies on attempts at post-modern humor to keep things interesting, as well as on the fact that George Foreman can make me dinner in about five minutes. Most of it right now is a blur, with this being planning season at the office, but from what I can see, I've having fun trying to keep up.

The other world shows up in so many different locales. It exists on a tour bus with a 70's rock band, in an old converted NYC firehouse, in the matrix, in a television-produced town in a bubble, on an Earth only booklovers have seen before, on forest moons and musical sets, from Vegas to Rome, and Omaha Beach to a child's computer-animated toy chest.

And because of the lack aforementioned lack of sleep, more and more the two worlds have collided and merged. Movie quotes are coming easier, and I mean more than just Cool Runnings. I can't wait 'til I can nail Matt Damon's corporate rant from Good Will Hunting in the middle of water cooler banter at work. And since a reprieve of slumber is at least two weeks away, I just have to accept that it's harder to define the line where real life beings and reel life ends.

It is with this understanding that I present my frame of mind regarding my accounting exam I took last night. Influence is a funny thing. By sticking a movie on in the background while studying, sometimes an idea such as "accumulated depreciation" or "book value" will link itself to whatever is on the screen. Because of the subject's complexities, putting in a movie that runs on mathematics would put my subconscious in an utter state of confusion (Ig wants Logic?!?!), so movies like A Beautiful Mind stay on the shelf. Instead, we put something in that I don't even need to see the screen to know what's happening: Star Wars. So maybe seeing a jawa will remind me of the time value of money or some other subconscious connection. Or maybe, the movie will just take over my train of thought completely.

Such was the case sitting down last night. As the test was about to commence, I prepared my desk for this open-note, open-book cakewalk. The instant my calculator came out of my bag, the transformatation occurred. Suddenly, everything financial left my head, and everything having to do with the Rebel Alliance entered. Great, looks like this exam will be brought to me by Lucasfilm. Fantastic.

It was the old calculator from my desk at work that was the catalyst. Others surrounding me were kicking it high-style with graphic calculators, financial calculators, laptop computers. But no not me, my Aurora DT210 and I have been through a whole lot in the last few days, and I wouldn't go into battle with anything but. So as I loaded the DT210 onto my desk, I looked at my surroundings once I put my self down into the my seat for the next two hours. Plenty of resources to use to achieve this mission-books, notes, targeting computers?. What the? I can shoot down balance sheets back home down equations with the best of them, but this is pretty new.

Red 5 standing by.

And as the clock on the wall hit 6, it began. The test was divided into two sections. The first was multiple choice, which attacks me with four guns at a time labeled A,B,C, and D. These tower-like questions can be powerfully disarming. Looking at a question from afar will get you shot down; the trick is to get in too close for the ammunition each choice presents to trip you up. Getting in close means you avoid the tower's guns and find a way to avoid the pitfalls. Needless to say, with bringing in my financial x-wing close to the problems, this section was little hindrance.

"You worry about those fighters, I'll worry about the tower."

Yes, if you recall the Battle of Yavin, (and since it's on DVD, I'm sure you do), Luke's mission wasn't completed just because he got inside the trenches. Vader and his wingmen of doom also needed to be dealt with. And since parallelism is the name of the game, the fighters took take form as open-ended questions: analysis of financial statements. These were trickier, but I was able to handle them well. They're the type of questions that sneak up on you from behind with something unexpected, like glowing red lasers. Thanks to my open-book and open notes, I was able to fend off the fighter questions and proceed to my final mission.

The essay is the photon torpedo to end it all. It was a question about the management of a financial statement package. This shouldn't be hard. I have all the resources I could possibly need with the info needed to hit a home run. If only it was that easy. I spent ten minutes deciding on two different lines of logic, and one would be clearly right and the other clearly wrong. Unfortunately, after reading the book, reviewing my notes, and looking at it with the targeting computer, I was still unsure of my answer. That's when I switched off all of these materials and relied on something else.

"Use the force, Chris."

That's right. Go with what you feel. Close the book, turn over the notes. Wait a minute, that's not even a targeting computer, it's your name tent. Breathe. Write the correct answer down. Turn in the paper. Done.

"Great shot kid, that was one in a million."

Epilogue - if this analogy holds true, opened ended accounting questions are my father. Weird.

I saw the signs...

"and they made no sense to me, I saw the signs."
- Ace of Base, sort of

Part of the morning routine for me is starting the day-long task of drinking my body weight in water. Call it an addiction, but there's nothing finer than a tall, cold Nalgene filled with the coldest water Spectrum Water Coolers can provide. Typically, I cycle through about 5 of these bottles a day. As a result, I am so hydrated during the week that come weekend, I lose this ridiculous inflow of liquid and become as dehydrated and weak as Mr. Burns. The bottle is said to be unbreakable, and it is, with the tiny exception that the cap no longer in permanently affixed to the bottle. Thus, I have the thing open on my desk. Thus, my keyboard, yet again, is under the sea. Paper towels, needed on Aisle Stupidity...

Anyways, the reason I bring the whole water thing up is because of the time it wastes during my day. 23 seconds a pop, to be exact. For a while, I played this game where I would close my eyes while the bottle was filling and count off 23 seconds and then open my eyes to find it filled. That stopped one day when I counted slower than normal. Splash.

Now, I've got to come up with new things to do, so it doesn't look like I standing eerily quiet in the far corner of the kitchen. Today, in fact, I decided to read some of the signage courtesy of other employees that is hung in the kitchen. We're not talking the required, company-implemented wall-ware like Standards of Labor and Safety Cabinet Regulations. We're talking the indirect method of cowardice people use to get their workplace etiquette point across.

"If you see that we are of out paper, please contact Corporate Reprographics x64859."
- Ok, so somebody hates making copies and running out of paper halfway through a production set. That's fine. But please make sure your sign has its words in the right order, Xerox Nazi.

"(on freezer) Please dispose of any leftovers, beverages, and condiments you have no intention of using."
- Surely, anyone who has taken the time to walk their extra food down to the kitchen has some intention of use. Besides, "using" is a little vague, no? It could mean I'm making a fake back wall of my cube out of interwoven string cheese a la Shawshank for that well-timed escape I've been meaning to make. (Disclaimer statements are used to negate prior statements, or to underwrite a veil of secrecy you are now accountable to.)

"When the coffee pot is empty, be a friend and refill it. Thank you."
- When you see someone putting up a passive-aggressive sign, be a friend and call Terry Tate to take care of the fool.

"This toaster will self-destruct in five seconds."
- Okay, I put that one up. But the office hasn't had that "burnt Pop-Tart smell" in weeks!

Go, Speed Poster, Go!

Here's something new - I have NO idea what to write about today. Nor do I really have a whole lot of time. I finally got ot start my planning for next fiscal year today, and I am on a bit of a roll, so I shouldn't really take away from the time I need to calculate rent for SAIC buildings located here, there, and everywhere. (It's that last one that'll get you.)

So we're going to try an exercise in blogging proficiency today. I am going to say go, and then type for 6 minutes straight. (It's my lucky number.) Normally when I write, it's on and off while I do work for a half hour. But let's cut to the chase, and see what my fingers come up with today. I'm warning you, this could get weird.

GO!

I just realized how comical it is to tell all of you that I am going to say go in order to commence blogging. No one here in my occupational surroundings would have any idea of what I'm doing. Nope, there's Condon sitting at his desk, and he just yelled, "Go." Go is a simple word with many meanings. If people were in my office, I could be asking them to vacate, and the co-workers would understand. But no one is here, and now I'm the crazy guy who yells stuff. Who was he talking to, anyway? I know that his stapler has taken on personification in past events, but it tends to be a manual tool that requires physical execution and not words of encouragement. Nope, he's just crazy. Maybe it's the first grad school exam that's coming tomorrow. But hey, it's only accounting, and since it's what he does all day, there's got to be some room for creativity, right? I mean, professors and teachers alike grade papers knowing well enough that they are about to see 30 iterations of the same exact thing. So it's my job to throw a little bit of the funny into the mix. That's how you get remembered in a stack of essays. Bring the funny. The problem is that it's hard to bring the funny when under pressure, especially when you've convinced yourself that you have to bring the funny or your essay is a failure. Everyone has their default funny ideas. You got to have a location (Flagstaff, AZ), an animal (monkeys), and a uberwitty comeback/proclamation (You're a "pretty much anything under the sun"). So if I can convince Professor Singleton that monkeys can debit cash and credit accounts payable in Flagstaff, using the rationale that "You're a balance sheet.", then I see no reason to study tonight. Perhaps, I've brought the funny. Perhaps, I'm outta time.

Just like the Delorean's license plate.