Two Hundred.

Here we go again...

Today's post marks the big 2-0-0 for the Internet force known as You're a Blog. Granted, we have no idea what are the appropriate mile markers that warrant celebrating. 100 was a no-brainer, a truly momentous occasion. But is 200 a worthy reason to throw a shindig? Sure, it's the same level of accomplishment that was needed to bring 100 to the festivities, but there's a feeling of "Hey, we've done this before." to it. After this, we promise we'll hold off planning another party until YAB turns 1. And that's when we go global with this baby.

The second 100 of random meanderings, comical pop culture swipes, and all-around funny bringing, in my opinion have been characterized by two main characteristics. For one, I've gotten wordier. But that can't be that bad, can it? What could possibly be needing to get back to rather than reading the final couple 'graphs of a daily musing? Second, there's that back-dating phenomenon. 6 days. That tally has risen and fallen over the last 20 weeks, but I assure you, there's still funny to be made, and we'll rectify that error in the coming month.

Ok, people. Here's where we here at YAB take the time to thank you for reading. Our readership has increased with every month so far, as we regularly tally between 35 and 55 hits a day. I think that week where everyone went comment-happy we topped 70 once or twice. So tell your friends, family, whatever, and let's keep the ball rolling on Condon's Quest to Break the Internet.

Now it's time for free stuff! If you recall at our last gathering for revelry, I offered a fantastic prize to the person with the highest score in YAB Trivia. Well, the winner of that contest was a mysterious "Mr. C," and we assure once we get the merchandise table up, he will be the recipient of one of our prototype YAB t-shirts. Now was he the winner because he aced the test? Nay. It's because he was THE ONLY ONE TO RESPOND.

Well, here we go again. Below are twenty queries that will force you to recall the extremely trivial from the last 100 posts (December 12 - Present). It's an open blog test, so take time and relive the last few months of YAB. E-mail me your answers at condon@gwu.edu by Friday night, and the winner will be revealed next Monday morning. And you, too, can win a YAB t-shirt. (On your answers, e-mail me your t-shirt size as well) Thanks for reading.

1. On February 23rd, what accomplishment was finally realized by the YAB Editor-in-Chief? (1)
2. In true “behind the times” fashion, what did YAB declare the best movie of 2003 – at the tail end of 2004? (1)
3. What quartet of accountants did YAB hire to hit the tax deadline, mon? (1)
4. What three keystrokes have ended countless blogs-in-progress? (1)
5. Who filled in to review the minor Oscar categories with everybody while Condon was busy coming to grips with a disappointing 8th place finish at Oscar Party 2.0 (1)?
6. Who valiantly defended the honor of having a toaster oven in the kitchen on behalf of Condon in a winner-take-all debate? (2)
7. What is the name of the born-again canine whose glorious conversion story was told right here at YAB? (2)
8. Name two of the seven office deadly sins. (2)
9. In a Cabinet full of Muppets, who would be best suited to deal with Transportation issues? (2)
10. Which financial guru of a YAB reader put Mattias in his place with a financial knowledge pummeling concerning “The Economics of Blogging?” (2)
11. Just how many “Simple Rules of Vending Machines” were there? (3)
12. What is the real “best reason” to seek a promotion? (3)
13. What is the preferred weapon of choice in Condon’s apartment complex to defrost car windshields after a night of light snow? (3)
14. What quickly became the number 1 successful marketing machine of the new year, causing Condon to dejectedly utter, “Sign me up for 2…” (3)
15. Name the two colors of highlighters that have never been used by the Chief Awesome Officer. (3)
16. Explain why sliced bread is better than a personal computer. (4)
17. Who is the one kid from U.S. Elementary (Day 1) that Mattias claims I never mentioned, but in reality, he just never learned to read? (4)
18. How much did Condon pay to have a valet not so much park his car at a nice restaurant, but rather just leave it where it is? (4)
19. Which out-of-work NHL franchise has turned the route of evangelism during this latest lockout? (4)
20. What was the real reason for Madness in March, and what type of techno dance party should be instituted for such times? (4)

Shift-PageUp-Delete

Today's post appears in the April 2005 edition of 'Zine, the new literary magazine published by one Kelly Barrett. It may someday have an online form, and if so, YAB will proudly give you that link. If you would like a paper copy of this hot-off-the-press masterpiece, you can contact her at barrett.twenty.six.@gmail.com.

What a deadly combination that trio of keystrokes is. I mean man, one ephemeral thought and all that you have written can be gone quicker than Sky Captain from your local cineplex. This is the problem with writer’s block in the technology age. Hitting the aforementioned consecutive button sequence leads to the instant termination of whatever half-written column you became fleetingly dissatisfied with. Maybe that the column-to-be had some hidden promise that you just hadn’t realized yet. But instead, ZAP!, your working document has been relegated to tabula rasa.

When guest columnists on killer ‘zines were looking for creative angles in those trying pre-laptop days, half-finished articles stood an exponentially better chance of survival. You know, the days when writers took to the ink to the parchment (or at the bare minimum, cocktail napkin.) There were so many more safety nets in place. The first step for a disgruntled ‘zine correspondent would be to rip the paper from the comfy confines of its spiral notebook home and crumple it with so much force Yoda would be envious. From there, the writer would take his brand new projectile and do his best Roger Clemens impression, with the waste basket serving as his strike zone. Following that, as a vent for extreme frustration, there was always a decent chance that that trusty writing utensil would end up in two (for pencil users) or airborne (for pen users.)

But for each course of action, those individuals had reprieve! Paper could always be unballed, smoothed out. Writing utensils could always be retrieved. Take a deep breath, go make a sandwich, set the editor’s deadline in focus, and get back to work. This is where technology has failed the writers of the world. Especially the ones with the itchy trigger fingers that could wipe out your column-to-be. Especially Condon.

This is why those (read: ME) with writers’ block have taken up permanent residence at Square 1. Hell, I’ve been there so long, I’m getting junk mail and am expected to mow the lawn every weekend. Because unless you’ve got a topic that you think will confirm to the high quality standards of this ‘zine, you might as well just stay put. It takes less work, and you get to watch TV and become an expert on whether or not the new TBS is in fact, “very funny.” (Answer – if you keep insisting on showing A Knight’s Tale every damn day, the answer is NO.)

Hold on a second – cell phone’s a ringin’…Hello?…oh, hey, Barrett…yes, yes I know the deadline…no, it’s almost finished…yeah, just a few more sentences…I know I’m the staff slacker…no, I’m not kidding you…yeah, I’ll send it soon…ok, bye.

Crap.

It’s time to find that golden topic. Otherwise, Barrett’s getting 600 words from some college application essay I wrote in 1997. Alright. On my mark, get set, GO!

Uh, umm, Going through airport customs to get into Narnia…no, that’s no good…er…what if The Aviator had cast Howard the Duck to play Howard Hughes…that’s a reach…a VH1 Storytellers transcript with Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem…funny to me, not to others…going through a fast food drive-thru with the Aqua Teen Hunger Force….yeah, forced indeed…Monkeys, pirates, monkeypirates? Tempting, but…what time is it? Oh, good. Time for Barrett to kick me off the staff.

Well, at this junction, I have two options. One is send all I’ve got to the office, and watch as my column gets a lesser billing then the guy who just copies and pastes different sections of the phonebook to make his word quota. The other –

That’s easy: Shift. PageUp. Delete.

Best Company Ever, Chapter 5

So last time we walked this road, I let you in on some of my future management strategies. As I close the books on my second semester of graduate business education, I wish I could tell you I pulled that managerial gem from a great professor or a highly regarded text I was forced to purchase. But nay, that one was a Condon original. Maybe if I took the time to devote some extra energy towards my BCE practices, I could teach them a few things. I can handle instructing one of my four summer courses, right? If I could, I’d guarantee my students the avoidance of several pitfalls we incurred during this past spring semester. There would be no “2 finals in 1 night” challenge. The instructor’s voice would not rival that of a squawking parakeet. If students feel the need to bang their head senselessly on their desk, pillows will be provided to soften the blow. Yep, all of these would have been nice over the past few months.

But that is the classroom, and here at Best Company Ever, we care about the workroom. It’s time for some more personnel changes.

Since my department continues to press on while we seek a new shortstop, I’ve become more intimate with the administrative tasks that take place daily. The building’s support staff often interacted with our vacant position, so much of the behind the scenes work that takes place was carried out without out me seeing it. (Does that make me “in front of the scenes?) One such stupid task is signing for the delivery of the daily mail. Our current mail clerks are nice enough, but just wait until they get a load of this…

The entire mailroom operation is to be run by penguins.

In a radical move that would make Batman cringe, I’ve decided to take my pirate-led HR boat to the South Pole in order to find a new breed of mailroom employee. And when a polar bear nearly mauled my Recruitment Manager (Parrotman Pete), I turned my focus to the noble penguin. And let me tell you, if there were ever a way to make a mundane clerical job function like delivering the mail awesome, it’s by letting penguins take the postal wheel.

First off, you no longer have to worry about the mail guy giving customers a lowly opinion of your company due to not caring about personal appearance. Here at BCE, every employee should take pride in their appearance, as management feels it conveys a sense of passion and interest in what you do for a living. Our mail guys wear whatever t-shirt doesn’t need ironing and sneakers. Forget that. My mailpenguins will be the most formally-dressed employees at the office. Even on Casual Fridays, those fellas are donning tuxedos. Snappy dressers indeed.

Secondly, just picture the renovations to the mailroom itself. My penguin proposal: coat the entire mail facility in ice. I have several reasons for this move. First, it’s a penguin’s natural habitat. Studies show that people are most comfortable in their natural surroundings, and I can’t help but think penguins share this. Second, penguins will be able to slide back and forth between the different parts of the mailroom. This will speed up sorting protocol, meaning people will get their mail quicker. Additionally, you can count on the mailpenguins being at their counter at all times of the work day. Rather than going outside onto the loading dock during their breaks, they’ll just be sliding on their stomachs to AND fro. This cuts down on waiting time to get one freakin’ stamp. Sure, it may cost you a little extra coin in supplemental air conditioning units, but it’s most certainly an improvement.

Thirdly, who isn’t happy to get a daily visit from a cute mailpenguin? This will boost corporate morale, twofold, maybe dare I say, threefold.

Also, because of this icy infrastructure, mail pickup will be all but eliminated. A series of pipes and tunnels, all ice-coated, will be installed within the walls of the building. An employee, when the need arises to mail something in non-electronic form, no longer has to wait for the mailroom employee to make rounds. Just stick the letter in the icy chute, and it will sail out the other end in the mailroom. And because of the ice, it will slide over to the correct distribution bin. I’m sure there’s some issues that will need to be ironed out, but I can’t right now. The ice would melt.

Finally, there will a dramatically decreased employee turnover rate for these mailroom positions. Penguins are not a flight risk.

All Hail the Farmer Clown

It’s weird. From what you read of la vida Condoca, one may get the impression that I live and die under the direction of the Golden Arches. So what if I needed to break this story on a slow news day? Is it that big a deal if I wanted to evaluate their new credit payment system? Fact of the matter is, even if I do not eat there that often, Sir Ronald is as omnipresent as Ashton Kutcher in the movies these days. So, it’s time once again to dip into the McDonalds topic bag once again. I’d talk about rival restaurants from time to time if I could, but McD’s has one tough press secretary. And face it, that Grimace is just plain mean.

And once again we discuss McDonalds for everything they are but the food. The reason for writing today is to inform the loyal readers of YAB (I really need a better name for you all) is that McDonalds has decided to join us in this century. Last century, they were known for greasy, high caloric, documentary inducing cuisine. This century, they’ve become the kid with all the cool toys on the block. Gadgets and gizmos are apparently are going to bring them market share. So while Burger King is busy freaking Rob out and Wendy’s is in the back room beating that Number 1 Fan guy into submission, McDonalds is hoarding all of those wonderful toys.

Let me explain.

On two recent trips to this franchise of note, I have seen a different side of McDonalds. Not the side with the Happy Meal toys that 2 year olds will choke on and then know better once they hit 3. Not the side that thought the Arch Deluxe was the wave of the future. Not even the side that have the placemats with the way-too-easy word finds and connect the dots. (I rock those every time.). This is the side that likes to make money in new, cool, savvy ways. McWays.

Scenario 1 – After a long day of apartment hunting Sunday, I decided that defrosting pork chops didn’t have the same allure as say, driving to a local dining establishment known for velocity of service. So that’s precisely what I did. Knowing that that Fox’s Animation Domination lineup was fast approaching, the Prodigal Roommate and I headed to the car and we Randomly Ran.

On Gallows Road is our local McDonalds. If you asked of its location a mere week ago, I could not give you the same answer. You see, we had a McDonalds on that very spot up until November of 2004. Katie drives by it on the way home and can usually verify for me its existence. However, it all changed in a day, when she reported in that Clowntown had been reduced to rubble. “A New McD’s is Coming!”, so said the sign. And as of this past week, that sign finally found its prophecy fulfilled.

The new McDonalds has glammed it up on the inside. More seating, nicer flooring, better soda fountain station. All of these can be expected when a franchise is redone and renovated. But can one honestly expect what we saw in the corner of the restaurant? But of course! A luxury leather couch, flanked by equally luxurious and equally leather armchairs. Man, eating fast food in such quarters sure would be nice, but whatever would you do if conversation got as stale as the fries? Oh, that’s easy. PLASMA. TELEVISION. (I bet Philo Farnsworth never imagined this scenario.) Pimp my Fries.

Scenario 2 – Onto the money making technological advance. I stayed home this morning to study for a couple of pesky exams that will enter my life this evening. The curse of coming in around lunch time is that it’s a guarantee that your co-workers will take complete advantage of the situation. “Dude, since you’re in your car, could you pick up food on your way in? Sweet.” The venue du jour – of course, McDonalds.

Now, picking up lunch anywhere in Tyson’s Corner is somewhere on my list below root canal and watching a Mama’s Family marathon. So, I dreaded ordering four meals worth of food at a drive-thru window. If I was lucky, I may be at work by 3:30. But then I saw McDonalds leave the on deck circle and step up to the place.

As I pull onto the back of the 10 car waiting line, a gentleman comes to my car window with a clipboard and a smile. “What would you like today?” he says. “You mean to eat?” I reply. He says yes and takes my order (all four of them) on a clipboard. I’m still ten yards from the menu board. He calls them in on his head set. I drive around the menu board curve and before I get anywhere close to a window, another person comes to my window. She takes my credit card and walks it to the window some three cars ahead. Runs the card, comes back with both it and a recent. I continue driving up to the food window, where there’s a guy outside the window reaching in and obtaining my order. He hands it to me and sends me on my way. Total length of drive-thru experience: 3 minutes. Amazing.

I’m so in awe I drive right by the shelf on my left with assorted condiment bins. Wow.

Space for Rent

Well, not exactly. Renting out the blog would imply that for a small price, you can publish whatever you like on the YAB e-printing press. While the cash inflow would be nice, it’s not happening anytime in the near future. But, if you have a topic or idea you would like to see me tackle (or at the very minimum, mock), send your requests to condon@gwu.edu. And I will add it to the post-it note o’ stuff.

Over this past weekend, I returned to an activity that I try to engage in once one or two years. (If anyone dares to make a NHL playoffs joke here, why I’ll, uh, ya know, do nothing while sounding menacing…) No no, it’s time to look for an apartment. Ok, maybe that needs a rephrase. Looking for an apartment is actually very, very easy. “Look, an apartment! There’s one over there, too! They’re everywhere!” I guess the previously unreleased modifier was “to rent.” It’s time to look for an apartment to rent. Much better.

In the Washington DC metropolitan area, you have three options for housing. First, you can purchase a place, and promise the nice lending company that they can have your first-born, your second-born, home-cooked meals, their laundry done for them, unlimited Playstation 2 use, any of your unused cell phone minutes, and the remote control whenever they want to change the channel. Seems a little steep for a place that you can nail anything you want into your own walls.

Second, you can rent a place. Sure, you get no equity, but you afford to keep your future children, eat out, clean only your dirty clothes, play MVP Baseball uninterrupted, call anyone you want with rollover, and flip between tonight’s Sixers game and Seinfeld reruns as you please.

Third, you can sleep in your office. Plenty of cabinets for storage, but little else. Already wired for utilities. Low rent. However, the fiancé will have to sleep in the guest chair, and from looking at it, it’s not the latest in sleep technology.

In a lesser of three evils, it looks like it’s time to hit the pavement once again on the Rental Route. So Sunday Katie and I went looking for what will be our first place together. We had done our homework (Thanks, Internet.) about potential places to visit that day, and set out right before lunchtime. The following are some thoughts to keep in mind if you, too, someday set out on such an adventure.

First thing you do upon arriving at a potential apartment complex is drive around the property. It’s always good to check out the general upkeep and local clientele. Nicely cut grass and pruned hedges are a good sign. A guy hunched over on the sidewalk holding his aching head after a hard night of drinking is not. Check out the cars while taking your loop around the complex. BMWs and Lexii mean this place is too rich for your blood. Rusted out Maximas and Dodge Darts mean you can afford it, if you miss frat parties upstairs and weekend benders across the hallway (For further reference, consult the Hunched Over Guy.)

Next thing to do is to go into the leasing office. Even if you think you won’t need them much, their level of professionalism will play a major role in your residency. Take my current leasing office. Please. Anyway, the leasing office is likely going to be the nicest facility on the whole lot. If there’s any chance that there’s going to be nice aesthetic touches to your apartment, there better be a lavish design scheme inside said office. We’re talking solid oak doors, giant columns, and couches and chairs that make Shaq Diesel look merely Shaq Unleaded. An extravagant leasing office is crucial if you are hoping for better things to come.

When first discussing the interest you may have in rent an apartment from this particular complex, take note of other passers-by in the leasing office. More times than not, these are current residents, and they can tell a lot about what it’s like to live there. So take heed when Fratty McFratterson comes in complaining about having ants on the fourth floor. Fourth floor? What are these, Super Airborne-Ready Ants? Next.

The rest of a typical rental visit will consist of you getting a walk-through of a model apartment, the exchange of contact information, and lots of dead air. UNLESS… you ask questions. If you plan on making an informed decision about your future quarters, you’re going to want to find out just what exactly you’ll get in exchange for a monthly check.

“What utilities are included?” “Do you have a towing company that steals your car in the dead of night?” “How do you feel about repelling down the side of the building in times of crisis?” “Does the complex have a pool?” “Does the complex have a pool table?” “Is the pool table in the pool?” “Is it true that I can rent a dog for 45 dollars per month?” “Why did you pick Aztec as a theme for the model?” “Isn’t any closet a walk-in closet as long as you step inside?” “Which do you think would look better in this kitchen, a toaster or a toaster oven?” “Why don’t the first floor units have skylights?”

“Where do I sign?”

Keep it in Your Lunchbox

Thanks to Jasen for pointing out the goings-on of my own state. I should have caught this, but I was busy taking heat for leaving out everybody’s favorite states in Friday’s blog. Well, it’s time to amend this. Two birds. One stone. Let’s go.

When we last left the kids at US Elementary, it was the first day of school. Now everybody knows that the first day is mainly an opportunity to brag about what you did over the summer, fill your desk with new school supplies, and take care of other administrative tasks, like dropping off medication at the nurse’s office (North Carolina has a wicked smoker’s cough) and the assignment of student cubbyholes (Washington got stuck with the top left corner. Tip toes, indeed.) General rule of the first day of school. Don’t plan to learn anything.

And after a whole morning of not learning, these kids need a break. It’s off to the cafeteria, where kids have several dining options in front of them. Some kids bring their lunch in brown paper bags. Unsatisfied with their one-flavor sandwiches, Virginia and Wisconsin do some horse trading so that they both end up with ham AND cheese. Florida, forgetful in her old age, forget her lunch on the bus. Others decide to give the cafeteria staff a try and opt to purchase their lunch. Nevada, fresh off from taking Maryland’s money, buys two plates worth of rectangular pizza, and then wins Arizona’s iced tea to wash it all down. But for the most part, the class sits down at the long, white tables and snap open their personalized lunch boxes.

Everyone but Mississippi, who’s back in the classroom struggling to learn how to spell her own name. Why wouldn’t her parents let her go by Missi, anyway?

A dilemma is brewing inside the lunchbox of New Jersey.

What seemed to be an unassuming meal of fruits and vegetables has turned into a raging debate in the café, not to mention the State Senate of the Garden State. The premise seems simple enough: there is a constituency that would like the tomato to be recognized as the Official State Vegetable. What the potato did for Idaho, these lobbyists want the tomato to do for Jersey. But there’s one minor problem…

New Jersey: Look, my family is very well known for our tomatoes, and that’s why I bring them for lunch. I just think my family should be known for its vegetables, and this is out best.
Utah: Sounds good to me.
Louisiana: Me too, oui, oui. By the way, I lost my lunch money. West Virginia, can you spare a French quarter?
West Virginia: No way, Louisiana. I hear Nevada can double my money if I play him in kickball during recess. Anyways, there’s a problem with your request, NJ.
New Jersey: And what may that be?
West Virginia: A tomato isn’t a vegetable.
Missouri: It’s a fruit.
New Jersey: Yes, I know. But we voted the blueberry to be my family’s state fruit two years ago. The tomato needs recognition!
Oregon: Yeah, and I need one, just one distinguishable characteristic. Why do people keep calling me Washington?
Rhode Island: SO WHAT if you are just a face in the crowd. California has been calling me a poseur all day long. I swear on the name of Roger Williams that my ancestors were islands!
New Jersey: Can we get back to my platform, please? I still contend that a tomato can be a family vegetable. If there was only some legislative precedent-
Michigan: But there is, NJ. Apparently, the United States Supreme Court ruled in 1887 that a tomato, if not biologically, LEGALLY is a vegetable. While figuring out what types of produce to apply a vegetable tariff tax, it was ruled that a tomato is a vegetable.
Kansas: Wow, I don’t think we’re in the second grade anymore.
Minnesota: No way, eh. How did you get to be such a brain, Michigan?
Michigan: You’re a brain.

(All the kids are uproarious with laughter, especially Arkansas and Massachusetts – the quiet kids in class.)

The bell rings to signal recess. All the kids go outside to play. Indiana sits down to eat his lunch.

Indiana: The Slow Kid in Class

Before I wax comedic on current events, I'd like to put offer the following disclaimer: any readers of YAB that call Indiana their home should not take any of my following comments personally. Unless you were born there and are well-known for phoning it in. Then by all means do so. Yeah. Disclaimerberg.

I want you all to picture a classroom, let's say elementary school. 1st grade, 2nd grade, somewhere in that area. It's a big classroom, containing a teacher's desk and 50 individual desks for students. There's an American flag on the wall, and class photo right below it. Strangely enough, the class photo is covered with lines of latitude and longitude, and it looks like the backdrop is a large body of water. What kind of school is this?

Welcome to United States Elementary.

The bell rings, and the kids file into class. Delaware is the first in the door, Hawaii the last. The excitement of a new year of school is in the air. Since kindergarten, there's been an influx of new kids to the class: York, Jersey, Mexico, Hampshire. The bigger kids control much of the classroom chatter, and as usual skinny kids like Tennessee and Kentucky are making fun of their overweight classmate Texas. Over in the corner of the room, Alaska sits by himself with no real friends (Canada got placed in the other section.) The twin Dakota girls are arguing over who gets to sit next to popular farmboy Nebraska, and the cool kids (Maine and Vermont) are making fun of Wyoming and Colorado because they're such squares. Oklahoma is singing showtunes at the top of her lungs. Montana is bragging to Idaho about how his uncle was a famous NFL quaterback. Nevada is trying to swindle Maryland out of her lunch money. Pennsylvania, ironically, can't find his pencil.

The bell rings, all the kids take their seats. Well, almost all of the kids. There's a seat open next to Illinois. Who's missing? Oh, right. Indiana.

Cnn.com is reporting today that historic legislation has finally been passed in the Land of the Hoosier. For the first time in decades, the state of Indiana will formally recognize and implement the process of daylight savings. Apparently, while the rest of the United States has taken measures year after year to fall back and spring forward, Indiana's been just cool letting the clocks fall where they may. This has consistently screwed with scheduling for local businesses, airport departures, and shipping delivery times. All in all, it's really a shame that Indiana for so long has been behind the times. Even Indiana Jones, for whom Indiana is named, packed up and left the state.

Indiana is the slow kid in class, and hopefully this change in his education will finally allow him to keep up. Instances of his below-the-speed-limit thought process is well documented. Around March 21 of every school year, the class takes an annual field trip. (to Washington, D.C. of course) The kids have to get to the school at 7 am in order to get on the bus. (Get there earlier to avoid sitting with Connecticut - snobby rich kid.) Last year, the bus left at 7 sharp, and one seat was open. Guess who was missing. Sure enough, 1 hour later, Indiana walked to the school only to find he missed the trip.

Last October, there was a school dance that went until 11 pm. Indiana was pressured into going by some other kids on his street (Iowa and Ohio to name names). He was having a really good time at the dance, and at about 9:50, he finally got up the courage to ask the Southern belle Georgia to dance. She accepted, and they danced to REO Speedwagon's finest. After their dance, Georgia went to gossip with Alabama and South Carolina, while Indiana proudly came back to his friends. He was a success, and the night was still young. Well, young for everyone but Indiana. Not realizing the class would be there for an extra hour, he told his mom to pick him up at 10. Georgia was insulted at his abrupt departure and still hasn't talked to him.

Hopefully, this new legislature will work wonders for the boy from Elkhart.

The Bible Beltway

Hey pharmacist, shouldn’t you be behind the register?

The longest weekly duration of time I experience on Washington D.C.’s Capitol Beltway is the period on Wednesday nights when I drive from Tyson’s Corner to Alexandria in order to attend my two enthralling grad courses. As far as the Beltway goes, the stretch from 9 o’clock to 5 o’clock on the Outer Loop isn’t the worst, and I can usually get there in about a half an hour. There are some things I expect to see on the drive – cars, trucks, wrecks in effect, everything that makes rush hour fun. Yesterday, something new caught my eye to break up the monotony of reading license plates and listening to the Nationals on the radio.

Off to the side of the road was a disabled sedan. Didn’t looked wrecked, or even mildly dented. Regardless, it was unable to participate in the 5’o clock vehicular conga line. However, the sedan was able to quickly put back on its dancing shoes thanks to help from a peculiar source: a white CVS van. CVS? The convenience pharmacy? Really?

Then I did my homework.

According to their website, for the past twenty years CVS has taken it upon themselves to provide an extra service to the people who buy shampoo and shaving cream from them (Heck, even those who don’t. They don’t track these things.) Their company overhead is not spent on fancy luxury cars for executive management, but on economy size white vans for emergency roadside response. The CVS employees who drive these “CVS Samaritan Vans” have job qualifications far above manning the register: trained mechanics, EMTs, and crisis counseling. And apparently, they’re Samaritans. Who knew?

Then I did more homework.

The Samaritans are best known for their work in biblical times. It’s amazing that this nomadic people have migrated and evolved into popular pharmacy chain employees. According to the website, they currently help 38,000 motorists a year. That’s pretty impressive for a group who when first formed couldn’t afford vans and had to do everything on camel or donkey. So not only should there have been pasta bars in Ancient Egypt, there apparently were CVS franchises in Samaria. Need proof? I would like to cite the Gospel according to Luke, Chapter 10. It reads:

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher," he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"

"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"

He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'

"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

In reply Jesus said: "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when his donkey became tired and passed out on the side of the road. He was on his way to a wedding in Cana where food was to rumored to be infinitely plentiful. However, he was without both. In the distance a pharmacy clerk appeared over the horizon. Knowing of the legendary good-natured ways, the man became very excited to see the Samaritan. The CVS employee took pity on him. He went to him and offered what he had in his sack. The Samaritan gave the man assorted hair products, some magazines, and gum. Confused, the man said, “Sir, I thank you for your generosity, but none of these products will help my ailing animal. The Samaritan then put on a red vest and offered to develop his photographs for him. Even more confused, the man kindly explained that cameras won’t be invented for a couple of millennia. The Samaritan understood. He then filled a prescription for vitamin supplements for the donkey and gave the animal a basket of half-price Easter candy. The man was grateful for the munificence of the CVS employee.

"Why do you think the CVS Samaritan was such a giving stranger?"

The expert in the law replied, "Because he who had mercy on the man." Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."

Eat Like an Egyptian

Don’t think in all of these winding posts about the workplace and baseball that the YABNews staff has been given the week off in the name of vacation. The industry standard is for legitimate news organizations to provide ‘round the clock coverage. And since our organization is limited (due to budget constraints) to just Condon, our ersatz operation only operates when I happen to be checking the news. (or at the very minimum, inventing it.)

So don’t think it snuck by on the wire when last week the United States Department of Agriculture decided to mess with years and years of health education curriculum. Growing up, I considered health class only a clever scheduling idea by administration to cut our number of gym classes in half; the only means to the end of fun prevention. Anyways, one of the semester staples to any health class was the topic of nutrition. And with nutrition comes the famous Food Pyramid.

The initial incarnations of the Food Pyramid generally maintained the same form. Stacked like pancakes, different food groups were horizontally arranged in a triangular fashion. Sadly, none of those food groups were actually pancakes. Surely you remember… carbohydrates were on the bottom, fruits and vegetables rented the next level up, meats and proteins were just up the pyramid stairs, and all the good stuff – cookies, pudding, cheesecake – were all crammed into the tiny penthouse suite. And as far as kids were concerned, the top floor was the place to be.

Honestly, I can’t say I paid attention to the Food Pyramid (or health class, for that matter.) The above description is completely from memory and probably incorrect both in layer and in number. But, without the payroll to hire a fact checker, we press on. After all, you can’t expect me to remember this sort of stuff. Everyone knows you spent all of health class thinking how much better this would be if it were gym right now. Organized Dodge Ball? Better than nutritional geometry.

Well, the USDA has come to the rescue of my athletic daydreams. The Food Pyramid is getting a makeover, and it’s, dare I say, EXTREME. Check it out yourself.

Ok, done studying? Good. The first thing you’ll notice is that the multi-story triangle has had an internal building restacking now resembling a system of chutes sans ladders. But there are stairs now climbing the left side, letting you all know that a healthy body only comes with physical exercise (or at the very least, being of gargantuan height rivaling most buildings, like pyramids.) As for the six (not four, upgrade!) food chutes (not groups, downgrade!) the width of each is determined by the amount of food you should intake on each chute. Coincidentally, I think this is a secret subliminal message for the children of the world. The fat kids can only slide down the slides that can hold them – grains, vegetables, fruit, and milk. The skinny kids need to bulk up, and their rail-like physiques are the only ones going down the yellow sliver of a slide titled oils. Very clever, USDA.

What’s more is no two people should consult this chart in the same manner. By the power of data warehousing and interactive internet applications, you can go to the site and enter your vitals: Age, sex, level of physical activity, where you stand on the recent rash of sub-par movie remakes (Amityville? Horrible.) (Ok, maybe that’s just a personal bone to pick.) Anyways, while I feel that this tool may be extremely helpful for someone looking to stabilize their daily caloric intake, I wish that it had come sooner. A lot sooner. Four thousand five hundred seventy-one years earlier.

You see, the Food Pyramid gets its inspiration from the place that made 3-dimensional triangular shapes all the rage: the Great Pyramids at Giza. Where else? After all, they’re Great. It says it in the name. On average it took the ancient Egyptians 30 years to put one in place. 30 years! This timeline is not without merit, mind you. Heavy stone blocks were transported (by pulling them with a rope) over 500 miles to make it to the middle of the desert. THEN, they had to be lifted up off of the ground to the level of their final resting place (They had neither the Food Pyramid’s convenient stairs nor stick man giant to help.) This was not easy work.

I’m theorizing here on the blog that with the help of the new and improved Food Pyramid, the Ancient Egyptians could have done the work in half the time. They were undernourished without it, and worked at a lower level of productivity. I’m sure the slave diet of bread, water, and occasional grapes wasn’t making anyone rush into their work. Well, what should they have eaten? Ah, yes, the Food Pyramid. According to the internet (always truth,) the average life expectancy for an Ancient Egyptian was no longer than 40 years. Assuming they like a decent retirement, they probably left the workplace around 28-30 years old. Compute that in with the male gender option and rigorous activity, it becomes clear that if we wanted more pyramids faster, a 3000 calorie per day, with emphasis on grains and meat, should have been on the workcamp menus.

Who knew?

E-6

That’s what this post should be noted as, for those of you scoring at home.

I work for an extremely large company. I’ve never had time to count the number of employees SAIC has, but I know it’s more than 10, and less than eleventy billion. As far as I know, we’re the Starbucks of the commercial mall landscape – six times as many of us than any other store (Take that, locally-owned bakery-type store!) It’s nice to be SAIC. You get to do cool things like sponsor the radio broadcasts for the Nationals and the Padres. You get to hold your annual picnic at Six Flags. You get to spell “sarcastic” and “scathing.” It’s a lot of fun.
But despite all the good things that come from being big, there are some drawbacks. For one, a company of this magnitude has plenty of options for career change, growth, and advancement. If you are an employee looking to climb the corporate ladder, there are plenty of rungs in each and every direction. It’s not a ladder, really. It’s like one of those 30 foot wide rope wall ladders, where many people can be climbing at once. (Unless, you miss a rope rung and your foot and adjoined leg go shooting through one of the gaping openings in the whole thing, rendering you motionless and embarrassed.) Think American Gladiators for a visual.

Well, the Gladiator ladder (Gladder?) has claimed another contestant this past week, and he works in my department. I can’t blame him for his choice – he was presented with an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Those procurement people, always on the go. I’m sure someday, I’ll make a similar move. But as for now, I’m left in an overworked finance department, who just lost a guy who does all of the behind the scenes work. A guy who is an essential part of the team, even if he doesn’t get the recognition from upper management. A guy who’s depended on to be reliable, and relied on to be dependable. So as I come in on this Monday morning to do my job, I know one major thing has changed since last week.

We lost our shortstop.

I feel that our finance department dynamic structure is not unlike a lineup card for a baseball team. As I walk from my car to my desk, I’m walking through a cube maze that vaguely resembles a locker room (without the showers or cold metallic benches.) The best way to win this game against Team “Work we have to Do,” is to play as a team. And while our e-mail signatures may not reflect them, we’ve each got a position to fill.

From a fielding perspective, the analogy is pretty simple. New work steps up to the plate, and most often faces the supervisor of the department. That’s the boss, and as a result, he’s the pitcher. A boss with quick-thinking decision skills may send some work right back to the dugout if he or she has the knowledge to do so. It would be awfully nice to have a Roger Clemens or Randy Johnson boss, whose dynamic sense of problem solving whiffs new work tasks with blazing heat. It would be awfully awful to have a Vincente Padilla boss, who isn’t afraid to blindly delegate this work into the field on four straight balls.

(Subtle prodding of the Phillies to turn things around. I had to.)

As for behind the pitcher, there waits the support staff. Ready and waiting to snag new work with their gloves, these people are ready to throw new work out of the in box and into the outbox. This staff should have the skills and range to handle a ground ball task (routine, but tedious), a fly ball (a bigger hit to your time management, but ultimately easy to handle), a pop out (the occasional “I can’t believe how stupid this is” job), or a line out (fast-approaching deadline, and fumbling it will cause a lot more harm than help.) In this analogy, there is no bunting.

(Only Zuul?)

When everyone shows up to the ballpark, a pitcher can count on 7 able-bodied players to be backing him up. (And the catcher, who would be technically in front of the pitcher) When everyone shows up to our office, the boss can count on 6 able-bodied employees to be filling the task orders. (And the catcher is the boss’ boss, who is constantly observing and giving the pitcher advice on what pitch to throw, er, decision to make.) So as the math never lies, we’re already a player short. Yes, the department headcount was at full capacity, but the workload is at most full capacity. Drat.

Our 4 administrative support staffers man the infield. Since ground ball jobs often go to the infield, it’s pretty routine stuff. Our database manager is our first basemen (most jobs usually end with giving her new information.) Our Accounting Assistant is at second, and doesn’t do a whole lot. He’s a temp who we don’t trust with too much, so it’s wise to keep him on the right side of the infield. Our shortstop is pretty busy, balancing procurement and invoice processing responsibility. And at the hot corner, our former supervisor, now part-time, is ready and waiting for some harder-hit jobs, as well as pitching in on the administrative stuff.

This leaves two financial controllers to man the outfield. These are the larger issues, and versatility requires us to cover more ground. My colleague mans right field, due to her inexperience with the position. Condon is playing left, center, left-center, the rest. I’ve been at the ballpark awhile, so I am able to cover much more ground than anyone else. But now, with the personnel change I alluded to some six ‘graphs ago, there’s a gaping hole. And it’s right in front of me.

What does this mean for the team? Same amount of batters coming to the plate, one more void on the diamond. Until we can sign a free agent, and we have no bench help, it looks like we’ll have to make do. I’m sure 2nd and 3rd may be able to stretch for a few sizzlers to short, but as you can guess, much of it will fall to Condon. Let’s just hope I can hit the first basemen in the air from left. Here’s my stat line for the day.

Condon SS-LF-CF 4/25/05
Eleventy Billion balls hit my way. 14 fielded so far..

Rainy Day Blog

No, of course you can't. It's cold and rainy on the street, and no one carries two umbrellas. On a day like this, most people are lucky enough to grab one umbrella, in order to shield them from the awful, cold, wet precipitation from above. Others are unlucky enough to have their umbrella stowed away in their vehicle, and retrieving it would require walking through the storm, and defeating the purpose of having an umbrella altogether. Guess who falls into this unlucky sect. That said, it's really completely unacceptable for me to ask someone I pass on the way to my car if they have an umbrella I can use. Like I said, they are most likely NOT carrying a reserve umbrella, for cases of which the starter umbrella can't perform its duties. Nor will they gladly donate their first umbrella to my cause, that's just foolish. Mainly because I do very little to contribute to our apartment community. Yep, no love from the neighbors. So where does all of this leave me? Wet. Very wet.

I did wear a jacket this morning, but even that had to take the rain into consideration. My suede jacket and my wool coat do as about as well in the rain as Andruw Jones at the plate. My waterproof wind breaker would be a grand option - if it weren't sitting adjacent to my umbrella in the back seat of my car. Which leaves me with either a Casual Friday hockey jersey over the top of my collared shirt (We call this the "Draft Day" look), or my uberwarm ski jacket. Decision: ski jacket.

You would think I would learn to check the weather report before going to bed at night. You would think I'd remember to bring my jacket and umbrella in from the car to prevent such a problem. You would think that running to the car for a kid who ran track for fun in order to stay dry wouldn't result in him falling down because of a wayward patch of slick leaves. You would think.

And as I think about how such a simple meteorological occurrence can swing my day in a soaking wet direction, I need to remind myself that this isn't the first time I've seen rain. After all, YAB HQ isn't located somewhere in Arizona or Sudan. I'm in DC, and I grew up in NJ. There's plenty of rain to go around both locales. And I sift through my sack of vignettes, I'm going to have to settle on telling you the rain-related story that still irks me to this day. It's also lets me vent the following:

Erin Kerby has my T-shirt.

In 1999, Williamsburg, Virginia lay dead in the crosshairs of Hurricane Floyd. Since schools in VA have a policy of canceling school if Twister or Snow Dogs is just on television, needless to say, classes were put on hold for a hurricane-level storm. I could have stayed at Governor's Square and played Trivial Pursuit with everyone else until the storm passed. Instead, I answered the phone. Big mistake.

Well, as a card-carrying member of the Circle K service organization, I felt I needed to head to the College's b-ball stadium, which served as the county hurricane shelter. Figuring I'd be setting up cots and making eggs, I dressed comfortably - t-shirt, shorts, sandals, windbreaker. I even packed some extra clothes if got rained in.

When we all arrived (the wind had only reached 55 mph at this point), we were gathered by the Red Cross and assigned jobs. Positions were handed out on a volunteer basis. "Ok, I need two volunteers. Great! You two will be in charge of playing with all the families' children." See this was going to be fun? Those two girls who raised their hands have an evening of playing Duck Duck Goose to look forward to. Ok, I'm going to raise my hand for the next job! How exciting!

"Ok, now we need two more volunteers. 1, and yes, the tall gentleman, 2. You two get to direct traffic outside."

Uh oh.

Next thing I know, I'm standing in the middle of a flooded parking lot using a bright blue frisbee to direct cars into parking spaces. I jokingly asked my partner, yes, Erin Kerby, if she wanted to toss the disc while waiting for cars, and she surprisingly agreed. She threw first. I ducked for my life. I found out that even the biggest frisbee novice can through a blazing backhand when they are standing upwind of you and that wind is hovering near 100 mph.

Did I mention it was raining?

And the end of the night, I returned home. I lad lent Erin an extra t-shirt I had, and always assumed I'd get it back after a round of laundry. I was wrong. And it was a good William and Mary t-shirt. Campus Shop quality. Oh well, I may not have the shirt, but I did get to stand outside in a hurricane and dodge hydroplaning Maximas, right?

Now that's a consolation prize.

7 Deadly Office Sins

This past week has given rise to the next Pope of the Roman Catholic Church: Benedict XVI. Once known as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the new Pope has much to do to prepare for the ascension to his new office. Sure, the change in name was an easy one, and the Vatican tailors worked awfully quick to produce his new amazing Technicolor vestments, but promotions are never as clean cut as they seem.

Yes, aside from upholding Holy Law, celebrating Masses, and unifying the Church, Benedict XVI will be busy moving. Switching offices can be a pain in the neck. I’ve been in my new cubicle (newbicle?) for two weeks, and I still haven’t found what box I packed my three hold punch or the cost reports for FY05 in. I’m sure there are moving companies in Rome that can be hired, but it sure helps to personally oversee any relocation. Otherwise, office furniture could be arranged in a way that will just force you to move it on your own later. “I told you moving lackeys that I wanted the recliner by the balcony. I want to enjoy my waterfront view of the Holy See.” And don’t forget about that pesky phone transfer. You don’t want that direct line to God to accidentally get routed to the mailroom, would you? We don’t need Chip the Mail Guy bugging God about the Vatican vending machine being empty again.

So while Benedict XVI gets settled, You’re a Blog is more than happy to lend some time and webspace to the Pontiff’s cause. With all the administrative details the Pope will be busy with, there is little time to remind the world of the line that divides right and wrong. Allow Condon to step in. In today’s workplace, etiquette atrocities happen every day. It’s flat out sinful how people day in and day out get away with these acts of pure annoyance. Are they hell-worthy trespasses? No. Does someone need to smack them upside the head for them? Oh Yes.

I now present the 7 Deadly Office Sins.

1. Reprographic Sloth – Every now and then, technology will fail in the workplace. The number one offender throwing a stick in the spokes of productivity is the copy machine. It’s rarely anyone’s direct fault that the Xerox machine is jammed worse than the Beltway in rush hour, but someone pressed the button to send it to this level of disrepair. Breaking the copier is not a sin. Walking away from it without unjamming it is. This is not a victimless crime, so don’t act like it is.
2. Stapler Lust – When you’re in a rush to deliver some deliverables, time is of the essence. Returning to your desk after getting your copy off the printer just to staple the final document may seem like a complete waste of time. It is okay to pick up a stapler off of a desk in transit to apply that binding. It is a sin to take that stapler with you. Above all office supplies, it seems that people in the office are most often complaining about their wayward stapler, reasons for disappearance unknown. Don’t be that reason.
3. Burnt Gluttony – Most office settings provide a kitchen for employees to use to prepare any snacks or meals they may need during the day. Aside from the standard sink ‘n fridge, food heating apparatus may include a toaster and/or microwave. It is not wrong to use these appliances. It is VERY wrong to allow heat-able foods, like toast or popcorn, to burn. While you ran back to your desk to check your e-mail, everyone else gets to enjoy the smell of smoldering bread. Not a wise decision.
4. Free-Ranging Envy – Sometimes a sin is committed by putting another in a position to sin by your actions. I give you this crime. Free-ranging, which is a term I just made up, is defined as a “social conversation or interaction being held in an open area between two or more people.” Now let me clarify: I am all for a social, happy workplace. I am not for free-ranging taking place directly in front of my cubicle opening. It’s a distraction, and it needs to be stopped. Why? Because I’m envious that I can’t be doing the same thing. I’ve got work to do, people.
5. Telecom Greed – Not only can one be wanting of many possessions, they can also be wanting of more office territory. People are always jockeying for position to get a bigger office, extra guest chair, or more window space. Well, regardless of where the cubicle walls sit, everyone shares the same air. And since audio waves pass through the air, one must be mindful of thy neighbor. Which brings me to this conclusion: It is a sin to check your voice mail using speakerphone. Don’t do it, or I’ll start taking down numbers and returning calls on your behalf.
6. Cinematic Pride – I am the first one to admit that a lot can be learned about a person based on their favorite movies. These preferences are completely healthy. I would even go so far to apply them to relevant life situations. Talk about Field of Dreams when you’re at a ballgame. Bring up Almost Famous at a rock concert. Do NOT bring up Office Space at work. It’s a funny movie, and it’s very good. But no matter what reference you make to it while at work, your work situation will never, EVER be as funny as the movie. Everyone can relate to the movie, but no one can expect me to believe that the predicament we are in here at work is as original and interesting as the flick. (Especially Lundberg quotes.)
7. Stalled Anger – This may or may not pertain only to the guys in the office. (I’ve never been in a ladies restroom, so I wouldn’t know.) When a guy is in the bathroom, it is okay to converse with another gentleman only in the following instances: a) passing him in the doorway and b) washing/drying hands at the same time. Any communication in the vicinity of any toilet or urinal is strictly prohibited. (This is also a plank of The Man Code, but it’s never hurt anyone to mention it in other places.)
   
   

You're killin' me, Smalls

For post Number 2 on National YABDay, we have a very special treat for you all. Because of the overwhelming success we had with our ground-breaking interview, Dial N for Nordberg, we've decided to delve into the investigative arena once more. Today YABNews sits and talks with Mattias Caro, frequent commenter, Flailin' Chilean, and Washington DC native. Mattias was fortunate enough to attend the Washington Nationals home opener on April 14, and we here at YAB are the first to speak to him on the matter. Mr. Caro, how are you doing today?

Mattias Caro: Chris, first of all, allow me to thank you today for coming all the way out to Leesburg to see me. Let me also extend thanks to all of your readers who have come today to my office to continue our dialogue on how to make this great nation of ours a place where all orphaned baseball teams are welcomed. With your support, I guarantee that no third baseman will be left behind.

YAB: Well, I'm sure if Vinny Castilla is reading right now, he'd be glad to know how you feel. According to our records, 1971 was the last time baseball had been played in DC. Also, according to our records, in 1971 you were -9 and your parents weren't even in the United States yet. With that said, what do you remember about the old Washington Senators?

MC: As a transplanted Washingtonian, you, my friend, probably realize the value that our sports' institutions have been to the greater fabric of our city. And though I cannot expect you to become enlightened and support all of our franchises, you know the glory and pride our consistently losing teams bring to our city. The Washington Senators were part of that glorious tradition and I'm glad to support their reincarnation.

YAB: Fair enough. YAB has roots in Philly, so I understand. And also being from Philly, I know what it's like to play baseball in an archaic concrete ugly behemoth of a stadium. Which flows into my next question. Baseball at RFK? Is it a better venue than anything Montreal or Puerto Rico can offer? Carlos Carlos Carlos?

MC: As you know, RFK has a long and proud history of inspiring championship glory. The Redskins saw their rise from the ashes on that hallowed field with the likes of Lombardi, Allen and Gibbs. And in the 1990's Washington's futbol teams have combined for four championships within its hallowed confines. Frank Robinson and RFK are an incredible combination.

YAB: Yes, you can't spell Frank without RFK. But has the ownership made this look like a real ballpark? Or will Brad Wilkerson be forced to field fly balls while avoiding DC United's corner flags?

MC: If you've been to the game, you'll see the field has four bases, two bullpens, two foul pools, and one heck of a pitching mound. The hot dogs and beer are an All-American staple. Doesn't get more real than that. Wilkerson's going to love his field of dreams.

YAB: Ok, moving on. You were in attendance of the home opener against the Arizona Diamondbacks. I have a three part question for you: Who won, what was the score, and in one word only, explain the infield fly rule to the readers.

MC: I'm not going to lie to you Chris, the real winners that day were the city of DC and its long-suffering fans. I saw a young boy, about ten years of age walking out wearing a nationals jersey, hold a pennant in one hand and his other arm was wrapped around his father. That is baseball, that is America. We're the real winners. And as for your infield fly rule, I say this: out!

YAB: So according to Mr. Caro, even when the Expos don't lose, they aren't winners. Which reminds me, you do realize you've inherited the MONTREAL EXPOS, right? What has the team done to try and make people forget that?

MC: We haven't inherited a team. We've adopted a new member into our glorious Washington Sports' tradition. When our team goes out, they are the Nationals. They wear Natianls uniforms, the proudly sport a "W" on their hats, and the emblem of DC baseball dons their shoulders. I tell ya, Livan can really pitch one helluva game and Vinny and Jose have got some kick to their bat. It's gonna be a great season.

YAB: Ah yes, bat kicking. A secret weapon, I presume. I've also heard that the mascot has been officially unveiled, and it's an Eagle named Screech. In your honest opinion, which of SBTB's Bayside teachers would have been the best teacher to have for a class?

MC: Chris, as you know, Save by the Bell represents the best our American public education system has to offer. Bayside produces an all around well-rounded student capable of competing in today's global economy. I'm proud to say I'd gladly study with any of Bayside's fine, selfless, and dedicated educators.

YAB: I'm sorry, the correct answer was Mr. Tuttle. Ok, I better wrap this up, I’m on deadline. Mattias, it’s been a pleasure sitting with you today, even if we are in Leesburg (the land that time forgot). One final question: if the Arizona Diamondbacks played the kids in The Sandlot, what would the final score be?

MC: Don't mess with the Sandlot. It'd be a great game, hard fought.
Everyone would come out a winner.

YAB: So let’s recap. In today’s interview, the D-Backs, the city of DC, Benny, Ham, Squints, Yeah-Yeah, Smalls, Timmy, Tommy, Bertram, and DeNunez have all been declared winners. Everyone but the Washington Nationals. Matty, thanks for your time.

MC: You’re a time.

Ink and Paper

Well, Condon’s master plan to celebrate YABDay has already hit a roadblock. But fear not, good readers, roadblocks are no match for him (After all, he used to drive a 1990 Volvo tank.) You see, I planned to get a head start during the tail-end of my Managerial Accounting course, right around the time when my professor starts to sound like the teacher from the Peanuts comic strip. Taking notes on my pad to the left, blogging in a word document on the right, I’d figure to have pounded out a solid post by the time I get up to leave and attack the Beltway once again. However, we’ll have to pretend as if this was going really well.

In my typical Wednesday morning out-the-door rush, I left a crucial piece of my plan on the living room floor. But it wasn’t until 8:34 this evening, during Accounting, did I realize the gaffe. My trusty laptop, rather than quietly taking in my notes, threw the worst possible warning my way: LOW BATTERY. A quick shuffle through my bag rendered no AC plug. I was at the end of the juice, and before I could even start a blog, system shutdown. (You know the scene in Star Wars when the Imperial dude with the sleek black helmet pulls down the lever to prepare the Death Star weapon? I swear my computer made that sound.

Which leaves me here. Alone. No computer to make my job easier. Just a legal pad, a ballpoint pen, and a story to tell. I suppose this is how journals were composed in the past, yes? It lacks a certain degree of sophistication, but so far, it’s getting the job done.

But what if I had though of the YAB concept not back in July, but sometime before? Would I have had the tools to match the talent? After all, a blog written on a legal pad will only go as far as I can pass said pad. It’s time to find out, once and for all. So now, with a complete lack of computer, I give you the computers that have made up my past and present.

Name: Compy (1992-1997)
When I was 12, my dad brought home the first family computer, a Compudyne 386. This first machine sported a whopping 40MB of hard drive space, which roughly equals the current space it would tak to store about 12 Guster mp3s. It has a 5.25” floppy drive and a killer version of Windows: Three to the Point One. If I were using Compay today, rather than this legal pad, it probably would look like this:

“What is Neo had to go into the Dot Matrix to save Morpheus? He could follow the path of the line feed banner paper, swing from that helicopter on that awesome printing ribbon, and find Morpheus by using "dir/p." Neo: I know MS-DOS. Whoa."

Name: Mookie (1997-2000)
I bought this legendary machine with a summer's worth of wages at the Henderson Group. Once it joined me at WM, it was knighted Mookie by Spud. No one quite knows why, but this computer had more personality than most evening news anchors. A Mookieproducea blog would sound like this:

"I love blogging in the dark. Not because I like not seeing the keyboard, but because Mookie's monitor has grown increasingly dim in recent months. Ok, time to turn the lights off...spo tosdayu I woll be bloghghinhg abourt hoew Moojke alwasy knoiwas the riighrt sonhg to pl;ay...

Name: Cameron (2000-2003)
Cameron was computer assembled by Chris Smith, Aaron Boblitt, Justin Morea, and my belief that the sum of the parts would be financially cheaper than the whole. And except for an uncurable overheating problem (more fans!), it served quite well. Unfortunately, this machine was names after Cameron Frye from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and the slacker mentality of that movie follow the name. Here's a Cameron blog:

"Hey everybody it phone call time here at YAB. Chris: Hey Chris Nordberg, you there? Nordberg: Yeah. Chris: Do you think I should? Nordberg: Yeah. Chris: OK, Bye. And folks, that's today's blog.

Name: Attica (2003-)
Despite having no current battery life, Attica has been a great Dell Laptop. Many, many blogs have been fed through him. He's mobile and intelligent, which is a great combination. If I were typing on Attica right now, a blog might look like this:

"Well, Condon’s master plan to celebrate YABDay has already hit a roadblock. But fear not, good readers..."

To the Warning Track

Ok, so it’s become abundantly clear that Condon is a slacker in every way. The blog is back to a 7 days back update rate, while other websites are swimming along with their new-material-every-day format. (Blast you, Cnn.com) It’s not that I’m stubborn and refuse to bring the calendar and the blogdating machine to a consensus; I’m just resilient in the fact that I promise the funny and I’ve pulled myself out of bigger jams before. 7 days? Heh, that’s nothing! In fact, I am going to pledge that tomorrow you will see not 1, not 2, not 3, but 4 updates that all promise the bring the funny. So tune in at 9am, noon, 3pm, and sometime in the evening tomorrow if you want to see comedy, regimented, regulated, and ridiculously tiring on los manos de Condon.

So like I said, the odds have been worse than this. And as I look back on those times, it gives me comfort to know that I will kick YAB into afterburner mode on Thursday (hereafter known as YABDay.) For YABDay will go down in history as the day Condon stops making journalistic empty promises and pulls some silly energy from his bag, rocketing himself back into contention.

When I write this all down (and I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t re-read it, afraid of finding out what I have gotten myself into), I find the easiest way to talk about the art of the comeback is in sports terms.

It’s just a shame I don’t have the personal sports experience. Despite the many years and many sports teams and many results of victory and defeat, I can’t say I’ve had too many opportunities to write a glory story. Save one magical playoff run in Babe Ruth league, my baseball seasons often ended with a missed playoff chance or a throttling at the hand of the commissioner’s team. (Although, I contend my Coach Pitch team was doomed from the start when we received the sponsor “Medford Bakery” with a stupid gingerbread mascot. Nothing Champion about that.) Soccer gave me lots of opportunities to head the ball or slide tackle, but very few that resulted in raising a trophy or plaque. I shoot a basketball with about as much grace as a armless chimpanzee playing a piano. No titles there. I guess enjoyed moderate success in intramural sports in college as a part of the Monrovia Amazon sports franchise, but despite 20-something seasons, only one celebratory t-shirt to show for it. Looks like I’ve exhausted the avenues for a glory story, so I better go a different direction.

YAB Mission Statement: Bring the funny.

By now you can guess that my opinion of sports and athletics goes far beyond what the final score turns out to be. Not only can achievement be pulled from these events, so can humor. It is now my attempt to show you the lighter side of sports, why athletic competition can have some underlying comedic gold buried beneath.

Turns out I’m trying to do the complete opposite of Fever Pitch.

Due to prior summarizations, I guess the only major participatory sport I have yet to touch upon is Track. (ok, and Field.) Yes, I ran track in high school. (How did you think I got so brawny, anyway? By spilling juice on the kitchen floor?) Yes, I voluntarily chose to run as a form of leisure and sport. Now let’s get something straight. I’m not once of those people you drive by on your way to work who look like they’re not breathing hard and look so skinny you’re compelled to wing a Nutri-Grain bar at them through your car window. We in the business call them distance runners, and that’s not the kind of running I signed up for. (Let’s pretend that senior year X-Country team appearance was a complete anomaly, shall we? Good.) I ran for fun, camaraderie, and all the nylon apparel I could want. But there’s a problem with Condon running: I get bored very easily. If I was going to stick with this whole Track thing, you better do something to keep my attention.Like put stupid obstacles in my way.

Those obstacles are what those in the business call hurdles. Hurdles are the comic relief of the track meet. No matter how fast a hurdler wants to or can run, he’s got ten metal contraptions just begging that he forgets they’re there. It requires taking three normal running steps and then one ridiculously long step. Can you imaging if people walked like this on the street? Hilarious.

But the true comedy does not lie in the hurdles themselves. It lies in the participants. Along with fellow blogger Rob Harford and other HS friends, I put myself through this event of silliness for four great years. Here’s what I have to show for it.

1. A hurdle relay is more liking a swimming relay than any other running relay. Each team gets two rows of hurdles, facing in opposite directions. First guy (we’ll call him Rob) runs all 110m worth, and when he goes through a “fly zone” at the end, he yells in a manly voice, “GO!” and his teammate, (we’ll call him Condon) runs back the other way in the adjacent lane. Seems pretty business-like, right? Well, just wait until Condon gets to the fly zone at the other end, and rather than echoing Rob’s manly GO!, he hits an octave with his go! that rivals screeching of tires. That’s good crack...

2. Take the same relay scenario. Condon and James are warming up at one end of the indoor track, while Rob and Matt do the same at the other end. For a hurdler, flexibility is king. So we don’t try and run fast in order to warm up. We stretch. The simplest of pre-race stretches is the simple “try and kick yourself in the face” stretch. 9 times out of 10 this is very effective. 1 time out of ten you kick a little too hard, forcing your grounded foot to become airborne, and land flat on your back. Don’t worry, it’s not like you’re at a track meet with thousands of people who may have witnessed it.

Or maybe you are. Damn.

What was I talking about again?

We're Going to Overtime

There are times in my fiscal year calendar where the workload is at such a level that I could use a few more extra hours a week. These hours are even beyond staying at work late, because after all, you have to go home sometime - your bed/floor/kitchen table would miss you. Unfortunately, those times in the calendar are on days that end in Y.

Snap.

So what does this mean for a salaried employee? Absolutely nothing. If there's work to be done, then it must find a way to get completed. (Or, actually, you can not do it and eventually get fired. Let's face it, fire is hot, you don't want that.) (Remind me to tell you about my friend House sometime. He embodied case AND point.) And since I value getting home sometime before I have to go back, weekend work is not out of the question. And as long as the weather isn't nice yet, it's actually preferred.

Why, Chris?

An office can be a fun place to be when the rest of the worker bees have strayed from the hive. Crazy laser tag scenarios aside, there are many things that make a cubicle visit on a Saturday or a Sunday an enjoyable one. Now I'm not saying that working alone in a dark building when no one else is around is the best working conditions for the company as a whole, just the occasional overburdened employee trying to keep up with his inbox (both literally and electronically.) So if you are forced to come in on a Saturday, here are some reasons that may make that departure from your comfortable couch (for those with couches that are actually comfortable - lucky.) a worthwhile one.

So how does one go about turning his workspace into weekend warrior mode? Let's start with the notion of comfort. During the week, comfort is not neccessarily waiting in your wardrobe, as you don the dress shirt, slacks, and fancy shoes day in and day out. Well, friend, on the weekend, you can leave that fancypants attire in the closet, 'cause it's time to kick it casual. Just imagine sitting in your workspace in shorts. T-shirt. SANDALS. Yes, this dream can be true can be yours for the low low price of the freakin' weekend. When there's no one else to impress but the security guards at the front desk, I strongly encourage the casual. It should be noted that if you opt for the via de sandal, try and wear some with halfway-decent traction. Otherwise, you may find yourself slipping on the wet floors left behind by the janitorial staff. Twice.

Now, before you accuse me of some flagrant form of false advertising, I present the following caveat emptor (That's Latin, you know) Office buildings will likely, as a cost-cutting technique, turn down/off the HVAC systems at times when the building is not occupied. This means that your cubicle's air may be far from conditioned. Therefore, the casual attire may not only be comfortable, but also crucial.

Ok, now that you're not naked, you're ready to head into the office. And what treat is waiting for you! Rather than parking in the Basement Level 3 of your friendly neighborhood parking garage, being forced to climb endless flights of err...elevator, you've just been promoted. Park that car of yours in the famed "Reserved for Management" spaces. No one's going to tell you to move your car, as long as you gently explain that you are the Vice President of Awesome. (soon to be CAO). Trust me, it works.

Once you get to your desk, located in a darkened (and potentially haunted) department, you'll quickly realize that it seems your workplace has pressed the mute button. Other than the droning of the copier and the occasional fax alerting me of mortgage refinancing or grand Caribbean trips, (both for remarkable prices,) it's deathly quiet. It is your responsibility to inject some audio into the situation. Music is the likely choice, but you might as well take full advantage of your predicament. DVD. Just put in on for background noise, since the movie itself should be hidden beneath spreadsheets anyway. My recommendation: Die Hard. I can't think of another movie more fitting to align with your weekend working. (Assuming my large empty office building doesn't have its share of European terrorists) (But I will be running around barefoot once I lose these sandals) (Hmm.)

The reason I came in recently on a Sunday was to be on a conference call at one in the afternoon. Sure, I could have called from the confines of my apartment, but knowing my cell phone, I'd get more accomplished just yelling off my balcony and hoping the wind travels in San Diego's direction. But since I came in, I got to experience a completely different meeting. Rather than sitting around a conference room table, trying to look both informed and interested, I took the entire duration of the call in the best possible way: lying on my back.

Back to the floor is much more relaxing than back to the wall.

See? I told you coming in on a weekend isn't so bad. Like I said, as long as it isn't beautiful outside, you might as well- wait. Maybe I should check the weekend forecast...

Mostly Sunny. High of 73.

Ok, nevermind.

Deduct the Lucky Egg

Just because I backdate the blog doesn't entitle me to an extension.

It's Tax Time in the United States, which means Condon's got one more thing to do today. Nevermind the mid-term tomorrow (for which he buckled like a belt and purchased the book). Don't worry about the financial close deadline that will expire this afternoon. And we have a going away lunch at 11 at the Cheesecake Factory? (That's good manufacturing.) When, oh when, will I have time to do my taxes?!? Hold on, phone...

Chris: Hello?
IRS: It's the IRS. We've been reading your blog. Wanted to let you know you've had since the beginning of 2005 to file your federal tax return. Oh, and we also think that "Atternie General" was comic gold. Goodbye.
Chris: How do they do that?

Ok, so according to the Internal Revenue Service, I'm Slacker McWastingtime. Well, I could complain for 24 hours here on the blog, not file, and fold my arms in protest. But I know better. I have representation, so I supposed I'm obligated to that whole taxation part. Fine fine, let's pull out the No. 2 pencil, some receipts, an old paystub, and a W-2 and get crackin'!

Wait. I don't have time for this madness. I'm going to have to call my accounting firm to get me out of this time management crunch. After all, that's why you have accounting firms, right? Imaginary secretary person, get me the office of Brenner, Bevil, Bannock, and Coffie.

Feel the Rhythm...and perhaps the rhyme...

That's right, I hired the 1988 Jamaican bobsled team to do my taxes. Well, at least the fictional Disney representation of said team. It's been a long time since we've heard from Derice, Sanka, Yul, and Junior, and it's not just because bobsledding is only relevant once every four years. They've moved on from their Olympic exploits to manage a sensible financial operation, with reggae and calypso influences. I'll just let them take it from here. I'm too busy to sit here and blog all morning.

Junior: Good morning fellas. How are we doing today? It's a good day for tax returns.
Sanka: I'm feeling very Olympic today.
Derice: That's good, my brother, but there's work to be done. I'd like to thank Junior for bringing in some donuts for us, mon.
Yul: This doesn't mean that I like you.
Junior: Yes, sir.
Derice: Ok, mon. Let's do this. I know we haven't filed a United States tax return in a while, since most of our clients come from Jamaica. Sanka, do you have the instructions over there?
Sanka: "The key elements to a successful tax return are a good accountant, and three strong runners to push the sled down the ice." ICE?
Yul: Wrong instructions, mon. You are wasting our time. Again.
Sanka: No, mon. If I were wasting your time, I would sing a little song like this - "Hey people, y'all know we don't believe. Jamaica has a tax return team" -
Yul: Shut up, slinkyhead.
Derice: Look, fellas. I am the driver of this tax sled. So I'll lead us through the Forms. But first, we need the form 1040A. Junior Bevil, get it out of the file.
Junior: I don't see it.
Yul: What do you see, Junior?
Junior: I see...pride.
Yul: What else?
Junior: I see...power.
Yul: And...
Junior: I see a bad-ass mother who just found the file with the 1040As!
Derice: Sanka, if it isn't too much trouble, would you do us a favor and turn down that music, we've got work to do!
Sanka: Look, Star, let me tell you something about yourself. Whenever you need me for something, you don't have to hand me a bunch of lines. All you have to do is say, "Sanka, you are my best friend, we've been through a whole heap together, and I really, really need you."
Derice: Good, mon. Well, there's a lot of numbers here, and not much time left. So I say, as the driver, err..., leader, let's all grab a pencil and calculator and start on this return. Those East German accountants over there, they laugh at us. They think we have no business doing Mr. Condon's return. So I think if we are to get this done, we've got to do it just like them. Like the Swiss.
Junior: But Derice-
Sanka: All I'm saying, mon, is if we walk Jamaican, talk Jamaican, and is Jamaican, then we sure as hell better file tax returns Jamaican.
Yul: He's right, the push cart driver is right, mon.
Derice: Alright, mon! But before we hand this back to Mr. Condon, we need to name our work. Something with style.
Sanka: How about "You're a Tax Return."
Derice: No, mon. We will call this Cool Filings. It means Peace Be the Refund.
All: Cool Filings!

Take that Webster, Webster, and Cohen.

Running With Scissors

Every 4 weeks.

Ok, that’s really more of a guideline. A benchmark. If you stretch it to five, it’ll only have been 35 days since last time, and no one will really notice your prolonged delay in acting. 6 weeks will get you an occasional comment, but not enough motivation to break down and just do it. 7 weeks will impede your vision, making driving your vehicle more hazardous that trying to navigate while listening to the Vengaboys (road rage, engage!) So while the delay may have good reason behind it, it’s probably best to stick to the guideline. Oh, what’s that? You have no idea what I’m talking about. Here’s a hint – it’s a Condon Idenification Standard.

Friends, lend me your shears.

It’s true I’ve had the same exact haircut as far back as I can remember. Most family members and friends thumbing through old photographs put the date around 1984. Now there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t have a signature eighties haircut, like a mohawk or a mullet. (You would never buy your paper towels from a man with a mullet, now would you?) It’s plan. It’s simple. It’s served me just fine for the last 21 years. (And apparently, it’s old enough to drink. Is there alcohol in hair spray?) Maintaining on a day-to-day basis requires a brush, a comb, or some other instrument that can complete a left-to-right motion. I can wear a hat without it hindrance. Seems like a winner to me. Change is good, sure, but only when at a vending machine.

So how does Chris do it?

Today’s blog is meant to be a “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Guy’s Haircut.” It’s a topic far too often overlooked. For a guy, every 4, maybe 7 weeks, they’ll come into work and their hair is shorter. People notice, sure, but they never take the time to contemplate the magic behind the scenes. The days of going home and having mom or dad cut your hair are gone (these days, fyi, existed prior to 1984.) Nope, you’re on your own to procure someone with scissorskill, and when moving to a new area, that task is easier said than done. Some things to consider…

Price – My hairstyle does not require an advanced degree in barbology. It’s simple, and it’s on most sample listings. There is no reason to pay more than $20 for a guy’s haircut. $20 is a hard ceiling, too; I only pay $13. If upon walking into a potential hair cutting facility, and you encounter any of the following, get the heck out. You’re about to get financially served: fresh-cut flowers, manicure tables, complimentary wine, framed paintings, relaxing music, more styling bottles than pairs of scissors, more women than men. Get out!

Employees – The person who is going to cut your hair has the ability to ruin the next month and a half of your life with one swift “oops.” So picking your barber is of supreme importance. I have had two successful types when it comes finding that match.

First, and this is the best option, find a person who has YOUR haircut. Even if you have the simplest of “dos,” it helps to have it someone who stares at your hairstyle every day in the mirror. I’ve never find a perfect match, but I was at my closest during college. I, (and everyone on my hall, actually) trusted only one guy with the clippers: Walker, Texas Barber. Was his name Walker? Yes. Was he a barber? Yes. Was he from Texas? No, but when he left the ‘burg to go cross-country (Canada) with his dog, he held that Texas image to a tee. So that’s your first option.

Second, I highly recommend the “Foreign Woman who don’t speak English” demographic. Why? I give you three reasons.

1. A guy’s haircut is plain. Foreign women, namely Chinese, who most likely work in a family-owned shop, have their best expertise at standard styles, not froofy ideas that advanced training often inspires.
2. They have two tools: scissors and the razor. The combination of the two uses terminology that evokes a failsafe design: Razor: Lvl 2 on the side, Scissors block cut in back, thin out the top.
3. Focus. Look, I don’t go to get my hair cut to have conversation, I go for cutting of hair. This language barrier keeps dialogue to a minimum. I’m happy, and it also reduces the opportunity for the dreaded "oops."

Time - Finally, you need to just a prospective cuttery on its level of success as a business. Honestly, you shouldn't care about how well the place is doing business-wise. You just don't want to have to wait for a haircut. Look, I only go every 4, maybe 7 weeks. When I do find the time, I don't want to have to plan into the schedule 20-30 minutes of sitting in a waiting chair flipping through the latest issue of inStyle or whatever mag they subscribe to. No, there has got to be an open chair when I show up, or I'm taking my 7-12 yearly haircuts elsewhere. I need a place that won't go out of business, but never looks busy.

Am I describing a Mafia-run barbershop?