Governmuppets

I’ve got to buy more textbooks for classes, which means sooner or later, I’m going to have to head back into the heart of our Nation’s Capital. While the metro may be easier, I’ll probably fall asleep and miss the Foggy Bottom stop. Looks like the modus transportandi is going to be my one Accord. Let’s check the computer and see which Mapquestian way I will take to into the city. So many options, so little time. I-66? Route 50? I-395? Sesame Street?

Yes, Sesame Street is just another road that starts in Washington DC.

I first made the connection on a late-breaking CBSNews story from yesterday afternoon. I would read it if I were you, but in summary form, it looks like the folks down on the Street are being asked to help with federal policy. In a move to help cut the risks of child obesity, the Kingpin of the Sweet Tooth has been forced to change his tune. Cookie Monster, the crooner behind “Don’t Eat the Pictures” and “C is for Cookie (and Cookie is For Me)” has now added a health-conscious B-side to his singles, titled “Cookie is a Sometimes Food.” We don’t know if kids are going to listen to this new Track 2, but at least M.C. C.M. has done his part.

It’s not really like the blue dude had much of a choice. You see, he’s employed by the Children’s Television Workshop, whose program, Sesame Street, is broadcasted on the proprietary airwaves of PBS. Yes, that’s PUBLIC Broadcasting System, which means it’s state owned (well, with a generous grant from some silly Institute and Viewers Like You.) Which ultimately means that they are susceptible to following any Congressional Edict that the government sees fit. Ah, ha! They’re just a bunch of puppets!

Muppets, actually.

Well, don’t feel too bad for Cookie Monster; he came out of this format change with some perks of his own. Like a new job! Understanding the ways of nutrition and being a far-reaching voice for Generation Z, this monster wields some serious power. And in turn for his good deed, he’s been granted a seat in the Cabinet of the President of the United States. If you’re looking at a politician, and he’s blue, fuzzy, and his head is on one big hinge, then you’re looking at our new Secretary of Health and Human Services. What’s more, in an act of solidarity, Cookie has gotten all of his friends new jobs too!

The New Cabinet
(brought to you by the letter W and the number 15)

Secretary of the Treasury – Count von Count – “One, two, THREE stupid changes to the Jefferson nickel, Hah, Hah, Ahhhhhh.”
Secretary of Transportation – Grover – Will be America’s source on the ways you can get from Near to Far.
Secretary of Homeland Security – Snuffleupagus – If God forbid another attack similar to 9/11 is being planned, the terrorists better think again when they see who’s in charge. We’ve got just the m-, umm, eleph-, no not really, woolly mam-, no clue, uh – Secretary for the job.
Secretary of Commerce – Guy Smiley – This guy has been hosting fake game shows for so many years that he’s got to have a decent grip on how money comes and goes. Or at least he can fake it.
Secretary of Agriculture – Kermit the Frog – It’s not easy growing greens.
Secretary of the Interior – Big Bird – If we are ever going to hire an actual animal for the job, let’s pick the one who’s abnormally large. Follow that Bird, to Washington!
Secretary of Defense – Sam Eagle – On loan from the Muppet Show contingent. This guy is more DC than DC is.
Secretary of Education – Elmo – While Bert and Ernie were rehearsing sketches for the show, Elmo’s been singing alphabet songs for the children of the world. Tickle-Me-Secretary, but without the lawsuit!
Secretary of Energy – The Yips – These are those freaky aliens who say their name all day. ALL day. They never rest, and their endless supply of energy is both endearing and a job requirement.
Secretary of Veteran Affairs – Oscar the Grouch – Served in ‘Nam. Logical choice.
Secretary of State – Bert – With a joker of a roommate, Bert has had to deal with tough diplomacy issues since the show was created. Has an outstanding track record, and even the pigeons vote for him.
Attorney General – Ernie – Fun in the courtroom, but more importantly, would rename the post “Atternie General.”
Secretary of Labor – Mr. Hooper – If he were alive today, this seat would be reserved for him. Forget Luis, Gordon, Bob, Maria, Olivia, all of ‘em. This is the only human who actually did any work around here.
Secretary of HUD – Telly Monster – The token purple monster in the Cabinet. Campaign promise, I presume.

Dude, Where's My Cube?

I’ve have been at my current job and department for 2 years, 3 months, and 4 days (as of the above backdate.) You would think that by now, I could get in the elevator and know the exact location of my chair and corresponding desk. Smaller objects, I’m not so sure. Somebody could have swiped my stapler. I may have gone home last night with my pencil still behind my ear. Heck, I’m lucky if I find where I put that post-it note with all my future blog topics. (Which kind of explains this roundabout introduction.)

But what if your cubicle had a tendency to move?

When you work for Corporate Facilities of a federal contracting company, you understand the trade-off you’re making. In exchange for never having to fear of losing your job on account of a contract loss, you understand that if a contract needs your resources, you have to comply. Office space is one such resource. Which fully explains after 6 months in my initial cube on the 5th floor, it was time to pack up my things and move.

The 5th floor cube, while brief, was very nice. I was at a crossroads in the whole cubicle maze layout that attracted the bare minimum of traffic, allowing me to do work in peace (or at least play a quick game of garbage can basketball) That’s right, I had 82 square feet, all to myself. I wish I could say that cube had some style, but it was as bland as the greatest hits of REO Speedwagon. Plus, I wasn’t there all that long, so I didn’t really have that much time to get attached to it. I was close to the kitchen, far from the bathroom, and if it was snowing outside, I’d have no idea. Every wall had an office, and they conspired to keep the inside from looking out.

Cube moving is something you learn to get really good at in my time of company. The first time I did this, I was handed some boxes and some stickers, and I was told to pack. Some things are easy, like desk supplies. They can fall under the “Throw in a Box” protocol. Computers are trickier, since all the work you have produced lies on the hard drive of that laptop. I think it’s best you take that with you wherever you go. Sure, it makes running in the gym a little tedious, but a little weighted resistance training never hurt.Actually, correction. Weighted resistance training always hurts.

And then there’s file packing. The goal is to take all the paper you have and organize it in a box, so that you can easily recreate your cube in a matter of minutes upon new cube arrival. I passed with flying colors. Unfortunately, the moving specialist we hired, who dropped that particular box only to watch paper scatter in every which way, did not.

So now I’m located on the 2nd floor. But don’t get the idea that I’ve stayed put. This is my 4th location in the last 2 years. My first was the equivalent of a temporary holding cell, while my real cube was still being built. The fancy feature about that one was that it had both a front and back door. And the problem with said doors was that it essentially served as an extension of the hallway system. So if a passerby wanted to get from one department to the other, the shortest most convenient way was to try and sneak by Condon without him noticing.

Note: I always notice.

So that’s why I instituted the EZPass system here at work. Put up a purple sign, a change dish, and let the supplemental income roll in. On average for those two weeks, I have abut 20 people come through. 15 would say hello or sorry, but it was those other five that owe me a toll. I made $3.78. Hey, good enough for a sandwich and a Pepsi. Thanks for lunch, you lazy lazy people.

My permanent cube, very similar to the one up on 5, end up being rather temporary, as a shift in positions jockeyed my right over to the window district. It’s still a cube, but my back wall is a floor to ceiling window. It’s the best view of a cafeteria metal roof you could ask for. Heck, I even get two guest chairs! Now all I need is some guests.

So, like I said, I’ve been in 4 cubes on 2. And since I’ve only explained 3, you’ve got to be wondering, “Does it get any better than the window district?” Well, yesterday, I was relocated. Again. To the cube next door. It’s identical to my old one, except every think has been inverted (on a y axis, not an x axis, you gravity-defying weirdo.)

You know the whole Cocktail phone trick from the other day. That hasn’t inverted. Which means when the phone call is over, I’m just throwing my phone on the floor instead. Great.

I Haven't Slept for 10 Days

Because that would be too long.

As a daily bastion of the funny bringing, we here at YAB have a comedic responsibility to let you know when the human race loses the funny. We were there when SNL handed the Weekend Update duties to Colin Quinn. We were there when a goofy-looking center Gheorghe Muresan finally retired from the NBA. We were there when the comedic bastion that is Whose Line Is It Anyway? lost the funny and jumped the shark. Sadly, as many times in our lives when we have prompted to laugh, these times do come to an end. Surely, new outposts of the funny will spring up, so people's funnybones are not permanently shelved. And we here at YAB look forward to finding the next big thing that warrants a "Hey, let me hear that again."

Humor in its most basic delivery style comes in the form of stand-up comedy. Stand-up comedy requires several different talents, all that you must be able to handle at the same time. First, you need to be able to stand up. For a full set. This is like at least forty-five consecutive minutes of not sitting down. Or kneeling. Or lying down. And as you may well know from last week's exposition on my ability to punch a ticket to Dreamland, this is no easy task for me. Nor do I have the ability to work a microphone. I'm a wanderer when I am performing, which means I would easily forgo the mike stand and walk around the stage with the microphone. This would lead to me surely dropping, spinning, and tossing the one instrument that allows YOU to hear ME. Oh, and thirdly, you have to be able to tell jokes. That's right, jokes. Funny punchlines, observations, and musings that will cause a room full of other people to laugh. And we're not talking pity laugh. Pity laughs very quickly turn into throwing things. Yeeps.

That's why I'm not a stand-up comedian. I'll hide behind the nice visage of the blog, and allow careful editing, brainstorming, and reworking make the funny. I'm not on the frontlines on comedy. Stand-up comedians are. And, YAB would like to take today's post and pay tribute to, in our opinion, the funniest of today's funny, Mitch Hedberg. And it is with the heaviest of hearts that we report that on March 30, 2005, Mitch passed away at the age of 37.

According to wire reports, Mitch has a historically weak heart, and heart failure was the cause of death while out on tour just last week. His witty literal observation style has been a major influence on Condon's comedy (Conedy?), and if you need something to make your morning commute a hilarious one, I highly recommend his first CD. I was fortunate enough to see him live at William and Mary senior year, and I laughed so hard that when I got cross-checked in my immediately-following floor hockey game, I didn't even feel it. I was still reeling from how much my sides hurt from non-stop Mitch comedy.

This man can never be emulated in his delivery, although several of us have tried. And rather than spout forth further words on how funny Mitch was, I leave you with a collection of MH jokes. We'll miss you, Mitch.

I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn't work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.

I got in an argument with a girlfriend inside of a tent. That's a bad place for an argument, because I tried to walk out, and had to slam the flap.

I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.

I don't have a girlfriend. But I do know a woman who'd be mad at me for saying that.

I was walking down the street with my friend and he said "I hear music." As if there's any other way to take it in.

I would imagine if you could understand Morse Code, a tap dancer would drive you crazy.

I went to the park and saw this kid flying a kite. The kid was really excited. I don't know why, that's what they're supposed to do. Now if he had had a chair on the other end of that string, I would have been impressed.

If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable...

It's very dangerous to wave to people you don't know because what if they don't have hands? They'll think you're cocky.

And my personal favorite...
I bought a doughnut and they gave me a receipt for the doughnut... I don't need a receipt for the doughnut. I give you money and you give me the doughnut, end of transaction. We don't need to bring ink and paper into this. I can't imagine a scenario that I would have to prove that I bought a doughnut. To some skeptical friend, Don't even act like I didn't buy a doughnut, I've got the documentation right here... It's in my file at home. ...Under "D".

Making Jersey Proud...

You're welcome, Garden State.

Time and time again, proud inhabitants of NJ, we are subjected to stupid stereotypes that have to do with a so-called inferiority complex. Now I know I currently reside in Virginia, but regardless of current residence, I will ALWAYS have an allegience to the state gutsy enough to name a town Brick and a neighboring town Wall. (Read: don't mess with Jersey.)

Most of these stereotypes have to do with the fact that our state is "somewhere you have to go through to get where you're going." Yes, we have the finest turnpike EZPass can buy. Yes, we mess with out-of-state folks with out archaic exit number protocol. ("Let's see, I'm at Exit 2 and I am getting off on Exit 7 of the Turnpike - I'm five miles away, right?") Yes, we've got barriers named after us. Yes, reststops are named after famous New Jerseyans. Yes, we're awesome.

Well, I will take this state against the merits of any in the union in debate any time. And while I wait for other states to put their collective foot in their mouths, I figure I'll just wreak some havoc on the Interstates of the Otherstates. It's time to play "Mess with Rest Stop Employees." (Crowd goes wild!)

This is my version of Highway Punk'd. Every once in a while, I find myself on a road trip. On if this roadtrip takes me to new and unchartered lands, I know that in order to honor the traditions of N-to-the-J, I need to bring travel savvy and skills. For there are unsuspecting road trip personnel out there, and they're begging to be messed with. One such occurrence happened in the summer of 2002, when Katie and I were going to Ohio to pick up her sister and bring her back to DC (in time for a Coca-Cola Session Carbon Leaf concert, if I recall.) Did I take on the Buckeye State with my meddling? Nay, I went after the state playing the role of "somewhere you have to go through to get where you're going." That's right, I had my targets set squarely on the Keystone State:

Pennsylvania.

Now there's very little you can do from your vehicle. Other drivers can't hear you, most actions end up as mere distractions (to your own driver, no less.) Which means the setting of this Punk'd will have to be during a break in the action. Now I'm not a big fan of pit stops, but if I am allotted a situation where I can use the phrase "hilarity ensues" during said stop, then I'm all for stretching the ol' legs.

While Katie and Joanie went to use the rest stop facilities, I found myself standly idly in the center's food court. The typical staples were there: Roy Rogers, Nathan's Hot Dog, Starbucks, some crappy smoothie stand, and lo and behold - CINNABON!

Cinnabon is the one store that has managed to break the curve on the whole "Calories per Cubic Inch" scale, registering roughly at eleventy billion. Their product offering has a lot of sugar, a lot of cinnamon, a lot of icing, and a whole lot of secret ingredient "Goo." And they also have no idea that their about to get punk'd.

Cashier: "Hi, welcome to Cinnabon. What can I get for you today?"
Condon: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Cashier: "Can I get anything for you today?"
Condon: "No, what did you say the name of this place is? "SIN'-nuh-bun?"
Cashier: "Yes, that's correct."
Condon: "That's so weird!"
Cashier: "What is?"
Condon: "The way you said that name. SIN'-nuh-bun! Crazy!
Cashier: "What do you mean?
Condon: "Where I'm from, it's called "si-NOB'-bin.""
Cashier: "Really? I'd never head that before. Where are you from?
Condon: "New Jersey."
Cashier: "Wow, I never knew that's how you said it."
Condon: "I never know there was any other way to say it. (lies through teeth) I think that's where your HQ is, too. Anyways, I'll take one si-NOB'-bin, please."
Cashier: "Ok. (to her coworker) Kevin, one si-NOB'-bin, to go.
Condon: "Thanks, have a nice day."

I can't be trusted to wait patiently at rest stops.

Dialtone Directions

Using a telephone in an office setting can be confusing and new, but if you follow Chris "No, not the one that phones It in" Condon's failsafe instructions, you too can be come a telecommunications ace. Just read along, and you'll see what I mean.

There are essentially four main levels of skills and aptitude when it comes to using the phone at your workplace desk. Before I outline them for you, let's talk about what equipment you'll be handling. Now it may be scary at first, especially for you younger readers, who have never seen a phone plugged into a wall before. I know, it's bizarre, but cordless office phones would much too easily a) get buried underneath the latest batch of cost reports b) get thrown against a wall when you find out that the package you were waiting on was lost by the receiving department, and c) can be left at the photocopier, just like the pen, stapler, and intern you can't seem to find. So yes, we're going to be discussing the hardline models today.

Also, we're not talking about headsets. The conference planning department lives and dies by the ability to not have to use a handset for their rather lengthy phone calls to whomever. I have no advice for these people. OH! Other than "Don't look at me while you're talking on your headset." I have no idea whether or not to respond to questions when put in that position where I don't know if I'm being addressed or not.

CP: "How do you feel about the Marriott in San Diego?"
ME: "Well, I've never been there, but I have to think that its location alon-"
CP: "Yes, I think you should hold your off-site conference there, too."
ME: *slowly slinks out of CP's line of sight*

Without any further inflation of YAB word count, here are the four levels, in increasing order of awesome.

1 - Tyro - Congratulations on your new office phone! Before we get fancy on your co-workers, here are the basic operating instructions. First things first, after all. When the phone rings, pick up the hand set and put it to your ear. Have a generic greeting like "Finance, this is Chris." I know this would be a prime opportunity to be creative and funny, but the person on the other end probably won't appreciate greetings like "Talk, it's your quarter," "Condon in the hizzouse," or most greviously, "You're a Phone Call."

2 - Novice - Now that we have the basic call and answer systems in place, it's time to master those options that work phone has and are remarkably underutilized. Let's pick on the big three, and proficiency in this triad will not only further filter communications excellence, it will impress your co-workers! Parking a call eliminates the need to say "Hold on, I'll be right back" and dropping the receiver on the desk. All this does is let the caller hear whatever music is emanating from your laptop of the conversation you'r ehaving 8 feet away. Conferencing a call eliminates the need to remember everything to tell somebody else, guaranteeing that something will get lost in the translation. Finally, transferring a call eliminates the embarassing need to confess, "Um, yeah, that person is here, but could you just take their number and call them? I don't know how to use my phone."

3 - Pro - Ok, so now that you know HOW to use all the features, it's time to put your own personal style to the test. My method is the "Cocktail" method. Just like Tom Cruise, pre-Few Good Men, post Risky Business, I like to treat my phone like somebody's watching. It sits to my right and picking it up requires reaching out and bringing it to my head. When I'm feeling the flow, I'll forgo passing it to my left hand (since I ALWAYS talk on the left ear.) and instead, throw it from right to left. If you can get your catch rate up over 95%, then I highly recommend it. Secondly, the hang-up can be just as flashy. This is something that I didn't even realize I do until today. When I am done with the call, the phone must once again end up in my right hand to go back to its cradle. Subconsciously, I employ the "Drop it like it's Hot" method. Once I send the caller on their way (a la Rusted Root), I drop the phone to my lap, where my right hand is patiently waiting for it. The right hand then does Part Two in one fluid motion. If you master these two skills, you might as well be at Level 4.

4 - Executive - Get a secretary.

Do coloring books have a Chapter 11?

I know there's organizations like the Better Business Bureau that are paid to spot faulty business practice a mile away. But sometimes, guys with a half-finished MBA and a penchant for rambling on the internet need to take matters into their own hands.

I am worried for the business practices of CDBaby.com.

Recently, I ordered a CD from said baby. It's from a duo called Ashby Blair, one of which went to William and Mary and graduated the year before me. Anyway, if you like country, it's a good listen from an unsigned act. But that's not the point of this blog. The point is this:

Babies can't run dotcom businesses.

Sure, I was wary at first. I mean, seriously, have I ever ordered anything from a baby that resulted in a pleasant shopping experience? Not in my recollection. I know part of the reason is that there just isn't a whole lot of merchandise out there on the market being hawked by babies. Babies don't sell their product, they just chew on them. (Don't think I'm not thankful for the plastic wrapper that will be on this CD - it's a legitimate drool deflector.) But I'm all for taking a shot on an upcoming venture, so I said, "Ok, Baby, I'll buy a CD from you." And so it was done. Credit card purchase. Shipping Details. Transaction Complete. Cross Your Fingers.

But then I got the confirmation e-mail from the CDBaby that at first had me pleasantly surprised. What customer service! Here's what it said:

Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow. A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure it was in the best possible condition before mailing. Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy. We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of Portland waved 'Bon Voyage!' to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, Monday, March 28th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did.
Your picture is on our wall as 'Customer of the Year'. We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!

Wow! That's amazing, I thought to myself. I really DO feel like the customer of the year, considering this special attention!

Wait a minute.

Bells and whistles are good, but do they ever produce good music? How is it possible that I just paid $12.97 for a CD and yet received all of this extra service. What is this Baby thinking? In my copious free time, I considered the Baby's overhead costs. And my conclusion: unless this Baby got a TON of money for his baptism, I don't know how he's funding his staff. Not to mention the materials!!! I can just picture the Mastercard commercial now,

Satin pillows: $24.99
Bag of Sterilized Gloves: $29.00
CD Polish: $6.51
Japanese Candle: $17.95
Gold-lined box: $11.95
Parade: $8,000-10,000
CDBaby Private Jet: $6 million

Watching a Baby explain to his shareholders why he went bankrupt in two weeks by crawling across the boardroom table: PRICELESS.

Buyer Beware. Babies in Charge.

Tag, You're It!

In my profession, accuracy is crucial. Large-scale financial decisions are made on a daily basis, using my projections as the definitive data. (Ha! And you thought I didn’t deserve a business card!) So my numbers need o be dead on. Otherwise, I’m scrambling to explain why purchasing a 95-thousand square foot building will cost the company 37 dollars and twelve sense. (This never has happened, but it almost did. Thank God for double checking my work.)

It’s a good thing to pride yourself on the accuracy of your work. In fact, I think that there needs to be a greater use of accuracy in the daily routine. If there only was a way to measure how successful your day was by using accuracy when you go to bed at night. That way, when someone asks you how your day was, you could simply give him or her your score. “Eh, today I was 83. Tomorrow I hope to break 90, so I better get to bed.”

But can accuracy be measured for every single one of your day’s actions? Not going to lie to you, it would be tough. So many different scales for so many different tasks. “Well, I was only 62 on tying my shoes this morning, which also explains why I was 43 on walking without falling on my face. Eh, at least I got a 97 on making sure no one saw me. You see? This would be near impossible, which is why a uniform measure of accuracy needs to be implemented across the globe. Human scoring of accuracy on an array of topics can be highly subjective, especially if it’s a system of self-evaluation. Ok, so where can I get an automated system to measure some form of accuracy? Ah. Got it.

Laser Tag.

Sure, it doesn’t measure accuracy of each individual activity you perform each day, but it does have far better broader ramifications. What you need to know is it measures accuracy and it gives you a score. And as people get better at integrate the game into their daily routine, I like to believe that one’s firing accuracy would improve. But before I launch into the rules, I have to start with the tools.

Every morning, immediately after showering and getting dressed, each member of the human race will be required to “don the gear.” This includes both a full front and back vest (which will also be the vest choice for the wedding tuxedos, dear) which will have laser sensors on the shoulder, the chest and the high back. In addition, everyone will carry a laser tag gun. Uniform should be worn on the outside of clothes. Otherwise, that’s cheating and your daily score is automatically zero.

Just imagine going through your daily routine, assuming at all times you are participating in a global game of Laser Tag. Venting your traffic jam frustrations on the morning commute now extends farther than yelling at other motorists where they can’t hear you. Firing at people (using only your rearview mirror sightlines) and ducking out of the way of others, all while not spilling your morning coffee or juice will never make rush hour boring again.

An office building is the perfect place for a game of Laser Tag. Stairwells, elevators, long winding corridors – cut the lights and add a fog machine and it would be absolutely perfect. Currently, one of the things I hate to do during the day is take outgoing packages down to the mailroom. Well with Laser Tag, this becomes the premier chore of the day. Darting in and out of cubicles, barrel rolling across the elevator lobby, blasting away streaks of laser at the mailroom clerk as he tries to capture your FedEx package without getting tagged. And don’t even get me started on how this would revolutionize the cafeteria scene. Using those heavy metal trays to deflect shots from the lunch ladies (not to mention unsettling looks of flirting), all while trying to quickly and accurately compile everything that you want from the salad bar. Why hasn’t anyone thought of this before?

Let’s see, the next arena would be after work, in the gym. If you want a good score, you need to work Laser Tag into your normal weight circuit, catching people who loiter around the bench press by surprise. And then it’s over to your cardio workout where agility is key. Oh wait. I forgot. Treadmill. Yes, it looks like I’ll be a sitting duck for a good 20 minutes of the day. Physical fitness will be costly to my score, it seems.

I think that the dinner you get from the drive-thru window should be free if you can snipe the window attendant before they ask you to pay.

Once you get home for the day, and have no intention of seeing anyone else outside your abode, you can take off the gear and rest. You worked hard for a good score today, and assuming you were accurate in your marksmanship, your score should reflect the fact that you did everything in your responsibility quite well. So, head on over to the computer, go to the LT. SCORE website (Laser Tag Statistical Compilation Oracle, Regular Edition), and get your score. Now that this blog is over, I might as well do that right now…

37!

I wouldn’t trust today’s financial projections if I were you.

Getting Promotional

Well, it’s official. Rung Number One down, here I come Rung Number Two. I’ve decided to put my arm strength to the test and climb the Corporate Ladder. I know I’ve got a long way to go before I have a resume worthy of the Chief Awesome Office position, but I figure this is just the first of many steps. After all, the CAO position is indeed a highly sought after one. And I mean, why the heck not? That dude gets a Playstation in his office. Just imagine the important awesome decisions that this innovative new office tool will aid.

Mangerial Lackeys: “Sir, we really need to know what to do about our profit projections for the 4th quarter. What do you think?”
CAO Condon: “In the 4th quarter, I’m going to spread the field, focus on passing to T.O., play tough defense, and tell John Madden that no matter how much he cheats, I will prevail.”
Lackeys: “He’s so brilliant.”

So, yeah, the perks are nice, but I’m still a long way off from sitting in the executive recliner and having access to the in-office Wendy’s counter. But at least I’m one step closer than yesterday!

You’re looking at the new Deputy Financial Controller for National Capital Region Facilities. (well, only if you have a spycam in my office. Otherwise, you’re just reading me.)

This is the best kind of promotion, mainly because I didn’t have to do anything extra to receive this honor. You see, my supervisor stepped down, my colleague was promoted to do her job, and I was promoted to do his job. Will someone be hired now to do my job? No, I just get to do my job and the responsibilities I’m going to inherit. I know, I know, it sounds like a raw deal, but it’s nice to be recognized and valued for the hard-working financial analyst by day, superhero by night employee that I’ve grown to be in the last 2 plus years. Will there be a monetary gain to this new found improvement of title? Most likely. But there’s something even bigger at stake, which made me wholeheartedly accept the ubersupervisor’s offer.

Business cards.

After all, how have you expected me to win free lunches for the last two years? I mean sure, they often say you can just write your name and contact info on a piece of paper and submit it, but you KNOW they never pick that one to give the free lunch to. This is how restaurant staffs around the country keep the workplace lighthearted. By laughing at Condon and his entry-level friends. Busboys of the world, I am writing to inform you that I will no longer be the point of your amusement. Because my contact information is now on a 2 inch by 3.5 rectangle made of high quality paper. And yes, that’s a corporate logo, not just me emulating said logo with a freehand sketch. So, in a word, HA!

Moving on, there’s some things you should know about an internal promotion. In order to go by the letter of the Human Resources law, my department could not simply hand the promotion to me on a platter. No, no, I need to fill out formal job application form, despite the fact that I’m already here. Let’s see if I can remember some of the questions I was subjected to…

Q: When would you be able to begin?
A: I can leave my current position at 10:02 this morning. Give me a second to collect my things, so, 10:03?

Q: Would you be willing to relocate?
A: Erm, you mean like sit on the other side of my desk? Hey, if it gets me business cards, I’m all for it.

Out Like a Light

I can't help but notice when CNN.com decides to devote webspace to letting the American public know about scientific studies that ultimately have no effect on how we operate as a society. What's that, random published scientists? It has been discovered that eating fast food is an unhealthy practice? A recent research gran reveals that getting kicked in the shins causes the shin-owner pain? Man, we have got to fund more extremely helpful studies, of this caliber. Man, I need to know more! Do heavy things sink when you put them in water? Is coffee causing Americans to have more caffeinated energy? Are the Pittsburgh Pirates going to get thwomped for yet another MLB season? I need to know. And I need independent money to fund the answers. It's how I get to learn stuff!

Anyways, today's obvious topic du jour is a topic that hits close to home. In fact, it's so close to home that the entire project could have been scrapped and they could have saved a lot of money if they had just chosen to follow around Condon. According to this groundbreaking study, Americans don't sleep nearly enough or very well altogether. 3 out of 4 aren't getting enough rest at night, mainly because of the "always-on-the-go" mentality. This is an epidemic, people. So muc of one that we have enough grant money to fund a National Sleep Foundation.

How am I not the President of the National Sleep Foundation?

Like I said, the Foundation should have gone no farther in its research then follow me around for the last few weeks. If there was anyone who has a real problem with America's favorite leisurely pasttime (sorry, baseball), it's your Resident Blogger Kid. You want messed up nocturnal habits? Check me out.

You see, I've got this problem. I get comfortable very easily. So easily that if I stay stationary for eh, more than 90 seconds, I'm as good as gone into dreamworld. This poses a major problem in many compromising situations. The metro train into D.C. might as well come with a glass of water and a bedtime story. I'm extremely lucky I've never missed my stop. Other forms of transportation also do not warrant exemption. In the past three weeks, I've been on six different airplanes. And on that half-dozen jets, I never once saw the plan take off. Instead, only the insides of my eyelids.

But this can be expected, right? I mean both the metro and airplanes come with seats, which (theoretically) have been designed to provide their user comfort. Well, so are couches, so one would think that I experience the same Zero-to-Sleepy reaction on those seats as well. Well, not only can I perform an instant system shutdown on comfy couches, even the most horrid extended seating choices are no match for me and my sleepy demeanor. Two examples:

• My current couch - For those who have been lucky enough to visit Random Run, I present my current couch as Exhibit A, The three cushions slant from left to right in a slightly downward fashion. This isn't a big deal. The sharp metal protrusions from the left side is. You see boys and girls, a long, long time ago, sofa pull-outs were used to accomodate house guests. Now Aerobeds do the job, much more quickly and comfortably. But that doesn't mean the pullout has magically disappeared. No, no, it reminds you of its presence by digging its metal bars into your spins if you get too cozy. Now does all this faze me and my narcoleptic ways? Nope, not a chance. I'm out faster than The Jacket from theaters.
• G-Square's Finest - Ok, I want you to grab a scrap of paper and a writing utensil. We're going to have you draw the couch that came with renting our sophomore year apartment. Ok, draw a horizontal line, let's say four inches long. Good. Now at each end of the line, draw a vertical line upwards at exactly 90 degrees. Yep, you guessed it, that's our couch. I unforgiving, extremely rigid wooden U. Now, look at your picture again. Not only is that our couch schematic, it's the shape my body took when sleeping on it. Stomach down, head on top of the wooden armrest, feet in the air. Now I ask you, who needs pillows and quilts when you've got flexibility?

And as one final example of how Condon is the King of the Nap Brigade, let's harken back to the holiday season. It's not uncommon practice for me to fall asleep on the floor here, in front of the the television. Hours later, I may wake up, and even find myself walking towards my bedroom. However, one trip was abruptly stopped when I dropped my pillow in the hallway. Leaning down to pick it up, I remembered how comfortable said pillow was and decided to catch a quick nap on my way to bed. And since my roommate is considerate and helpful, he got me a blanket. Well, not a blanket exactly. Wrapping paper.

I'm sure I've got more tales from slumberland, but I have been sitting in this chair for quite sometime without a break. In fact, just thinking about this topic makes me want to just lean back in this chair, briefly close my eyes, and -

WHAM.

Floor.

ZzZzZz.

Best. Superhero. Ever.

Some people view the beginning of spring as an ideal time to dig into the closet and get out the summer clothes a little prematurely. It's been much too long since you got to wear shorts on a regular basis, and those sandals are just begging to get some outdoor use. I share this sentiment as well. But unfortunately, it's cold, windy, and raining outside, so even if I unpacked said clothes, they are going to have to wait a little while longer. Well, while I'm in the back of my closet, I might as well dust off some other old rags, which I don't think you've seen me in since September.

"Woman, where is my Super Suit?!?!?"

That's right, it's time to fight some more evildoers. This superhero, (who is still shopping for a killer moniker), once again has to lace up his super shoes and battle what injustice there is in the world. I pick my battles as I see fit. Some villains are archrivals because they just hang around, no matter how many times you thwart their menacing ways. But in a good comic book run, you can't fight the top dog every issue. It would be like if the Yankees and Red Sox played each other every game of the 162 season. The mystique of the rivalry would wear off somewhere in June, when the pitching staffs would start phoning it in. (Go ahead, make the joke in your head.)

So minor villains are needed in order to prolong the series and make be seems even more ubercool. They should be selected based on the crimes they commit against people that are important to the hero, people the hero relates to. Well, this time around, because the pen not always mightier than the sword, I've got to go to bat to defend writers.

Why writers?

It doesn't take much to get your words on the net these days. (Just look at Condon, who spent 400 words contemplating the travesty of having 6 dimes. But with great power comes great responsibility. You're responsible for the quality product that daily readers turn to in order to avoid starting their work day. The broader reach and fanbase you have, the more careful you better be with various writing weapons. If Tony Kornheiser were to exploit limericks for a two week period, he better rival Shakespeare in his efforts. Well someone has broken the writers' code. Enter Dan Shanoff.

Or should I say, Superlator? Mmm?!?

You see, Superlator writes the Daily Quickie over on ESPN's comedy outlet, Page 2. It's a tough job, I admit. Superlator has to get the hot topics of today's sporting world into a clean-cut, one page column which promises to be informative, funny, and timely. (I'm lucky to get 2 of 3 most days.) Overall, his writing is decent, and his sports biases are limited. But he has one crucial flaw, which is what has forced my superhero side to take him on and call him out.

Best. Whatever. Ever.

Superlator, despite probably knowing better, loves to channel the Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, and with his declarative keyboarding ways, is dubbing Best and Worst Evers on a daily basis. Today, he has dubbed this past weekend of NCAA basketball the "Best. Weekend. Ever." Come on! Don't get me wrong, those games were good, but shouldn't you do you research first?

It's hard for me to impart to you how ridiculous his use of superlatives are, so I'm going to have to kick it analogy-style. (Superheroes can use this method of storytelling in order to vex a villain; hopefully I'll do anything but for my readers.) Here's a morning in the life of a Superhero.

Well, I woke up late this morning, but only because my alarm clock was much too easy to snooze for 2 hours. Worst Alarm Clock Ever. I then showered, using the Best Soap Ever, and managed to shave without cutting myself. Best Shave Ever. Getting dressed when running late is always a challenge, since any wasted moment results in one more red light I'm going to hit on the way to work. Worst Traffic Problem Ever. But I picked out my Best Dress Shirt Ever and my Best Suit Ever and dashed out into the Worst Weather Ever.

This is the overuse that Superlator gets away with. He must be stopped. I'm taking suggestions on how to stop him (and for a cool supername, still.) Godspeed, good citizens.

Defending the Homestead

In the heat of the moment, common citizens are often able to execute heroic deeds. Salim Stoudamire sent the Cowboys packing with a clutch herioc jumper. True heroes, the American soldiers, are heroic in all their deeds overseas. The Wallflowers, with their new album ready drop, hope once again the they can be Heroes. And now, Crystal Senger of Bismarck, North Dakota has done her civic duty as well.

Long story short: Caught in a convenience store during a robbery, Senger stood in fright at the other end of the store. She then rose above the fright to drill the criminal in the head with 7 consecutive bananas. Criminal drops to the floor, and we have a newly minted hero.

Short story long: Yahoo tells it much better.

This rare feat of accuracy and strength begs the question WWCD? Or short story long: What Would Condon Do? I've never been robbed, and my abode has never been broken into (except, of course, when I have had to do it myself.) I mean who's gonna rob Condon? I'm the freakin' Brawny Man!

Now let me put myself in Miss Senger's shoes. Ouch. (Stupid Size 7's) If I were caught in the crossfire of a robbery in my own home, before I'd even need to intervene, I could always strike a bargain with the Prodigal Roommate. "Hey, Spud, if I do your laundry for a month, can you please wreck this guy with your black belt skills? Thanks." If he's in the scenario, I'll just keep minding my own business, playing Playstation 2 and ignoring the sounds of the criminal's head hitting our faded linoleum.

But assuming the Prodigal Roommate is at class or the supermarket or some other destination, that leaves me to defend the homestead. Casing my own joint, here are a list of the 5 things I am most likely to drop a burglar with consecutive swift strikes to the head:

1. In Disc We Trust - If Good Sir Thief has made it past the entryway to the Random Run, then I can head to the coat closet for ammo. I'm deadly with the frisbee. The nice thing about this choice - frisbees have built-in mechanisms that allow them to bend around corners and skip down hallways. I don't care which room this guy goes to, I can hit him - forehand, backhand, or I could always drop the hammer on him.
2. Random Task - Who throws a show, honestly? Condon does, if he's backed in to his closet. And I've got ski boots in there. Here comes the pain. (Bizarre sidenote which will put you in my highest regard if you know what I'm talking about: In Spanish 3 in HS, we watched a video educational series called Destinos, with Jamie Gonzalez looking for her bisabuela in Mexico. Some guy robs her in the middle of the night, and she weakly wings a show at the assailant. Could be the best filmed action sequence I have EVER seen. Ok, back to the countdown.)
3. Stork You - They're not Vlasic, but they'll suffice. If I find myself stuck in the kitchen, I could always pop open our giant jar of pickles. The Unintentional Comedy Scale helps with this choice of weapon. Can you imagine the guy going back to his thug buddies and having to explain himself? "Yes, I got schooled by a guy throwing pickles. But the juice! It stings!!!"
4. Movie Magic - Would I prefer to use my DVD collection against an intruder by winging them at his head? No. Would I laugh my head off to know that a direct hit with "Panic Room" would ironically send him sprawling? Yes.
5. Bathroom Back to the Wall: Well, I do have a new bottle of shampoo....

The Revolving Door of Haircare

I play favorites when it comes to many things in life. Brand loyalty has its place, and with products I take pride in, I will tirelessly support their continued existence. Adidas running shoes, Edge Shaving Gel, Netflix, KC Masterpiece barbeque sauce, Papermate Flexgrip blue pens, FastBreak, Gatorade, Wawa, et cetera. All of these would take a mighty rival to topple my allegience. I'm not calling for hall of fame status for any of these (ok, maybe Wawa), just letting you know that when a purchasing decision needs to be made, these rise above the competition without a second thought.

I know what you're thinking. Who actually spells out et cetera? Freak.

But I sat here trying to compile that list, I found that just about every other product that enters my shopping cart/gas tank/mailbox must face a rigorous test prior to procurement. And if the general functional properties are the same, then as sad as it seems, these brands have to compete on none other than price. I pride myself on keeping my grocery bills low, so complementary products have little room to impress. Don't get me wrong, products are not permanently banished to this classification; if something impresses me enough, it can join the list above. If I find out that Exxon fuel will give my car airborne capabilities, then I'll add it to the list. 'Cause that would rock.

One such product category that has been an audition process is shampoo. When you're younger, you don't make the product decision. You use whatever is in the shower when your dad wakes you up at 5:50 in the morning to go to school. Pert Plus? Fine, whatever. Just let me go back to sleep.

But once your out of school, the shopping responsibility's on you, pal. Now most shampoo falls into the same price range, and a simple sale price will tilt the scales it their favor. I'm not picky. I just want some liquid soap solution to make my hair not look like I was just asleep for the last five hours. Scent? Color? Consistency? Not that important. Cost? You bet.

Now the one decision every product needs to make before I warrant its suitability is its identity. In men's haircare, you've got two options. "Should I be a shampoo, and make friends with a conditioner, or should I just do it myself and be both?" The 2-in-1 concept is a tricky one, and I'll admit, making me buy two bottles is personally handicapping your chances. I could run out of one before the other, and then where does that leave us? Either with clean, unrefined hair, or silky smooth, unwashed follicles. Great.

As the pricing scale ebbs and flows, many different brands get a shot to make their career as "Condon's Preferred Choice." The big green bottle, Pert Plus, led out of the gates because of its ties to my childhood. Good color, industrial strength, could probably clean grease off a frying pan. But then the big bottle got too expensive, and I was once again in the market. Besides, I never quite figured out what the Plus was. It's like I was paying for something I didn't even know what it was. That's ah-no good.

Head and Shoulders moved in from the on-deck service and seemed to do the trick. Except for the big problem that the name is a misnomer. I have never felt satisfied with the ability of this product to clean my shoulders. I mean, it's a lot of surface area I've got up there, and a bar of soap does a much better job. Again, paying for unused services. No way.

Dove got a brief stint in the driver's seat as well. Have you ever tried to take a shower with a bird flying around the bathroom?!? Not a good time.

Which leaves us with the current scenario - WEGMANS! I've decided because of my inability to see a real difference when it comes to my hair's volume and bounce, store brand should be just fine. And since Wegman's should is a Condon's Preferred Choice, that means it at least deserves a shot. One problem though...

The bottle is white and pink.

In order to convince myself I'm not using Girl Shampoo, I'm going to have to resort to doing guy things during the lather, rinse, repeat cycle. Like singing football fight songs in the shower or hanging drywall. OR! I could fix our drywall ceiling, which my apartment complex has repeatedly failed to do.

Yeah, nothing says manly like drywall.

Best Company Ever, Chapter 4

New management techniques are born everyday. Well guess what, I’m a new father!

The life of a Chief Awesome Office is never at rest. Chief Executive Officers, the traditional bossmen at just about every Fortune 500 company, spend their work week focusing on making decisions that can have categorized as “executive.” I, on the other hand, have a far greater task to conquer. My responsibility to make sure that all decisions made are “awesome.” Not just the top-level managerial executive crap, I mean ALL the decisions. All must be awesome if the company of the future is to profit. It’s micromanaging, sure, but it can spawn new strategies, like this. Or this. Or even this.

Well, staffing issues aside, it’s time to lay the hammer down. When it comes office culture and training, Corporate America has got to take a page from Leisure America. When it comes to the topics of process orientation, research and development, and process re-engineering, no entity has got a better system than Major League Baseball. From the MLB is where we borrow our management tip of the day:

Institute a period of Spring Training in the Company Fiscal Year.

No, no, not the “Put everybody in a stuffy room and memorize the new mission statement” type of spring training. I’m talking Spring Training, off-site, either sunny Florida or Arizona. Hey Travel department, book a practice facility, we’ve got work to do!

Baseball teams’ annual kickoff varies greatly from their regular season protocol. From late February through the month of March, teams relocate their main operations (batting, pitching, fielding departments to a warmer climate, where employees can hone their skills. The setting is relaxed, the meetings are held out on the campus grass, and your fans come to watch you do business. Departments do not work in isolation from the rest of the economy; other firms come to scheduled conferences every other day to test the results of this training. A lot of the training doesn’t actually make you DO your job, it just lets you practice doing your job. The weather is nice, the hours are good, and the dress is casual. Seems like a damn good model to this CAO.

So, that’s the plan. Every February, I’d move the company to Clearwater, Florida. Not only will I bring current employees, I’d bring a group of graduating seniors from top universities. This will essentially serve as their interview process. Nothing can tell a manager how good an employee will better than an old-fashioned, play to stay, tryout. This will also motivate current employees to work hard and take this process improvement time to heart. After all, it’s quite possible that when Spring Training comes to an end, they could find a pink slip in their locker, er…cubicle.

Also, as the main goal of this 6 weeks is development and improvement, I want the feeling around the clubhouse coffee machine to be laid back and smooth. Therefore, the company dress code will be relaxed for the entire period. Well, not completely. First off, all employees get to wear baseball caps. All of my good paper writing is done with my lucky cap, and I feel that this relaxed feel will put people in the easy state they need to be in to excel. Also, windbreakers, warm-up pants, and Mizuno typing gloves will be provided, all emblazoned with the company logo. It shows corporate unity, yet casual style.

I’m not saying that real world responsibilities disappear and the company tanks for 42 days, either. We still need to meet our annual goals, so a portion of each day will be allocated to taking care of the daily activities. And I will oversee said activities, making sure that all outcomes are awesome. After all, it’s my job.

By the end of Spring Training, employees will feel refreshed and ready take on cubicle life for another 10 and a half months. They will also know where they stand on the corporate ladder (Safety Tip for the Kids: Don’t stand on ladders. That’s dangerous stuff.) After all, this period of the year will also include the focal point review. Salaries will be determined based on effort, preseason results, and remembering to bring your glove and cleats to practice. That’s standard ops in the business world.

Play ball!

Fuel for the Fire

I've give you March Madness...

No, not of the college basketball variety, unfortunately. I had a whole post laid out to help you finish in 5th place in your office pool (because that's how well I do every year, 5th.), but because of the travel that got in the way, I didn't even get to fill out a bracket. 'Twas ok, I guess, since I know I would have had Wake Forest in the Final Four and Alabama going a few rounds, but then again, my other big picks are still in the hunt. Thinking about it further, I probably would have put together a pretty decent bracket. Not enough to win, mind you, but enough to finish, well, 5th. So, yeah, all bets are off this year, which as fine. As they say, a penny saved is a penny that can be used to help pay for a breakfast bagel. Which reminds me...

Be right back.

Ok, back. No the Madness of March won't get any nets cut down. And the only upset will be me, when I look into the gaping void that is currently my wallet. You see, there is another form of madness out there these days, and the players are not BC, 'Nova and Texas Tech. The players, sadly, are BP, Mobil, and Texaco.

Gas prices are yet again sprialing upward. A predicted 13 cent rise in the cost of a gallon of regular unleaded in the next two weeks will not help subside this spike anytime soon. Forget bracket busters. We've got a budget buster on our hands. Most of your expenses month in and month out are fixed. Rent stays the same. Cable and internet stay the same. And assuming you don't jack the heat up during the coldest days of winter (wimps.), even your electricity bill stys largely the same. You can't do without filling your tank, as sooner or later, your car will stop short on its way to its destination (UConn, Syracuse, cough cough). And no matter what the price is, you're going to have to pay (or ride you bicycle on the Beltway, your choice.) So until the costs come back down, the budget is squeezed a little tighter.

East coasters, we don't even have it that bad. My recent business trip was actually a thinly-veiled Blog Exclusive Research Trip (BERT). On the Coast du West, gas prices make our local rates look like they don't even belong in the same league. Our prices are the Farleigh Dickinson to their North Carolina. Filling up the rental car before returning it to come home docked us 2.59 a gallon. Do you know what I could have done with that money? Bought a whole lot of donuts, eaten them, and then run to my destination to burn off the calories. Now I can see why L.A. can't seem to nail down a pro football franchise. The cost to fuel the team bus would bankrupt even Dan Snyder and the Redskins. It's scary stuff.

Well, friends (and complete strangers,) gas prices are just part of life. So it's your job to make the most of your visit to the pump. There's plenty of free services offered by your local gas stations which 9 times out of 10, you don't take advantage of. I'm not telling you to exploit the good folks at Exxon, just fully realize your investment. Bucknell University only makes the tournament once every 20 something years. Did they just come to punch the clock? No! They kicked the Kansas Jayhawks out of the tourney. It's time to stop going through the motions people, and get what you pay for.

First off, next to the pump is a bucket of murky blue water and a squeegee. I want you to was your windshield every single time you get gas. And the back window. And the side windows. And your headlamps. Taillamps. Even your license plate. Make that baby shine with your free cleaning solution.

Second, I want you to take advantage of the trash receptacles conveniently provided at the station. Just like Utah did with UTEP, it's time to take out the trash. Rather than walking your kitchen garbage all the way to the dumpster in the land of Far Far Away, bring it to your much closer parked car. And when you get to the Shell station, find a way to make it fit through that 9 inch by 9 inch hole.

Finally, most new gas stations (outside of NJ) have a protective roof above the pumps. This allows people to fill the vehicles, high and dry. Another feature of these new coverings is the music that gets played from the inset speakers. Forget iTunes, this is free music, and your ears must go shopping. Next time you get to one of these stations, call all of your friends (ignore the cell pone warning on the pump,) and invite them to come and down for a Gasoline Techno Dance Party. Or better yet -

The Big Dance.

The Blog Ate my Homework

I hate Mondays.

So, yesterday, I got in early, filled my water bottle and set out to reclaim lost time and words in the Chris Condon Blogciliation Program. Knowing that my jetsetting lifestyle over the last two weeks has severly impacted my ability to bring the funny, I was already with a list of topics, some clever banter, and the motivation to bring YAB back to the first-class daily status that you have come to enjoy. I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles, thought about all the people who don't like a good knucklecrack, and got busy.

It was all going so well.

Optimists work well under these conditions. You embark on a mighty plan, get rolling on the progress, and watch as the puzzle pieces fall into place. When I type these things, I try to be on top of my comedic game. And when I find that game, blogging becomes very easy. I can see where each vignette is going to head, what obscure Saved by the Bell reference I am going to invoke, even plan out the pop culture analogy that would make my high school English teacher cringe in fear (Newman...). You know that scene in Hackers where Zero Cool just enters that zone where nothing is going to stop him from bringing down the Gibson mainframe? (Of course you don't, nobody saw Hackers.)(But they should.) That's me. Well, without the help of the freakshow twins, Razor and Blade.

When I write, I wonder which reader I should call out with an obscure fact or memory that only they will know. It's my means of checking up on the daily reader base. So don't be dismayed if you don't understand what I'm talking about when I mock Chris McAleer or my college professor Captain Ron. Somebody does, and you'll get your turn to feel eerily included. That's a YAB guarantee. It's become less of a guarantee that I'll get a blog up each and every weekday/workday, but that doesn't mean I've given up on my backlog. That's why initiatives like the Chris Condon Blogciliation Program are embarked upon. (What? You thought it was because we had room in the budget? Silly reader.) Oh, and also because we here at YAB like to prove Princeton Tigers wrong. (there's another obscurity for you. Deal.)

Ok, so that was a Harfordian Tangent. Like I said, Monday started with a bang of a blog. It was sharp, crisp, topical, and funny. Normally, I'll settle for three of the four, but yesterday was a good day. Heck, it even took less time than I normally spend. I even started to daydream about knocking another one out of the park come afternoon. Let's see, put the final joke in, change the font to light blue, a little Verdana font action, and done.

Oh, it was done alright.

The Publish Post button is a strange bedfellow. 164 out of 165 times, you press the little rectangle, and voila!, you've got blog. Well, guess which time yesterday happened to be. Instead of releasing the "Fuel for the Fire" post to the public, I got the "This page cannot be found" screen that Internet Explorer musters up when they know they screwed up big time. Thanks, Gates!

This left me completely helpless. No recovery mode (save my work? of course not!), no nothing. This will derail any Blogciliation Program in a heartbeat. So I took the day to lend my writing skillz (the z is for zing!) to the 106 page term paper I had due for World Economy. I wish that I had once of those "Technical Difficulties" screens that tv stations have when everything behind the scenes goes to hell. Instead, you just had one more day of Celling the Drama.

So, yes, the Blog ate my homework. Once I am in the mood to reproduce "Fuel for the Fire" from memory, you'll see it. Until then, I will be banging my head on the keyboard.

ughjSyuD$ercwr67fuhbybraksmoof.

Celling the Drama

As I have been busy in the past fortnight, traveling to and fro, (and other, more specific locales), I'll admit that it has been hard to communicate with me. You see, direct confrontation is right out, unless you too got to enjoy the way of wayward flight connections, hotel lobby encounters, and the dreaded middle seat syndrome. E-mail, while readily accessible at local Starbucks across this nation, would require me to 1) be willing to pay for their wireless access and 2) actually like to drink the coffee. And as the blog has also been living the life sporadic, even comments may not get to me the day of posting. Crazier methods, such as carrier pigeons and airplane skywriting aren't going to work either. (Being 18,000 feet above either will render them null and void.) Which only leave one alternate method...

My cell phone.

Wireless telecommunications have come a long way in recent years. Aside from providing the simple call and answer protocol, the cell phones of today can do much, much more. They store phone numbers, allowing people to no longer have any idea who to call when they find themselves in an emergency sans cell. They take pictures, so that if you cannot convince the guy on the line of something you're seeing, you can forgo additional persuasion and just snap and send. ("See! I told you I saw three BMWs wrecked on Gallows Rd. Zing!!!") Cell phones can come with screens, with more colors than a box of crayons (yes, even burnt sienna). Instant messaging, surfing the web, heck, even streaming video is a possibility for you, for the small price of a 3-yr. subscription lockdown contract. Does Condon enjoy these luxuries with his cellular device?

Heck, no.

It's not that I do not have the opportunity to have one of these top-notch devices. At any given time on any given day I could drive on down to my local Verizon dealer and get such a phone. Heck, my good friend Joe Brescia goes through phones faster than boxes of cereal, I'm sure he's got one he could sell me for a low, low price if I really wanted. But no, I refrain from such purchases. And why is that? Because I've got a cell phone. And until it goes to the big telecom provider in the sky, I'm sticking with it.

My phone, despite the picture I am painting, is farther along on the technological timeline than you may be envisioning. My phone is not a Zack Morris model, where its height matches the length of my forearm, hard rubber antenna excluded. Nor does it come in a leather bag that weighs more than most bowling balls. I'm even beyond the age of the brick, where the only pocket that could possibly contain it is that belonging to a kangaroo. See, I'm not holding on to the past. Just the marginally functional.

The number one problem with my Kyocera is that it forces me to operate in the blind. Why? Because the light blue display only works some of the time. If the cell phones of the world were a baseball team, I've got the backup centerfielder who's lucky to pinch run for the pitcher. It's pretty hit or miss whether or not I get to see what's on my cell phone's screen. But that's just a training mechanism for the user, or so I've rationalized.

My phone has been dropped, kicked, thrown, caught, bounced, skipped, drowned, shattered, washed, and dried. But like a prize fighter, it still works. Sure, I lose signal every now and then, but then that just puts me on par with any normally functioning Cingular phone, right? And because of its durability, I have yet to exchange it. So, next time I go on a interstate vacation or business trip, now you know what kind of equipment I'm operating on.

Oh, I almost forgot that when the display is working, I've got a banner that will never go out of style. Yep, you guessed it.

You're a Phone.

Publisher's Clearinghouse

So, by now, I've got quite the collection of writings right here on the Internet, one would think that I could finally refer to myself as a published writer. Unfortunately, there's two problems with that. First, I don't refer to myself - I'd rather refer to others, since I already know what I am going to say. Second, the idea of being "published" has more of a connotation that being able to find Las Palabras de Condon on your local list of e-bookmarks. Last time I checked, you can't go to your local Borders or Barned & Noble to pick up my complete works, nor can you happen across me flipping through a magazine in yet another airport. Nope. Until the written word someday becomes the printed word, it looks like I stuck with "Blogger" on my imaginary business card. (Below the title Chief Awesome Officer, of course.)

Despite all the lists, words, and musings, none of this can count (yet) in my grand publishing career. Actually, has there ever been a time when I've gotten my writing to grow a spine and wear a book jacket? Hmm...if so, it better be a solid representation of what I bring to the literary world. (You're a literary world.) Ok, more than just that one liners, anyways. Alright, let's look through the history of cut and bound literature.

Tale of Two Cities – Sure, I’ve got allegiances to Philly and DC, but you won't find me there.

Tom Sawyer - The only painting of the fence I'm familiar with is in the Karate Kid.

Jane Eyre - Sure, you can accuse a post every now and then of being verbose and unnecessarily lengthy, but that's doesn't mean I wrote that book. Besides, when have I feigned an English accent in my writings? Yep, never.

Shawnee High School 1998 Annual Yearbook - AH HAH! Finally, I knew I'd come across my work at some point. Forget the classics, this is a read that is well worth it. Now, where did Condon get away with getting published in a glorified picture book, you ask? No, not that whole deal where you sign everyone's books - that's not real publishing. You see, the unaware yearbook staff petitions the senior class to take a few minutes out of their final year slacking to put some final memories and other things into words. Even then, I was quick to get my write on. And since I didn't quite understand the permanency of being a published author, my legacy lives on in this book. And now, an excerpt:

Future Plans: Go to college, be successful, and figure out why these pretzels are making me thirsty.

Now if someone was to find my early works in 2005, their first question would have to do with whether or not I've achieved my goals. The first is a given, the second is subjective, but a yes is plausible, but the third remains a question mark. Despite what I promised you as a life goal back 1998 has not been completed. Frankly, I still don't know why these pretzels are making me thirsty. But if I ever get to the point where I can publish again, then will come the time for you to get my answer.

Have to go now. Need a drink.

Stupid pretzels.

Identity Theft

Most teachers of human anatomy and genetics will tell you that human beings are not unlike snowflakes; no two people are the same. Even identical twins, despite their predestination to be mirror images of one another, have enough different physical characteristics that allow onlookers to eventually discern the difference between the two. (Unlike snowflakes, human beings are not expected to melt. In case you were, uh, wondering. I took BIO for non-concentrators, as you may have guessed.)

I have no such mirror image.

Or so I thought.

Wow.

As I've grown up, I've heard several comparisons for me when it comes to the age-old icebreaker of a question "Who do I remind you of?" When you're young, the answers are unoriginal and far from unexpected - "You look like your mother and father!" Yes, yes, I know, you see there's this small contributing factor called DNA that allows me to silently accept your obvious statement. Giving this answer to that question is playing it safe. It's like putting money on Duke to oust Delaware State in Round Numero Uno.

But as the years have transpired, the answers to the Question du Jour have gotten more engaging and interesting. Freshman year of college, Allision Fraser told me I looked like the kid who plays young Josh Baskin in the movie Big. Later, I decided to find out the kid's name, and after exploring his filmography (which including Newsies, yes), I'll take this cosmic link to David Moscow, sure.

The most fequent comparison I have heard in passing is to Christopher Reeve. Frankly, I've never seen the feature that has people continually offering this suggestion. I mean, I have never, ever worn a red cape, nor can I fly. When I go up for a frisbee, despite some serious hangtime, I will come crashing down to Earth at some point. (And barring any lampostal intervention, I'm bringing the disc with me.)

Thirdly, a normal suggestion (which may be nothing more than a personal jab) that I get with this question is, "You look just like Chris Condon when he was 6." Yeah, yeah, very funny. Well let me tell you something - some haircuts just never go out of style. Beehives? Gone. Mohawks? Toast. Basic part on the left, block cut the back? A true classic.

I thought these inferior suggestions left me without a twin in this world. I was just about finished with rationalizing my lonely appearance, content with the fact that there's no one else out there to mimic my every attribute. And then...

I met the guy.

So, in case you are a reader who's never actually met me, now you've got a visual. I can't say that I ever wear flannel, but that was a creative decision my counterpart decided to pursue. Maybe going forward, that's how you'll have to tell us apart. But sure, enough, that's pretty much me. Well, minus the pine trees, too.

Now that's a surreal life.

Vending the Rules

There are certain inalienable truths in office building life. The last parking spot in the garage will be occupied by the Geo Metro you didn't see. The interior climate will force you to wear a parka to important meetings. Elevator chitchat is always awkward and never productive. But most importantly, vending machines will be your sworn enemy. If you let them.

I've often thought about posting a list on the sidebar of the blog a list of sworn enemies. You know, people that I have no interest in supporting, even though they've done a goold job of shooting themselves in the collective foot already. But everytime I think of doing this, the only people who come to mind are The Ice Queen - Svetlana Khorkina, and the director who gave birth to both Baby Geniuses and its stellar sequel. Don't get me wrong, both of these carry some serious clout, but I just feel that until I stop making friends (and therefore, more enemies,) that YABfeature is going to have to wait.

Unless of course, I can add inanimate objects to the aforementioned list...

Picture this scenario, if you will: It's the middle of the afternoon. It's only been a few short hours since you downed that unsatisfying salad for lunch, and several long hours before you take your culinary skills to task, putting together a fine dining experience that includes neither the words "Eggo" or "Hot Pocket." In order to tide thyself over during this food void, you disengage from your office chair, saunter on down to the breakroom area, and prepare to do battle with the twin monoliths of doom, or as my more normal co-workers call them, the vending machines.

As you pull your wallet out and shuffle through its contents for just one fresh new dollar bill, you, as usual, have a difficult time finding such a piece of legal tender. However, in your exploration, somewhere between that college ID you still use to get discount movie tickets and and that supermarket savings card from an establishment you haven't been to in years (cough*FoodLion*cough), you find a mysterious folded notecard. On its outside - "The 7 Simple Rules of Vending Machines." On the inside, said rules. So before you jam that portrait of Mr. Washington into the monolith, please heed the following advice.

1. You will always be disappointed. Don't get your hopes up. Appetite satisfaction will not come courtesy of a visit to the vending machine. Something will go wrong, and you need to accept that fact. What seems like a simple currency-for-junk food transaction is far from simple; it's like trying to find a Butterfiner that isn't broken within its wrapper.
2. Gravity works. The mechanics of a vending machine are pretty simple. Money goes in, selected item goes plunging towards the center of the earth at approximately 9.8 m/s/s. That's gravity baby, and there's nothing you can do about it. Candy will break. Chips will smash. Carbonated beverages will turn into ticking bombs, waiting to be detonated with a simple twist of the wrist. Stay away.
3. The Chessboard Effect - Most candy machines feature the coil schematic, where you can see the rows of candy all the way to the back of the machine. The coil will twist, and the front line item will fall to its digestive doom. Here's the catch. The good candy is always second in line. It's like the FastBreaks and Twix of the world are no better than rooks and bishops, and unless someone is willing to take that pawn of a Mr. Goodbar off your hands, the power pieces will remained trapped behind. FOR-EV-ER.
4. Slim Pickens' - Back to the soda side of the equation. Generally speaking, soda machines provide you with an array of choices, and the stock of each is normally well-mainted. UNLESS - you're actually thirsty and had a predetermined choice in mind. If that's the case, don't count on that Cherry Coke to be there. You're going to be stuck with that stupid lemonade that nobody likes.
5. Change is Good. - Most snack machines have a three-tiered pricing structure. Gum is the cheapest (and people fail to notice them on the bottom level), then there's another two leves, normally about 15 cents apart. Regardless of what you want, you will be about 1 dime short of your goal. And I guarantee you exactly that amount, at some point, fell to the ground and rolled under the machine. Are you gonna be the guy to reach under and get it? Mm-hmm.
6. Getting fresh. - Or, if you would like to avoid nickel and diming your way to a pack of Twizzlers, you can always go the route of the dollar bill. And as countless commercials and tv sitcoms have shown before, there's is not a single bill in circulation today that conforms to the rigid standards of the almighty vending machine. Best of luck.
7. Myth of the Double Play - Everybody knows someone who put in their dollar-fifteen on some idle Tuesday, pressed the Coke button, and ended up with not 20, but 40 ounces of ice cold refreshment. That's right, those freak incidents when the vending gods screw up and send two bottle of soda down the pike. This isn't divine intervention. It just means that the person before you just got screwed. And he's thirsty. And he's me.