Pay Attention to Me!

A Public Service Essay by Chris Condon

This post's title, in a nutshell, is what a highlighter's mission statement is. You call in a highlighter to do what normal ink cannot: separate the important and newsworthy from the run of the mill, mundane scribbles that grace your paper. Even the best writers know that only a very small percentage of what makes it to the notebook is worthy of recognition. This is why we do not use the highlighter to scribe our thoughts outright. For those who think so highly of themselves to attempt such a feat, they are left with a colorful, unintelligble paper scrap that serves no better purpose than refrigerator art. So now that you know not to write in highlighter, let's also try and allow you to avoid another common trap.

In my sophomore year Comparative Politics class (that's GOVT 203 for all you aspiring PolySci majors out there), there was a girl who sat on the far right by the wall. Dave, who served as my wingman for that class, was very quick to notice that this girl did not subscribe to our brand of note-taking methodology. While Dave and I wrote down only the important in our notebooks, while saving ample margin space to sketch absurdist humor and silliness, this girl, whose known first name was Wendy, insisted on setting her pen to Mach 3 and transcribing every thing that came out of Professor Baxter's mouth. (Wait, there's more!) And after getting it all down in blue ink, she would instantly switched gears and paint her paper with a furious flurry of electric green and fluorescent yellow. Trust me, her notebook looked like the child of SpongeBob and the Kellogg Smacks Frog. And Wendy Highlighter was never heard from again.

The reason we spend this afternoon on the highlighting topic is not because of any problem or bone to pick with the writing utensil in question. It serves as the Issue du Jour only because of my frequent use to get me through the final two weeks of Fiscal Year End. (FY05...it's faaaaaaaaan-tastic.) It seems that highlighters also have a way of multiplying. Like any other cubicle dweller, my desk attempts to maintain some semblance of order. One such order-taker is a cup used to hold all the pens and pencils to my name. When I'm finished with my Pepermate Flexgrip or my Dixon Ticonderoga, I'm pretty good and returning them to their proper home. I wish the same were true for highlighters. They're everywhere.

Unless you're bored and in 3rd grade, you will never use more than 1 highlighter at a time. Sure, different colors may means different things, but the whole hand-gripping-pen-to-transfer-ink-to-paper system only works well with one highlighter in hand. When I asked our staff assistant to order me a highlighter back in October, I assumed I would become the soon-proud owner of a standard yellow, no frills, no friends.

Wrong, Condon.

Yep, I've got a six pack. A whole array of colors to choose from to emphasize words and phrases. And upon further inspection, I think each of the six colors serve a specific purpose. And since it just so happens I'm in the "Write down random stuff and call it a Blog" business, I thought I'd share.

YELLOW is classic. It's a great contrast on white, and it's the first color an editor will look for. Always reliable, that yellow. It's the E.R. of the set. Solid results every week.

ORANGE is the edgy, more noticeable alternative to the yellow. I often use orange when I want to highlight something that a reader my find alarming. For example, if I had to include the line "For the Super Bowl, Chris Berman intends to wear a suit Michael Irvin picked out," that's got orange coming to it.

GREEN is what I use to draw attention to things that make me happy. It's the anti-orange.

PINK is, um, well, the color I use to, um, well, keep the red pen and the scissors company in the utensil holder. Never. Been. Used.

PURPLE has never been used here at the C.A.O.'s desk, if for no other reason than a photocopy will turn the important into unreadable blackmarks. Count on purple if you want to give the off the mystique that all of your writings are classified.

BLUE is the best invisible ink I know. Like whiting-out something you wrote on the chalkboard. Brilliant.

Indecent Proposal

"I've got some good news and I've got some bad news..."

And from the YABNews Education Desk, today we bring you this ground-breaking study on how to deal with the nefarious question listed above. Educating our readers is of supreme importance here at You're a Blog, whether it be about the Important of Being Ig to Canadian propaganda. However, while some past topics have been for show, or at least for laughs, the following is no laughing matter. We're just trying to save you from getting Suckerpunched by Doom.

("Suckerpunched by Doom", copyright You're a Blog Incorporated, 2005.)

When someone approaches you with both good news and bad, you may feel optimistic. Don't. Anyone who knows me (and probably even some who only know me through my writing) knows that I'm a textbook optimist. My analysis of a problem contains a healthy dose of the idealistic bright side, and anything that goes wrong is most likely turned into an opportunity for change and for better things to come. It's hard to stop my positive thinking ways. Hell, that glass isn't half empty or half full. It's just water on its way to achieving uncharted heights. So if you see this the blogineer warning you about something because of its perceived unfavorable outcome, I'd grab on to your chair and hang on for dear life. This has got to be trouble. Prepare to get leveled.

"I've got some good news and I've got some bad news..."

Like I said, when you are approached with some good news and some bad news, this is NEVER good. It's being backed into a corner by someone with no interest of providing the clever James Bond escape route from a doomed situation. The reason is this: no matter how good the good news may be, the bad is ALWAYS worse. My theory is that with both good news and bad news, the effect of the bad news will ALWAYS outweigh that of the good. It's all in the delivery

Moving from general to specifics may help. Let's say a guy, we'll call him Skinny Arms, comes into your office while you sit there quietly working (or reading Condon's blog), and says, "Well, I've got some good news and some bad news." If he had something to say that would allow you to leave the exchange feeling good, he would have just told you he has some good news. If there was a small drawback to the good feeling, he would mention it in passing, and not give it its own billing alongside the good news. Example:

"Hey Chris, good news! Skinny Arms is here to tell you have won a new car! It's a brand new shiny black convertible! It's got a CD player, GPS system, a DVD player in the headrest, but no cupholders! How excited are you??!?"

You see, there was both good news and bad news there, but the good far outweighed the bad. I mean, man, I sure like me a reliable cupholder, but who cares? I've got a brand new car courtesy of Skinny Arms!

But this is not the case with our little proposal from Skinny Arms standing there in front of your desk, now looking bored while you read this explanation. He said that he has good news and bad news for you. He let you know right out front that there's bad news on the way. Why? Because there's no way that the good news is so good that the bad will not have a major impact. If there was, the bad news would be promoted as the unmentioned undercard to the good news. Here's what happens to the news when both good and bad are put on an equal plane.

"Well Chris, I've got some good news and bad news. Skinny Arms is here to tell you have won a new car! It's a brand new shiny black convertible! It's got a CD player, GPS system, a DVD player in the headrest! But the bad news is it's in the Himalaya Mountains, and to claim it you have to go pick it up in person. How excited are you??!?"

Answer: Not Excited at All. Like a smash Alanis Morrisette song, this scenario leaves you on the edge of feeling good, only to push you off the cliff of false hope. You see, the fact that bad news is coming, you should know better not to get excited about the car in the first place, because the bad news is going to smack you down. It's that big a deal.

Using this premise, no wait, law, as a mindset, let's explore the question that often follows the good news-bad news announcement. "Which would you like first?" There's two options here, door number one and door number two. It's just a shame that you know that behind both doors stands depression.

A. Ask for the good news first. Find out something that seems promising in such a fashion that your day is going to improve. Then, watch that something get followed up with something that makes Coldplay's "Yellow" seem like something the Care Bears would sing.

"Well, Watkins, the good news is that your pay check will have twice the amount of money that you are used to! The bad news is that it's actually your severance package. You're so fired."

B. Ask for the bad news first. Figure that you're going to be slammed anyway, so wouldn't it be nice to end the conversation on a happy note. Problem here is that this good news will NEVER overcome the first bomb that got dropped.

"Listen here, Harris, we're letting you go as of 5 o'clock today. But don't worry about returning your parking pass, that's yours to keep! We're changing the design Monday!"

My choice:
C. Be aware that the bad news will smoke the good news. Run from the conversation screaming. End of story.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!"

Book-Oven Pizza

In my valiant efforts to not act like a "Deer-in-the-headlights-can't-drive-in-snow-Virginia-driver," on Sunday, I took a different route home from my class in Alexandria to home in the F.C. In my wandering, anything but a straight line from A to B travels, I passed the Pizza Hut in Annandale. You've gotta love the Pizza Huts that extend further than just pick-up and delivery - I'm talking about the ones with the full-on restaurant dining room. With the green poker table lamp shades and the mysterious pizza buffet cart, it leaves diners with a little bit of an unsettling pizza experience. These particular branches are also most often a perfect square, dimensionally speaking, complete with a the weird-looking red roof that makes any normal building with it unmistakenbly the Hut. Even once Pizza Hut is long gone, people will assume pizza is sold within those doors because of the roof.

Greeter: "Welcome to Linens n' Things, how can we help you?"
Customer: "I'm looking for a quilt for a queen-sized bed and a large Meat Lovers..."

And across the front of the building, obstructing every single window that diners inside may want to look out of, is a brand-new, snow-covered, celebratory banner.

"BOOK-IT: 20 GREAT YEARS!"

Wow. There's a blast from the past, and a recalled life lesson that I wasn't expecting during my jaunt through this winter wonderland. I am very familiar with the Book-It. The Book-It was my friend. And before I can celebrate that fact that the Book-It is one year away from legal drinking age, I think I owe the Book-It some time here in the blogmine.

You see, Book-It was a bit of an addiction for me, and I was still only 7 years old. Here's the way it worked (and assuming there hasn't been a Communist upheaval in the past score). Pizza Hut sponsors a nationwide program to encourage the youth of the United States of America to read. Pizza Hut, knowing its core competencies, decides to offer pizza in exchange for kids across the country taking the time to flex those cranial muscles. (Pizza cutters could be a dangerous giveaway...) The rules are pretty simple. If a kid reads ten books, he gets his very own certificate good for a personal pan pizza. Personal pan pizzas, for a 7 year old, are the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Which is funny, because the personal pan that contains said pizza is probably made of the same uberheavy cast iron that is used in most gold pot manufacturing. Don't ever, EVER, drop one of these on your foot. (Pizza Hut probably wouldn't pay for damages, they instead would encourage you to read a book about podiatry.)

The way it worked in Taunton Forge Elementary was at every tenth book you had to do so a book conference with one of the room mothers. This, I suppose, was Pizza Hut's method of Internal Control and Audit. Now my mom was a room mother, but I don't recall many conferences with her. I'm not saying that collusion exists when you're seven, I'm just saying it's not outside of the realm of possibilities.

In the 1987-1988 season, I read 109 books. I kid you not. I was a Book-It Master. The pin they give you (which I am pretty sure you had to wear to collect your pizza) only had room for 5 stars (50 books.) That's right, I needed a pin for each arm, and maybe some safety pins for anything past the century mark. And I read real books, man. 3rd and 4th and 5th grade level stuff. I think my minimum was 50 pages. When it came to readin', I was king.

Whaddyamean, there's a new Queen in town?

Enter Amy C. This archrival finished the year with 118 books. The two of us were a good 40 books ahead of whoever was content with the bronze. But here was the key difference between the two of us: length of book. Amy passed off a book as anything with a front and back cover with pages in between. I kid you not, she read 9 page books. Nine. And here I am, reading the first grade equivalent of Dostoyevsky. And just like that, I accepted my silver medal and 10 pizzas and walked away, never to read another book ever again.

Ok, maybe not ever again.

Today's Life Lesson: When a traumatic childhood experience happens, don't sweat it. It just gives you fuel for the blogfire 18 years later.

All in the Cards

Thanks to the wily ways of one Joseph Brescia, the Shawnee Group (Lite) is in an epic battle of mystery and intrigue...online. That's right, the weird-o card game that many in Medford have seen us play, and I allowed it to migrate to Williamsburg, has made a recent reinvention over the cyberwaves. The subject of a former Condoblitt screenplay, Mafia, is alive and well, and its beta version is unfolding in inboxes across five states as we speak.

For those not in the know, in the card game of Mafia, the rules are pretty simple. A moderator deals ordinary playing cards out to all players, and these cards determine the role you shall assume for the rest of the game. If you have been dealt a King, you are one of the Mafia. Your goal is to kill off everyone who is not Mafia. If you have been dealt a number card, you are a citizen. Your job is to find out who is Mafia, and eliminate them from the game. There are also a few angel cards (Queen of Hearts, Ace of Spades) which are basically citizens with special powers, but that's not important for the purposes of this blog. If you have been dealt the Joker, the moderator doesn't like you. Go home.

The format is also pretty basic, basically speaking. Everybody sleeps, Mafia kills someone. Everybody wakes up, Moderator Joe reveals who was killed, everybody has a debate to accuse and kill someone. For the citizens, they are hoping to kill Mafia. For Mafia, they're hoping the citizens shoot themselves in the collective foot and slay their own. The goal of one side is to kill off the other, and vice versa.

Sophomore year of college I lived in an apartment with 2 karate-crazed roommates, and one other guy who proclaimed himself the President of the Shotokan Club so, that he can tell those who called our place confusing instructions ("Yes, training will be held tonight in Chicago. Yes, Chicago, Illinois. See you there, or you're fired.") You know how Nordberg is with phones... Anyways, Shotokan's highest achievement is black belt, but the levels don't end there. There are 9 grades of black-belt, called Dans (pronounced "Dons"), for the masters of the sport to continue to strive for. Now watch out, or get a kick to the head.

Spud and I, after recently bringing Mafia to Virginia, found that the citizen role in the game is one that can be held by many, perfected by few. A citizen's main jobs are to correctly finger the Mafia and valiantly defend their innocence. It's a skill you improve upon only with experience. Much like the karate world, additional skills and tactics are needed in order to become a better citizen. It's almost as if there are different grades of playing the citizen. The better they are, the better Mafia gets. So without anymore winding introduction, we give you the nine levels of citizenry. We give you Mafia-Dan.

1 - Extraneous Defense - should have no impact on the game whatsoever, since the logic has nothing to do with how the Mafia are selected. Example: "Liz Grimm is from Sicily, and Sicilians are Italian, and Italians are Mafia. Liz is Mafia!" (Note: While the lowest level of logic in the game, being a 1-Dan shows promise. You are willing to try to figure the game out.)
2 - Probability/Behavioral Defense - A 2-Dan will use slightly more logical explanations and defenses, even if these methods have been proven ineffective. Explaining that Lou Jester is Mafia because this is the eighth game in a row and he hasn't been Mafia yet is novel, but incorrect.
3 - Sensory Defense - This is when a citizen realizes much can be gained by paying careful attention during the night. The Mafia must quietly come to a conclusion as to who to kill while everyone sits with their eyes closed. Much shifting and arm waving takes place. If a citizen can visualize what transpires beyond their eyelids, this may be the first effective level of the Mafia-Dan he can achieve. (Note: Mmm...McFlurry. Falls here. Never works. Silly Toms.)
4 - Game History - Congratulations! You're finally contributing to the citizens' cause. This requires a citizen to pay careful attention to alliances, rivalries, and voting records. Example - If Sara Throckmorton is quick to raise her hand against the last three citizens who have died during the day, she's as Mafia as Ashlee Simpson is stupid.
5 - Verbatim Analysis - Ok, so you've paid attention to the others players behavior, but can you pay attention to their words? Mafia often makes the mistake when conveying their arguments to include something in their logic as commonplace, when in fact they only know it because they are the Mafia. Ok, that wasn't clear. Let's say Chris Smith is the Mafia, and in his explanation of why Rob Harford is not, he explains Rob is not because he got saved one night. Only the Mafia (and the Archangel) would know this. Read his words and smack him down.
6 - Angelic Awareness - Remember those special citizens I metnioned earlier? One has the power to save one person a night, and the other has the ability to find out the guilt/innocence of one person a night. Being a citizen becomes a powerful role if you can determine which of your allies hold these powers.
7 - Character Profile Explication - Where the heck did that come from? Anyways, if you have achieved this level, you have got to be a seasoned veteran. Over many games, it should become clear to you that people act differently when they are Mafia and when they are a citizen. For example, Lacey Smith may be really quiet during the daytime when she's Mafia, trying to keep a low profile, but may be a gung-ho accuser when trying the seek the Mafia out. Know your foes, and you become a 7-Dan.
8 - Manipulative Logistics - Warning. Entering expert territory. This is when a citizen may not have all the answers, but is able to run the table with their flawed logic anyways. It's when a citizen, for some unknown reason, alters the thinking of the rest in what seems to be a cult-like following. Blind faith in this citizen's leadership will lead you to the promised land. Hell, let's throw a dash of mysticism in here as well. No one can explain it, just get on the bus. (Oh, and for this to work: The citizen must have absolute power of what he's doing, and he must be right.)
9 - Psychoanalysis - 8-Dan to the next level. Literally. This is when you can bend the rules of the game to such a point where the impossible seems possible. It's tough to come up with a citizen example for this one, so let me leave you with a great 9-Dan play by a former Mafia member, Chris Condon. Ok, three people left. One Mafia (Condon), One Archangel (Jann), One Citizen (Stafford). Everybody sleep. Condon wakes up, kills himself. Jann wakes up, saves Condon. Everybody wakes, nobody dies. Jann know she's innocent, and Condon is too (since she saved him and nobody died.) First on Stafford, Second on Stafford, Stafford is dead. Condon runs from the room before Jann realizes the doublecross.

So, what Dan are you, citizen?

Tight End Justifies the Means

This is one of those years that there is a two week gap between the AFC and NFC Championship Games and the Bowl to smackdown all Bowls, the Super Bowl. That's good news for you Eagles fans for two reasons. For one, Andy Reid is 10-0 is games after a bye week. Regular Season, Divisional Playoffs, heck, it don't matter, this guy knows how to prepare. (He also knows how to eat cheesesteaks from what it appears, but that's neither here nor there.

(Subquestion, if Andy Reid's cheesesteaking is neither here nor there, then where the heck is it? It seems to me that 100% of the world's locations have to fall into one of the two places, do they not? And don't give me that jibba jabba about "over there." That's just an outlying territory of "There." Kind of like how Delaware is to New Jersey. Oh, snap!)

The other reason that football fans, Philly, New England, New Jersey Extended, wherever, have to look forward to the break is that television football analysts will turn their talkatrons up to 11, and have something to report about one individual game for a fortnight. And since we can only chat on about whether or not T.O. will play for so long, other stories sure as hell better rise up, otherwise I'll be forced to destroy some toaster ovens in protest. (Go back to last week, you'll know what that means, rookie.) And, for the love of Black and Decker, one has. And boy, does it feel good.

Well, for everyone except Chad Lewis.

Chad broke his touchdown bone last week against Atlanta. (It may have been his leg, but I'm no doctor. I'd be risking this patient's life if I was) Chad was an integral part to the Birds' roster. A typical NFL football team carries 53 players, 3 0f which play the versatile block-and-catch hybrid spot known as Tight End. The Eagles are no exception. L.J. Smith (82), Chad Lewis (89), and Mike Bartrum (88). Well, as previously mentioned, Chad is out, leaving two. This would not normally be a problem, because there's not a single play in the Eagles' playbook that features three tight ends. Bartrum slides up to the 2 slot, no problem. Right?

Wrong. Bartrum, in his wily veteran ways, has become the long snapper for Philly. This is an acquired skill, and without this skill, special teams play becomes mundane teams play. The long snapper is the guy who hikes the ball in punting and kicking situations. If Bartrum moves up to the 2 slot, and God forbid gets injured, they would simply get their back-up long snapper to take over on kicking plays. And looking at the depth chart, that person is listed as....Chad Lewis. Dilemma.

Enter Jeff Thomason.

Former Tight End Jeff retired two years ago from the Eagles, when they drafted L.J. Smith. He played for the Birds for the final three years of a solid ten year career. He was happy with what he accomplished in his time. Now, he works as a Project Manager for Philly-area construction firm Toll Brothers. I can just imagine the on-site construction trailer on Monday morning when the phone rang. Jeff was peering over the building schematics, drinking his coffee out of a Styrofoam cup, and picked up the call. You have to think his reaction for similar to Merlin when Maverick told him he was bringing the MiG in closer in Top Gun. (You're gonna fo WHAT?!?) Regardless, Jeff who has stayed in shape thanks to his hobby of oh, I don't know, TRIATHALON, has accepted and will be wearing number 85 in Jacksonville on the first weekend of February.

Since I am always looking for ways to refine HR policy, (and since I think pirates would do a damn good job, I am also viewing this inspirational piece from a work-related angle. Some questions I hope Jeff has considered in making his decision (which, was the right decision, no doubt.)

• Paid Vacation - Look, you've been with the company for two years. You can't have more than two weeks vacation yet. That comes with tenure. So you're going to have to blow your entire year's leave all at once. No week at the Jersey Shore this year, Jeff.
• Be sure to get your W-2 from the Philadelphia Eagles for Tax Year 2005. Is it possible that one game can raise your tax bracket? We'll find out.
• Be sure to leave your helmet at the jobsite. The Eagles will have one waiting for you.
• Jackhammers are hard to operate with a big old Super Bowl ring on your hand, the metal-to-metal would drive a sane man crazy. Have Toll Brothers install a safety-deposit box on the job site.
• When you get back to your full-time job, do not EVER confuse a football with a wrecking ball.

And finally,

• You've got to work weekends.

The Bread Supremacy

Part of the fun of doing the blog is that it puts me in better communication with friends, family, and random websurfers in the Netherlands that I would otherwise have a more difficult time of interacting with on a daily basis. It's a pretty simple system. I write the blog, and if something strikes you as unresolved or not funny, it's everyone else's civic responsibility to post a comment, thereby taking that something and resolving it or making it funny. According to the contemporary websavant scholar, S. Mellor, my prior explanation could have been more interesting had it been this analogy. It's like everyone who reads the blog is at a party. Now you may not get to talk directly to your friends, since there's lots of people at the party, but it's comforting to know that they are there, like seeing them across the room. It's indirect correspondence, courtesy of YAB.

One such frequent commenteer is the Throckmonic herself, Sara. Sara never leaves home without the funny, and has become one of the regular contributors to the the blog. Heck, she's even spun off her own brainchild. Anyways, I single out Sara because she has spawned today's topic.

Two days ago, the girl from Boston let everyone know that she doesn't think Michael Vick wasn't the greatest thing since sliced bread. Regardless of the Eagles' sound thrashing of Atlanta, it really is true. The truth, however, is not from Mr. Vick's inability to change a professional football game with fleet feet and great juking. He has proven on many an occasion, (and frequently against the St. Louis Rams), that he's a supreme game breaker. He does his best to set the bar high. So how is it that Vick doesn't even hold a candle to the commonplace sandwich ingredient we have come to know as sliced bread? It's simple.

Sliced Bread can do it all.

As CNN turned 25 earlier this month, one of the retrospectives they produced was a look back at the 25 greatest inventions and innovations that occurred during the channel's relatively young life. I've looked at the list, and it's well-crafted, well-thought out, and well, none of them are sliced bread. (I don't know who came up with this saying, by the way, but that person must be in MENSA.) (Like me.) (Just kidding.) (Stupid parenthesis.)

Let's break down the Top 9 of CNN's list, shall we? (Quick-hit form, I've got deadlines to meet, people. Otherwise, you'd get 10.)

1. The Internet - Yes, yes, it's got trillions of pages of information, not excluding Divertainment Mogul You're a Blog. And despite all of this information, there is an underwhelming number of sites on sandwich recipes. Sliced bread has recipes on the freakin' bag.
2. Cell Phone - Cell phones easily confuse their users, with complex calling plans in which the user draws from several different categories of minutes, and charges and overages are so complex it takes the aforementioned MENSA guy to figure it out. It is impossible to be confused by sliced bread.
3. Personal Computer - If you put ham between sliced bread, you got yourself a sandwich. If you put ham in the CD-ROM drive of your personal computer, you've got a 4 hour date with Tech Support. Eech.
4. Fiber Optics - I'll give you this, fiber optics have made global communication and information transportation unbelievably quick. But this is nothing new. Fiber has been an integral part of sliced bread for centuries.
5. E-mail - Inferior to sliced bread from a comedy standpoint. Once, just once, I want that stupid AOL Welcome voice guy to ditched the cliched "You've Got Mail" for "You've Got Bread."
6. Commercialized GPS - Ah, yes, the Global Positioning System that has taken American SUV manufacturers by storm. Quite a luxury item, if you ask me. But at what cost? Studies show that SUV's with prominently displayed GPS on the dash are more likely to be broken into. The rate is exponentially lower for SUV's with sliced bread on the dash.
7. Laptops - If sliced bread is exposed to extreme heat, it becomes toast. If laptops are subjected to the same, it becomes a very sophisticated paperweight.
8. CDs/DVDs - Don't get me wrong, I love both of these inventions. But sliced bread has cornered this market. It's taken the technology and utilized it for its own profit goals.
9. Consumer-level Digital Camera - Man, it is nice to be able to take pictures digitally, so that they will be archived forever. But riddle me this - which is easier to stick in a photo album - a computer file made of of bits and bytes, or sliced bread, maybe with a bite taken out of it? Hmm???

Sliced Bread! Rock on!

Cond-nominations 2005

At 8:30 on Tuesday morning (don't let may freaky back-dating fool you), the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will reveal to the world who has merited a nomination for the 77th Annual Oscars. For once, Hollywood will wake up at the crack of dawn to make sure that their ceremony is the centerpiece of each and every network's morning news show. From the Today Show to Good Morning America to even Cold Pizza, about a half hour will be spent letting the world, and all of us at YABNews who has a shot to go home with Oscar.

We're talking the gold statuette, since most other Oscars have plans and as a result are not scheduled to appear. The one they call Grouch got into a red carpet fight last year when working as a Fashion Expert for E!. Funny story. Apparently, Gollum showed up in a clashing blue tie-black coat set and the Grouch commented a little too loudly. Gollum, seizing the microphone (apparently like the ring, it was also his Precious), knocked the Christian Dior Trash Can the Grouch was wearing out from under him, and a case of indecent exposure ensued. He is to be replaced by Star Jones this year...Oscar de la Hoya is training for Eastwood's next boxing flick, Billion Dollar Baby, and Oscar Mayer, as with most red carpet galas, never makes it past hor d'oeurves. That leaves the Golden Boy himself.

In a valiant effort to top my 80% correct benchmark of 2003, I now present to you, the loyal blogophiles, the Cond-nominations for '05.

Best Picture
The Aviator
Finding Neverland
Hotel Rwanda
Million Dollar Baby
Sideways

While I think Eternal Sunshine was excellent, and Ray is probably pretty good, I'd be more than pleased if these five are picked. I'd also be more than pleased if I never have to see House of Flying Daggers again. Eech.


Best Actor
Don Cheadle, Hotel Rwanda
Johnny Depp, Finding Neverland
Leonardo DiCaprio, The Aviator
Jamie Foxx, Ray
Paul Giamatti, Sideways

Clint Eastwood deserves a nod without a doubt, but this is a strong field, and he'll get his due in the Director category. Apologies to Jasen and Jon, but neither Harold nor Kumar will get their big break here.

Best Actress
Annette Bening, Being Julia
Catalina Sandeno Moreno, Maria Full of Grace
Imelda Staunton, Vera Drake
Hilary Swank, Million Dollar Baby
Kate Winslett, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I really want to put Uma Thurman in here instead of Moreno, but I don't think there's enough to displace a SAG nominee.

Best Supporting Actor
Alan Alda, The Aviator
Thomas Haden Church, Sideways
Morgan Freeman, Million Dollar Baby
Freddie Highmore, Finding Neverland
Clive Owen, Closer

This is where I am at my strangest. I think the Academy is ready to hand the Best Actor to Foxx, so his Collateral turn will be slighted. I think Oscar loves a kid, so Highmore is in, pulling the groundswell of Neverland together for a nom. For some reason, (other than he looks like the Nordbergs' dad), I think Alan Alda gets a John C.Reilly-type support to get spot number 5.

Best Supporting Actress
Cate Blanchett, The Aviator
Laura Linney, Kinsey
Virginia Madsen, Sideways
Sophie Okenedo, Hotel Rwanda
Natalie Portman, Closer

Hey we need Okenedo in this field. After all, we need someone I can't pronounce al la Agadashaloogalu last year. That, and Streep is very pronounceable.

Best Director
Clint Eastwood, Million Dollar Baby
Marc Forster, Finding Neverland
Taylor Hackford, Ray
Alexander Payne, Sideways
Martin Scorcese, The Aviator

Stephen Herek, the directorial mastermind behind the Mighty Ducks, did not make a movie this year. As a result, Scorcese has a shot.

Best Adapted Screenplay
Closer
Finding Neverland
Million Dollar Baby
Sideways
Very Long Engagement

Nothing interesting to say here. So, in interesting's absence, Nordberg=Phoning It In.

Best Original Screenplay
The Aviator
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Hotel Rwanda
Kinsey
The Incredibles

All animated screenplays are written on Etch-a-Sketches. This, by itself, should do the trick for Pixar.

Now we patiently wait for the announcements...good night all.

Battle of the Birds

One of my favorite writers on the net is Bill Simmons, who in ESPN Page 2 circles is known as the Sports Guy. As a tribute to his unceasing intent to bring both sports and the funny, I present to you one of Simmons’ finest literary vehicles, the running diary. It’s no secret that at 3pm on Sunday I’ll be in front of my TV and tuned to Fox, so this is what it would have been for you had you joined me for the NFC Championship Game.

3:00: Well, it looks cold in Philadelphia. Joe Buck has confirmed this by forgoing the classic shirt and tie look to go with the black turtleneck and Fox Sports-issued bright blue ski jacket. Come to think of it, both Troy Aikman and Cris Collinsworth have gone with the same route. Collinsworth historically has given the Eagles little credit in the past, and as he leads the Blue Man Group through the opening segment, you get the sense that unless your name is Michael Vick, you’ll get no respect today. Gotta love Fox.

3:01: National Anthem time. 100 of America’s Finest Military Men and Women. And a freezing cold ten year old. All of his friends are out making snow forts in 14 inches of newly Philly snow, and Timmy Kelly has frozen into a Popsicle on the 50 yard line. Thanks PR Department. Couldn’t we have frozen Ashlee Simpson into an ice pop instead? And shipped her to Abu Dhabi? Jokes aside, nice job, Timmy.

3:05: Jasen and Spud have joined me in this Prayerful Viewing of the NFC Championship Game. One Philly native, born and raised, and the biggest fantasy football psycho I know. It’s good to know that if I come short in this running diary, I’ve got Cynicism and Statistical Rainman on the couch.

3:08: Kick-off.

3:10: Vick just called him first timeout, 1 minute and 17 seconds into the game. Time to head to the sideline. It’s a good thing Donovan’s mom is pacing madly, force feeding the wide Eagles’ wide receivers Chunky Soup. Vick’s mom: Georgia Peach Daiquiris. Edge: Eagles.

3:13: Spud clapped three times in the air for no reason, and now I’m kind of afraid. Does he know something I don’t know? (Dawkins tackles Vick on 3rd Down, Falcons punt)

3:14-3:16: Condon forces the room to clap non-stop in the air for 180 seconds. And who said superstition is dead?

3:22: David Akers, rather than attempting a field goal roughly from Camden, watched idly as Koy Detmer executed a fake field goal pass to Chad Lewis. It may not have worked, but man, Koy looks sharp. (At least as sharp as I’d like for a guy who should never, ever, make his way under center this game. Please?)

3:27: Mike Vick? Ground. Ground? Mike Vick. More introductions like this are very welcome.

3:34: And it’s L.J. Smith across the middle, and he’s tackled at the 5. Unlike last week, no Freddie Mitchell touchdown ensues. Until…

3:35: TOUCHDOWN! LEVENS. Spud just pointed out that this running diary will be a lot funnier if the Eagles start losing. For once, I am willing to sacrifice the funny for a greater cause.

3:45: Jon Rogers has graced us with his presence. Readers, enjoyable sarcastic rhetoric to follow.

3:53: Falcons, after a 4th down conversion and a direct snap are driving on the Eagles. They’re now on the sunny end of the field. And I’m not talking about the endzone fans’ cheery disposition.

3:55: Goal line stands. 1st down? STUFFED. 2nd down? BATTED DOWN? 3rd down? Hollis Thomas turns Vick into a pancake. Sumo wrestlers of the world, vindication. Falcons kick the field foal, while Vick is served with syrup and a side of hash browns. 7-3 Birds.

3:57: It just hit me that both teams are Birds. So much for diversifying my sports writing vocabulary. I’ll keep it simple. For example, Todd Pinkston will only get one nickname: Skinny Arms.

4:07: Donovan McNabb just launched a hope and a prayer to Greg Lewis. He caught both. I have a funny story about Lewis, related to our Madden playing ways, but that’s another blog completely. I’m not just talking another post. Another whole blog entity. YAB2: The Deuce, coming soon…

4:10: TOUCHDOWN. Maybe?

4:11: While the referee reviews Chad Lewis’ twinkle toes reception, we here in Blog Central have been discussing the cinematic merits of Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Our resident Statler and Waldorf combination of Andersen and Rogers have given it two thumbs up from the balcony. Hell, Spud just recommended it to whoever he’s talking to on the phone. Seems like the feel good movie of the year.

4:13: TOUCHDOWN. Confirmed. McNabbBirds 14, VickBirds 3.

4:22: TOUCHDOWN. Falcons? Warrick Dunn scoots into the endzone. Not worried yet, but it may be time to resurrect Crazy Mellor’s Clapping Ritual. Green 14, White 10.

4:30: Troy Aikman: “If I’m the Eagles, I don’t punt the football anywhere near Alan Rossum.” Chris Condon: “If I’m the Eagles, I don’t want Troy Aikman anywhere near the Eagles. I like my QBs concussion-free.” Jon Rogers: ‘Punting is for bitches.”

4:43: We’re ten minutes into halftime, and the conversation in the room has gone anywhere but first half football analysis. So far, Spud is going to run for the Apprentice, as the “cutting edge” flirtatious contestant, Jon is intent on running James Earl Jones for public office, as well as his philanthropic vision, Kick Puppies, Kick Cancer,” and Jasen is still getting over a concussion he gave himself shaking his head real hard. Bravo.

4:48: Second half commences with a kickoff to the Eagles. And we’re talking about MTV’s Newlyweds. To make up for this effeminate, grievous act, we’ll be putting up drywall in the fourth quarter.

4:53: After every Westbrook scamper, Brian tosses the football off camera, points out Spud. The NFL has to spend a couple grand every time the Eagles play, since Westbrook insists everyone in the stands goes home with a game-used souvenir.

4:57: FIELD GOAL. Close, but no TD for the Eagles. But at least Nike has taken my mind off of it by showing us the weirdest commercial since those stupid bears who use their toilet paper by the tree. Eww.

5:05: I don’t know if anyone has told Falcons Punter Chris Mohr, but it’s a little windy at the Linc. Oh, and that punting is for bitches.

5:09: Jon just went to the bathroom, and it’s not until he reads this blog tomorrow morning that we have replaced his ice cold Coors Light with a lukewarm lemon-lime Fanta. Let’s watch and see if he notices. (Insert maniacal laugh here…)

5:15: Reception Count: Brian Dawkins 1, Peerless Price 0. If Vick’s feet are so magical, he better start throwing with them. Wounded duck, away!

5:19: FIELD GOAL. Little by little, let’s get our hopes up. And little by little, extra prayer is required to sustain said hopes. Motownphilly 20, Hotlanta 10.

5:33: Okay, update time. End around play to Greg Lewis (S.M., for those in the know.) What the Eagles need now is a long punishing, time consuming drive. Or cheesesteaks. Wait, maybe that’s me. Atlanta’s defense has been playing well, you know, just to twist the knife a little. Eagles are going to punt with 11:40 left. Love it, guys. At this point, most likely, Joe Buck at any moment will take the Red Sox Curse angle to his broadcasting. Or at least let Leon take it from here.

5:49: 6 minutes and counting. Lead is 10 points and rising. (McNabb with a first down dash.) Hope is high and flying. And from Jon: “So how are they going to screw this up in 5 minutes?” Thanks, pal.

5:52: TOUCHDOWN. Chad Lewis, many blessings will be given to you upon your entrance to Heaven. 27-10 Green Sox.

5:54: Thanks for the FOX Pregame Crew, I never, EVER, want to watch American Idol again. Wow.

5:56: McNabb just hugged Skinny Arms. Broke him in two. Oh well, we get T.O. for the next one.

6:00: Vick drops back and releases the ball – straight in the ground. That was the best impression of the Falcons’ punter I’ve ever seen. 2 minute warning.

6:05: Eagles ball, as Vick throws the ball into South Jersey. Is there any way we can screw up the kneeling of the ball? Eh, who cares, it’s Gatorade watch time.

6:08: And at 58 seconds left in the NFC Championship, Gatorade has been deployed.

See you all in the Super Bowl.

E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles!

Best Company Ever, Chapter 3

Our current food service vendor, Aramark, is getting the axe today. Due to a decline in service, reduction in lunchtime selection, and an inability to turn a profit, it looks like my friends in catering are getting pinkslipped just before we get blanketed with white this weekend. (That's probably a metaphor, but I wouldn't know. So, let's just say it means Aramark is suffocating bliss. Yeah, that's weird and indecipherable. Ah.) I can't say I am sorry to see them go, especially since they never once thought to consult me on the means of operation. Had they made one simple phone call, I could have let them in on a little secret, which I let you loyal readers in on back on October 27th. Oh well, I welcome the new regime, who call themselves, Flik, on Monday. You better have bagels, Flik.

This changing of the guard has prompted me to let out another one of my cutting edge management techniques. That's right, it's time for Condon to breakout his old Chief Awesome Officer jacket and gavel, and predict the future of the future Best Company Ever. I know right now you are wondering about the gavel. Don't worry, it's all part of the big plan. In my book, a gavel wields enormous power. The two biggest gavel users in today's society are judges and auctioneers. One has the ability to sentence you to prison, and the other can make you buy a yacht or painting for 20 thousand dollars more than you really have. Therefore, C.A.O. Condon has a gavel. But this fine bit of management isn't even today's tip. Since the last two have been staffing moves, let's keep the streak alive.

The IT Tech Support Department will be a NASCAR pit crew.

Imagine this typical, 9 to 5, everyday work scenario. You're working on your computer. You are working on a file, we'll call it the Penske File, for a 4 o'clock teleconference with Grand Rapids. 20 minutes before the call, your computer deep sixes, and you're left with an ominous blank screen and a good chance you may go the way of the aforementioned Aramark. Now in normal companies, you'd place a call to the IT Help Desk, and 4-6 hours later, you've at least got a work ticket to schedule some work, I don't know, tomorrow. But not the IT Pit Crew. It's a completely different vehicle.

Caller: "Uh, yes, I need to talk to Grand Rapids, I mean, the computer needs Rapids, I don't know, Grand file needs to Penske, umm...phoney phone at 4...must call with file...Grand Rapids...KABOOM!"

ITPC: "Thank you caller, we're on our way."

The instant the phone receiver hits the cradle, a rush of 6 men with headsets and tools file unbelievably quickly into the caller's cubicle. They are all dressed in flame-retardent body suits, with the corporate logo emblazoned across the chest in royal blue, and a much smaller patches of the company's customers' logos occupying any other remaining open space on the uniform. Sunglasses conceal the eyes of the six-pack of employees, as they evaluate the problem, eyes darting from monitor-to-laptop-to-wall-to-laptop. They know what to do.

The crew chief stands over the caller's desk, putting one foot up on the table and leaning his elbow on it while he supervises. If there's any department that needs someone there just to supervise, it's a NASCAR pit crew. Another man pulls the caller, now 18 minutes to deadline, back from the desk, still in chair, while a third has already wheeled his way under the caller's desk to check the computer from below. A fourth man has stepped in and is hammering away on the keyboard, running diagnostics and recovering the file. The fifth guy has gotten the Windex out, wiping down the monitor so that the caller can see the file in these waning moments without obstruction. And finally, the sixth guy is getting in the way.

With one final keystroke, Crewman #4 gives the Chief the Green Light. The Chief yells into his headset, and the crew disappears from the cube. The caller is pushed back to the desk with 9 minutes to spare, a drink of Gatorade, and a renewed sense of drive. The work gets done, all thanks to another brilliant management move by the Chief Awesome Officer.

Indeed.

Debating Your Breakfast

Moderator: Good morning, and welcome to this transcript reading that documents the retelling of a Bridal Registry-related discussion that took place in the Fair Oaks Mall on Monday, January 17, 2005. The two sides were well represented, as both parties stuck to their guns and drew on their past experience and personal upbringings to try and persuade the other side that their position should be favored. In one corner, from Manassas, Virginia, the Westside Bride herself, Miss Katherine Pretz. And in this corner, wielding a high-tech scanning pistol, the Groom of Doom, Mr. Chris Condon. Flashy nicknames aside, the prize on the line in this battle of culinary taste, is so important that it warrants coverage in local news publication, You're a Blog. And as thanks, we cut to this station identification from YAB.

"YOU'RE A BLOG. WE PROMISE WE WON'T SWITCH TO SPANISH-ONLY FORMAT."

Moderator: Thank you, and we're back. We're talking toasters, people. The Engaged need to decide what type of toaster to register for, and this is where our debate lies. The two are only in possession of one toaster currently, and that's the 6 dollar machine that Condon took from the Monroe Hall Kitchen in 1999 once Mattias Caro left it for dead. In need of an upgrade, they can either go the route of the traditional toaster, or in the direction of the toaster oven. Now since Condon and Pretz both hold full-time jobs, neither was able to join us this morning for this re-enactment. In their place are two celebrities with some free time on their hands. Defending the Toaster, will be Mr. T.

Mr. T:T stands for toaster, fool! Toaster's gonna git you, sucka!

Moderator: And in defense of the Toaster Oven, Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver Terrell Owens.

Owens:T.O. stands for Toaster Oven, baby! And #81's taking this one all the way to the endzone!

Moderator: Let the debate begin.

Mr. T:Listen up, fool! You gotta get yourself a toaster. We had one in the A-Team van, and it was awesome. Bread goes in. You wait a few. Then, jibba-jbba, toast is hot!

T.O.:Yeah, but a toaster oven can do more than just make toast, my man! It can broil a grilled cheese sandwich, warm meatloaf, undress Packers CB Al Harris with a silly juke move, T.O. can do it all baby!

Mr. T:What you talking 'bout? It can't do everything. What about waffles? Hey kids, get eight hours of sleep, drink your milk, and eat your waffles. Nice, tasty, toaster-made waffles. And tell them Mr. T sent ya!

T.O.:Tell who? The waffles? Anyways, a T.O. Toaster Oven also does the food that you have put in the oven before now. And you don't forget about those burger patties anymore. The only burning T.O. does is the Giants secondary in the Meadowlands, you hear?

Mr. T:Listen up, fool! I'm the baddest man in the world! I fought Balboa, and all I brought him was pain! Kids, you buy other boxers' kitchen appliances. Hell, I got me a George Foreman myself. So, if you want to listen to one boxer, listen to the best. And the best says to go with the Toaster, fool!

T.O.:Look, baby, I may be rehabbing, but nothing helps a busted knee more than a grilled cheese sandwich from a new Toaster Oven. And maybe some of Mrs. McNabb's Campbell's Chunky Soup. I did the Ray Lewis dance. And I'd dance like Mr. T, but I saw his moves in the ring. He slow, baby!

Mr.T:Kids, don't do drugs, and don't listen to that tall boy's jibba-jabba. Go with the Toaster! I believe in the Golden Rule. The one with the Gold...rules. And that's me, jivemonkey!

T.O.:Look, baby, I fully endorse this Toaster Oven. I'd even put my signature on it? Somebody, hey Pinkston, where's my Sharpie?

Armed and Dangerous

It all starts with the issuing of the weapon.

I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I had never really considered any branch of the armed forces as a viable career path, but here I was, waiting silently in the shadows, with a patient finger resting firmly on the tirgger. And what's more, this was not even basic training - I have been thrust into the fray, biding my time as close to the front lines as I have even been. As I wait for the go ahead from the commanding officer, I think back as to how exactly I got here, not to mention where "here" actually is. This isn't the Army or the Marine Corps, because I am here on the verge of battle, and I am not wearing anything remotely resembling camoflague. Heck, I'm still wearing my Eagles hat, for Pete's sake. And this isn't the Navy, since the only sign of the sea anywhere near my position are those twin water fountains over in housewares. And I know I arrived my location via Honda Accord, not fighter jet, so it's pretty unlikely this is an Air Force op, either. So despite all of this attempted flashbacking, it is still pretty hard to determine why I am crouched down here behind this rack of crystal glasses with a gun, without a military branch to claim my own, and my only ally, Katie, is over at that counter speaking tactics and strategy with the woman behind the desk. What kind of gun is this anyway???

A bridal registry gun.

Man, I guess had I looked at the weapon a little sooner, I could have saved everybody at least a paragraph worth of time. That's right, it appears my most recent appearance in battle was with the highly-trained, elite fighting force, the Bridal Registrates. Granted, I am a rookie to this squadron, but I am ready to do my best, slaying product after product in our wake, and planting the Condon flag in their stead. With Katie at my side, brilliantly devising the game plan and leading through enemy lines filled with row after row of china pattern and kitchen appliance, we were destined for greatness. And as I wait patiently, crouched down and peeking over this table of crystal stemware, I know that I did not get to my position by casually walking up to it. No, sir, this was just like any other military branch, meaning that what I was about to do required waves and waves of training.

EQUIPMENT DISTRIBUTION

Let's start with my only lifeline out here in the dish and decor jungle: the registry gun. This thing can do it all. It's got a good weight to it, which allows me to toss it from hand to hand (in the event of a shootout) without letting it get away from me. The trigger is not-overly sensitive, which allows me to take down enemy products without officially registering for them. So when my XO sees me over in appliances with my sight set out the biggest George Foreman Grill ever created, I can fire at it without officially claiming under the Condon banner. The gun also has a "high-tech" computer keypad and display on top of the weapon, which allows me to record quantity of those left in my wake. Sure it gives anyone chance to inflate their statistics (I didn't just blast one dish towel, I nailed a set of four!) And finally, let's talk ammunition. The gun boasts a very clever laser ray, that is only trained to take down enemy products. I know this because while we were advancing through the store..err..jungle, I must have scanned the back of Katie's coat about 50 times. Now this is smart technology.

RECONAISSANCE

Now while Katie was a good sport and listened to the long, winding presentation of the woman behind the counter, I created my own op, some good old-fashioned recon. As I slid in between racks and display tables, I got a pretty good idea what we were up against. There's the enemy faction from China, for which attack will have to be delicate and dare I say graceful (No Bulls Allowed.) Then there's the appliance regiment. Stacked high and thus imposing, their area is crowded with box after box of reinforcement. This will be an area in which we cannot get bogged down by the flashy colors and just fire. But most dangerous of all? It appears that the enemy has a line of crystal animals kept on a high shelf out of reach of the shortest of soldier shoppers. I have no interest in taking these down, but man, when you shoot that laser scanner ray through them - the red glow just shoots in a thousand different directions! I could stand here all day just learning about refraction, letting my guard down, making my self susceptible to a sneak -

ATTACK

With Katie on my flank, I whirled around from the crystal dolphins and bears, to launch a surprise intiative on our merchandising foe. I was electric with the gun. Spinning it on my finger, deftly switching hands, a diving shot fired as I landed in the bedding department (so comfortable!), all of it was all so masterful. Had I gotten the chance to dive across the tile floor and take a crack at taking down those linens, I would have. Katie, serving as commanding officer, had devised a battle plan that should go down in history as one of the great military conquests of all time. Granted, we didn't finish the war in just one day, but we sure as hell won the battle.

Engaged 1, Registry 0.

Globetrotting

Today, boys and girls, we talk about awards shows, and how certain ones, in my book (unpublished, but looking for takers, as it were), need to be wiped off of the television schedule altogether. It's not that I've got better stuff to put on tv in their place, since reality shows are sinking faster than Peyton Manning in the snow, and other than Committed, mid-season replacements are as effective as well, again, Peyton Manning in the snow, but something needs to be done about award shows deemed unneccessary by me. Kristen touched on the People's Choice Awards, which hold as much credibility as the Teen Choice Awards, so I need not go into the underlying biases and idiocy that preside over that excuse for a red carpet. I've got bigger fish to fry.

Let me make that last point clear. Most awards shows don't have a whole lot of merit behind what they are awarding. I am all for giving credit where credit is due. My bone to pick lies with who gets to decide where said credit should be given. Confused? Good. (especially because my poor sentence construction makes one think that there's a loose bone out there somewhere. Eech.)

In my book, there should be two types of awards shows: those on TV, and those not on TV. The way I see it, anyone can give awards, but they need to be accredited for doing such a thing. Different circles of film critics in different cities across America? Sure, let us know who you think was the best actor, picture, director, etc. Why? Because you watch movies for a living. This is your job, to know who's the best. Hold an awards show, and let us know who won in the press. Celebrities most often do not attend these anyway, so continue doing it the same way you always have. Brilliant! As for the ones on TV, this avenue should be reserved for industry awards, those prizes given by the governing bodies of entertainment. Various academies and guilds, for worj in motion picture, music, television, and theatre, are more than welcome to take 3-4 hours one Sunday night a year to show me who they themselves think deserves some extra credit. Therefore, the Oscars, Tonys, Grammys, and Emmys may also continue doing it the same way you always have. (Even though Emmys are the most subjective horserace out there. NO idea how you can judge an actor over the course of a television season. Sheesh.)

I'll even go so far as allowing smaller sects of entertainment within these large scopes to brag some TV airtime to do their thing. These sects are just a larger celebration of a smaller category. The Country Music Awards, Screen Actors Guild, and Daytime Emmys fall into this realm, and because of entertainment value, they merit some time on the schedule. (Hey, if a third helping of The Simple Life does, then anything should garner some consideration.)

Anyone have any idea where I am going with this? Anyone? Well, here's the answer.

The Golden Globes need to be stopped. Immediately.

This award show is widely viewed as the precursor to the Oscars: an excellent means to figure out who will be going home with Academy Awards on February 25th. And while on occasion Globewinners will find themselves leaving the Oscars with new mantlepieces, there's really little correlation to be made. Do you know why the Golden Globes have no say whatsoever on who will be the Oscar winners of 2005? It's because the voting bodies have zero, and I mean not a single crossover voter between the two. And while we celebrate the Oscars because those who make movies let us know the best in their field, the Globes are the consummate #1 choices of another voting body that makes no sense whatsoever: The Hollywood Foreign Press?!?

That's right. People who don't even watch movies in America.

It's not that I have a problem with them giving out rewards for their favorite movies (and TV shows.) It's that said award program is nationally televised, and considered a major predictor for the Oscars. Why should we honor the selections of the Hollywood Foreign Press? Why not the Hollywood Domestic Press? How about the Full-Court Press? This awards show should be held in a swanky New York restaurant ballroom, where all of HFPI gets together, just like any other film critic organization. Sadly, it is that simple.

(steps down off soapbox and promises to return to your regularly scheduled funny bringing next time)

As I Walk with the Valet...

...in the shadow of Weird...

This past week, despite the downfall of HFS (btw, that was a Condon original above, despite the misleading italics), we here in the DC Metropolitan area have had at least something to brighten the day. Which, mind you, has become exceedingly difficult as Mother Nature keeps spinning the wheel and landing on "Overcast." (Umm..I'd like to buy a Sun?) Anyways, this week is the semiannual DC Restaurant Week.

(Sidenote here: I don't think I've ever known the difference between semi-annual and biennial. Yet I'm told they mean different things. It's kind of like flammable and inflammable, right? Eh, if not, let's just hope I picked the right one. And also hope that I'm not flammable. (or inflammable, as it would be.))

DC Restaurant Week is a golden opportunity twice a year for all those people whose grocery budgets favor Motts juice boxes to the rich kid lunch drink Capri Sun. (Who drinks juice out of a bag? Honestly.) It's for those who get their Entertainment Weekly fix at the gym rather than just subscribing themselves. It's for those who would rather wait until their dress shirt supply is completely exhausted before taking in dry cleaning to save a dollar or two. In a word, it's for Condon. Basically, about 100 area fancy (and dare I say, shmancy) restaurants prepare a fixed menu selection in which you can get a three course meal for 30 bucks. And since most entrees at these fine establishments normally go for a minimum of 25 bucks by themselves, this is a deal too good to pass up. On top of eating a fine meal, you then also are the recipient of an unofficial culture reward, in which you have new information to contribute to any conversation you may encounter concerning fine dining.

Just for this post and this post only, Taco Bell need not apply.

Tuesday night our selection of the directory listing was The Monocle. The Monocle is a nice little restaurant on D Street, only a few blocks from the Capitol. Congressmen (and more than likely, their accompanying bribetastic lobbyist friends) frequent this establishment for both lunch and dinner. This was the first fun part of the evening, the old "Guess which of the other tables has a Senator." A fun side-game: "Guess which of the other tables are playing the same game we are." The walls are lined with signed headshots of DC politicians, past and present. (None of them were at the tables. I checked.) Anyways, three co-workers, Katie, and I enjoyed a fine meal of filet mignon, a appetizer/salad/soup selection (I had trout), and a fine dessert (mmm...chocolate cake.)

The other half of fine dining is not just eating the finely-prepared food. It is also spending this one special evening to take advantage of those amenities which constitute the "high life." One such special service is coat check, which is a simple transaction and proceeded flawlessly.

I give you a coat. You give me a ticket.
I give you a ticket. You give me a coat. I give you a tip.

The other specialty service, which didn't run as smoothly as the coat check? But of course! Valet parking.

Finding the restaurant in DC within 5 minutes of your reservation is quite the accomplishment. Since I don't have many bills to pass lately in our democracy (or Rob's, for that matter), I'm rarely in Northeast DC. And since I managed to get Katie and myself there without getting lost, and it is an evening of fine dining, why not take advantage of pulling up to The Monocle and having someone else find a place for the car? Let's do it.

I give you the keys. You give me a ticket. I give you 5 dollars.

And as I we walked inside and found our seats, I happened to glance back at the front door. The car, which I had just parked myself right in front of the restaurant, remained in front of the restaurant throughout the course of our meal. Ok, I saw the valet. But where does the parking come in? Oh well, I guess it's time to leave (before I pay for more chocolate cake...)

I give you the tickets. I give you the keys. I give you a tip?

Looks like I rented the best parking spot in town for 7 dollars.

A Hurt-ing Obituary

"WHFS, pioneering alternative rock radio station in the Washington DC Metropolitan area, died this afternoon at 12 o'clock noon. The station was 36. The sudden and untimely death was due to a bitter corporate broadcasting rivalry, where HFS' caretaker, Infinity Broadcasting, opted to end the station's life prematurely in favor of switching identity to a Spanish-language, pop music format. HFS is now survived by its replacement, elZol 99.1, who has moved in to HFS's home, eaten all their food, slept in all their beds, rearranged the furniture, and most depressingly, reprogrammed the radio dial so that evey station would be DC's new "siempre de fiesta." Local friends and loved ones of the legendary rock giant have kindly informed elZol that this is no time for a fiesta, and that the blaring trumpets, with the oh so catchy 6/8 rhythm are in poor taste while others take the neccessary time to remember our friend responsible for the annual HFStival.

At noon today, life abruptly stopped with one final spin of "Last Goodbye" by the also late Jeff Buckley. and a hundred HFS employees have been left looking for new employment. Most notably are the Sports Junkies, the morning drive-time quartet that have successfully blended rock music with sports banter, that has cause this obit writer, as well as hundreds other, to switch over from the often crass "Elliot in the Morning" on rival DC101. The Junkies became a source for trendy DC vernacular, coining phrases left and right, so effectively that their verbal work often would be referenced on DC-filmed ESPN shows, PTI and Around the Horn. They have mentioned, one their website, that they will rise again very soon, so their place in this obituary may be quite temporary. Regardless, the current state of affairs without them, is anything but "money."

One thing is certainly not temporary. WHFS has been laid to rest in Bethesda, MD, its home, and funeral arrangements will be determined at a later date, once the listening public tune in for the first time to elZol and need to grieve. And as for the good folks at Infinity Broadcasting, I hope that I will get to write a similar obit for elZol as soon as possible. Listening to rush hour traffic is more soothing."

E-I-E-I-Whoa.

Sometimes I sit down in my blog chair, and have no idea what to write about. Blogger’s block can be killer when you publish a daily, and I’ve done my best to stay away from spitting out a sub-par effort for the sake of continuing the regimen. If I did subscribe to this theory, you all would read a whole lot more about random stuff on my desk:

Paper clips – what’s the deal with paper clips? They’re not paper, they’re not – oh shoot. Nevermind.

See? That’s terrible. So sometimes in a fit of panic, I find myself forced to scour the web to find something interesting to put a Condon-Brand © spin on. And since YAB Foreign News Correspondent Caro has been a dry well for news stories, it’s up to the Editor-In-Chief to do his own grunt work for breaking news. Let’s see…tsunami…homeland security…mudslides…no hockey…still…AH-HAH! Goldmine.

Waiting patiently while you read the aforementioned breaking news…ok? Good.

This delightful story brings up a bevy of issues that need to be discussed. Call it incomplete reporting, and lack of editorial effort, but I think there’s a lot more to this story that CNN.com didn’t even bother to scratch the surface.

• That crafty grandmother. She knew that of all the stores in Union, Missouri, the only one delivery location that would land the family press on CNN, or more importantly, on YAB News, would be the one that share’s the clan’s surname. I wonder what her motive really was. She’s had kids before, she knows that a hospital would have been better than “over there, by the soda fountain.” But no, a kid being born in a Missouri hospital doesn’t make the ticker on Headline News, does he?
• And as for the last name, at least the mother was fortunate. McDonald’s is a restaurant, and therefore, is meant to be kept generally clean. Sure, it’s fast food, but most McDonald’s I’ve been in aren’t too bad. And they’ve got some basic seating and tables for furniture, when in times of crisis, could probably make a suitable makeshift hospital. Both are big plusses. I’m not exactly promoting the chain as a healthy delivery room alternative, I’m just glad their last name isn’t “Home Depot” or “Rock Quarry.”
• The Union, MO McDonald’s had to commemorate the occasion with some sort of celebration. If they give that kid a Happy Meal, you better believe he stuck with one of those hard rubber toys that are prescribed for children under the age of 3 because of potential choking hazards. Little guy is going to have to wait for his first matchbox car, so here’s a squeaky cheeseburger to play with.
• One drawback to being born at a McDonald’s is the doctrine of nominal predestination (yep, made that one up.) There are some names for which your future careers is already signed off on when you get it inked on your birth certificate. For example, if you name your kid Jeeves, he’s going to be a fine butler one day. Your boy Winston’s either going to be a limo driver (or a Ghostbuster.) Baby McDonald? Yep, he’s now relegated to the Life of the Harvest. A farmer through and through (esp. in Missouri.) Had Grandmama been using her noodle, they would have pulled over at Burger King.

That kid would’ve been royalty.

Praying for Starbucks

I know, I know, this is the last title you ever expected on a Condopost, (except for maybe "Nordberg Stops Phoning It In"), but it needed to be said. Now please don't take me seriously with this prayer request, I'd rather you spend your reflective time helping the tsunami victims. This is the type of prayer that isn't so much intended for the aforementioned intention, but rather a prayer against the well-being of a similar substitute. It's like watching the World Series to root for the National League team. Not because you like the NL, but because it means they're not the Yankees. This is an ABP - an Anything-But Prayer. This is not a prayer for Starbucks. It's for Anything But Aramark.

Who?

For those of you who went to WM, you know Aramark. They're the food service vendor accountable for our dining hall cuisine. Personally, I don't have a problem with what we had. I could always find something to eat, and it was filling and quite good. Even if it was a mixture of all the dry cereal in a bowl with a spoon (Captain Crunch + Lucky Charms + Corn Pops = Capt. Lucky Pops*), I liked it. I can't see why people complained about it - picky eaters, all of you. It's actually strange how similar the cafeteria downstairs is to the Marketplace (minus the wrap line. Man, I could go for a wrap right now.) Anyways, Aramark is our food service vendor on the outs. We just signed a new contract with a different company, and with the title comes the spoils, namely the coffee vending contract at all of our DC area locations.

That ain't chump change, chump.

In the Columbia, MD location alone, I have a line item in my budget of about fifty-eight thousand dollars annually for coffee. Yes, I spend more money on coffee than all of you, and I don't even drink the stuff (It's not exactly my cup of..err..Gatorade.) So I pay weekly bills so that all the good worker bees in Maryland can be extra caffeinated for an extra long time. (Decaf is also an offering, but I've noticed 5 regular cases are ordered to every 1 decaf.) Personally, I could come up with better uses for the money, but I don't think I want 1200 people at my door with caffeine withdrawal. (Angriest crowd since the premiere of Christmas with the Kranks.)

Well, at least I thought I was spending 58k.

It appears there's been a mix-up in Accounts Payable. Namely, the processor assigned to Aramark has been sitting on invoices for months, not because we put a stop payment on the account, but because she's new and no one has fully trained her. As a result, I get a daily visit from an Aramark Collections Officer (We'll call him Mr. Coffee.) Mr. Coffee asks where his money is. I calmly tell him that it is being processed and that he should expect a check FedExed to his billing office Friday. It's Monday. Apparently, Mr. Coffee isn't familiar with the whole "Days of the Week" principle. He'll be back tomorrow, and Wednesday, and Thursday to ask the same question he asked today, despite the fact that Friday has not arrived.

Mr. Coffee has gotten me a little wired. Kind of jumpy, kind of nervous, sleepy when I'm not researching the issue. Is this their way of indoctrinating me with the Way of the Java? I don't think so, pal. Not me. My water bottle and me are doing just fine, thank you very much, and I'll kick your tail all the way back to Maxwell House before I'm done. Your payment is coming, no need to stir things up, bud. So leave me alone!

Wow. I need to lay off the coffee.

P.S. - The funny thing (that may only interest me) is while I was writing this, I was picturing Mr. Coffee not as the gentleman who visits me daily, but as the giant Kool-Aid man, only filled with coffee instead of fruit punch. Trippy.

*Capt. Lucky Pops is patent pending.

A Clockwork Random Redeux

Back on November 1st, I extolled the virtues of a time-keeping system in which all that happens in a day appears to happen two hours later that the actual time of happening, which happens to allow people that happen to check the time at Random Run a two hour daily buffer in which they can happen to fit additional happenings into the day.

Confused? Good. That's how I like my readership. Feeling Strangely Fine.

Anyways, you can now file that old post in the folder you may keep of "Stuff that May No Longer Be True." (just like the post about Maddengate. That game cheats on a daily basis these days.) Why is it no longer true? Well, as you recall, Spudicarius and I have operated throughout the fall on a 2 hour plus schedule. Because of the extra hour gained in October coupled with our tampering with time last spring, The real time is always 120 minutes less than what the hallway clock would lead us to believe. And since the clock has never communicated with the U.S. Naval Observatory for the official time (as the packaging would lead us to believe), we've gotten away with living on borrowed time.

Until now.

Like I said, the correction of this clock is controlled by your friends at the USNO. Well, it seems that they are harding working crew for 11 long months of the year. However, when December rolls around, the ops have a tendency change. Like any office, the USNO is susceptible to various holiday functions, like Christmas luncheons, rocking around the Christmas tree, and casual breaks around the ole' egg nog cooler. This means a slowdown in operations for most: some time of every day coming up to break is spend in the realm of holiday merrymaking. However, this has two sides. Christmas lunches and such allow those behind on their work to catch up, while everybody else pulls their proverbial race horses up a bit and to get a drink and catch their breath. Perceived as workaholic Scrooges by some, these determined folks are simply trying to get it together before 2005 rolls around (and all unmet objectives are deemed failures by their respective supervisors.)

Meanwhile, in a quiet apartment in Falls Church, Virginia, local blog writer Chris Condon is packing up his things to head up to Jersey for Christmas. He promised Katie he would be in Masassas by 6:00 sharp that night, and is doing everything to frantically pack and not leave the apartment in shambles. After zipping up the last bag and wrapping the last gift, I glanced up at the clock. 7:03. Plenty of time. Locked the door, and I was off.

While I spent Christmas introducing Katie to Condons near and far, as well as schooling the world in Cranium Turbo, Ensign Scrooge was still hustling to get everything done under the wire. Normally, the operations of the Navy wouldn't affect ordinary citizens in Falls Church (for the last time, NO, JAG is not really located in the FC), but just this once...

Returning back to VA on December 29, I set my bags down in the apartment (now 59 degrees) and rested on the couch. What a long day. Glanced up at the clock, glowing in the dim light of my recently booted-up computer: 11:15. Oh, good, it's just past 9 and I have three hours to unpack before bed - Wait a minute.

What's the local news doing on TV?

Someone has some explaining to do. Maybe that someone is me. And I'll get right to that once I finished right this Christmas thank you card to Ensign Scrooge for ripping a hole in my own personal space-time continuum.