Alberto_Fedrigotti.xls

The title is in reference to a particularly appropriate episode of Sports Night, which is one of the best written sitcoms of all-time. Take the time and get the box set, you'll thank me later. Go ahead, I'll wait...

...ok, you can get it after you read all of my ramblings, but not any later. Aaron Sorkin's got a family to feed, too. In the aforementioned ep., the show is delayed while CSC carries the coverage of Pete Sampras, arguably the most dominant male tennis player of all time, and Alberto Fedrigotti, some guy Sorkin just made up. What should have been a 3 set walk for Sampras, turns out to be more than the Sports Night crew bargained for.

Jeremy: "Sampras is playing a first round match against a guy named Alberto Fedrigotti, who's ranked 178th in the world tennis standings and who Sampras should've easily finished off by now. Sampras won the first two sets in a walk and was up four-love in the third. The crowd filed out to the parking lot a half-hour ago. The match was over. Except nobody told Alberto Fedrigotti."

Meanwhile, back in August in McLean, VA, Chris Condon is tasked to do a cost analysis ("very top-level and basic") It's one of his larger undertakings in his year and a half with his department, and it will provide some good visibility to the head of Facilities in San Diego. The spreadsheet was to be completed, presented, and filed. Except nobody told that to the Spreadsheet.

Jeremy: "Now the thing is, we're suppose to go on the air at eleven, and if Fedrigotti holds his serve and forcesa new set, that means we've gotta hold for at least 45 minutes while Sampras makes this guy say 'uncle'. And nobody here likes to hold."

The spreadsheet is presented in late August, it all looks good, and Chris thinks that it can be put to rest and he can go back to doing his normal job. Except in a fleeting comment, the head of Facilities couples the pat on the back with a "What if we add X property to it - what will that do?" The work continues.

Jeremy: "In the control room, Dana was resigned to going up three or four minutes late to allow Sampras to closeout the match, but she just wasn't emotionally prepared for the thing to get thrown to a fourth set."

Version 2 of the spreadsheet is christened in late August. Chris is getting the sneaking suspicion that this could turn into a time-phasing analysis on top of a prospective cost analysis, but isn't ready to watch this small side project consume his life.

Jeremy: "I didn't see the forehand passing shot that Fedrigotti made to force the new set. Neither did Sampras."

Chris' fears came true when the spreadsheet became a cost estimation tool for not just his supervisor but the SAIC business unit up in Columbia. It's one of 53 of these units, and the spreadsheet is now serving as their own personal financial datawork. Uh oh. Why won't this thing just die?

Epilogue

Jeremy: "Fedrigotti lost his match as the whole world knew he would. But I wish you could've seent he look in his eyes when Sampras hugged him at the net. It was a sight to see."

It's now September 30th. The spreadsheet, 7 versions later, has gone from being a top-level exercise to the financial analysis that is about to be presented to the CEO by people much more important to me that we should spend about $28 million dollars for new facilities in Maryland. That's 28 minutes from now. And as far as I know, Alberto has hit the showers. What worries me is that the presentation is 28 minutes from now. Always time to come back out and hit a few more tennis balls.

Yikes.

Tie a Yellow Ribbon

Finally, my fellow Americans. Finally, we can unite as one unified spirit, look across the oceans to terrorists in foreign lands, reach back and tell our enemies, "Go climb a tree!"

(Assuming the terrorists aren't monkeys or squirrels, of course. They do that anyway.)

On Tuesday, the House of Representatives passed legislation to give the United States of America a national tree. I am not questioning the need for said tree, since I am perfectly fine with our national bird (e-a-g-l-e-s EAGLES), our national flower (rose), and our national weather service. It would just be another symbol of America's independence and strength, and I say the more, the better. Heck, maybe later this week the blog will be about a national boycott of Lenny "Not sure why I'm Famous" Kravitz. But that's another post (or epic novel, coming to a Borders near you.)

Oak seems a good choice. According to the article, we've got oaks in all 50 states, in our presidential folklore with Andrew Jackson, and in the hulls of our old boats. With such a compelling platform, it's hard to argue with the oak, partially because oaks can't argue, but mainly because it just seems like a logical fit. Maybe if I tune it to C-SPAN, I'd see the following debate, now that this legislation is in the Senate:

Senator #1: I like oak. You like oak?
Senator#2: I like oak too. So we like oak?
All the senators: Oak is o-k. Okay?

This, of course, assumes all senators like oak, and really have no interest in their jobs. But from doing my statistics homework late last night, the probability of this, while the two theories are statistically independent, are highly unlikely assuming a confidence interval of 95% and the amount of outlying data is zzzzzzzzz....

Yawn. Ok, I do know for a fact that when the bill was up in the Hizzouse, debate was a lot more heated than the hypothetical Senatespeak above. Mainly because when it comes to a nationwide arboreal symbol, everyone's got an opinion. Here's a recap.

Buck McKeon (R) of California brought the issue to the floor, without really seeking debate, and declared, "We need our trees to be national, I mean we need a nationality for our tree, um, I mean I need some coffee, and we need a national tree. There, I said it right, Yee-ha! (sips some coffee) I would like to nominate the mighty Redwood. 'Cause damn, it's so mighty!"

Edolphus Towns (D) of New York countered, "The Redwood? Yeah, because so many Americans can seem them in their backyards. What this country needs is a symbol that everyone can recognize, a tree that people see, that they know they're in America. I propose the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree."

Lincoln Davis (D) of Tennessee chimed, "Yeah, man, that's really great. I love having a national symbol that is only visible 1 month of the whole year. Oh, and Yankeeboy, big shocker that you would pick your own stupid Charlie Brown tree. Like the Big Apple needs the money. What kind of name is Edolphus, anyways? Did you lose a bet? Ok, I nominate a tree that would return us to America's values, a symbol of faith and hope: The Tree of Knowledge, from the Garden of Eden. Whatdyathink, y'all?

Wayne Gilcrest (R) of Maryland responded, "That's not even in the United States, fool! A tree of American values, we need, but it's gotta be in the freakin' country, Davis. What about the Giving Tree?"

Betty McCollum (D) of Minnesota shoots, "A nice idea, if we lived in the children's section of our local bookstore. If that's the case, why not the Whomping Willow??? That would show our enemies who's the boss."

Randy Neugebauer (R) of Texas, "My last name is awesome! But Betty, if we are going to go the "Fictional Symbol to Represent our National Security" route, shouldn't we at least go with the White Tree of Gondor? I mean, come on, I just spent the last 46.25 hours watching the extended editions of those movies, and I know a tree when I see it. My last name is awesome!"

Chris Smith (R) of New Jersey, "Now it's a national security tree? In that case, I vote for Richard Roundtree. Enough said."

And that, boys and girls, is how Shaft became the National Tree of the United States of America.

In the Year Two Thousand (Nine)

Well, it's official. Jay Leno is retiring. His career is finally catching up with the color of his hair, and it's time to step back from the interview desk and ride one of his 40 motorcycles into the sunset (maybe at 205 mph, perhaps?) NBC announced to the world yesterday, and their sentiments were echoed last night by Leno that their host since 1992 has called it quits.

5 years from now.

On that note, I would like to officially release to all of you that I, too, have seen the light at the end of the tunnel. It's been a great run here at SAIC, and I've decided I want this to end on my terms. I am declaring that I am retiring. In 2049. (If the death clock allows me to, of course.)

NBC also went on to announce that they've tabbed Conan O'Brien to be the next host of the Tonight Show (still in 2009.) This is a great move (assuming we haven't voted O'Brien for President in 2008) for NBC, locking up the funniest man on network television (save Dan Rather) for years to come. Once I was sent the article, (my roommate is so on top of things) I quietly left my desk, grabbed my Mag-lite and foil collar and went to an empty conference room. The lights dimmed, La Bamba showed up with his falsetto, and I saw the future - In the Year Two Thousand (Nine).

Conan's First Tonight Show

Introduction - Since Conan has to move to L.A., he can't show the whole jumping into the East River bit from his current title sequence. But this does not mean he'll leave the wackiness in the Big Apple. I see him popping his head out of the D in the Hollywood sign, dunking a basketball over the Clippers' best player, and eating Chinese food in front of the famous Mann theatre out of a take-out box.

Band - The Max Weinberg 7 will also come cross-country, but not without picking up some new friends along the way. The Max Weinberg 13 now will include all 5 members of the Barenaked Ladies, who have decided to take a break from endless touring for cushy desk jobs, and to quote "keep it real for Canada's sake." Since Tyler Stewart of BNL has been added to the mix and will take the drumming duties, Max has switched his role to "dancing guy" a la the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Oh, and the thirteenth member will be a guest musician each night, but since his career floundered back in 2004, most nights it ends up being Chad Kroger from Nickelback.

Opening Monologue - Same classic Conan, but more! We've still got the jump on the x, the spin, the string dance, the hair toss, but in five years it's gotten even more elaborate. He now does 4 one-handed push-ups, the worm, makes an imaginary blended drink for an audience member, and does shadow puppets. After 2 minutes of running by the camera back and forth, he announces that he's proud to be here, and that he's got a great show. Closes with the finger-as-a-mustache impersonation of an offended audience member. (the one who thought they were all getting imaginary blended drinks.)

Bit 1 - Walker, Texas Range lever, thirteen consecutive times. After all these years, it's still really funny.

Bit 2 - It's 2009, which means that George Lucas has alienated all of his movies' fans, and Episode VII - The Rebellion of Love has just hit theatres. Triumph, after getting his own show on Comedy Central to replace Colin Quinn, makes a glorious return to the O'Brien camp by interviewing the three guys in line waiting to see the movie. One of them is Ahmed Best.

Bit 3 - Not so much a bit, more really a 7 minute mocking session of Conan's staff. Apparently, he hired long out-of-work Ashlee Simpson as a production assistant, because he's such a nice guy. She hasn't gotten any more interesting, so the cut to their first commercial.

Interview 1 - The interview I know I've been waiting for ever since I read the book in 97. Wolfgang Peterson and Orson Scott Card finally got their act together to make Ender's Game into a movie. The frontrunner for Best Actor is Ed Harris, still Oscarless (after 6 nominations), but should win for his portrayal of space war hero Mazer Rackham. The conversation goes into Conan mode, where Conan insists Harris join the band on harmonica tomorrow night. (Sorry, Chad.)

Interview 2 - Andy Richter. Andy Richter at this point in time will have starred in 6 critically acclaimed sitcoms on Fox that all tanked in the ratings. Too bad Fox's entire lineup once Simpsons exited in 2007 is shows with initials. They talk about the O.C., the V.C. (about Vietnam on a beach), the B.C. (about cavemen on a beach), the D.C. (about a hard-luck baseball team in the Nation's Capital on a beach), and the C.C. (about a blogger and his zany adventures.) (On a beach.)

Closing - Conan wants to thank Jay for passing on his job. As a tribute, Conan buys him a retirement gift. It's a dancing Max Weinberg.

In the Year Two Thousand (Nine.)

Outsourcing my Answers

I was just downstairs in the cafeteria, looking for a bagel that would butter itself (I'm much too tired to deal with the mundane, I have paperwork to process.) As I was leaving, some guy who I recognize from the gym said, "Hey, what's going on?" Now, this seems perfectly normal, and on most days I could have volleyed back a "Same old" or perhaps a "not too much." But when you are greeted by someone you vaguely recognize, your brain quickly becomes fixated on recalling his name, or at least coming up with a funny alterego. As a result, I found myself completely dropping the ball with my response to Ab Cruncher, as I forced a last-minute "pretty good." It appears I was expecting him to ask "how I was doing," or perhaps "how's that bagel treating you." Not satisfied with this, I did the only thing possible to avoid this situation again. In turn, I asked someone else the question in question, "what's going on?" Yep. I asked Jeeves.

Jeeves is rarely helpful, but is usually entertaining. And while I know that he probably won't be able to provide me with the perfect zinger for the "What's going on" question, he'll at least be able to prevent me from rambling off lyrics from the same-titled songs of Marvin Gaye or Zebrahead (that would be a killer tour...) Ok, let's see what the cyberbutler has for us today...

"Quick definitions for "going on": (vb) come to pass; (vb) continue a certain activity; (vb) move forward, also in the metaphorical sense.
- Ok, well in that case, I could have answered,
a) I just passed the juice cart.
b) Bagelhunting, my man.
c) Oh, wow. Would you like to know the meaning of life while I'm at it?

Next on Jeeves' list o' helpful stuff is the Death Clock. What a joker, that Jeeves is. Someone asks Jeeves what is going on, and he tells them when they're going to die. (This sounds eerily familiar...Mattias?) This is why I can count on Jeeves. He's always there to remind us of our mortality. Jeeves, on the other hand, is an immortal. No wonder he's aging so well.
- Well, since it was there, I had to check out the old timepiece of doom. I just wanted to let you all know that this helpful calculator is a sham. I hit the compute button with the same stats 5 times, and it gave me a different date (in different years) each time. Either it's a poorly constructed website, or the grim reaper does his best work with a dartboard.

Number three on the big board was a link to the official homepage of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Conclusion: on a Monday, you can probably get away with football talk in the cafe, and people will be satisfied. In that case, I'm answering:

"I love T-O running loops,
McNabb and chunky soup
Long snap cel-e-bra-tions
and twins.

I love Philly in Detroit
Coach Kilmer was Jon Voight
Loved Dawson's oop-tee-oop
And those twins.

And Jeeves is a tool. Here's to football!"

Puttin' on the Foil

And I know you've all (well, Mattias) have been wondering how I feel about the NHL Players Lockout, which looks to wipe out the entire 2004-2005 campaign. And while I think this would be a perfect forum to explain why the players do need a bigger stake in revenue sharing at the expense of a salary cap system, and that their salaries cannot compete with those of the NFL and MLB because the league lacks a lucrative television contract, and what the league needs is to hang on to those Nashville, Ottawa, and Buffalo franchises because once you see a game live you never go back to not being a hockey fan, I have decided to sidestep the issue completely and do a different kind of analysis. A serious blog? Nope, I put it on the bus with Crazy.

With no hockey on the horizon, I have to get my "blades of steel" fix somewhere else. And while selling Cutco knives has some appeal, I've decided to improve upon ESPN.com's idea. Currently over at the "other worldwide leader in sports," they are trying to put together an all-star team of baseball players in cinema. It has its merits, but when you leave "The Rookie" off your pitching staff, and elect Fez from Summer Catch over Yeah-Yeah from the Sandlot to be your utility infielder, you've got problems.

Without any more verbosity, I give you the Hollywood Salsa Sharks, a team so impressive they could take a best of 7 with the Rangers right here, right now.

Offense

1st Line:
Left Wing - Mark Johnson, Miracle - the highest scoring American in the '80 Games.
Center - Reggie Dunlop, Slapshot - Arguably Paul Newman's finest role EVER, he mastered the art of trash talking and getting inside the goalie's head.
Right Wing - Dean Youngblood, Youngblood - Rob Lowe? A hot-headed juniors prospect? He'll be the spark this offense needs.

2nd Line:
LW - Stevie Weeks, Mystery Alaska - He's been skating the pond, I hear.
C - Adam Banks, The Mighty Ducks - Arguably the most talented player on the team. He'd be first line, but well, he's a cake-eater.
RW - Doug Dorsey, The Cutting Edge. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh...toepick!

3rd Line (checking line):
LW-C-RW: The Hanson brothers, Slapshot - the ultimate defensive forward unit short of Eddy Shore himself.

4th Line:
LW - Luis Mendoza, D2:The Mighty Ducks - Fastest player on the team, and besides, he was Benny the Jet in another life (err...movie)
C - Mike Modano, The Mighty Ducks - Call it a cameo, I call it a secret weapon.
RW - Connor Banks, Mystery Alaska- This boy is a sniper. But only when he's not aiming for a bag of Puppy Chow.

Defense
Fulton Reed, The Mighty Ducks - Has a shot from the point that automatically makes him the captain of the power play.
Tree Lane, Mystery Alaska - Paired with Reed, could be the most imposing pair in history.

Jack O'Callahan, Miracle - O.C. can fights off injuries with the best of them, and lay down the bone crushing checks needed to win.
McGill, The Mighty Ducks - This Hawk's got a mean streak to him..."Larson: What did you do??? McGill: My Job."

Les Averman, The Mighty Ducks - ok, he doesn't belong, but he's the only real true defensemen in that sacred trilogy.
Happy Gilmore, Happy Gilmore - You saw him take a beating at the batting cages. That's the toughness we need on the blueline.

Goalies

1st String: Jim Craig, Miracle - That third period performance is the greatest in movie hockey history.
2nd String: Randall Graves, Clerks - Not a single goal is scored on him and his Red Army get-up on top of the Quick Stop.

Shirtless in Seattle

Call it a scheduling error. These time management miscues occur when you're trying to do too many things at once. I'm not neccessarily speaking simultaneously, although I have contemplated trying to write my weekly paper for Human Dynamics while running on the treadmill (all it would require is the hiring of one of those London police guards who stand very still to hold my laptop in front of the treadmill while I type away on every other slow interval. Sounds expensive, but if there's anyway to lose pounds in a gym, it's by paying your laptop police guard in his local currency.) What I'm speaking about is stacking task after task after task in such a fashion that it eliminates the time that one would use to think about what he should be doing next. It should become a routine.

My dry cleaning routine is a lesson in personal finance. I currently am the proud owner of about 24 button-down shirts (one for each hour of the day) that make up my top-half wardrobe at work. And because the lobby shop downstairs in my building pays their rent directly to my department, I can enjoy the perk of getting said shirts dry-cleaned at only $1 a shirt. (That's a great deal!!! That's even better!!! I've got a brother?!?!? (Little Casears, 1994.)) Now if I were to take in shirts to the dry cleaners 5, 6 at a time, there's a good chance I'd rewear one of them before I get to the bench shirts waiting for their dream shot in my closet. That's 1 dollar I've wasted. Now if I wear ALL my shirts before dry cleaning them (save one to wear the day of dry cleaning submittal), then I get the most efficient return on investment, as I won't waste money on cleaning and wearing a shirt for an extra dollar when I've got the reserves. However, this infallible plan has its kryptonite: scheduling errors.

Such an error occurred last night. I was supposed to pick up my shirts before going to class last night. I was supposed to give myself time to do so before I entered Beltway Hell (Helltway?) I was supposed to bring them home with me and restock the closet. I was supposed to have clean shirts ready to go Thursday morning. I suppose I screwed up.

With me out of the shower, and my shirts already at work, I am faced with a crucial decision this morning on how to proceed with the dressing ritual. My options number five:

1. Do nothing. Spend the entire day in dress pants and dress shoes, and see if anyone notices. Wear sunglasses to take the focus off of the lack of shirt. ANALYSIS - Tempting, but not feasible. I think I left my sunglasses at Katie's last weekend.
2. Wear yesterday's shirt after giving it a good ironing. Wear a flashy tie to take the focus off any wrinkles you might have missed while watching Saved by the Bell this morning. ANALYSIS - This would be passable since the shirt looks just like the shirt you were planning to wear that's in the lobby shop vault. However, somehow you got blue pen on your shoulder (???) yesterday and as a result chances increase of getting called on your wardrobe malfunction.
3. Pick another shirt from your closet, even if it's not a button-down. ANALYSIS - This choice would rely on Sleepy Chris to make a good decision in the morning. While a polo shirt would go well with the dress pants and shoes, the money's on him picking a Real Madrid soccer jersey (hey, it's got a collar) or a t-shirt (Senior Trip '98 rules!)
4. Wear a jacket to zipped-up jacket to work, pick up the laundry, and change in the locker room before work. ANALYSIS - Had this happened yesterday, I would be cool with wearing a coat to work in September. It's gonna be 86 today, and that would seem suspicious.
5. Go back to bed, this seems complicated. ANALYSIS - No analysis provided. I'd go back to bed, because devising an analysis seems complicated.

So that's where I am. Waiting by the computer for you all to vote on what I should do...Heck, at this point, I'd even accept other suggestions.

I hate scheduling errors.

Cue Eye of the Tiger...

For I am a Survivor.
(dumma-dumma-dumma-dumma-dumma-dumma-dumma-dumma-Chris! Chris-Chris-Chris!)

I am well-aware that posting on this topic is premature and almost guarantees my demise come Sunday. But with financial planning for FY06, the normal wave of schoolwork, and me defending my cube against usurpers of my pranking throne a constancy, I might as well cook myself with a blog on my success on the virtual gridiron.

There are two times a year when I enter into the foray of competitive sports wagering. The first is the NCAA basketball tournament. You know, the deal where you are expected to magically pick the winner of 64 collegiate hoops teams using reasoning such as "Gonzaga is much more fun to yell than East Tennessee State" and "Arizona Wildcats are more fierce than Kentucky Wildcats - they're from the desert." Overall, I blow out of the gates, taking a commanding lead over the rest of the pool, only to choke in the round of 8 or something because I thought Stanford was for real. (Stick with the east coast when it comes to picking a champ.) And while 5th place out of 53 sounds good, it doesn't give me the funding I'd like to go on a shopping spree at Best Buy. Me walking away a winner is as likely as you picturing a DeLorean in your head in a color other than gray.

The other time is right now. This is the second year I've been in a survivor pool for the NFL season, and I'm am destined to take home the gold. (Count those chickens, Chris. Go on, count 'em.) The rules behind a survivor pool are:

1. Pick one winner of one NFL game each week.
2. If you correctly pick a winner, you will pick a winner the following week.
3. If you do not correctly pick a winner, you are eliminated.
4. You may only use a team once during the season.
5. You may not vote Jeff Probst off of the island.

So the name of the game is putting all your faith in one team to down their opponent so that you may live to see another day. There is a fair bit of strategy in this type of pool. First, you don't want to blow out your list of superteams early, because come Week 8 or 9 (assuming you make it that far), you'll be left praying the Giants can win on the road against the Patriots. I used this rule in Week 1, bypassing the easy pick of the St.Louis Rams over the lowly AZ Cardinals. While most people picked the Rams (and won), I took the Vikings to oust the Cowboys. Still a saf(er) pick, but at least I still have my Rams pick. (And judging from Monday night, the Vikes are a bit on the inconsistent side, no?)

A second strategy is to not pick the "lock" pick. This of course, could backfire in a big way, since risky picks have a better shot of putting you out of the race (Phillies in September? What?) But the payoff is when the rest of the league picks the easy favorite and they LOSE. Such is the case in Week 2, as a home win for the Packers against Chicago was a lock. Well, a rusty, broken lock anyways (Bears smoked 'em.) My left field selection of New Orleans over San Fran paid off. Lucky me. I look like a genius. (Actually, I look like a linebacker.)

See, I'm an expert, right? The pool after two weeks has dropped from 21 to 12. I'm as cocky as ever. And I still have my Rams pick, which I will now use in Week 3, while the rest of the people have to decide how all these injuries will affect the rest of the league. And while being on the Saints bandwagon for a whole week was fun, it's time to throw them under the bus. My pick o' the week Rams 27, Saints 14.

Week 4, here I come. (dumma-dumma-dumma....)

Off the Cutting Room Floor

A short time ago in a production studio far, far away...

It is a period of cinematic unrest. Rebel directors, who can't be satisfied with their own work, have won their latest victory against their uberloyal fanbase. During the battle, the rebel managed to recut famous scenes in his storied trilogy, STAR WARS, a highly successful and quality movie series from the late 70s and early 80s. Protested by many of the principal characters, George Lucas races home to his boardroom, where he must defend his way to make a cheap buck...

George Lucas: I am glad you all agreed to meet with me on such short notice. I have some important things I want to discuss regarding my movies, of which you all were a great part of.
Darth Vader: You should not have come back!
Lucas: You are entitled to your opinion, Lord Vader. However, as sole proprietor of this re-re-re-release of this trilogy, now in DVD format, I've decided to make some changes, ya know, to improve them,
Princess Leia: Imperial Senate will not sit still for this. When they hear you've-
Lucas: I've what? All I'm doing is making the stories more complete. I want to add in images of characters from the prequels to make it more complete. And since Guinness isn't around anymore to stop me...
Obi-Wan Kenobi:Oh he's not dead...not yet.
Luke Skywalker: You know him?
Kenobi: Of course I know him. He's me.
Lucas: Well I'll be a drunken pod-racer.
Leia: Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're our only hope.
Lucas: Your precious old man can't stop me, princess. And as a special precaution, I've hired Greedo as my personal bodyguard.
Kenobi: Who's the more foolish: The fool, or the fool who follows him?
Greedo: My boss requests your cooperation.

(Greedo shoots blaster under boardroom table, directed at Kenobi. Han Solo is unable to fire back, as he is too busy partaking of the cheese tray Lucas had provided as refreshments. Instead, Luke draws the blaster from the Stormtrooper-stenographer sitting in the corner and fired back.)

Solo: (mouth full of cheese) Great shot, kid! That was one in a million. Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid.
Lucas: Great, now I've got a dead bounty hunter in my boardroom.
Commander: We've analyzed their attack, sir, and there is a danger. Should I have your ship standing by?
Lucas: Evacuate? In my moment of triumph? On September 21, people all over the world will buy my trilogy, new and improved, with Hayden Christensen in the final apparation scene of Jedi. And he'll still be doing his angst face. I'm the Wiz, and noooooooo-body beats me!
Luke: I have a very bad feeling about this.
Kenobi: I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

Ok, now Condon's analysis: The Star Wars trilogy comes out today. Support the movies, not the director. He's no longer a filmmaker, he's a business man. One other piece of advice that serves as a good mantra: Let the Wookiee win.

Town of Constant Sorrow

I knew from the very beginning that this was not a normal day.

It just doesn't feel right. Normally, when my alarm clock wins our daily battle, there's a slight breeze of hope in the air. (Some would say that breeze comes from my 24/7 fan set to "High," but I'm waxing poetic right now, so chomp on it.) A hope that those two women won't be stealing the treadmills when I get to the gym. A hope that drywall doesn't cave in on my head while in the shower. A hope that I can revisit my bed as soon as I possible can. Yet even though the fan is still blowing, the air is silent and still. Heavily still.

I shake off this feeling that something's not right, rationalizing it as just a week-commencing moment of peace. What else can I do? I don't fully wake up and make sense until about 9:30, so how accurate could any analysis be? After all, I just woke up from having a dream where someone actually cares about the Emmys. Yeah, I know. Crazy.

But the brush-off doesn't hold as I finish up getting ready and move to leave. As I exit the apartment and hit the landing, the weirdness escalates. Two of my neighbors get the Post. Normally, their papers lie wherever the paperboy chucks them, including our welcome mat. Today, they were set down perfectly on the two recipients' doorstops, each wrapped in an opaque black sleeve, and accompanied by a single white lily. Huh?

First thing I noticed as I left the building was a sharp blast of icy wind hitting my jacketless self. Some would attribute it to autumn finally arriving in Virginia. I think there are bigger factors at play. Normally, there are squirrels and sparrows cluttering the walkway in their food-gathering and resident-waking ways. Today - silence. Had I not been head down and walking briskly, I might have seen that tumbleweed blow across the access road.

My car starts up in the chill without a problem, I back out and hit the commute. Traditionally, I flick the radio on to hear the Junkies banter about how nobody will miss hockey (which I'll get to this week) or how money UMd football is (which I won't waste my time on), but today, with the enveloping quiet, it just seems right to keep the radio off. Radio silence is a rarity for me, but this entire morning has an ethereal awkwardness about it. I'm playing the role of concerned guy, so I observe further.

There's no traffic on Lee Highway. It's empty. I went to church yesterday at 7:30 am, and I thought that was an open ride. Today makes yesterday look like Daytona Raceway. This plus side for me is that with no cars on the crossroads, all the lights are green, as if they will never be red and yellow again. Fine by me. The confusion kicks it into Mach Wow! when I turn on Gallows. Every vehicle missing on Lee was already on Gallows. I've never seen so many cars patiently processing down a street without a horn blast. And by 7:30 am, it's bright and sunny. Which makes everyone's omnipresent headlights a little unsettling. What's with the funeral procession, folks? Who the heck takes Gallows Road so literally anyway? That's my job.

To avoid the interstate depression, I hit the backroads up to Tyson's. It's just as quiet here in this area of thriving corporate expansion, but only a solitary trumpet can be heard as I roll down the window. Am I hearing things? Eh, maybe a typical commuter finally found his aggression via his horn. Eh, maybe I should stop rationalizing and take these oddities seriously.

Two cars back, I fumble with my badge waiting to gain entry to the parking garage. (Apparently, it's the thing to do when you're near the line.) Out of the car, and into the building. People are here already. Now I only work on the second floor of a 14 story high-rise, so the walk from the garage to my desk isn't a long one. But in the time it takes me, I realize it's going to be a busy day. I'm intercepted four times during my jaunt, and now my workload has doubled. Almost to the point where I should ask my boss to bring in a backup. But even I'm not that stupid.

My laptop roars to life. While I sit here with my bottle of water and heavy eyelids, I contemplate today's blog. And yet, I still can't explain all these occurrences from the morning routine. What caused it all? What happened to this town? There's gotta be a reason for all of it. And then I see the headline of the day.

Like I said, with the Eagles on MNF tonight, all the lights are green, as if they will never be red and yellow again.

In the Center of a Hurricane

Well, that may be a bit of stretch. You see, I spent last night in SAIC's Emergency Operations Center volunteering to answer the phone. We have several office in Pensacola-Shalimar-Huntsville, and it is company regs to have employees check in at times of natural disaster. So I was in a Center for a Hurricane. Well, come to think of it, during my 5 hour shift, Ivan had been downgraded to a tropical storm as it plowed through Northern Alabama, so I guess I was in a Center for a Tropical Storm, and not really in the Center of a Hurricane at all. Conclusion: Blog title is a sham.

The shift started of with a bang, as the cheese tray we had fell off the cart and hit the floor. Not a good start. My first responsibility was to contact different Business Unit Managers, and ask for a status update on his/her employees homed in the path of Ivan. It was 7 at night at the time, so I only got a hold of 1 of 6 people I called (as he was in San Diego. Lucky.)

Condon: Hello, is this Martin LaPointe?
LaPointe: Yes, who is this?
Condon: Hi Martin, this is Chris at the McLean EOC. I am calling to acquire a status update regarding the storm in Alabama. Our database shows you have 13 employees in Shalimar, Florida, and Shalimar, as we've seen on the news, is in complete disarray. Can you confirm that your employees are safe?
LaPointe: I no longer have employees in Shalimar. That contract got relocated to Cape Canaveral about 8 months ago. Something tells me our database is a little out of date.
Condon: Okay, that's good to hear. (awkward pause) Umm...not about the database, I mean. About your employees, and their relocation. Umm...yeah.
LaPointe: Are we finished here?
Condon: Yes, thanks Martin.

Ok, the next step is to type into the EOC's running crisis log any pertinent information garnered during one's shift.

"LaPointe no longer has employees in Shalimar."

Hmm...that should do it. Wait a minute...LAPOINTE NO LONGER HAS EMPLOYEES IN SHALIMAR?!? What happened to them??? Oh, no!!! The Hurricane has wiped out all of LaPointe's employees, who previously up to this point were in Shalimar! What have I done? I gotta call the CEO - we no longer have our employees in Shalimar!!!

"LaPointe's holdings in Shalimar relocated to Cape Canaveral 2/04. Outside of projected path of danger. No further action needed."

Much better. So after that was finished, the job switched to answering the phones, should our Southern employees call in to verify their safety and need information on hotels and services in their area. This should be good. 5 hours of helping fellow employees. But no cheese tray.

The phone only rang once.

In five long hours, the phone rang once. Since there's three of us in the room, we put the call on speaker so that we all could get involced.

Us: Hello, EOC?
Caller: Yes, this is Mr. Wiu's Peking Garden, I am at the front desk with your order.
Us: We're on it. Stat.

We were starving. This was an emergency.

The History of an Infidel

I knew no matter what surrounded one line in yesterday's post, it would create a political firestorm. I could have written about puppies in the park, or a baby learning to walk, or how trees sway in the breeze, but as long as I included one line, I knew it wouldn't matter. Maybe it was my subconscious rattling off savant movie knowledge as a thinly veiled attempt to unearth the real problem with American society. Or maybe this is the controversial stuff that really makes blogs worth reading. That's right - I'm a blogger on the edge. And I've already said it once, so I'm sure as hell gonna say it again:

Blue M&Ms? Communists!

It's not that I think the small candy-coated pieces with the blue shells are stalwarts when it comes to economies based on the notion that all members of the economy benefit equally. First, you've got to realize that I first developed this theory in 1995. I was 14 years old. Some of my other theories at the time regarded Hootie and the Blowfish as a hit-making machine for decades to come. (Pin drop.) And while that one might not have panned out, the M&M Postulate holds true to this day. The blue ones? Yep, they're communist.

Some history, perhaps? No? Too bad. When M&Ms were first created back in 1941 as a snack for the soldiers while getting the Nazis out of France (we didn't share either. Take that, Hitler!), the color scheme was simple and established. Brown. Red. Orange. Green. Yellow. There was also a violet at the time, but it was an actual violet. Mars Chocolate Company learned very quickly that the soldiers preferred eating the candy over the flowers in the bag.

The line-up changed over the years in different combinations, but the players remained the same. It's like shuffling the deck on the '27 Yankees: no matter who batted cleanup, the Washington Senators were toast. No adding new colors, either. Why bother? You've established a successful product, so why mess with it? (And yet, we have green and purple ketchup. Thanks, Kerry!)

M&Ms came to represent America. It became a candy Americans could count on in times of trouble. According to the contemporary candy scholar, me, no other candy has been there for our citizens when times got tough.

• Cuban Missile Crisis? Butterfingers wouldn't suffice.
• Vietnam? Mr. Goodbar turned and ran.
• The Oil Crisis in the 70s? They wouldn't accept 100 Grands as payment.
• Bruce Willis' singing career? We couldn't even stick Twizzlers in our ears.

But M&Ms are all-American, stand up in the face of danger, Old Glory waving, eat your apple pie with a glass of Coke, my candy tis of thee American. Through and through.

Why mess with patriotism, Mars?

In 1995, the bottom dropped out. 10 million people (and I have all your names here in my cell phone) voted to add blue to the lineup. To use the Yankees analogy, it's like squeezing Chuck Knoblauch in between Gehrig and Ruth. To use, the patriotism analogy, it's like adding a spy to the U.S. Senate during the Cold War. This addition represents everything that is against the American Way. Against our capitalistic, every man for his own future, work hard and you shall prosper way. In a word, well, I guess that makes it...

Communist.

That's right, Blue. Get out of my M&Ms, and go back to the Easter color scheme where you belong.

(drops microphone on floor, exit stage right)

Decision 2004: In a Flix

Now this is an election everyone should have a say in.

Turner Classic Movies has rounded up 30 of the most memorable political movies and put them in a free-for-all, no-reels-barred poll for anyone who surfs across their website (or now, my blog) to vote on. Some of the titles are definitely are the equivalent of "seat-fillers" at the Academy Awards: makes the list look full, regardless of talent." (I think that's how Kirstie Alley keeps showing up at these things.) But most of the titles are well-known, and know well how to intertwine political plot with impressive story telling. And in the case of Head of State, Chris Rock yelling. For a while. The whole freakin' movie. Wow.

Well, for once, America has gotten in right! Why so surprised, you may ask? Let's review, very briefly, our voting public's track record:

1. Last Comic Standing (circa last night) - Voting out Rob Cantrell over Tess?!?! Come on, people! Rob brings the funny, and Tess just compliments herself.
2. Survivor All-Stars - We gave the extra million dollar prize to Rupert? I LOVE giving my million dollars to the guy who is the nicest.
3. IMDB - We have all three LOTR movies in the Top Ten Movies of All Time? One maybe should be 9 or 10, but that's it.
4. American Idol - I am sad to say it, but Claiken makes a better pop star. Ruben makes a better pot roast.
5. Blue M&Ms? Communists!

But not this time. I'm proud of you, America. At the time of the post, I can stand fully behind Our choices for the Top 5 Political Movies of All-Time.

1. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939) - This was my choice. No movie better exemplifies the American political system more. Also one of the most memorable acting performances not just from Jimmy Stewart, but in history.
2. The Manchurian Candidate (1962) - The greatest political thriller of all time. Remaking it, no matter how good the new one was, detracts from this movie's greatness.
3. Citizen Kane (1941) - I've never seen this, often argued as the best movie of all-time. I think it's time that I did. (I mean, seriously, how many more times can I watch Cool Runnings without seeing one of its major influences???)
4. The American President (1995) - There's a line in High Fidelity where Barry accuses Rob of slipping in a bit of a new record into a list of old safe ones in order to declare its neo-classic status. This one is worthy of being said neo-classic.
5. All the Presdient's Men (1976) - It's Nixon. It's Watergate. And it's much better than Dick.

Had we included non-American flicks in the poll, I'd make a case for Triumph of the Will, but this is a sweet list indeed.

If I Only Had a Name.

This is my platform to explain why I should be a super hero. As the worlds of work, school, wedding planning, and 10pm flag football games collide (whoa, that's a lot of worlds), it seems that I really should break out the old super hero suit that's somewhere in my closet (I think it's next to the 1997 Sweater Vest Collection I own.) After all, desperate times call for desperate measures. It's time to blow my cover in the name of getting things done.

I'm pretty surprised most of you haven't suspected me earlier. Like many other unassuming members of the proletariat who fight for justice between the hours of 10pm and 4am, I have many characteristics that are dead giveaways. Consider the following...

• Peter Parker. Matt Murdock. Bruce Banner. Clark Kent. Chris Condon. It seems the Double Initials Clause comes from the Ancient Pedigree of Superheroes. And it that's the bill, I fit it.
• Because of where I live, it's very clear that I'm a member of the DC Comics family.
• The establishment doesn't cut me much slack. Just like the police were quick to persecute Spider-man, the media conglomerates Cox Communications and Work Laptops, Inc. insist on making the usual rather unusual.
• Shoulders that don't fit through doorways.
• I can leap Floridian fields in a single bound (and pray I don't get lamposted.)

The list goes on of course, but I trust you all to believe me fully after five loosely-strung premises. Right? Anyways, if you're gonna be a hero, you're gonna have to have some rivalries. Arch-villains are out there to meddle, wreak havoc, cause chaos, and prevent Rob from getting his free IPod (go help the boy out, wouldya?) Well, I've got my own arch-villains, and driving home from the aforementioned football game last night, I had my second encounter with none other than...Nightpaver.

Nightpaver may seem unassuming and docile, but he's a nemesis if I've ever met one. Our history is long and storied. The first encounter took place in the summer of 2002. Our hero (me.) was doing the thoughtful, good-natured deed of giving everyday citizen #1 (we'll call her Jane Elizabeth) a ride home to her palatial estate in Leesburg. (For you Jersey folks, that's like giving someone a ride home to...Ohio.) The evening was growing dark at 11pm, and our hero (still me) was running out of time to make it back to HQ. Driving the Condmobile along Rte. 7 is no easy task on a normal day. Unfortunately, all I could do was pray for a normal day.

From the shadows of the night, Nightpaver swooped down on the highway ahead. WHOOSH. He quickly made short work of the ribbon of road ahead, tearing up the left half and leaving uneven, course asphalt in his wake. GRIND. With the other half of the road, he unleashed his loyal army of "Department of Transportation" vehicles to slow out progress from lumbering to crawl. Caught by surprise, our hero was rendered helpless in a traffic jam of Gheorghe Muresan proportions.

Oh, but revenge is so sweet. Last night, Nightpaver struck again, but this time, he hit close to home (the Beltway.) But this time I was ready. As I watched in a horror as a semi truck plowed through 10-12 of Nightpaver's cones (he was a little too far over in his lane), I hit the jets. Eluding the now airborne cones and steering clear of the Jersey barrier to my left, I accelerated around Nightpaver's trap and floored it to my exit. After all of that, waiting at a traffic light for ten minutes only a half mile from my apartment for once seemed kind of nice. The score is tied, my old nemesis. Bring it.

Now, loyal readers, you know the epic backstory of why I would make a good superhero. Your mission is to give this alter ego a name.

(scans today's ridiculously long post).

And no, I won't be Captain Verbosity. It's taken.

Laptop, Drop, and Roll

How did Mondays become "Complain about Technology Days"? I mean, I have plenty of other things to write about here in the blog, what with Jeremiah Trotter striking fear into the hearts of punters, my triumphant return to gym life, or the lingering effects of cleaning with lemon-scented Pledge (I'm still seeing stars...). Instead, much like last week, the week must start off with a crisis of the electronic variety.

Last week's problem was the low quality of my internet connection at home. Well, here's a quick update. After a week of enduring more sporadic service than a Burger King drive-thru at 1 in the morning, I went to work on the cable modem Saturday night. Checked the diagnostics, shut down and rebooted, reconfigured the wiring, hired a small neighborhood child to report college football scores since SI.com could not....you know, all the solutions they have in the manual. "How dumb, how dumb, my ma-a-an-u-el. I left that book in I-ih-is-ra-el." And then, the unthinkable happened. I kicked the web of wiring down by the base of the standing lamp, and WHOOOOOOOSH! Hey now, hey now, my internet's back.

I wish this one was that, uh, simple.

I'd like to provide the transcript of the dialogue between my work laptop and I, circa 8:25 this morning.

CPC: Alright, computer. Time to make the donuts.
CPU: ...
CPC: What do you mean you don't talk? Oh. I have to turn it on first.
Stapler: Are you coming on to me?
CPC: Shut up, Stapler. Just because you can talk doesn't mean you have to.
CPU: Click. Click. Click.
CPC: That's odd...
CPU: KA-BOOM!!!!!!
CPC: (getting up from the ground, after his cubicle has just exploded.) That hasn't happened before.
CPU: Click. Click. Click.
Stapler: I warned you.
CPC: Staplers can't talk!
CPU: Primary Hard Drive not found. Press F1 to retry. Press F2 for settings.
CPC: F1.
CPU: beep.
CPC: F1.
CPU: BEEP.
CPC: F1.
CPU: BEEP. KA BOOM!!!!
CPC: I gotta stop making donuts with a computer.

~My Laptop~ 2002-2004. "Dead because Condon never named Me."

Umm...how's Paperweight for a name?

Best Company Ever, Chapter 1

The nice thing about going for MBA while working full-time is that you are entitled to much more specific aspirations about where you will be following the degree's completion. Had I chosen to go full-time, it would be much harder to figure out where my placement lies when it is all said and done. But with the framework of my current place of employment in mind, I can think all I want about being the future of SAIC. And I figure this program will just be the first step on the way to occupying the title of CEO, or even better, CAO (Chief Awesome Officer). And when I get there, my innvoative management techniques will drive the firm to new heights of profitability, and maybe even awesomeness (if the latter title holds true.) These ideas have never been even fathomed by the current major heads of corporations, which is what makes me such an asset for your company. (oops...channeling job search mode. Damn.) Ok, well without further ado, I will reveal my first sweeping change once in command.

1. Replacing the entire SAIC Human Resource Staff with pirates.

Unusual? Perhaps. Funny and effective? You bet. My new H-Arrr department will function with all the adjectives that describe the current one - organized, competent, comprehensive, friendly - but will also include the much sought "swashbuckling." My pirates can do the job, but with style! Here's how the new regime will affect this departments tasks:

• Recordkeeping - Currently, there's a room with a cipher lock that stores all the paper file versions of employee's background checks, performance reviews, and salary information. Under H-Arrr, the lock will be replaced by a large, bald, and black pirate (think M.C. Duncan) with a machete, and the room will be replaced with a giant treasure chest, where folders will be filed along with rare Aztec gold coins and gawdy metallic booty.
• Recruitment - The staff now works the phones to make pre-interview calls and create job listings so that SAIC gets the most qualified applicants for the vacant positions. The pirates would bypass the avenues of phone and print by raiding local bastions of unemployment dwellers (Starbucks) and challenging applicants to swordfights. If the applicant wins, he gets an interview.
• Intracompany Correspondence - Currently, HR uses the fine art of the company memo to let me know about employee discounts with local merchants or when health plans are going to change. H-Arrr's solution: parrots that fly around the building spreading the news.
• Office Culture - Right now, I can guarantee you there are at least four HR employees in the communal kitchen chatting up The Apprentice from last night's must-see TV. If they were pirates, at the very least they would be talking while seeking out some hatches to batton down or pillaging the coffee machines.
• Termination Procedures - Beacuse I work in a company that deals with large amounts of top secret info, the procedures for leaving the company are very structured in a debriefing sort of way, and are facilitated by the HR department. New plan - Walk. The. Plank.

These management techniques are intellectual property of Chris Condon, Chief Awesome Officer indeed.

What the World Needs Now

"is football, fantasy football."

That's right, the NFL season gets underway this evening in Foxboro, Mass (without the help of Britney Spears, thank the Lord) when the Indianapolis Colts visit the Super Bowl champion New England Patriots. Thousands of fans across the country will tune it to root from the bandwagon for the P-Men. Hundreds of fans in the Indianapolis metropolitan area and one kid from Jersey will tune in to see the Horseshoes do their thing. And yet, millions of others will tune in to this kickoff classic to root for...Reggie Wayne?...Adam Vinitieri?...The Colts defense?...whoever the Pats have at Tight End???

"It's the only game that there's just too little of."

With the NFL season set to kickoff, so does the first snaps of everyone's FFL. That's Fantasy Football, for the acronym-impaired. In the world of the modern sports fan, there's so many avenues to get your fill of athletics: ESPN, season tix, ESPN2, team websites, ESPN Classic, water cooler prognostications, ESPN Ocho, the most important newspaper section, MSESPN, I'm making stuff up at this point, TB-ESPN. (very funny.) But no other avenue has as much of a current impact on national interest in a sport as fantasy sports. Before I explain why, here's a summary of the phenomenon-at-hand:

Fantasy Football - (fan-tuh-see foot-ball) n. - a game in which armchair quarterbacks (AQs) select real professional players (or Todd Pinkston) to form a team, and compete against other teams using one's players' statistics of the current week as a means of scoring. An AQ must select which players to start each week, as only their starters statistics will go towards their weekly score. An AQ should never start the aforementioned player.

"What the world needs now is football, fantasy football."

And now, the reasons why Fantasy Football has revolutionized the way the American fan watches football.

First off, FF really makes you think you know what you're talking about when it comes to football. Forget the rules of the game; at parties you can expound on why the Colts will be better because of the new DB restrictions, or why Tony Gonzalez is the best tight end in football, or why the Eagles black jerseys look very slimming (err...scratch that one.). Because of players' fantasy "values," all of a sudden you know who's going to win the Super Bowl. Here's a hint - no matter how good you think pretty boy Jeremy Shockey is, the G-men are not going to repeat SB 25. Not happening.

Second, FF really makes other people think you know what you're talking about when it comes to football. You start talking, they start listening, and - ZING - you've acquired a cult who drafts every Colts receiver available, create idols of Tony Gonzalez, and women wear those Eagles jerseys in their latest attempt to emulate the Olsen Twins' look. (we call that "no-talent chic").

Third, I know of professional athletes that I would never have known under normal circumstances. I'm freakishly good with names, but it's even scarier when on top of knowing who we called DeNiro in gym class* or that one concert wonder from One Accord**, I also know that Paul Edinger is the Bears' kicker, Darius Watts is the slot receiver on the Broncos, and Chiefs Defense is the defensive unit of the Kansas City Chiefs.

And finally, it lets people who are creatively frustrated to have another outlet to get the silliness out of my head and into your car. So, if nothing else from this post, I am looking for some financial sponsors for my two 2004 FFL incarnations: the DC Salsa Sharks and Ig Wants Touchdowns. (Wawa, I'm looking in your direction...)

"No not for some, but for everyone."

* - Anthony Mongeluzzo
** - Scott Vanbenschoten

Menace II SAICiety

The work environment can be a dangerous place.

It's Wednesday which means two things - it's Katie's birthday (b.a.e.), and I've got to get my class on tonight. Wednesdays are going to be very long this semester; rightfully so, it is the day with the most letters...(save Valentine's Day) On Wednesdays, as Iceman would say, "There's no time to think - you think, you're dead." There's also no time to pack apparently. I have to get my stuff in order the night before, sometime before I fall asleep in the brown chair. Otherwise, sleepy packing Chris doesn't bring the useful; he brings the funny. I went to a frisbee tournament freshman year at UMd with a backpack I packed on 45 minutes of sleep. I brought 8 pairs of socks and my roommate's stapler. Wow.

Once packed and out the door, I am a force to be reckoned with. Since I run in the morning, I leave the apartment wearing running clothes and sneakers. And while stuffing my dress shirt in the bag is tempting, it's not what we call "socially presentable" around the office. So on Wednesdays, you have got to the out of the way, or face the drywall-gouging consequences. I am armed with the following weaponry on Wednesdays:

• My leather shoulder bag
• My textbook-laden school shoulder bag
• My gym bag, with pointy dress shoe action
• My dress shirt, on its wire "Hangar of Doom"
• oh, and car keys.

Like I've mentioned before, the gym is in my building, so I enter the grounds with more protection than Mark Brunell will have this year from his O-line. And of course, to conserve space in a government contracting facility, the hallways aren't widest of corridors, so fellow employees need to be mindful of others coming from the other direction.

I have no such luxury. I'm packing textbooks.

I'm the hardest hitting employee short of Terry Tate. There's not any other option than for others to get out of the way of the Condon Express. Turning the corner in the parking garage and - CRACK - Ross in HR gets served. Walking through the tiny entry door and - POW - Becca from Contracts just lost her elbow. Stepping out of the elevator on 2, Keith from Construction tries to slide by, but - BIFF! - my gym bag floors him. There's nothing I can do about all this stuff, so I guess co-workers will just have to accept my hallway supremacy. Ok, almost to my desk.

If only House were still here, now THAT would be a battle.

Incendiary Shopping

For those of you who piloted a vehicle in the DC metro area this Labor Day weekend, I'm sure you came across an EMT/Fire Department fundraiser at your local major intersection. (For those of you who did not pilot a vehicle in said designated area, God bless you. There's enough cars as it is. Besides, I hear that Metro opens doors. Freaky.) The fundraiser was to raise money for muscular dystrophy, and from what I understand, has been a hugely successful philanthropy for years. Their method of raising funds is with the "Fill the Boot" campaign. A simple premise, when the light turns red, the fire and EMT personnel walk up to car windows and ask the stopped motorists to contribute to filling the boot with money for their good cause. And since they make no efforts to squeegee your windshield or declare "sobriety checkpoint!", the driver is more than happy to contribute spare change or a few bucks to a worthy cause.

I thought this method would have raised enough money to satisfy the campaign and present a very generous gift to the MDA. Apparently, they weren't satisfied.

Proactive marketing is going beyond regular advertising in such a way that the campaign actually intervenes in the life of the target. It's the equivalent of driving down I-95, seeing that massive billboard for Chik-Fil-A, and then having their spokescows jump off the board and through your sunroof to mess with your mirrors and change your radio stations. From this example alone, you can see that proactive marketing can be rather annoying. Well, the Fill the Boot campaign apparently wasn't cutting it.

I went into the city on Sunday to purchase yet another book for grad school. It was statistics this time around, and with a used price of 93 bucks, I wasn't happy. (I'm the one feeling used here...) The GW bookstore is quite impressive in its cashier line management. With 9-10 registers going at once, it moves people in and out pretty quickly (There's probably a statistic from my new book that I could have used here, but that would make my head hurt.) Regardless, it was still packed on this particular afternoon, and I was up to fourth in line after a ten minute wait when the unthinkable happened.

Fire alarm.

I've never been in a store with a fire alarm going off. I wish I could report it was sheer chaos, but it really wasn't. All customers were asked to place their merchandise/stupid stats book on the floor, and head upstairs to exit. I'm a sheep, I complied.

Waiting across the street from the Marvin Center, I watch with my Dell DJ on (song playing: Dispatch - The General) as three DC fire trucks come up to the building. Yeah, yeah, that's just procedure, I'm told. But then I grew suspicious as the retractable ladders swing up onto the glass building. Hmm. Maybe this is serious. Or maybe this is still procedure. 10 men enter through the front door in full uniform and fire blankets. Uh oh. Not good.

45 minutes later, the trucks were gone as quickly as they came. Turns out there was an electrical fire in the newly renovated marketplace area of the building. Fortunately, they kept the bookstore open past 4pm so that shoppers in line could complete their purchases. Unfortunately, the fire did not spread to my stats book.

THAT, my friends, is proactive marketing. Now that I've seen the firemen put on the boot, spark an electrical fire, and put it out swiftly, I'm even more likely to fill it (once they take it off again). I'm impressed.

A Utility Exchange

After trying to write concerning a host of topics this leisurely Monday morning, it seems to me that the source of my writer's block comes does not come from the three day weekend or staying up late, but rather from somewhere I am donating my money on a monthly basis.

Cox Communications.

Apartment life, when it comes down to it, is pretty simple. This is illustrated in what it takes to keep my apartment from turning into a maelstrom of boredom. Rent is key; without paying your rent, I'm sure I could set up my entertainment center in Jon's front yard, my kitchen on the Smiths' porch, and for showering, there's always the waterfall at the mini-golf place across the street. (By the way, I OWN that course. You wanna try me?) Electricity is also essential. Sure, I have candles, but how often do I actually remember to pick up matchbooks at bars and restaurants? (I'm lucky to not leave my keys in the booth.) I also have a gas bill, to pay for heat in the winter. Less neccessary, since I've got blankets, so I consider it a luxury. Finally, the combomatic Cox Communications cable and internet bill. 84 bucks a month for these two sources of entertainment. Well, I want my 42 bucks back.

Someone broke the internet. I am not going to point fingers, but I'm looking in Cox's general direction. There is no worse internet situation than intermittent signal. I would rather know for sure that I can't check my fantasy football team or work e-mail or guitar tabs for Sister Hazel's new album (get it, Toms.) Instead, I get internet for about 12 seconds every, um, hour. So if I get this to post at all, you'll know that I was in the zone.

On a day off, you really realize how much you rely on the internet get things done. With that in mind, I'm huddled in a corner of the apartment rocking back and forth in a little ball, because I don't know how to work the washing machine without www.laundry.com.

Okay, okay! I made that up. I meant the dryer.

Marlins and Dolphins and Heat, Oh My!

I'm not a meteorologist by any standards; when it comes to the weather, I am rarely right and awful often. I can't remember a time in the last six years when it has rained and I have actually had an umbrella. And judging from my efforts at Spring Break in Miami, I have no clue about how intense the sun will be on any given day (my poor skin). I wear shorts when it's 40 out, and wear sweaters on Casual Friday in June. Even my word association is skewed. You say Storm, I think X-Men. You say Hail, I say "to the Chief." You say Hurricane, I say Rod Brind'Amour.

But I do know one thing: there is a Category 4 hurricane headed for the state of Florida, and it could be making landfall as you read this. (If you are in Florida, I appreciate the readership, really I do, but get the heck out of there. These are times that try men's weatherproof siding.) It is supposed to be more brutal than Charley, and could really cause some substantial damage (Worse than Bowa to the Phillies). I'm sure the Floridians were sitting days ago in their hammocks and Adirondack chairs just thinking, "Why worry? The NWS didn't even give this one a tough name! I'll leave when we're being warned of Hurricane Brutus or Rex or Wolf Blitzer." But Frances?

Words of wisdom: Don't screw with Frances.

I did my pseudometeorological research this morning, and I'm sorry to say, it doesn't look good for the Sunshine State. (By reseach, I meant I looked up natural disaster movies.) The most devastating natural disaster in history was not at Pompeii, it wasn't on the Ring of Fire, and it wasn't in Japan.

It was in Kansas.

Back in 1937, a massive tornado hit the hometown of Dorothy Gale with power previously unimaginable. It did the standard textbook damage to this farming community: tore the roof off of a barn, sent bicycles airborne, did fatal damage to the few trees in the area. Only the most powerful tornadoes lift houses off the ground to swirl them in the air, and this one did just that. But what sets it apart, tilting the scales of destruction in its favor was then when it put its uprooted houses back on the ground, they were put in a completely different land. Oz.

Like Seabiscuit, Remember the Titans, and PCU, so many movies in cinema history have been based on true stories. For one, it makes a movie more impressive because the story has such a real basis behind it. Secondly, it's no secret people these days love reality in any visual media. Well, in 1939, MGM took the time to take this 1937 tornado, in all of its horror and charm, and put it to the silver screen, compete with talking scarecrows, flying monkeys, and tacky shoes. They followed the history books to the letter, and it has since been regarded as one of the best movies in history.

Condon, what does this have to do with Florida?

The actress cast to play real-life woman Dorothy Gale was none other than the multitalented Judy Garland. She was a perfect fit for the role, since her impression of real-life Dorothy Gale was dead-on. Of course, at this time in Hollywood, no one went by their given name. Stage names were created to give actors a name that would look good in lights. Cary Grant was born Archibald Leach. Mae West was born Jane Mast. Spencer Tracy was born Dick Tracy. Judy Garland was no exception, and from this obscure clue do we realize that the Tornado of '37 will predict the severity of damage Florida should expect this weekend. Ms. Garland's real last name: Gumm. First name:

Frances.

Toto, I don't think we're in Tampa anymore.