Counter-Clockwise Revolutions

This past Monday, a member of our finance team announced that she had sought to direct her career in an avenue other than finance, and had accepted another position in the company. This came as a bit of a surprise, considering she had only been with us for about six months, but I can understand her change in interest. After all, she hasn’t been the first one.

When I ran high school track, my two coaches (the short one and the one with chemistry in his veins) would always try and find ways to make us skinny white kids run faster in the sprint events. Aside from making us run to the YMCA camp a few miles away, they also decided when in doubt, to yell a solitary word. TURNOVER. And to this day, it seemed like a cryptic choice. They never would explain what they meant by turnover, so I’d have to guess a definition. It never made sense, since the turnover I was used to was set in an office setting, much like a revolving door. And have you ever tried to run fast inside a revolving door? Don’t. It really hurts.

Yes, the revolving door has claimed another worker here in my department. Now I have now been here a few weeks over three years, and for the most part, there are 5 other positions in my department, and I suppose it’s possible to have had the same 5 co-workers during my tenure. However, that’s not the case.

I’ve had 13. (4, no 8, no 12…)

Whether it’s been a promotion, demotion, relocation, or permanent vacation, we’ve had to order our share of nameplates. And what’s more, of the original 5, 2 of them are still here. Which means that’s 11 people to fill the other 3 positions. It took a team of eleven to serve as our two administrative staff and one financial controller. And that’s an average of 11 months on the job before running into the revolving door. What gives?

There’s no solution to my question, because consolidating all of the reasons reveals little similarity. Maybe it’s because a certain employee leaves old donuts out on his desk while he waits for his friends to debate that pastry’s fate.

(Which, I might add, ended up in the trash can. The late-inning rally for the runaway donut came too late. Apologies, little fella.)

Postscript: the one positive aspect of such high employee turnover is a complete need to exploit the fact that the newbies weren’t around when “times were tougher.” As an incumbent member of your department, it is your comedic responsibility to ensure you constantly recollect old stories, prior means of operation, and stuff you’re making up as instantaneously as it’s leaving your mouth. Now you don’t want to alienate your new compatriots when doing this. A longing for the past will only divide the tribe, a la most of the early season dynamics on Survivor. No, you’ve got to say stuff that will elicit the response, “Wow, it may have been harder to do your job before I joined the team, but DAMN, did you guys have a good time!”

Example: Hey, remember back in March when we got relocated outdoors? I mean, wow was that a tough few weeks. Thank God for wireless, you know what I mean? I didn’t mind the snow so much, since we hired the Heat Miser as a temp, and those polar bears were taking care of running the database, but when they started to drink all the Coke in the fridge – man, was that crazy. We really should have seen that one coming.

Time to Make the Jailbreak

A funny thing happened on the way to the lunchroom…

Just before you enter my company’s corporate cafeteria, there is a slight decline in the flooring, forming an upwards ramp in the opposite direction in which you are heading. I can’t really explain the change in topography, as the entire eatery facility ends up about 10 inches lower than the commerce-producing part of the building. I guess cafeteria food is supposed to taste better closer to sea level.

Speaking of which, today’s special was shrimp scampi. Go figure.

Every day (that I forget to bring lunch) I make this trip down the ramp, purchase a salad or some other acceptable substitute, pay my fare, and return back up the ramp. It’s not a steep incline where a handrail in necessary, but there is one in the middle of said ramp just in case. No one uses it, but it does help determine which way is up and which is down. And as I was about to ascend today, I noticed a catering cart on its way down. A colleague, however, didn’t grasp the whole “right of way” concept, and forced the catering cart (and pusher of said cart) to stop abruptly. With little braking. On a downward ramp. Which meant one and only one thing for the breakfast pastry tray on the bottom level of the cart:

DONUT STAMPEDE!

It all happened so fast, but I would estimate about 7 donuts blasted off the cart and continued their descent down the ramp. 1 of the leaders in the jail break, your plain non-glazed regular old donut, died a hero, as the man who cut off the cart panicked to get out of the way and stepped directly on the poor guy. The other half dozen rolled and tumbled another three feet or so, before coming to a stop: as far as they were considered, they were now free pastries.

Did somebody say free pastries?

Now, I’ve worn a lot of different hats at my time with this company, and I was quick to add the cap of “donut wrangler” to the list. I knew the catering girl (who was in complete shock over what happened) and helped clean up the mess. While she and the guy (whose loafer is now laced with donut) started to stand up drinks upright on the top shelf of the cart, I put my lunch down and collected the escapees. The cafeteria trash and tray return was to my left, and after checking with the catering girl, I threw 5 donuts into the black plastic abyss.
Sorry fellas, it was a good try.

This is a perfect case study for the world famous 5 second rule. As per Wikipedia (I can’t believe they actually have an entry on this), the rule states that “foods that have fallen to the ground will not contract any germs until five seconds have passed,” thus making them okay for retrieval and consumption.

Take the donuts. They fell and rolled on a floor which I know for a fact is cleaned nightly. The surface of the floor is industrial tile, and it is only a high traffic area around lunch time, traveled by people who work in a clean office building and have been within the walls of that building for at least three hours. The donuts, in my estimation, were on the floor for about 20 seconds. This of course, is four times the acceptable threshold for the 5 second rule, but they were under careful supervision, and it is hard to believe that any additional harm occurred in the following fifteen. Why do I ask this?

The sixth intact donut is sitting on my desk to my left.

Thoughts?

Dun-Dun-Dun-DUMB.....

“If I had a million dollars, I’d buy you some art – a Picasso or a Garfunkel”
-- Barenaked Ladies

I don’t even pretend to know what I’m talking about when it comes to the world of visual art. I’ve never taken an art history class, I’ve only been to Met once, and once I got to the top after running up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum a la Rocky Balboa, I didn’t go inside – I collapsed in an effort to catch my breath (there’s 72 of ‘em, dammit). Hell, the best movie I ever saw about art was when Sesame Street got locked inside the Met, launching that killer Cookie Monster ditty, “Don’t Eat the Pictures.” When it comes to all things A-R-T, I have no idea what I’m talking about.

But I CAN appreciate it.

For a fan of creative expression who has trained neither of his two eyes to behold what makes a visually artistic masterpiece, I can’t tell you what eras were the best and whose work in said eras were dominant and beautiful. When you put creativity on canvas, in clay, or hell, in weird geometric sculpture, it at least says one thing about the artist: the have an inherent ability to exude originality. Musically speaking, on the other hand, I am a better judge of art. Because of my history in musical performance, composition, and enjoyment, I CAN in fact rightfully opine on who I think has that natural gift, and who’s faking it.

This guy is faking it.

In case you didn’t click on the link (slacker), here’s the skinny on the featured deceased musician. Far from the footsteps of Beethoven, Brahms, or Wagner, American composer John Cage, despite dying 14 years ago, is having his followers carry out what he would deem his greatest symphony in an abandoned German cathedral: “organ2 / ASLSP.” This is no ordinary symphony. It has been written to begin on Sept 5, 2001 and finish in the year 2639.

That’s 639 years of symphony.

And it’s not like this piece of music is fluttering with dramatic crescendos, flutter sixteenth note runs, or hell, even just really loud timpanis – it’s whole notes. All of them. Every note? Whole. Come on! A kid with a Fisher price xylophone could play it!

And what’s more – the first year and a half of the symphony was a dotted-whole silence – six beats of nothing but nothingness! This guy said – “Hey, I’m going to start a symphony that will span SIX centuries in 2001, but I don’t expect any actual sound until 2003!” This man is not an artist. He’s a mental patient.

And it’s not like nobody should have seen this coming, either, which is probably the fault of the general public. His previously most famous work was titled 4’33”, “a piece comprising four minutes and 33 seconds of total silence, all meticulously notated.” That’s not work – that’s an excuse Cage came up with when his manager peaking into his musical cubicle.

Hey, I’ve got an idea for a blog. I’m a going to write a post that takes 481 years to write. The first part is me indenting my opening paragraph, and that will take us until 2007. Stay tuned.

From Cart to Finish

As I have documented in the past, I have little knowledge of Katie and my immediate neighbors. Those who share the other sides of our walls, floors, and ceilings (assuming someone lives on the roof) come and go with little trace. They haven’t even given me enough material for them to come up with nicknames. They remain nameless. However, we have an extended neighbor, who lives just across the street from our apartment building, and has actually revealed its surname. And, again, as I have documented in the past (here and here), that surname is Wegman’s.

It is a magical place.

Like the world’s other place for magic, Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, there are certain constants that arise with such an attraction. The chief constant, of course, is that you can guarantee that both lands of wonder will be jam-packed with visitors, young and old, on a Saturday afternoon. (Fortunately, Wegman’s does not share the characteristic with the Magic Kingdom when it comes to population levels of mice.)

We were two such visitors to the charming world of Wegman’s, and it was in that visit that we discovered that supernatural quality it possesses as the best supermarket/grocery store in Fairfax County.

The thing that makes Walt Disney World (and its associated theme parks) unique is that more moves than just the “cast members.” Animatronics are the name of the game, which is what gives attractions like the Haunted Mansion, Tower of Terror, or even Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride seem super lifelike. It is a system of computers, machinery, and fancy wiring that generates Disney magic.

Wegman’s doesn’t need to generate. That place is haunted.

On a Saturday afternoon, the size of Wegman’s massive parking lot is totally justified, as it seems every last parallel slot is put to good use. That’s great vindication for the architectural planning firm that conceived the two-story massive facility. It’s bad news for Katie and me, who pull in with little hope of parking and purchasing groceries today. And while we could have walked from our apartment, I’m not too keen about carrying 41 bags of groceries (because everything seems to end up individually bagged) across the street. So we press on, with little hope of parking.

Until…

As we made a left towards the supermarket itself, the aisle was lined with stationary vehicles. But other than that, it was empty. When you turn down a decidedly “no vacancy” aisle, you have no other choice but to hit the gas and proceed to the adjacent runway. Except, the magic of Wegman’s showed its true side.

A shopping cart, with no computers, machinery, or fancy wires, mysteriously crossed from the right side of the lane, ever so slowly, to the left side of the lane. It crossed our path, with all the mysterious trappings of a black cat, a tumbleweed, a chicken crossing the road.

Note: all chickens at a supermarket should be packaged and stored in your grocer’s freezer.

The first thing we thought of was the plight of the poor vehicle on the left hand side of the aisle. But when we arrived at its final destination, it the magic of Wegman’s had slid the cart right between a silver Camry and a white Accord. Not a dent or scratch to be seen. And what’s more, to the right of the Accord, an EMPTY PARKING SPOT was ours for the taking. Forget the 40 MPH wind – that cart was trying to tell us something – where to park.

Needless to say, we selected the Enchanted Shopping Cart for our shopping trip.

Just wow.

Egg on Your Face

As a former marketing major, I was taught the knowledge, skill sets, and know-how it requires to provide such support to my future employer. From the ten or so courses you take on the subject matter-at-hand, you gain the confidence in the ability to provide analysis and ideas that will assist any future firm you’ll belong to in becoming better equipped to sell its product or service. That’s what you’re taught. Marketing majors exist to help sell goods.

No, no they don’t.

Marketing majors exist to mess with your head. They make ordinarily normal purchase decisions impossible, since they help deal the cards, and their whole deck are jokers. If it was a base comparison of two products, without marketing, decisions would be made on price and quality. Look, I’m totally cool with the above statement. Had I pursued a career in marketing, I feel aptly qualified to mess with your head. But instead, I’m just one of the flock who is forced to make purchase decisions involving the most nefarious scheme of all: limited-time promotions.

Today’s promotion comes off of a sign in the cafeteria downstairs that has made me ponder such an undertaking with great curiosity. It simply reads:

Every 30 minutes your meal is on us!
To celebrate YOU, our customer and to show our appreciation for your patronage, we are setting every register up with an egg times for one day. Every 30 minutes, when the egg timer rings, the customer at the register, will receive their meal on us.

Yes, those two misplaced commas are on the flyer.

So the marketing majors at our building’s catering company are at it again. These flyers, which pretty much are omnipresent in our building right now (and must look professionally sweet to our clients), are simply designed. It’s a giant picture of an egg timer. Now before I pose my dilemma to you all, I’d like to congratulate the marketing majors on resurrecting the noble egg timer. It’s no secret that digital timepieces have done away with the usefulness of the egg timer, and it’s archnemesis, the microwave, is largely responsible.

And it’s also worth noting that egg timers have been underused because they lost their vision. The original egg timer could time a period of about 3 minutes, or the time it takes to cook an egg. The egg timer evolved into a timekeeping piece for 1 WHOLE HOUR. Have you ever successfully cooked an egg for a whole hour? If so, I’ll just assume you have magic powers. Care to unscramble this egg?

Ok, onto the dilemma. Now this stupid timer promo will only affect one person at each register every half-hour. And the timer itself is concealed from view, so you really have no idea when it will go off. UNLESS, you go down early and listen for it to sound, and then keep track of the following thirty minutes. This is your best opportunity to guarantee victory. Granted, you’ll lose 30 minutes of productivity at our desk, but that’s ok. It’s lunch time.

So if you have a guaranteed free lunch coming due to your timing prowess, don’t you go big and put like 60 dollars of food on your plate? You know, extra bottles of soda, cookies, the entire salad bar – all of it! After all, it’s going to be free.

Unless you miscalculate. Then you have to pay big time for your gamble.

Damn those marketing majors.

Whee! The Coaching Carousel!

Attention, all soon-to-be college graduates! There is no better day than today to be searching for that first big job in the real world! Employers have vacancies left and right, and are looking to hire immediately! Gratuitous use of exclamation points!

This is not at all like when I graduated back in 2002. For every eleventy billion newly-degreed candidates, there were about 4 job openings in the DC area. One was for Advisory Board, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays of the DC job circuit. Another was for a “document management specialist” for some upstart called MCI WorldCom (qualifications included having your own shredder.) And the other two positions were to be sign holders on busy intersections in Tyson’s Corner for furniture stores wishing to inform the general public about mega-liquidation sales. Like I said, the future wasn’t so bright. (I left my shades at home.)

But in 2006, there are jobs aplenty. And over the last few weeks, the number of vacancies has jumped by 9. Once the National Football League’s 2005 season finished, the axeman cometh and swung 28% of the league’s head coaches out of office (the axeman also told Dick Vermeil he was old and to retire). The Minnesota Vikings, Kansas City Chiefs, and Green Bay Packers wasted no time in finding replacement employees. And I would suggest doing the same, college seniors, before the great NFL minds take YAB up on some of our suggestions.

Houston Texans – Of all the states that are United, the Lonestar State is the biggest hotbed of football talent. You would think they could hire a head coach from within, since everybody grows up breathing football. YAB recommends LANCE HARBOR, of Varsity Blues fame. If you remember correctly, Lance busted his knee because Billy Bob phoned in a play, and subsequently, never played another snap. He led the Coyotes to a win once Coach Kilmer got outdueled by Dawson’s Creek, and isn’t afraid to call a trick play (oop-tee-oop included). Let’s just hope he doesn’t deliver his “You’re a real friend, Mox” speech to Reggie Bush. That might freak Mr. Heisman out.

New York Jets – Face it, NYC is a tough town. With the exception of Philly, the fans may put the most pressure on their teams to win. So when Herm Edwards bolted, the job became open, and there were few takers. I guess it’s time to call in an outside investor. YAB recommends the CAST OF THE APPRENTICE to coach the Jets. Donald Trump, in his infinite wealth, could bankroll the coaching staff, and pit the offensive coaches versus the defensive coaches. Each week, their task would be to prepare the team for their game. Whichever side of the ball chokes will have one coach fired during the Monday press conference.

New Orleans Saints – Look, I know they’ve been through a lot. The hurricane demolished their home dome. The owner is an outright jerk, threatening relocation. Aaron Brooks handed out interceptions like they were party favors. The ’05 Saints were simply a maelstrom of woe. With divine intervention in mind, YAB recommends ST. SEBASTIAN, the patron saint of athletes. He may not have a ton of coaching experience, but I guarantee he won’t stand for some of the sinful shenanigans the Vikings pulled this year.

St. Louis Rams – Have you seen those new commercials for Budweiser Select? You know Select has only marginally improved taste over Budweiser. You know Select costs more per bottle. You know that the “Clean Taste” thing makes you think it should taste like Windex. And yet, despite all of that, YAB recommends AUGUST BUSCH IV to coach his hometown Rams. If he’s the CEO of Anheuser-Busch and has time to make commercials, he clearly has time to pick up a clipboard and coach.

Detroit Lions – Of the many recent movies I’ve seen, the best adventure involved the king of the jungle, an albino chick, and a glorified coat rack. The Chronic-WHAT-cles of Narnia was a grand cinematic achievement, and a new franchise has been born. But while they film the next one, YAB recommends ASLAN the lion to coach his Motown counterparts. What’s the worse that could happen? He eats Joey Harrington? Sounds ok to me…

Oakland Raiders – Randy Moss headaches? A crazy owner in Al Davis? Kerry Collins fumbling everything, from the football to his AARP paperwork? There’s no good fit to coach in the Black Hole of Oakland. I guess that leaves this one up for you, COLLEGE SENIORS. I’d suggest buying a silver and black tie, and learning how to pronounce Tuiasosopo. (He’s your QB of the future, you know.)

Mr. Smith Goes to Best Buy

The YAB Exclusive Interview Series was last done when Mattias Caro went uber-politician on us when describing the Washington Nationals with so much waffling Eggo get jealous. Today, we unearth our microphones and talk with Chris Smith, a man with so much cinema he’s got MULTIPLEX written in Christmas lights outside his Medford, New Jersey home.

YAB: Chris Smith, thanks for taking the time to talk with us today. Before we get to the topic at hand, there’s a bigger issue at hand. How have you benefited in life from having such an excellent first name?

Chris Smith: Firstname?!?! My whole NAME is excellent. Do you know anyone else who’s name sounds like a major holiday when you say it too fast?

YAB: No, only those who sound like minor holidays. You win there, I suppose. Anyways, YAB has asked for this exclusive interview with Mr. Away in a Manger as he has recently achieved a feat that large movie fans and small venture capitalists can appreciate. Would you mind telling us what that is?

Smith: No I wouldn’t mind. On December 29, 2005, I officially added the 1,000th DVD to my collection.

YAB: Well, let be the FIRST to congratulate you on your momentous milestone (assuming you’ve seen no one since the 29th, live in a cave, your wife isn’t speaking to you, and I didn’t already congratulate you earlier this week.) All of those assumptions aside, it is indeed a remarkable feat. So tell me, why drives a man to collect DVDs?

Smith: I HAVE been living in a cave, how’d you know?? As for collecting DVDs, It’s just one of those things. You start by buying movies you really like. Then you start to fall in love with the convenience of having them to watch whenever you want instead of having to go to the store and rent them. Then your friends and family start noticing that it’s a big deal in your life and they begin to buy you more DVDs. But then you get too many for them to figure out what you don’t have so you start getting lots of Gift Cards to Best Buy, Amazon, etc. It’s also insanely addicting, so I don’t recommended to any of your readers to start. You begin rationalizing by looking at how much money you saved by not going to the movies this past year and buying it when it comes out on DVD so you don’t feel bad about buying this movie or that movie.

YAB: I suppose when you have reached the 1k mark, it would be hard to find a movie you don’t own. After all, this man owns 10 movies that begin with the word “American.” So tell me, what was DVD #1 in the Smith collection?

Smith: Well, the very first movie I ever owned was Stargate. But I no longer own that version of the movie, as it was a really crappy “flipper” style (Flippers had half of the movie on one side and half on the other and you would actually have to get up and flip the DVD over to finish it, this was a holdover from the old Laserdisc days. I got a better version later.) Current DVD #1 is Outbreak bought 7/10/98.

YAB: Ah, I see. I had no idea that you dabbled in the resale market (or the throw in the trash market). And what was 1,000th flick?

Smith: Well, I’ve only ever sold or given away movies that I’ve bought a newer/better version. I would say (not counting when Lace and my collection combined) less that 20 total. Actually, what’s really sad is that during the course of this interview I actually FOUND my original Stargate flipper movie which was on a shelf in my office. Never did get around to ebaying that one. Lucky number 1,000 was King Kong (1933) inside the King Kong Collection.

YAB: Ok, hold on. Movie #1 was Outbreak, the 1995 Duston Hoffman movie where a monkey comes to the U.S. via a freighter and causes widespread epidemic disease. Movie #1000 was King Kong, the original ’33 flick where a different monkey from Skull Island is brought stateside, and causes widespread epidemic skyscraper chaos. The logical question must be asked: Do all 1000 movies involve monkeys?

Smith: No, just a few others. Clerks – Uncensored has a monkey (but that’s a TV show). Project X has monkeys. There’s probably more, but I’m not sure.

YAB: I hate to admit it, but I’d be WAY more impressed with your collection had it been entirely primate-fare. Moving on, if you have to pick 5 DVDs as must-owns for a budding young collector, and I’m not talking your “Every-movie-Oliver-Stone-ever-made collection”, but rather single movies, what would be thy starting quintet?

Smith: That’s a great question, and very hard to answer. But I’ll try. Citizen Kane, Fight Club, Pulp Fiction Collector’s Edition and All the Lord of the Rings Extended Edition (yes, this is three movies, deal.) Also since that’s 6 movies but only 4 listings, I’ll throw out that you should buy at least one movie from The Criterion Collection. TCC is a studio that releases excellent DVD releases with a lot of extras. Mostly indie fare but some better known movies as well. My personal favorites of well known movies are The Royal Tennenbaums, Chasing Amy, The Rock and Armageddon. Buy one of these if you can and it isn’t out of print.

YAB: And I was expecting a five-some of Purple Rain, Men with Brooms, New Jack City, The Pacifier, and The Skulls 3.

Smith: You forgot Showgirls.

YAB: Yes, if only Elizabeth Berkley could have done the same. Anyways, we don’t want to hold you up any longer, since we’re probably impeding the e-commerce pipeline. Christmas, thanks for your time. Maybe YAB will come out with a DVD and you could buy it.

Smith: You know I would. Thanks!

Muscle and Flow

As it turns out, God wasn’t big on “extraneous parts” when creating Adam. And as I have found out the hard way, there’s nothing on me that is just for show – it’s all functional, baby.

The human muscular system is composed of nearly 700 different and unique skeletal muscles. And in my 26-year career of using said muscles, I have found just about all of them have a solid functional purpose. The heart pumps blood and serves as field general for the entire circulatory system. The tongue (yes, it’s a muscle) assists in ingestion, not to mention expressing displeasure with the latest Ashlee Simpson single. The hamstring, while weirdly named, allows hurdlers to fly through the air with drive, determination, speed, and an ever-so-slight amount of glee. The calf gives anyone an extra two inches of height required to get those cookies of the top shelf. And the bicep helps in the lifting of boxes, as well as giving directions (how else would anyone know which way it is to the beach??)

See? All totally useful.

In that stellar exhibit of anatomical knowledge above, I showed the value of just five of the aforementioned 700 muscles. Now I could go all day, but I don’t for three reasons. 1 – I know little more in the field of anatomy. My last related course was “Biology for Non-Concentrators” where my gained knowledge was limited to Puppies = Good, and conversely, Cancer = Bad.” 2 – I may decide that due to my lack of muscular knowledge, I may feel the need to enrich such a void by dropping out of business school and apply for med school, rolling myself into an bottomless grave of debt, and frankly, I’m not dressed for a funeral today. 3 – I believe at some point I had a point I was supposed to be making. Hmm…

There are some muscles that at certain points in life you find their real use. You knew they existed, you just didn’t know their purpose. Well, guess what? Today is the day that TRICEPS get their day in the sun. Why, you may ask?

Because mine hurt like hell.

In this glorious break between semesters, I’ve found myself on more than one occasion (okay, three) back at the gym, trying to regain my athletic abilities. As I have documented in the past, such a visit is a two-part party – treadmill and weights. As I geared my routine back up, it appears that lifting a barbell repeatedly behind your head, in order to strengthen those beloved TRICEPS, may have some lingering effects a few days later.

Like the aching pain of a thousand hammers.

But it’s okay, right? We don’t actually use out triceps. They’re just there to make sure ol’ bicep doesn’t get lonely. This was my thought process before I woke up with a searing pain. Now that it’s 4 hours later, and I’m sitting at my desk typing to you all, I have discovered that every single one of the following activities require the use of the almighty TRICEP.

Pushing yourself out of bed. Reaching up to get the towel off the hook on the door. Getting the shampoo off the ledge. Brushing one’s teeth. Combing one’s hair. Buttoning the buttons on a dress shirt. Even worse, trying to button the collar button on said shirt. Putting on a coat. Reaching behind to close the door. Holding the elevator open for Lethargic McSlowpoke.

Yeah, the TRICEPS have spoken.

Beyond the Highbeams

That so didn’t happen as I had planned.

Yesterday’s blog kicked off with the line, “As I found myself driving around my hometown of Medford, New Jersey a few days ago, I realized that the best way to recollect the past isn’t necessarily sitting around with old friends telling older stories.”

Then the blog, while funny, veered way off track from my planned topic. When you write on a daily basis, the content formulation becomes rather, well, formulaic. Come up with a topic. See if it has the legs to go around 750 words. Bring the funny. It’s really not hard at all. Now most of my posts start with a bit of an intro – to frame the story or comedic observation I’m gunning for. Yesterday was no exception. I thought that I could come in and tell how history can go skew itself over time, (which it clearly did in the school bus story), and then move on to my real point – the best way to recollect the past is driving along the roads on which you grew up. Then I was to follow with a light-hearted police story, and link to Harford’s hilarious run-in with a Garden Statey. We’ll just call this Take 2. And…..action!

While Rob seems to have cornered the market on funny stories with the state law enforcement branch, I have to say that Medford’s finest had provided on more than one occasion a reason to laugh for my Volvo and me. (Two things: I know that vehicles lack the muscles to laugh. When it seems like their guffawing in glee, beware. They’re probably scraping you gas tank for fuel, and plan to stall on the shoulder shortly. Not a laughing matter. Second, laughing in front of a police office is not highly endorsed by YAB. If you find something comical in the presence of said profession, HOLD IT IN. Think of something unfunny to pass the time. Or, if you must, actually LISTEN to what the cop is telling you. That may be best in the long run.) (Longest parenthetical tangent ever.)

Dixontown Road, the main pipeline employed to get from home to points east (the high school, Tabernacle) is really nothing more than a two-lane death trap. This is for multiple reasons. First, I’m sure it’s the only point in the entire state of New Jersey that is devoid of cell phone coverage. Second, my shoulders are wider than Dixontown Road’s. Third, it’s only a two lane road where people are allowed to go at least 45 mph, as per local highway signage. Finally, there’s a tenth of a mile that goes through Medford’s kid brother, Medford Lakes. Which can mean only one thing.

Medford Lakes Police.

The MLP drove navy blue police cruisers, which frankly, I think should be outlawed. It’s way to easy to hide in the shadows, preying on unsuspecting teenagers who have done absolutely nothing wrong. Now I can see why the MLP patrols its 100 meters of pavement on Dixontown Road with such vigor. The turn onto it comes off of Tabernacle Rd, and little deceleration is required. I’m sure many a kid motorist has fallen into this trap. But on one fateful day in late 1997, I was not ready to join their ranks. I was going the speed limit, when the MLP sprang from the shadows, sirens and lights ablaze.

Now before I relay the transcript from my dialogue with Officer Jerkpants, understand this. I was a kid, and I was in a car. The MLP addresses all people fitting said profile as if they have a keg in their backseat, a kilo of crack in the glove box, and cock fighting going on in the trunk. Ok, proceeding with transcript.

Officer: Hello, son, did you know you have your high beams on?
Chris: Yes, officer, I did know that.
Officer: Can you tell me why you had your high beams on?
Chris: Because it’s dark out. (I didn’t mean for that to be remotely as sarcastic as it came out. I was too terrified of a ticket to be a smart-aleck.)
Officer: I see. Well what if another car was coming from the other direction? (Meanwhile, his flashlight was wildly investigating the contents of my Volvo. To his dismay, I had no loose rounds of ammunition rattling across the dashboard.)
Chris: I would have turned them off. (Again, inadvertently sounding like a wiseguy)
Officer: But what if someone came out from that side street up there (pointing)?
Chris: I didn’t see any headlights coming from out of there, but I would have turned off my high beams then, too.
Officer: (Finishing his search for other injustices, after concluding I wasn’t running an illegal sports betting ring in the back seat) Alright, then, well have a good evening then. Be careful.

In retrospect…Careful of what???

My Memory is a Peach

It's all fuzzy.

As I found myself driving around my hometown of Medford, New Jersey a few days ago, I realized that the best way to recollect the past isn’t necessarily sitting around with old friends telling older stories. Facts are lost over time; opinions and subjective memories rush to fill fact’s void. But how easy is it to revise history by not sharing such stories for years on end?

When I think back to high school, I know there are tons of stories that have a high enough comedy content to pass the stringent “bring the funny” standards of the YAB Quality Control Team (which is staffed by rotating shift, and is currently manned by Vin Diesel, Sweetums from the Muppet Show, and a monkey with a cold). Furthermore, I know many of the loyal readership comes from SHS, and can no doubt relate to things that brought the house down back in ’98. But of all the sources for laughter during my formative years, the one place that I remember laughing the hardest was during Track practice.

It is really hard to run fast when laughing. And hurdles really don’t see what’s so funny. Owwwww.

For example, I was in a conversation recently about an event that took place on our high school winter track bus one late winter Sunday night. The premise was simple – there was a guy on our team – let’s call him “Bromily” – who managed to get his girlfriend on the bus as our team manager. They sat together in Row 3. When they got a little too cuddly, (granted, it was about 24 degrees and big yellow school buses are a little light in the internal heating department) we in the back of the bus decided action needed to be taken. The following events transpired.

1 – We collectively finished off a 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.
2 – A selected representative took the empty bottle as his weapon.
3 – Said representative quietly snuck up to the front of the bus, and mid-cuddle, halted Bromily with a quick shot to the head with said bottle.
4 – The attacker ran to the back of the bus, as Bromily realizes what happened.
5 – The attacker throws the empty bottle into the seat of one of his accomplices.
6 – Seeing the bottle in the hands of the accomplice, Bromily attacks him instead of the attacker.
7 – Hilarity ensues.

Now remember what I was saying about disappearing facts? This vignette is no exception. Now it was my recollection that the role of “attacker” was played by one “Tim Fischer,” and I was his wingman in the supporting role of “accomplice.” Now, the whole hurdle squad was there – James, Lou, Rob, Weng, all of them, but in my memory it was Tim who tossed the bottle in my lap, bringing the wrath of Bromily to my front door. This story came up on Friday night. And guess what?

There’s a rival opinion out there.

As two of the aforementioned hurdlers attested to me, it was actually ME who made the Mountain Dew Dash, only to hide the weapon in Tim’s chair. That meant I dove into my own seat while Tim had to deal with the man whose cuddle we had so rudely interrupted. And as this counterview was being presented, it became clearer in my memory. It appears I had struck that and reversed it some 8 years ago. I immediately seized into a deep panic.

How many details of my life and the one of Tim Fischer had I inverted in the last 8 years? Did I attend the US Naval Academy after high school? Am I trained to work on nuclear submarines? DO I LIVE IN HAWAII?

*checks the local weather outside my cube*

Guess not.

Shear Terror

There are some days that you get out of bed and know it is going to be a great day. You’re fully confident that things are going to get done, fun is going to be had, and hell, even traffic is going to be on your side. And for most of the morning, your prophecy even holds form. But then one thing can send it in the wrong direction. And as you guessed, my yesterday is a prime example.

It wasn’t drowsiness: I got 8 and a half hours of sleep.
It wasn’t lack of fun: I snuck in a game of garbage can basketball.
It wasn’t traffic lights: I saw so much green I could’ve been in Ireland.

No, it was something else that I had no control over, and it threatened to ruin my Wednesday. And it wasn’t something external that I could run away from, either. This was internal. This was detrimental. And this was personal.

I had the hiccups.

There are WAY worse maladies that the hiccups from an outside perspective. Smoking will take years off one’s life. The chicken pox will get you quarantined in your bedroom for a week. Mad cow disease will, um, force you to uncontrollably hold out the vowels sounds in words like “moon,” “maroon,” and “baboon.” But hiccups? Far more annoying.

Over the course of the day, I had two major title bouts with Sugar Ray Hiccup and several smaller scrums. The smaller battles would last 15-25 minutes and would only set me back once a minute or so. I could control these. When I had to have conversations with my co-workers, I could sense when the next one would hit. I knew the window of opportunity I had before the next diaphragm spasm would hit. In that time, I could fully function – get printouts from the departmental printer, make it to the mail center and back, or even ask questions and get answers and make it back to my desk before my neck recoiled in a violent thrust again. Like I said, these were the minor scrums.

But twice, I found myself completely outmatched and overwhelmed. The first was around 2pm, about an hour after my Caesar salad for lunch. I couldn’t make it 30 seconds between hiccups. This would be okay, if I worked at home, didn’t have to talk to anybody, and played video games for a living. But sadly, I work with people, I use the phone, and Madden 06 isn’t exactly on my laptop.

You know how hard it is to talk on a phone with the hiccups? Every seventh word sounds like you’re trying to inhale the receiver, you repeatedly bang your ear against the top part of the handset, and the person on the other end of the line has to figure out just what you meant by “I thiccupnk thiccupat our best option is to hiccupold our current strategies in Hiccupoustion and Chiccupago. *Sneeze.*”

But like I said, I had two major fits yesterday, of which I could do nothing but wait them out. The other happened when I was packing up to head home for the day. On most days, this would be a perfect time to do battle with hiccups. I drive home for 40 minutes, never break the speed plateau of 35 mph thanks to traffic, and by the time I get home, they should be hiccup history. And yet yesterday, I feared for my very life? Why, might you ask?

I was leaving work to go get a haircut.

Our Annual Audio Obituary - Z104

Why is it that every time we ring in the New Year, I have to write one of these things? And just like last time, this obituary is a Condon original. Accept no substitutes.

“In a shocking turn of events, another bastion of radio rock has been slain in a senseless act of formatticide. Z104, the Washington DC home of Modern Music is no more. The current leader in “VH-1 Rock” in our Nation’s Capital, Z104 was pronounced dead at 12:00 noon, on January 4, 2006. This was the most fatal accident in the history of the popular party game Musical Chairs, as Z104’s spot on the dial has been taken by Washington’s Classical Station, WGMS. Fans of the newly deceased station are looking to point fingers, and have their sights set on assassinating both Peter and the Wolf.

WGMS, in turn, is looking to redirect the ire of those who enjoyed the McDonalds’ Morning Drive, by quickly explaining that their previous spot on the dial was taken over by WTOP, the 24-hour news station. While WTOP has been helpful on many a jammed gridlock car ride, the DC area understands another solid radio station is being put in the ground on account that the news station is trying to take over the entire spectrum of frequencies. One thing is clear: Z104 died in vain because too many people inside the Beltway are too uptight and thrive on instantaneous news broadcasts. Z104 would have said, “Kick back with Dave Matthews. You’ll feel way more relaxed than waiting for Traffic and Weather together on the 8’s.” But Z104 won’t be saying this for two reasons.

1) Z104 is now dead, remember?
2) Radio stations don’t talk

It was the dying wish, literally of Z104, for its playlist artists to rumble with the artists of WGMS, West Side Story-style. And while Nickelback, 3 Doors Down, All-American Rejects, and Fall Out Boy wouldn’t normally win many fist fights, they surely would have fared quite well against the old-timers of 103.5 – Brahms, Chopin, Haydn, and Wagner don’t exactly scream “Throwdown” in their various conciertos and operettas.

This is not the first time a popular rock-oriented station has lost out to “Audio Boredom” on the airwaves. Aside from WHFS in DC, stations around the country have found a similar fate. Y100 in Philly is gone. (Sadly, with less fanfare from YAB – our apologies)

Funeral arrangements have yet to be finalized, but it is likely that a wake will be held at RFK Stadium, as Z104 was the Radio home to the Washington Nationals. Now the Nats can be the home to funeral and burial. The station will be buried somewhere in right-center field, as the cavernous outfield has more than enough room for a grave. And besides, Alfonso Soriano’s not going to trip over it; he’s not playing the outfield.

Perhaps it’s the iPod that’s killed the modern rock station. Yes, but we’re just fine blaming 17th century composers."

Rest in Peace, Z104.

The Year in Movies, 2004

Now THIS is backdating.

Just before New Year’s Day last year, I took the opportunity to officially publish my Top Ten movies of the year 2003. Granted, at the time, a full year had past since 2003 had drawn to a close. But at the time, the rationale to post a Top Flicks of ’03 at the end of ’04 was simple. I don’t have the time or cash flow to see every movie as it releases to theaters, and if I think I’m qualified enough to put together a Top Ten, I need a little more time to catch anything I’ve missed on DVD. And so, my first annual Top Ten was born.

(I guess I have to do another one to make that “annual” thing true.)

After reviewing the list of 49 movies I saw in 2004, I instantly realized that 2004 was a much better year in movies than 2003. First Daughter, Surviving Christmas, and Eurotrip aside, I had a much harder time narrowing this year’s list down to 10. I could have put together a Top 20 and still been forced to leave movies the likes of Ray and Kill Bill Vol. 2 on the shelves.

Am I a movie critic? No. Movie critics, for the most part, are out to dissect the art of filmmaking. They often spend all their time comprehending the motives of a character of the directorial flaws and fail to ask themselves, “Did I enjoy this movie?” I view movies in the way I view a sandwich. I don’t look at each piece of meat, veggie, and cheese, and decided how well it has been utilized. I bite the sandwich and decide afterwards what I liked (the nicely-toasted French roll) and what I could have done without (horseradish. Who came up with that, anyway? It wasn’t the horses, I’m sure. And radishes can’t talk. What was I talking about again?) Oh yeah, the Movies of 2004.

1. Million Dollar Baby – The second straight year I’ve picked an Eastwood-directed movie as number one. Doesn’t look like he did anything in ’05, so there will be a new helmsman at the top for ’05. Unsung scene: Morgan Freeman stepping to the aid of Danger in the ring.
2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – One of the most original movies I’ve ever seen. Why Charlie Kaufman is the best known writer in Hollywood.
3. Hotel Rwanda – Of all the movies, this one glues me to my seat. It’s that movie of the year that you know was so incredible but so very sad. Well done, Don Cheadle.
4. The Passion of the Christ – This doesn’t mean I want more movies in Aramaic, it just means that Gibson captured perfectly the essence of Christ’s gift to the world.
5. Collateral – Every year there seems to be a movie that’s just cool. Michael Mann wins the title again, and Tom Cruise didn’t jump on any furniture in the flick.
6. The Aviator – A tad on the long side, but it was the best biopic of the year, despite Jamie Foxx’s best efforts. This is a Hollywood movie in full force.
7. Miracle – The story of the 1980’s Olympic hockey team had a story tailored for the big screen. It’s nice to see that an competent production team was able to tell it in all its glory. Best hockey movie ever.
8. Sideways – The reintroduction of the character-driven movie. I would love to see Alexander Payne go on a run of good movies, a la Woody Allen in the seventies. Very funny.
9. A Very Long Engagement – Probably the only time in my life a French movie makes the list. Also probably the only French movie not to star Gerard Depardieu.
10. In Good Company – Now THAT’s a good date movie.

Honorable Mention: Finding Neverland, The Incredibles, Spider-man 2

New Year's Resolutions, but not really

At this time of year, most of the world will wake up on New Year’s Day with only two objectives for the day: 1) watch as much football as humanly possible, and 2) make some New Year’s Resolutions. Resolutions are not something that we here at YAB are against; the declaration to quit smoking, lose weight, or try skydiving are noble causes, and many people have found success by subscribing to the annual practice. However, when it came time for YAB to make its first-ever New Year’s Resolutions, we spilled champagne on the laptop, and in the midst of the frantic clean-up efforts, it is possible we missed the point. Regardless, we present our YAB NYR’s. Happy New Year, everybody.

New Year’s Revolution: The current staff of the YABNews desk will be overthrown by a band of guerilla journalists, mainly comprised of a renegade band of Muppets. Their new motto: NEWS INFUSED WITH ELECTRIC MAYHEM.
New Year’s Revelation: YAB has grown accustomed to speaking as a “we” and not an “I” when imparting information to its readers. For those new to the show, it’s only Condon here. If there was more than, there’s no way we’d be backdating; we’d be all caught up.
New Year’s Reverberation: HAPPY NEW YEAR! (HAPPY NEW YEAR!) (Happy New Year) (happy new year!) (-appy new –ear!)
New Year’s Resignation: It is with our greatest regret that we accept the stepping down of Chris Condon as Chief Awesome Officer of the Best Company Ever. This is only temporary, of course. (He just likes to make the Board of Directors crazy.)
New Year’s Restitution: In 2006, we’ll finally get that YAB Store up and running, and shall bestow on all past winners of the “Hundred Quizzes” the YAB t-shirts they are rightfully owed. Who likes free advertising? I do.
New Year’s Reservation: We don’t feel like fronting the cash right now, but we’re effectively calling shotgun on http://www.yab.net/, for our once and future home if this blog every gets caught up again.
New Year’s Reiteration: You’re a New Year’s Reiteration.
New Year’s Referendum: Referendums are usually called for when a new issue arises that the people have a responsibility to decide upon or when we need a governor in the Golden State. This is your opportunity to change YAB to be your voice, and not just the voice of the tall kid who has a penchant for spinning things. In the following year, what improvements would you like to see here on YAB? Don’t be shy. Let me know.
New Year’s Reformation: In 2006, we would like to see the reformation of an early recurring writing series: the Superhero chronicles. Very early on in the life of YAB, Condon the Superhero battles the likes of Nightpaver, Superlator, and other baddies. We’d like to see this recurrence reform in 2006.
New Year’s Refrigeration: Any misspellings in comments will force our YAB bouncer to put said commenter on ice. Interpret as you will.
New Year’s Restoration: We admit, the old YAB aesthetic mainframe has been phoning it in with few updates to the color scheme in quite some time. Look for a facelift, a shave, a haircut, wax, tire rotation, and the introduction of some typewriter monkeys in ’06.
New Year’s Realization: There’s nothing Fancy about McDonald’s Fancy Ketchup. If there was, all fine food, from lobster to caviar, would come prepackaged in tiny plastic pouches that you open with your teeth.
New Year’s Rejuvenation: Here’s to a newer, fresher, more cutting edge, technologically superior, hotter, state of the art…round of Nordberg phoning it in jokes.
New Year’s Reparation: For nearly a year, I’ve had a have written post about wearing ties gathering dust on the shelves. It’s just not funny. It’s forced, contrived, and rivals Daisy Does America for minimal amounts of comedy. This year, we’ll fix and post it. Promise.
New Year’s Resurrection: What will rise again? Easy. Accurate dating on new posts.

Farris Hassan's Day Off

The major story on this lazy Friday with all the major outlets seems to be the tale of Farris Hassan. For those who don’t waste their time with CNN and company, and use their webtime more wisely here on YAB, Hassan is a 16 year-old Florida high school student with Iraqi roots and a penchant for journalism. On December 11, he decides to hail a taxi to Miami International Airport and take the first flight out to the Middle East. Via three stopovers, Hassan ends up in Baghdad, and it is only THEN he decides to call Mom and Dad to let them know he’s not sleeping over at Jimmy’s house.

Read this interview with Mrs. Hassan before going any further. It reads like the aftermath of bad episode of Punk’d. This kid took a vacation from school, managing to fool every responsible adult he knew. Sounds familiar, don’t it?

And yes, his name is Farris.

This clearly isn’t the first time a prank savvy high school kid with that name (albeit a different spelling) has managed to pull the wool over the eyes of the world. I’d like to cite a similar interview given in 1986 in the Chicago suburb of Shermer given by another duped mother, Mrs. Katie Bueller. Here’s the transcript:

Reporter: Your son -- first of all, let's get it straight right now. He took the entire day off from school in order to romp around Chicago with his girlfriend and his best friend, and you had no idea. How do you feel about that?
Katie Bueller: Yes. I know. It’s pretty remarkable. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. I have an eye for details. I’m in real estate.
Reporter: Despite having nine absences – you surely know his record is far from perfect – he just took off without you or his father knowing. How did that happen?
Bueller: I have no idea how. I went in this morning and all the tell-tale signs of sickness were there. The clammy hands, the raging fever, the precariously dangling sports trophies connected to the door – that always means he’s come down with something.
Reporter: So how does a boy fake out a responsible parent? With electronic rigging, no less? Where can he bankroll that?
Bueller: You mean the synthesizer? Oh, we got that for Ferris on his 11th birthday. He said he might like to pursue music. We just assumed he would be the next Jon Bon Jovi.
Reporter: Er, right. So let’s move on. Do you know Abe Froman?
Bueller: The Sausage King of Chicago?
Reporter: Precisely. Apparently your son managed to book a reservation at Chez Quis this afternoon under that name. A family friend?
Bueller: I always buy Froman’s Breakfast Links – does that count? Come to think of it, the mailman keeps deliverying packages to our home addressed to Mrs. Butterworth and Captain Crunch. I wonder what my son is up to. I’m not very bright.
Reporter: What is with his friend, Cameron? How does he get away with wearing a Detroit Red Wings jersey in a Blackhawks town? I mean, really?
Bueller: We are very good friends with the Fryes and we’ve always thought Cameron to be a bit unusual. Why aren’t you grilling his parents, by the way?
Reporter: We called them, and we got a curt response. Something about “airlifting a Ferrari out of a creek.” Tell me, did you attend the parade in the city today? You would have seen your son as the guest of honor, we’re told.
Bueller: No, it couldn’t have been him. He was home sick in bed nurs- oh that’s right. I forgot. I’m the dumbest parent ever.

Until now, Mrs. Bueller. Until now.

We're Not Swans Here

Over at Monrovia Top Five (that’s MT5, for hipsters with street cred), the following question was recently posed by yours truly:

Of the 12 Days of Christmas, which 5 would you be most excited to receive when you come downstairs on December 25th?

I know, it’s strange to be forced to weight the merits of opening a box full of French hens or turtle doves (why are there so many birds in that song?), but it did reveal two major findings. 1) My friends love the bling: when in doubt, ditch the milking maids and by them some golden rings. I had no idea we were so iced out. 2) 11 of the 12 days of Christmas received at least 1 vote. Just one of the potential Christmas gifts were shutout and left on the shelves of the department store. I hate to say it, but it is true.

No one wants 7 swans-a-swimming.

When I first saw the results, I was mildly surprised. Of all the fowl in that song, swans are by far the most elegant and prized. Since money apparently is no object to Monrovia (see the above jewelry affection), you would think they’d be fond of some top shelf bird. Turtle doves, while peaceful, are unbelievably slow. French hens should be renamed Freedom hens. A quartet of calling birds can cause a deafening racket. And if a partridge needs to be packaged with a damn tree to generate any buyer interest, it can’t be that good an option, either. And yet, it is the swan that is left without a home for the holidays.

And then I thought, maybe it’s just that 7 is too many. I suppose I wouldn’t mind 2 swans to just waddle around my apartment and look sophisticated. I could put another 2 in the parking lot downstairs to stubbornly stand in the choice parking spots while I am at work, and an additional pair could do that “Let’s play cute by making our necks form a heart” over the hearth of the fireplace. But 7?? Yeah, Totally couldn't find use for 7 swans.

And then there’s their talent. Swimming. When a swan swims, I’ll have to admit, it’s a little freaky. All the work is done below sea level, as their tiny legs work like crazy to propel the rest of the big fat bird across the water. Like the hull of a cruiseliner, very little can be witnessed without an underwater camera. But above water, it’s a completely different story. Since all the work is below, the swans barely moves a muscle above the water. They eerily and effortlessly just slide across the pond like ghosts floating. It doesn’t help the illusion that they’re white either. Imagine if your co-worker glided towards you without moving their legs. Yeah, I’d be freaked out too.

So I guess I’m starting to see why everyone would pass on the swan in their holiday Pollyanna circle. But to drive the point home, YAB has done some Swan Research to highlight other good reasons to say “Thanks, but No Thanks” when your crazy uncle gives you a septet of swans.

- You thought a goldfish was tough to keep alive? Don’t give a swan to your kid. From Wikipedia: “this can be due to 'capsizing': overturned swans lack the ability to right themselves and therefore drown.”

– Helen of Troy was half swan, because her god-father Zeus was in swan form when he met Helen’s mother. And look what Helen did for us – she caused a 10 year-long siege war in which Troy fell. I guarantee with 7 swans you'll bne cashing in on that renter's insurance policy in less than a week.

The Skies Rain Down Salsa!

No secret to the blogosphere, I’m a fantasy sports addict. I glorified the virtual sport of fantasy football here and told of my past year’s crashing finales here. I’ve long held the belief that if you are new to the sport and would like to know all the hints, tips, and secrets in order to finish 3rd-5th in your league, I’m your man. Year in and year out, I’m a contender. Year in and year out, I put together a winning season, a competitive team and a GIANT VOID on my mantle for potential championship trophies. I’m the definition of a “good GM.” Unfortunately, I have no idea what it takes to be a great GM.

When you play in an annual fantasy football league with your father, 3 uncles, 6 cousins, and a cousin-in-law who allowed the computer to autodraft him seven QBs, there’s two things on the line. First, you’ve got bragging rights. Theoretically, you all come from the same gene pool, which levels the playing field. It’s like IROC for fantasy sports. And with weddings, Christmas gatherings, and summer vacations together, it’s nice to be able throw in to a conversation things like “Man, I’d love to be your fourth for horseshoes, but I’ve got to get back to polishing my CFL trophy.” Second, as you can guess, there’s a trophy.

The Old Genny Cup is your classic fantasy sports trophy. All winners get their named engraved around the base. Above the base is a gold can (empty, I think) of Genessee beer (The Pride of Rochester). And above the can is a female bowler. I kid you not. Yeah, it’s not much to look at, but it’s great to have in your home. The details of its description, I’ll admit, are sketchy, since I’ve finished 3rd and 5th the past two years, and the trophy has been with my cousin Greg and my Uncle Jim. Like I said, I’m a good GM. NOW I’m GREAT.

The DC Salsa Sharks have won their first-ever CFL title, not to mention Chris Condon’s first ever fantasy sports title. In a 156-107 decision over the kville Giants, the boys from Virginia managed to finally put the finishing touch on the season by putting all the pieces together at the right time. Now the Old Genny Cup is still in NY for the time being, and delivery place and time of such an artifact still need to be ironed out, but as GM, I have already decided to adopt one of my favorite traditions of the National Hockey League with my Sharks. Each member of this championship team will get one day to spend with the trophy, and do whatever they please with it. It’s only fitting, since I made few roster moves and relied on a good draft to put the team together. It was really the players who made this possible. This is my idea of how such a tradition might unfold.

JAKE DELHOMME (QB) – For those outside North Carolina, Mr. Delhomme has been splitting time between Salsa Shark PR appearances and his other job – no not Panthers’ QB – the spokesman for fast food franchise BoJangles. For one day only, you can get a picture of yourself with Jake and the OGC with any purchase of a Cajun Filet Biscuit Combo.

SHAUN ALEXANDER (RB) – Shaun lives in Seattle, the home of Starbucks. So don’t be surprised when he flips the female bowler upside-down for his one day engagement. Two words: coffee stirrer.

JULIUS JONES (RB) – Yes, I had a Cowboy on my roster. Yes, he sucked all year long. But he exploded in the title game for 167 yards on the ground. Which is why I’ll let him have his day, too. Expect Jones to display it as a hood ornament on his new H2.

ANDRE JOHNSON (WR) – Andre Johnson, formerly of the Houston Texans, has decided to continually beat his other QB David Carr on the head with the trophy, so that they lose this week’s game and earn the right to draft Reggie Bush.

STEVE SMITH (WR) – A huge performer all year, Double S got thrown out of the title game for making contact (wrapping his arm behind) with an official while arguing a call. His day with Old Genny will be spent starting the Hug a Player Foundation, where he will raise money to pay off his fine.

KEENAN MCCARDELL (WR) - So what if you missed the NFL playoffs, Keenan? At least you can spend a day dressing the trophy in old-school powder blue. Let's go Bolts.

CHRIS COOLEY (TE) – Chris Cooley can’t decide whether to take the trophy out on the town or stay in with friends. That’s ok. He’s been confused as to whether he’s a Tight End or a Fullback all season. Thanks for the TDs, #47.

SHAYNE GRAHAM (K) – The Bengals kicker has learned a lot from playing with Chad Johnson in Cincinnati. Known for his TD celebrations, Chad has given Shayne an idea. Next year, every time he kicks a field goal, he’ll pose – not the Heisman pose – but the Old Genny pose. Kick the ball, “make the 7-10 split.”

JAGUARS DEFENSE (DEF) – This isn’t a player. More of an abstract idea. Sorry, no trophy time here, boys.

The Scarlet Copier

Would this make me a citizens’ hero or just a jerk?

Being at the office a week after Christmas allows you to get done a lot of the administrative crap you had been putting off for much of the year (or write an extra Wednesday blog, as it were.) Now I hate leaving my desk. If I can get something accomplished by e-mailing or calling a co-worker, or by coming up with an innovative calculation solution without venturing outside my cubicle, I’m super-happy. But there are a few things that require me to leave my comfy confines, and in La Semana de Administración, photocopying is going to make me vacate the premises.

I hate the Xerox machine and all it stands for.

But at the same time, I do not enjoy office small talk enough to volunteer to keep the giant business-sized copy machine in my OWN cube for all to use. So, heading off to the copier in the department kitchen is an inevitability. And what I’ve managed to hold off for 51 consecutive weeks has reached its breaking point. It’s just me, my machine, and a stack of papers that can no longer remain singular.

It should only be that easy.

Having the copy machine in the kitchen has long provided me with amusement. Because of the sensitivity and the cost of such an apparatus, the Reprographics Coordinator for the building has placed a “NO FOOD OR DRINK” sign right over it, in hopes that people will not 1) spill anything on the machine and 2) make photocopies of their ham and cheese sandwiches. I stared at this sign for over two years, and I have always abided. But about a month ago, I thought it would be much funnier if the “NO FOOD OR DRINK” sign should reside on the front of the fridge. That is how to confuse your co-workers. It’s like putting a NO PAPER PLEASE on the laser printer. Way funnier.

The sign has since been returned, and there’s little I can do to entertain myself while the neon green light makes my paperwork double the size. All I have to hope for is that the machine works properly, and I’m in and out of there before I do something crazy like put goldfish in the watercooler. As I step up to the plate, the computer screen on the copier says what I fear most –

JAM IN SECTIONS 2,3, and 6.

Just then, a tumbleweed blew across the kitchen.

As I had outlined in the Seven Deadly Office Sins, Reprographic Sloth is when somebody jams the machine and then sneaks off into the shadows hoping they will never be found out. But as I rolled up my sleeves and was forces to twist my arm so that it bent in seven place to retrieve the loose crumpled copy, I soon found it wasn’t going to be anyone’s lucky day.The accordion-ed sheet was a copy of an e-mail that someone had printed off of Microsoft Outlook. The content was meaningless to me, but it did give me joy in its other chief aspect – the culprit’s name is at the TOP OF THE PAPER. In the vein of Harford, I’ll protect the guilty and give that person an alias. We’ll call her Stone Cold Steve Austin.

So what do I do?

1 - Casually throw out Stone Cold’s email, and grant clemency?
2 – Confront Stone Cold and have it out with her?
3 – Magnet it to the fridge for all to see?

Readers of YAB, help me please. WWCD?

Sleep, Refrigerated

Waking up early on Christmas morning does not require an alarm clock. (Which is probably best, considering my track record with abusing those infernal machines) – Chris Condon, three days ago

It appears I have some explaining to do.

YAB has gone to great lengths to document my inability to sleep on a normal sleep schedule, fall into slumber at the drop of a hat, and not allow any anti-ergonomic obstacle to get in the way of my pursuit of dreamland. What we have failed to do, however, was to provide any background on my battle with the nemesis of naptime: the alarm clock.

In a clash of two rivals, there are many means to slay a foe. You can overpower him with your superior strength. You can lull him into a false sense of security and then attack. You could pounce when he least expects it. But with my alarm clock, time and time again, I’ve taken a fourth route: instill complete and utter confusion.

The year was 1998. This was the first year of my life I had to share a bedroom with another person. But that’s what college admission boards count on. 2 people in every room equal twice the amount of tuition checks. And as Dave Reif found out that year, I’m not exactly a morning person. But before I reveal my sleeping idiosyncrasies, it’s worth mentioning that Dave, too, was a creature of hibernating habit. He was the type of guy that lived by a schedule, which was micromanaged as much as Steinbrenner with the Yankees. He’d come into the room, lie down on his bed, glance at his alarm clock, deem use of it a waste of time, and instead ask me for a favor.

“Hey, can you wake me up in seven minutes?”

Yes, my roommate took these types of naps all the time. He called them power naps. I called them a great reason to hit my roommate with a hockey stick. Nonetheless, even this weirdo method couldn’t prepare him for what he saw me do one morning in November.

I had a makeshift nightstand by my bed in Monroe 227. Aside from a desklamp, a picture frame, and maybe a book I was supposed to be reading, the only truly essential piece on said stand was an alarm clock. Dave’s clock was across the room, and its number glowed green – the color of serenity. I highly recommend green or blue digital numbers for your alarm clock. When his clock would sound its alarm, I would wake up and see the green numbers and think to myself, “No, it’s cool, Chris. Those numbers are peaceful, and you can go back to bed. It’s not your alarm clock going off.” Guess what color my alarm clock numbers were?

RED.

When I wake up and see those red numbers of doom staring me in the face, I tend to panic. The buzzing of music from the campus radio station alone freaks me out a bit. This is why when on that fateful morning when it was time to get up, I did something truly odd with the clock.Taking this from Dave’s perspective is probably more accurate. Since I turn the alarm on to be as loud as possible, the poor kid had to wake up when I woke up whether he planned to or not. But I guess, for comedy’s sake he did. Otherwise, we would never have had an eyewitness account of Condon attempting to silence his alarm clock by stuffing inside of his nightstand-slash-refrigerator.

Dave: Chris, what are you doing?
Chris: I’m turning off my alarm clock.
Dave: Uh, no you’re not.
Chris: Yeah, I am, I don’t have to get up yet.
Dave: CHRIS! WAKE UP!
Chris: (realizes and feels the cold from inside the fridge) Oh. Right.

O. No!

And I thought I had an unusual year.

Oprah Winfrey, talk show host, magazine publisher, and anagram for “phony fire war,” had quite the atypical 2005. Granted, when you’re worth over one billion dollars, you often put yourself in position for the truly bizarre to find you. At my salary, I’m not in nearly as many weird predicaments over the course of the year, and if I am, they usually get documented here on YAB. And when the weirdest of them all has to do with the mundane – fire alarms and bloof donations – that’s not saying a whole lot.

Of course, the only way to make more money in my current state would be to rob a bank. But then I would probably blog about something funny that happened (“when I opened the cash register, it played “The Girl from Ipanema” and I laughed so hard I dropped my gun.”) And then the police would read the blog, and I’d go to jail.

*shudder* Ok, back to Oprah.

What did we learn about Ms. Winfrey in 2005? Here’s a recap of her year, complete with collective morals of the story, Aesop style.

May 23 – Oprah was just trying to have a quiet sitdown interview with Hollywood megastar Tom Cruise, when Maverick decided to freak out regarding his love for Katie Holmes. I swear, I had a flashback of when he flips out after Lt. Markinson kills himself in A Few Good Men. Now for Oprah, if she wants to preserve quality furniture, she knows from now on. No guests on the Oprah Winfrey Show will be allowed to wear shoes. Leave them at the door.

June 22 – In Paris, Oprah was not allowed entry to a Hermes store when she was trying to purchase a gift for her good friend Tina Turner. Winfrey’s entourage cited racism as the primary reason she was not allowed to shop. The store cited other means – like the fact that the store was closed to the public at the time. First off, Oprah dear, Tina Turner doesn’t need another purse – I already got her one from Old Navy, and she LOVES it. Second, a friend of yours was quoted as this being your “Crash moment.” Don’t drag the name of a great movie into this just because you didn’t come during normal business hours. I don’t freak out when I get to McDonalds at 11:02 am and miss breakfast, do I?

December 22 – Oprah realizes she has a clone in New Mexico. A crazy person named Colleen Nestler has filed a restraining order against CBS talk show host David Letterman, citing grounds that “Letterman has been using code words, gestures and "eye expressions" for more than 10 years to convey his desire to marry her and train her as his cohost.” Letterman, in his efforts to get Winfrey to come on his show, used the phrase “Marry me, Oprah!” in 1993. Crazy lady from that point forward thought that “Oprah” was his code name for her, and the obsession continued. Apparently Oprah’s talk show does not broadcast to those living in a box.

December 27 - Oprah Winfrey’s private jet was forced to return to the city airport after its windshield was cracked in a collision with a bird, officials said. This is why I don’t own a private jet. You never know what you’re going to have to put up with. With my past vehicles (all cars), I’ve had terrible luck with rocks hitting my windshield and cracking them. I cannot fathom hitting a bird. But, then again, I’m not Oprah Winfrey.

Oprah Winfrey doesn’t care about bird people.

Wake up and Blog

The nice thing about having a blog is that we never have to sit in front of a computer ever again and think to ourselves that there’s nothing left to do. You know those commercials where the dad is told he’s reached the end of the Internet? Will never happen to Condon. Because even if he has reached the end of the Internet, he can always open Microsoft Word and do a catch-up blog. 2005 was a rough year to write a daily blog. With grad school and work school tag teaming to steal away precious blogtime, we may have fallen, oh, 3 weeks off the pace. So we’ll take the free time when we can get it to narrow the gap. And consistently, there’s one time in the year where I am guaranteed to have some of that free time on my hands –

Christmas morning.

Yep, here I am, sitting in my old bedroom prior to 7:30 while the rest of the world manages to continue their slumber. Thanks to the wonders of portable computing and wireless network connections, I’m able to write to you all. You see, no matter how much sleep I’ve missed out on the past year, or how late I go to bed, or how many times I was forced to sit through A Christmas Story on Christmas Eve, I’m never too tired to wake up too early on Christmas morning. And I have no idea why.

It’s not that I want to be awake right now, either. When I was younger, I could totally understand my motives to shake off those sheets before anyone else in the house. The sheer anticipation of getting to go downstairs to see what Santa had left us all could outdo all methods of hibernation. When I was little, I could have done Nyquil shooters at 11pm the prior eve, and still bounced out of bed at the pre-determined wake up call time. Waking up early on Christmas morning does not require an alarm clock. (Which is probably best, considering my track record with abusing those infernal machines) And I’ve still got 13 minutes to kill.

The Christmas morning protocol in the Condon household is as old-fashioned as naming your kid “Bing.” At a pre-determined time, agreed on beforehand in high stakes negotiations that often requires the bartering of up to seven varieties of Christmas cookies, my sister wakes up and forces the entire family to fall in line. Now as you can see, I am already awake, but enjoying spending some time in my room. After all, this is the one time of year I do get to sort through baseball cards from 1991. But I’ve got time, since blogreader “Mr. C” goes downstairs first to, and I quote, “make sure Santa came.”

In the past, I totally believed that, but I’m on to that guy. He would doing everything BUT check to see if Santa came. Whether it was putting the coffee on, playing the holiday CDs, pulling out his giant camcorder, or scarfing down some of those aforementioned cookies, he was in stall tactic mode. Always in stall tactic mode.

Drove my sister insane.

Eventually, the green light would come, and I would have to stop whatever I was doing to come downstairs and unwrap presents.

…which is preceisely why I end this post here.

Merry Christmas from You’re a Blog.

Welcome to the North Poll

There’s a handy manuscript that’s kept under Fort Knox-like surveillance just east of here, downtown in the National Archives. And while the Constitution of the United States may serve as a killer stop on any tour of our Nation’s Capital, it also serves another purpose through its words. By granting liberty to all within its borders, it allows America to truly be the Land of the Free. The People must decide what shall be made into law in this country, and in order to do so, the Constitution has provided them with a just mechanism: voting. Whoa, that sounds like a big responsibility.

Yes, once one turns the age of 18, the future of our nation is in their hands. They are charged with making informed, proper choices that will shape policy, select leaders, and refer, uh, referendums. You would think that an 18 year-old would undergo extensive training for such an endeavor. Well, because the other end of the age curve demands fancy benefits like “social security” and “healthcare,” we in the U.S. don’t have the money for voter education programs. However, for over a century, the commercial sector of our great States has stepped up and subliminally trained children (yes, from 1 to 92) on the election process. We learn to vote in this country through an unexpected annual tradition…

The Department Store Santa Claus.

Most people think that Mall Santa is there for the children of America to get some face time with the Man in Red, letting him know what exactly they want for Christmas. No, no, friends, his Gift-Request procedure is actually training for how to vote. Surprised? Consider this: 18 is a magic number when it comes to rites of adulthood. Through high school, most will consider you a kid, and the Santa seat is ok. But once you head off to college, visiting Santa seems dated, and if you do, Santa cries when he has to have dining plan dependents sit on his knee.

Don’t make Santa cry.

Instead, take what you’ve learned over the past 18 years and put it use as an American citizen. Now polling locations are set up in similar fashion to Department Store Santas. You figure for each district, you’ve got a polling place. Similarly, most regions of the country have their commerce center around a mall. According to Wikipedia, there were over 46 thousand malls in the US as of 2004. I have to think that rivals the voting precinct count. Now everybody knows that the Santa in your own mall is not THE Santa. He’s merely an official representative of the real one. Well, guess what? The election official at your precinct isn’t Scott Thomas, either. Just someone taking your information on his behalf.

It’s a rarity that when Mom and Dad took you to the mall to see Santa, the aisle was a clear runway between you at the Big Man. No, it was more likely that the line snaked around the food court, which happened to be decorated like Santa’s Workshop. (Which by the way, I never believed to be THE workshop. How could you get anything accomplished in the MIDDLE OF A MALL?) Waiting to vote also entails waiting in a long line, and it has been decorated with campaign banners, patriotic signs, and if Perot is running, a pie chart or too. No one believes that any of those decorations make policy happen, either.

Once you finally make it to the throne of Santa, Santa is not expected to provide any information whatsoever. He’s inquisitive, as it is YOU who needs to state a preference. Otherwise, how is he supposed to know you want a remote controlled car? (Remember, he’s not the real Santa. You’re lucky if he’s checked that list once, let alone twice.) Voting is no different. The booth doesn’t tell you who to vote for – that’s info you need to tell it. And here’s the kicker – when you ask Santa for that car – he doesn’t tell you “I can definitely make that happen.” He says he’ll see what he can do. When you pull that lever, that’s not a guarantee that your candidate gets into office. You’re in a holding pattern. Just like waiting until Christmas.

Voting fraud – the action of voting multiple times to further increase your wish coming true – is strictly prohibited. That’s why they make you sign it and out. Documentation is vital to ethical voting. Of course, Santa’s no dummy, either. He’s got a way to keep record of what kids have already placed their votes for toys. Now on the count of three, say Cheese! (And you thought it was for keepsake’s sake.)

Finally, once Santa’s done with you, he gives you a prize for a job well done. You can show all your friends your brand new candy cane, assuming you don’t eat it. Similarly, once you’ve signed out of the voting precinct, you get an “I Voted” sticker to keep and show all your co-workers.

Assuming you don’t eat it.

By Our Showers Combined

Showers should be a simple thing, really. Turn the knob to appropriate levels of hot and cold, stand up, and wait for the corresponding water to blast out of the faucet over thy head. Add soap and shampoo to the equation. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rins-

It’s no wonder my water bills are high. It’s a vicious cycle.

At my home in Fairfax, it IS that simple to take a shower. In the vein of Whose Line’s Colin Mochrie hoe-down songs, “I Like Showers! I Take Them Every Day!” Showers are a great way to start the day if you have an inherent guarantee that all associated equipment and shower machinery are in effective working order. This should be expected in one’s own apartment. But as I learned once again this past weekend skiing, when one goes on vacation, the only shower you are guaranteed is a shower of laughter when your daily cleansing ritual all goes to hell. I’ll get to that one in a second.

There is precedent in such a theory. Here’s 3 citable cases.

Time: March, 1998.
Place: Orlando, Florida
Event: When on the SHS Senior Trip in Walt Disney World, I was placed in a room with Aaron Boblitt, Justin Morea, and Chris Smith. Among other late-night activities (Risk, anyone?), we waged war with the adjoining room of four fellow Renegades led by Chilkotowsky the Great, and pillows were the ammunition. It’s just a shame for them that we were Greater. For the next three days, any shower taken by me had to be with extra caution. Not because of a sneak attack, but because in our bathroom we held the entire 10 pillow stock of our rivals’ room tucked away, and I didn’t want to get them wet. They could also double as loofahs.

Time: July, 2001.
Place: Paris, France
Event: The Illustrious Elizabeth Grimm booked a hotel room on behalf of the Monroe Project Three to kick off the Marketing Majors’ Month of Eurofun. Good news: We did not have to decide where would be a good place to stay in the 26th largest city in the world. Bad news: the room was designed for short French people. With the shower head below my own head, I found that it served as a better handle than it did a water dispenser. That is, of course, until it fell off in my hand. There’s nothing like walking out of the bathroom and handing the only vital shower component to Sara to inform her that the shower is now all hers.

Time: August 2001.
Place: Heidelberg, Germany
Event: You never know what you’re going to get with a youth hostel. Sometimes you will be put in a room with 50 other cots and 50 other travelers. And sometimes you’ll get your own room with just your fellow tripmates. In Heidelberg, the case was the latter, which meant we had our own shower room. Said shower room, unfortunately, only had two temperature settings: HOT and SURFACE OF THE SUN. There’s nothing like taking a shower in a foreign country by running a wash cloth under the sink in order to stave off melting flesh to relax at day’s end.

Time: December, 2005
Place: Bethel, Maine
Event: The width of the stand-up shower was the width of Chris Condon + 4 inches. That’s 2 inches off of each shoulder. If you drop the soap, you might as well dry off and get dressed – it’s a bigger lost cause than the Cheaper By the Dozen II. You decide how enjoyable it was to shower.

Vehicular Car-ma Revisited

Back in June, I imparted my own personal LAW of Vehicular Car-ma. Without a publisher in tow, I’ve been quick to publish my own intellectual findings for the readers of YAB, and the premise that there is an inherent transportation balance in the world was one of them. Just to review (and to make sure copy-paste still works), here’s the Law in its entirety once more.

1. There is no such thing as luck when driving.
2. Positive and negative occurrences when driving yield a zero-sum equation.
3. Honking your horn will not affect your Car-ma.

When scientific laws are published, the scientist is often required to present real-life scenarios to back up their findings. Back in June, I skated through the “Post New Entry” phase of publication without even thinking about it. I guess that’s one of the perks of being your own editor.

It’s time for some facts.

Last Saturday, the Law of Vehicular Car-ma took to the friendly skies. As Katie and I attempted to catch a plan to Portland, Maine, we saw the law put into action. Here’s the basic itinerary information you need to understand this tale. The flight is at 8:15. It goes from Dulles to Portland. Condon is sleepy.
As we left our apartment with 7 bags ski-fun at 6:34 AM, the 10 minute ride to Dulles’ economy parking lot was smooth and fast. By driving and parking for $9/day, I had calculated that we would ultimately save $14 over taking the taxi (plus we got control of the in-car radio.) We found the bus to the terminal, and it was even heated. Car-ma is UP!

Getting into the terminal at 7:00 we still have an hour and fifteen minutes to get checked in, feast on an airport Cinnabons and Starbucks. That plan was dashed when we found that the United line snaked not only around the clever maze design, but also around the back of the terminal, past the US Air desk, through the front door, down the Dulles Toll Road, and ended somewhere in Bethesda, Maryland. (I might be exaggerating – I had Cinnabon on the brain) That’s a downgrade for our travel plans. Car-ma is EVEN!

After a half-hour of standing line, the electronic message boards over the counter start flashing a prophecy of Car-matic doom: “45 Minute Baggage Cutoff.” After finding a supervisor (who I might add, could single-handedly start an E-A-G-L-E-S cheer with her volume) curtly informed us that because we hadn’t checked in, we had missed out flight and we would need to rebook. Demoralized, we moved to the re-book line, where from the general demeanor of the others in line, you’d think we were forced to watch Jennifer Lopez do Shakespeare. Car-ma is DOWN!

Once re-booked on the noon flight to Portland, we realized we now have all morning to kill in the Dulles Terminal. Why not start with looking at the big board of departures. Sure enough, there were two flights on the board to Portland – our new one and the old 8:15 one. But wait – what’s that? The old one’s BEEN DELAYED until 9:30??? Dude, we’re so getting back on that flight – that’s plenty of time to check baggage!!! After talking with the supervisor again, she made the arrangement to get our baggage into the correct holding pen and our tickets re-booked. Forget EVEN, Car-ma is UP!

That’s Vehicular Car-ma. No matter what transpired, we were on our original flight bound for Portland, Maine – with extra time to eat breakfast, wake up more fully, and even buy a Brad Meltzer book from the airport Borders for the trip. But remember the rules of the Law – we are currently UP, but V.C. is a zero-sum equation.

This explains why three bags didn’t make it on our plane. EVEN!