Bust a Move

The month of July has presented me with more than a few challenges. Blogs won’t write themselves, which means I’ve got a few to catch up on before we hit the one year YABiversary. I’ve got that pesky “reschedule your exams” and even peskier “do well on said exams” issues. And both of those stem from the big day in August, whereupon two will become one and Pepsi and Coke will be forced to co-exist in a fridge. But all of these take a back seat while I deal with a far more massive task: moving.

Come August, YAB’s home base will be operating no longer from The Random Run in Falls Church, but from an undisclosed location in Fairfax, VA. I currently am holding the keys to the new place in the ‘fax, and from the limited time I’ve been there, it’s going to be a great place to live. (By the way, I’m not literally holding the keys, that would make typing difficult. Here, I’ll show you. THLjs si what is iut us l;ike to type witj akeys in your haand. See? It looks like Mattias’ spelling…)

So here’s my master plan for Operation Relocation. Over the course of July, transfer all worldly possessions (except for those Star Wars and Legos claiming residence in my family’s attic) 9 miles due west. Seems pretty simple? For the most part it will be. I hope. Gulp.

The first step to a successful relocation is reduction in force. While it may be nice to have some of those old keepsakes, it’s time to the face the music, and the song of choice is Steam’s biggest hit. I have come to grips with this reality, and have since bid adieu to such sparsely-regarded items as the 2003 collection of Sports Illustrated, a keepsake candle-in-a-glass from SHS’ 1997 junior dinner dance, a back-up pair of soccer cleats, and my entire DVD collection.(Ah ha! Had you there for a second. Come on, you thought I was serious? I’d never throw out a candle-in-a-glass.)

Once you’ve reduced in force, it’s time to be organized about the way you move things. Now since I am cohabitating two spaces for the month, I can’t just pack all my things up in a box and send them to the ‘fax; I have to order the move wisely. The essentials (computer, clothes, big jar of pickles) need to stay as long as I need them. And despite my storied history of making the couch my nightly resting place, I should leave the bed where it is.

Like Jim Carrey’s run through his dreams in Eternal Sunshine, various objects have begun to disappear from my apartment. Every time I take a trip over, I try to bring something substantial with me. Stuff I won’t need. First, it was the second TV, the one from my bedroom. Then, it was my big bag of skiing gear. Last night, a TV stand that will go in the office. Umm…ok, so that’s all so far, but it’s a start right? Rome wasn’t built in a day. (It was built "next to" a river!)

Saturday night, after delivering the TV to the ‘fax, I sat against one of my bare walls, taking a break. That’s when I realized the Achilles’ Heel. Other than the aforementioned items and some bridal shower gifts, I was sitting in a completely empty apartment.

Can’t watch TV – I haven’t turned on cable. Can’t make a snack – have no food. I do laundry, but the only clothes I have with me are the ones on me, and that would require me to wear a towel for 90 minutes. Hmm, no. Maybe I’ll put on my ski-boots and go stand in the shower to test their waterproof abilities. (Sound familiar, anyone?) I guess I could rearrange the utensils in the utensil drawer. Again. Maybe if I can mooch of someone’s wireless connection I could write a blog. Or eight.

There’s only so much you can do in a completely empty apartment.

Sara Throckmorton, Do NOT Read.

It’s always better to hear it from a friend.

With the tragedy in London, Hurricane Dennis, and continuing coverage of the missing girl in Aruba last week, last week was not a pleasant one at the news desk. All three of the aforementioned has done permanent damage to human life, and YAB’s thoughts and prayers are with the victims. We are not of the mindset to be able to report on these developing stories, as we aim not to mock that of which is serious. Bringing the funny isn’t necessary there. However…

Late Friday night, one more news story that has left some saddened appeared. Someone over at the Associated Press apparently decided to blow off Friday happy hour and work late into the weekend, as the following hit YAB’s news wire just before 10 o’clock.

Read this.

For those too lazy to point AND click at the above link, here’s the skinny. Just outside Istanbul, Turkey, a wayward sheep, either as a measure of stupidity or depression, took his own life by turning his body towards a several story cliff and promptly walked right off, falling to his untimely death. Normally, one less sheep, no one would know the difference. Except, 1,499 of his closest friends saw what this loner did and followed suit. While 1,050 survived, (due to the ever-decreasing distance between the cliff and the landing pad), 450 sheep have now taken their final walk caused by the stupid action of just one.

It’s a shame none of them were Serta sheep. Talking sheep could have avoided such a massacre.

Yes, from this story it is clear that the Associated Press has set out to make the following point: Sheep are dumb. I’m sure there are science-types out there who can vouch for their slow-functioning brain waves or their predilection to run into fences, but this is what the AP wants you to believe. Regardless of the science, it’s pretty clear that if you’re diffusing a bomb and the clock is counting down, you don’t want a sheep at your right hand helping out.

But wait…The story also mentions the following: “The herd of 1,500 sheep were grazing while the shepherds went to breakfast.”

Granted, I don’t think that the shepherds spend their time on-duty yelling at sheep to rethink their lives and stay away from the cliff. However, we know the facts of the case. There was not one, but MULTIPLE shepherds on duty that fateful day in Turkey. And yet, against the best interest of the sheep, all shepherds broke for breakfast at the same time. What did they do, put their favorite sheep in charge? Look where that got them. Hope you enjoyed your Egg McMuffins, fellas.

I would love to be in the room when these shepherds have to go in for their annual performance reviews. Generally in performance reviews you try and focus the conversation on your achievements and skate by places you have come up short.

Managing Farmer: So Erdal and Nesim, I’ve been reviewing your past years’ performance, and for the most part you’ve performed quite well. The pasture shows no areas of overgrazing, you keep your shepherd staffs polished and strong, and your tunics are always crisply pressed and professional. I would even go so far as compliment you on your ability to count your sheep without falling asleep. That is not an easy task.

Erdal and Nesim: Thank you, sir.

Farmer: But I see on your record here that is says you allowed 1500 SHEEP TO WALK OFF A CLIFF. That’s going to be a bit of a problem. You see, here at Consheeptinople, we like our sheep to be alive. Many of yours are dead. This seems to be counter to our company’s values and mission statement. You leave me no other choice. You’re so fired.

Erdal (to Nesim): I told you it wasn’t time for a healthy breakfast!!

Cameraman's Lament

Yeah, I’m late to the game, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a late inning at-bat. Two weeks ago, Texas Rangers pitcher went Artest on a local Arlington, TX news cameraman and has been suspended for 20 games, appeal pending. Here’s a link for hard facts from a real reporter.

Everybody knows Kenny Rogers for different things. Some know him for his tremendously solid pitching career in the majors. Some know him for his previous career as a country music legend. And some of you know him for his delicious chicken. I’ve decided to combine all three in yet another grand re-write of a song that was probably better off in the first place.

(Ok, I forgot to combine the part about the delicious chicken. Read YAB over lunch, and have some then. There, problem solved.)

Cameraman’s Lament
A Parody of the Gambler
Music by Kenny Rogers
Words by Chris Condon

On a warm summer’s evenin’ in a ballpark in Texas,
I met up with the Rogers; he was stretching ‘fore the game.
He’s having quite the season, he sees Cy Young in the distance
A Ranger for the third time, and he’s still throwin’ flames.

He said, Chris, I’ve made a life out of clippin’ wings of Angels,
And tracking down the Tigers, game hunting Rays and Jays.
Out to dry the Sox I’m hangin’, where the color doesn’t matter.
When I come knockin’ I’ll greet the O’s and A’s with K’s.

So I picked up my own weapon, a news crew video camera.
Then I hit the power switch, on came a flashing light.
And K-Ro got deathly quiet, and his face gained an expression.
Said, if you’re gonna take my picture, Chris, first we’re gonna have to fight.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

Now all reporters know that with jersey thirty-seven
Is knowin’ not to ask the guy anything during games.’cause Kenny doesn’t like you and though he seems a nice one,
He’s a wild man with the temper of the great Jesse James.

A true-blue Texas Ranger, he came in with that roundhouse,
Crushed my poor camera, and kicked it to the ground.
An image of Chuck Norris, the Rogers, he’s suspended.
But in his final pitch I found advice that I could keep.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

I don't play poker. Well.

After recently watching Rounders and reading Robboblog, I’ve learned that the game of poker isn’t about the cards you have been dealt. It’s about reading those who play against you. Your luck, especially in Hold’Em games, is just as good as anyone else’s’ (assuming Edward Norton isn’t feeding you prime face cards).

As for reading these opponents, I’ve yet to craft a foolproof procedure. The problem is that there is no foolproof procedure. Every foe is different. Sizing up a person will get you nowhere unless you can crack his code. And it is then, and only then, when you get your answer without having to ask the question. If you learn how to do this, please tell me how.This method can apply to life even when you are not sitting at a gaming table. In fact, I dealt with reading another’s poker face just last night.

As my summer semester of grad school plows on, I am coming to the ever-clearer realization that my schedule come August is a trainwreck in the making. Paramount in this web is my wedding day, August 13. Generally speaking, conventional wisdom says that you it would be best to not have anything else scheduled for this day.

Conventional Wisdom just boarded a bus for the coast.

I just had two new classes start up, and sure enough, the syllabi have foretold my doom again. Scrolling down to the class schedule, I see that August 13 will have no ordinary class scheduled. Instead, in all caps, it reads: CASE COMPETITION. Uh oh.

So, it’s clear that I have a graded assignment, for which I should be present, the day of my wedding. This just won’t do. Yeah, yeah, I could slip it in the morning, but enough people would kill me before I even could suit up for the ceremony. Now I have already taken the precautionary steps to avoid such a conflict by telling the program dean (Hello, Dean!) months ago about the wedding. He said the professors will be happy to work with me to make other arrangements. But until I ask said professors, nothing is set in stone.

Here’s where being a poker player comes in. As I sit in the back of my first class last night, I am doing everything I can to read my professor. Even though I have the dean’s assurance, the professor is the one who must grant Plan B. I e-mailed him earlier in the day with the dilemma, but I’m sure he hadn’t read it yet. This leaves me listening to his opening lecture and course rules trying to decipher how helpful he is going to be. I’m reading a poker face.

On a scale of 1 to 3, where 1 is “Not Accommodating” and 3 is “So Accommodating,” I’ve got to start my initial analysis at a middle-of-the-road 2. I’ll be weighing some of the professor’s comments carefully, and at the end, let’s see what my chances are of getting that stupid case moved. Got it?

“Good evening, I am your Professor for Strategic Management” READ: 2. Short greeting, playing his cards close to his chest.

“I honestly feel that I have the best job in the world. I live 75 miles away from DC, but know that there’s nothing out there better than teaching.” READ: Up 1 = 3. Wow, this guy is in it for the love, not for the paycheck. That’s a good sign.

“I have trouble dealing with authority. I was in Vietnam and left the service pending a court martial.” READ: Down 1 = 2. Whoa. That’s guy’s tough, and he probably doesn’t care what the dean said.

“It is not my responsibility if you learn anything. That’s your responsibility.” READ: Down 1 = 1. Trouble. Can’t learn if I’m not there.”

“Shortly after getting out of the service, I went back to get my teaching PhD via the GI Bill at Penn State. My wife was pregnant, so free education sounded pretty good.” READ: Up 1 = 2. Dude, he’s married! Sympathy points!

“I am no longer married to her, though. We didn’t communicate very well. It’s important in your group projects to communicate.” READ: Down 1 = 1. Ok, so maybe a little less sympathy than I thought.”

I am now happily married and my wife and I are both professors. All we do is teach grad course. READ: Up 1 =2. He must understand the demands of working full-time as a grad student. Reprieve.

Final READ = 2. Looks like this exercise was a wash.

(Epiblog: Even though I couldn’t read the guy any better than I can a Dostoyevsky novel, other arrangements will be made to do some extra work to make up for missing the competition. I rule!)

In a Holidaze

Owww.

The week immediately following a holiday weekend can be remarkably difficult to get through. Sure, your body is used to having 2 days off, back-to-back, but it’s that third one that throws you all out of whack. Suddenly, you’ve gained LM, lazy momentum. LM will cause you on that first day back to oversleep, drag your feet on the way to work, and spend the first hour at your desk wondering how you burned through three days of leisure so quickly. You can also blame LM for pressing the wrong floor in the elevator, spilling your morning beverage, and accidentally calling your boss dude. There’s no transition period in your triumphant return to work either. Just a stack of paper as tall as Christina Toms waiting for you. (After all, you did leave work early on Friday telling yourself it all would still be there when you got back Tuesday. Well, you were right.)

While the workload is there on that first Tuesday back, the energy to battle it may not. Do not be alarmed if you’ve been working for five hours and it feels like twenty-seven. This is perfectly normal. Since the 4th of July was a national holiday, everyone around you feels the same way. Expect the afternoon to be slower than The English Patient. Yawn.

Now my personal plight is a little more severe. Because of the insane amount of traveling I did two weekends ago, I took off that following Monday to rest and unglue my hands from the steering wheel. At the time, that seemed like a wise decision (it’s very hard to type on a computer with a steering wheel affixed to your palms.) In retrospect, I am now the recipient of two consecutive four day work weeks.

I know what you’re thinking. Stop complaining and bring some funny about paper clips or something. I will eventually (Paper clips? Is that the best you can come up with?), but I’ve got a bigger crisis on my hands. With two 4-day weeks in a row, I know that next week is going to be absolute torture. Why?

I am going to have to work five days. In a row.

I work 5-day weeks for a living. But once you pair two 4-day weeks in a row, this is when your LM kicks it into high gear. By next Friday, LM will so be ready to fall asleep on a couch somewhere that I may start uncontrollably running into things and not feel the associated pain.

Granted, this particular instance is my fault. I was the one who took off two Mondays ago. But there are other times in the working year where LM gets to overrun your productivity due to overkill. Something must be done to prevent this, and YAB is just the blog to do it.

Three day weekends are a wonderful thing. The occasional shortened week can really pick you up from the throes of repetition. My company provides us with 9 holidays a year and most of them do fall on Mondays. But here’s the problem, of these nine holidays, five of them fall between November and January. That leaves ONLY four for the other nine months. That’s why Presidents’ Day Memorial Day, 4th Of July, and Labor Day are so important. They are isolated on the calendar, far away from their holiday brethren.

So I am proposing a more even spacing of the nine given holidays. There’s 52 weeks in the year, and even spacing would place one holiday every 5-6 weeks. Doesn’t that seem better. Now this may mean you need to work on some important days, but you can thank me later when you have off on some different days while the rest of the world works.

Condon’s Holiday Schedule…
November 24 – Thanksgiving Day
December 25 – Christmas Day
February 2 – Groundhog Day
March 14 – Mothers Day in the Russian Republic of Georgia
April 19 – Venezuelan Declaration of Independence Day
May 30 – Memorial Day
July 4 – Fourth of July
September 5 – Labor Day
October 10 – Anniversary of the Foundation of the Korean Workers’ Party

Happy holidays.

Putting the Fast in Breakfast

Generally speaking, my time spent in the car is as uneventful as the next guy’s. It typically involves me listening to music, talking on the cell phone, and seeking out my next blog topic. This probably explains the recent rash of traffic-related posts. Or at least explains why it appears I’m laughing maniacally in a car with no other passengers.

(Muwahaha.)

The muse of inspiration, however, was riding shotgun late Saturday night, convincing me to relay the following narrative to you. You see, I was driving home from Manassas after eating too much at a barbeque and doing some new apartment-related tasks, when I stopped at a recently-installed red light. For those who have not experienced the mean streets of Manassas at night, let me paint the scene for you. To my left, a Dodge Ram pulling a trailer containing a homemade NASCAR, likely on his way to the nearby racetrack. To my right, a motorcycle, whose rider had a “Cat: The Other White Meat” bumper sticker on his helmet.

Now Manassas is not all Harley and Hemi, it’s also got the same suburban culture that every DC metro town has. This was represented by the midnight blue PT Cruiser in front of me. In addition, a red 2000+ Mustang convertible, top-down. Two normal looking cars at a normal intersection, waiting for the normal traffic light to turn colors.Then normal got thrown out the window.
When the light turned green, I moved my right foot from brake to gas, and began my gradual acceleration. The aforementioned Cruiser and Cobra, on the other hand, had taken the immediate acceleration approach. Like a bat out of hell, the two tore off the line and were traveling far faster than and sisterhood of pants ever could. Now I’ve seen street racing in this area every now and then, but those cars are normally souped up Jettas and Civics with ridiculous spoilers and flames on the doors. Not a sensible PT Cruiser and his Mustang friend.

Curious, I kept an eye on them as their taillights became an increasingly distant memory. Wrapping around a turn, they disappeared from view. I was left with unanswered questions and the smell of burnt rubber.Until…

The nice thing in times like these is that the system engineers who designed the nocturnal traffic patterns in Manassas are idiots. Soon enough, I had caught up to the speed demons at the crossing of Liberia and Route 28. It’s one of the longest traffic lights and most painful. But it did let me catch up, and thus continue the story.

While waiting at this light I noticed the driver of the convertible. A man and woman, likely married, in their late 40s-early 50s. One would think that they had grown past the “speeding for no reason” stage of their lives.

As the light turned green, both cars again tore around the right turn and sped down Route 28. It was then, on the turn, that I got a good glimpse at the occupants of the PT Cruiser. Another couple, same age.

What the?

While I tailed them, pondering their actions, the two cars simultaneously threw on their right blinkers as they arrived at their final destination. My question had been answered. Apparently there is a force in the universe that can cause two responsible married couples to drive recklessly through the streets without any regard for personal safety. A magnetic factor so great that the pedal remains to the metal. I had seen their final destination. And of all the places in the world, the PT Cruiser and the Mustang parked…

At IHOP.

I’m speechless. What do they put in those pancakes?

Mars and Noble

In the vein of High Fidelity, I participate in a weekly group discussion in which we, a random collection of people, declare a Top 5 for a given topic. In an era where VH-1 insists on ranking everything under the sun, we try and give our weekly lists credence by putting together a consensus choice forth. It’s about as scientific as Las Vegas, but it keeps us all from getting real work done.

In the past, we’ve been so bold to declare Growing Pains the top sitcom of the 80’s, Mr. Thomas Jefferson the chief statesman, Yoda and Han Solo the best characters in the SW universe, and YAB even received the lofty award of Best Website. All of these categories generally were closed; nominations came from a fixed list of possibilities. Ok, maybe not the website one, but in the paraphrased words of the Beatles, all you need is YAB.

This past week’s topic, however, strayed from the previous model. “Dream Jobs,” as it was introduced will certainly not have the make-up to come up with a group consensus top 5. The reason is simple – no two people have the same dreams. When constraints like training and required skill are removed from the equation, anyone can pretty much put down anything. Mine include turning my hobbies into paychecks, as sports, film, and writing all were manifested into ideal occupations. No one had the same ideas as I. But my co-contributors did manage to throw a few repeat entries onto the list. And strangely enough, above all the others, the number 1 dream job was declared.

Astronaut.

Yeah, as each top 5 came in, it became increasingly apparent that the panel was hoping to fill childhood aspirations and visit outer space. Children are read so many stories about other planets and heroic space travel that I can totally see where my counterparts are coming from. Of course, this is really the perfect dream job. This may be one of the most select cadre of workers that one may find in this country. Missions are so few that shuttle crews happen (maybe) annually, and so many people would like to participate that even the best NASA has gets only one trip out of the atmosphere. Astronauts are extremely cool, but there’s just not the demand so that all of you who wrote this job down will really get to don the big white suit.

Which reminds me…

Just because the missions are few doesn’t mean that you all cannot be astronauts. I just can’t guarantee you’ll spend your best years in outer space. Astronauts are trained in many, many things that the rest of the world will never experience. And just because NASA only get 6-8 people out to the stars a year does not mean that you need to take those skills and let them go to waste. Think of this as a business opportunity. Astronauts can find success in other lines of work. In fact, what if we combined their talents with the number 2 consensus dream job on the list?

Bookstore Owner.

Why you all want to own and manage bookstores is beyond me. It’s just like running any other business, and it most likely will not allow you to read literature while working all day. But what IF you were an astronaut? You could have such a different brand of bookstore that I would guarantee can compete against the giants like Borders and B&N. Here are 5 failsafe ideas for you all to get started on this brilliant cross-breeding of dream jobs.

1. Zero-Gravity Non-Fiction – Face it, those historical epics aren’t flying off the shelves. Encourage people to browse these stacks by creating a chamber that lacks gravity. With shoppers and books floating about, who WON’T want to shop for boring autobiographies?
2. Intergalactic Décor – Every bookstore out there is the same. Light colored walls, soothing music, rows and rows of books. This needs to change. Landscape your store like the moon’s surface. Make book shopping an experience. Especially when shoppers have to climb down into a massive crater to seek out the how-to and cookbook sections.
3. In-store promotions – Like I said, real NASA astronauts may get one shot at going up before retirement. Recruit those who already had their big shot to do in-store promotions like book signings, reading to children, and even work the registers.
4. The new Harry Potter book is coming soon. There’s bound to be a line around the block waiting to come in at midnight and get their copies. Make the wait interesting by letting people enjoy the in-store flight simulator to kill the time. Get Chewbacca to co-pilot.
5. Space Café – You want coffee while reading your magazine or book? Go to Borders. You want Tang and Astronaut Ice Cream? Stay here.

Patriotic Monoblogging

It is your American right to leave early on the Friday before a three day weekend. I don’t care what your boss says. If it’s four o’clock, and you are still stuck in your chair processing, analyzing, or doing whatever it is that you actually do, you can tell Bossy McBossington that YAB has given you the green light to call it a day. It’s not like you get a whole lot done on days like this. At least you are using your time for good and for awesome by partaking in patriotic blog reading. God Bless America.

This holiday weekend comes on an occasion for which we can think our forefathers. The 4th of July was simply July 4th, until Thomas Jefferson got a hankering to write and penned a declaration of some sort. Imagine blogging if we were still victims of British occupation here in the colonies. I would be required to included trendy Brit phrases like “Right Oh!” and “Bloody Hell.” And that’s not how we roll.

4th of July has become a time for blockbuster movies to rise and shine. This year is no exception with War of the Worlds landing in theaters just in time to take the focus of Tom Cruise’s dizzy descent into insanity. As always, YAB caught this story WAY before the press junket ever happened. Recent yearly offerings for this holiday have included I Robot, Terminator 3, Men in Black 1 and 2, A.I., The Perfect Storm, Armageddon, and sadly, Wild Wild West. But before all of this came…

Independence Day.

Yes, it’s a Will Smith vehicle, and yes, he’s the king of this weekend. (someone has to be since we revolted on the King of England.) But today I pull from this overall solid action flick one of the more memorable monologues in the last ten years of film.

Note: Memorable does not always mean good.

Just before the final attack on the aliens, our President steps out of the Nevada jet hangar to address his brothers in combat. Played by Bill Pullman, the Prez just happens to have the fighter jet background to lead the ragtag squadron of Air Force, cargo pilots, and Randy Quaid against a menacing enemy. It would take a heroic effort to defeat the aliens and a killer address to move the plot. Today, to commemorate America’s freedom, we here at YAB mock that address.

Good morning. (Good start, Pullman. Remind them that it’s 5 AM and they could still be in bed.)

In less than one hour planes from here and all around the world will launch the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind... (Taking the time zones into account, that means somewhere in Australia they will be flying in the dark. Sorry, Aussies, bad timing.)

(This is where Pullman pauses and reflects. Like he just remember we he left his keys to the Presidential racquetball court. Classic.)

Mankind. The word has new meaning for all of us now. We are reminded not of our petty differences but of our common interests. (Like how we can’t tell Bill Pullman from Bill Paxton)

Perhaps it's fate that today, July the Fourth, we will once again fight for our freedom. (Or convenient screenwriting) Not from tyranny, persecution or oppression. But from annihilation. (He gives his “I’m as cool as Will Smith, right?” face here.)

We're fighting for our right to live, to exist. From this day on, the fourth day of July will no longer be remembered as an American holiday but as the day that all of mankind declared we will not go quietly into the night. (Awkward pause) We will not vanish without a fight. (Awkward Pause #2, coupled with Awkward rhyming in a monologue.) We will live on. We will survive.

This is where the monologue, as written in the script ends. Which means that the “Today we celebrate our INDEPENDENCE DAY!” line was an ad-lib on the set. Wow. Just wow. Can you imagine ad-libs in other movies that invoke the title in hopes the audience will cheer??? I can just see it now.

Tom Cruise: It appears that the aliens have been planning this invasion for a million years. And here we are, ready to fight for our planet, for our families, and for our lives. What we have on our hands, my fellow humans, is a war. A war – of the Worlds!

Happy 4th, non-alien types.

The Film Fifteen for Live 8

In overcrowded stadiums and venues around the world, Live 8 will kick off this Saturday in hopes of providing hope and influence on behalf of the planet’s poverty-stricken. A concert series organized by the same man who strung together Live Aid in 1985, Sir Bob Geldof, it will feature an all-star lineup divided about nine different locations.

The flagship show will be held in Hyde Park, London. Where Geldof saves the best for his homeland. The docket is calling for U2, Madonna, Paul McCartney, Elton John, Annie Lennox, Sting, Pink Floyd, and REM. There are newer acts (The Killers, Coldplay), but they pale in comparison.

America will be treated in Philadelphia to a solid rock, country, and hip hop lineup that entails presenting Bon Jovi, DMB, Destiny’s Child, Jay-Z, Toby Keith, Will Smith, Linkin Park, and even Jars of Clay. And a blend of American and international super-acts will invade the stages in 7 other countries. We’re exporting Sheryl Crow and Shakira to Paris, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill to Rome, Tokyo gets Good Charlotte and Bjork, and Berlin rocks with Audioslave, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Green Day, and the guy who sang Lady in Red.

Heck, even Canada gets in on the action. BNL, eh?

It is indeed an impressive list of stars. But with so much of the acting community in one the ONE campaign, from Pitt to Mutombo, there’s got to be a way to include the movie industry more. I’ve read that actors and actresses will participate by introducing acts. This is why I’ve decided to act on the behalf of Geldof and Live 8 to add a tenth concert to be held this Saturday, July 2. That’s right at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California, the mission of Live 8 and the ONE Campaign will be supported through the music of an all-star line-up of 15 more bands, all from famous movies!

The show will consist of 5 sets, and is scheduled to start right at 9 am. Toms, as my sole West Coast reader, I expect you to be there! (Review to be found on your blog, perhaps?)

SET 1 – Garage Rock
Wyld Stallyns – (Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure) – Hey G-8 Summit, be excellent to one another.
The Lone Rangers – (Airheads) – I hear they do a mean cover of the Hanukkah Song, too.
Loveburger (Can’t Hardly Wait) – Well done!

SET 2 – Prom Rock
Johnny Casino and the Gamblers (Grease) – Born to hand jive…for Africa!
Marvin Berry and the Starlighters (Back to the Future) – “Hey Chuck, it’s your cousin Marvin, Marvin BERRY. You know that new sound you’ve been looking for?”
Otis Day and the Knights (Animal House) – They preferred that they performed in Athens, but since Geldof rebuked the request, they’re bringing a toga party to Cali.

SET 3 – Smooth Rock
The Wonders (That Thing You Do!) – Can’t… get… it… out… of… my… head…
Barry Jive and the Uptown Five (High Fidelity) – Promised to play a few Sonic Deathmonkey tunes…
The Commitments (The Commitments) – Sorry, London already booked that other Irish rock band.

SET 4 – Monster Rock
Crucial Taunt (Wayne’s World) – We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!
The School of Rock (School of Rock) – Jack Black’s encore performance. Will take Tenacious D requests.
Spinal Tap (This is Spinal Tap) – Oh, for the eradication of poverty? Yeah, they’ll crank it up to 11.

SET 5 – The Main Event
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem (The Muppet Movie) – What a venue for a reunion concert! Animal, Zoot, Floyd, Janice, and the Doctor are in!
Stillwater (Almost Famous) – Is it that hard to make them look cool?
The Blues Brothers Band (Blues Brothers) – What all-star music is all about. They’ll end the show, inviting all the other bands to join them on-stage for a “We are the World” redeux. Thanks, Elwood. Thanks, Jake.

Hollywood Rox.

Carship Enterprise

Not being able to drive your own car can have a crippling effect on your daily routine. Walking to work (when not metro accessible) will leave you tired, hot, and with worn-out shoes. You could put on sneakers, but then you become “Nike Suit Man.” You don’t want to be him. Nobody should.

You can lose your right to drive your own car by several means. Someone could steal it. Maybe for parts, maybe because they heard you had the new Foo Fighters album, and they had to take the car to get the tunes. OR, you could get your car towed. This is a rarity for most of you, as you obey parking signs and have private properties on which to store your wheels, but if you need a change of pace, visit us at Random Run. We’ll be sure that they yoink it before you can blink. OR, you’re not driving for the simple reason that your car is getting repaired.

DING!

This is exactly the reason for my situation. A few weeks back, I was walking out of church on Sunday morning, enjoying the company of the Family Pretz while strolling to my one Accord. As I got closer, I saw that a woman and a girl were sitting on the hood of their car, parked directly behind me. Odd. As I got even closer, I noticed a note under my windshield. Very odd. As I got within earshot, I was quickly and apologetically informed that this very nice family’s newly-learner’s permitted daughter hasn’t exactly mastered “pedals” yet. Long story short, my car is visiting his mechanic friends to get a bumper replaced. The girl’s family has been extremely friendly and helpful and are taking care of all related expenses. I am only out the convenience of driving my car to work. Which means only one thing…

RENTAL CAR!!!

Renting a car does not only have to be a necessity to get from here to there. It can also be fun! I spent this morning dropping off my car for its bumperectomy and even though Enterprise claims “We’ll Pick You Up!”, I simply walked two storefronts down to the dealer. The first thing you notice is that there is not a single car wrapped in brown packing paper with a nice bow. Apparently, this marketing strategy was quickly discontinued when employees had to begin renting cars after driving vehicles with brown packing paper COVERING the entire windshield. I thought that management would have been able to preemptively catch that trainwreck.

When you rent a car, price is most likely going to be a concern. Here’s some pointers:
- If you are under 25 years old, get a friend. Or a bike. Both are cheaper to get your around.
- The $16/day insurance is a rip-off. Spend 12 bucks the first day, go to the supermarket, and by a whole lot of marshmallows. Pad your car the Stay-Puft way.
- I don’t care if they have a Hummer on the lot. Stay cheap. Even 6’4” bloggers rent economy or compact.

Of course, going with a smaller model gives you very little room to experiment with your temp transportation style. When I rent a car in January, I was issued a Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible. Wow, a convertible! If there hadn’t been 5 inches of snow on the ground, maybe I would have taken the top down.

Going back this morning, I was hoping the Eclipse would be available. This is a much better season for it. But nay, I was left with only two models on the lot, and they were both named Chevy Cobalt. The only difference was color. Having driven in my life a white, a gray, and a silver car, I’ve kept it pretty basic. Which is why I went with this for my rental car.

Red 5 Standing By...

Don't Pass it to Stonewall!

Apologies for the one day hiatus. It appears that when you spend a weekend in a car on the interstate, you can have a real difficult time trying to maintain a wireless internet connection. One day, when Microsoft and Dell merge and buy the Eastern seaboard from the government, then I will be able to blog from the road. Until then, I’ll just have to wait or try and use the internet capabilities of my new cell phone. Let’s see, I just have to press this button here…and…

…a digital picture of the floor, half-obscured by my lens-covering thumb. Grand.

It’s a real shame, too, since the road provides so many good post ideas. Most of them are fleeting; I rarely can recall them when I sit down to the YAB Desk. But as I drove back from a wonderful wedding evening in Williamsburg Saturday night, something stuck me as strange.

The drive between DC and Williamsburg can take anywhere between 2 and 6 hours, depending on speed, traffic, and pace-crippling blizzard. (Mattias you still owe me for that one.) It has its highlights (Wawa in Fredericksburg), its lowlights (Mixing Bowl), and its weird SHS connections (towns named Stafford and Lightfoot). There are probably other notable landmarks, but when you’re risking being late for a wedding, sightseeing doesn’t exactly make the docket.

However, YAB will take this opportunity to question a roadside mystery just south of Fredericksburg. When driving back north on Saturday night, I passed the brown national park sign for Exit 118, home of the Stonewall Jackson Shrine.

Or is it?

Sure, the “Stonewall Jackson Shrine” part of the sign was glowing with reflective lettering, but it appears that the Virginia Department of Transportation has place brown metal over the section where “Exit 118” had been. For those who have never been (ok, all of you), Jackson Shrine has been erected in honor of Civil War Confederate general Thomas Jonathan Jackson, who was known better as Stonewall. What a name. Apparently, he wasn’t very handsome.

Well, the details are fuzzy, but apparently when Stonewall was returning from a recon mission on I-95 he returned to camp on horseback. Sadly for him, his own troops helped him dismount – he was mistakenly shot. An attempted revival occurred at a nearby farmhouse. When said revival failed, they figured that it’s shrine-in’ time and contacted the National Park Service. Wayward travelers and lost motorists would get to visit a house where a guy died all the way until…NOW.

Exit 118 apparently no longer services the Stonewall Jackson Shrine. And I have no idea why. Maybe there’s a road outage and you can no longer get to that old farmhouse. Perhaps the annual visiting population of 14 people has declined to single digits, forcing a hasty closing. There is even a chance that someone, somewhere, built a COOLER Stonewall Shrine, that held more than a bed where a fallen soldier passed away. Heck, maybe they even have a stone wall. That would be ironic.

But what reason do I fear the most?

Stonewall Jackson isn’t dead.

Think about it. You cannot have a shrine for a man centered on his death if he hasn’t died, right? Is it possible that Virginia historians have found out that he is alive and well, 147 years after his supposed slaying by his own men? I always thought that story had a few holes, anyway. If this IS the case, doesn’t the National Park Service need to be tried for fraud? Lawyers, please comment.

Now excuse me while I hide from a newly-discovered Civil War general. If he figures out the Internet, I’m cooked.

Dear YABby,

The source material was lifted without permission from Dear Abby’s website. Take that, Universal Press Syndicate.

DEAR ABBY: I am 10. I was born in 1994. My problem is I really, really wish I had lived in the '80s. I know this sounds stupid, but the style was awesome -- not skanky…The '80s seem awesome! I mean, they had good songs like "She Blinded Me With Science." The '80s seem so cool -- at least people are always saying so. Help, Abby, please. I'm sitting here listening to '80s music now. -- BORN IN THE WRONG ERA

DEAR IN THE WRONG ERA: I can't "fix" your problem, but it may comfort you to know that many people feel the way you do about various eras -- and that includes the roaring '20s, the romantic '30s, the fashionable '40s, the revolutionary '60s, the experimental '70s, as well as the "awesome" '80s. When you're older, you'll be able to satisfy your "itch" to live in the '80s by collecting music, clothing and accessories from that decade. It's not exactly a trip back in time, but it will capture the nostalgia. -- ABBY

Time for Condon to step into this advice-giving business…

DEAR BORN IN THE WRONG ERA: I heard about your problem by reading Abby’s mail. She doesn’t mind. Look kid, by my calculations tell me you’re eleven. That puts you in eh, fifth grade. At this point in your young life, I fully endorse listening to music, and it’s admirable you’ve steered clear of lyrical trainwrecks like Gwen Stefani, Shakira, 50 Cent, and LFO. YAB is totally endorsing your eighties niche, but we’d like to pass on some helpful information on the decade. After all, I lived it.

First off, I see you like Thomas Dolby. Yeah he had a great…song. However, you shouldn’t go pressing the genre to your friends on the lunchtime playground on the strength of “She Blinded Me with Science.” Stick with hit machines like The Cars and The Police. Even though Frankie Goes to Hollywood doesn’t mean you should, too. Men, whether they are “at Work” or Without Hats” are also cool to hang with. A-Ha! (Another ideal choice.)

In your musical travels, you will also find a dark period of music called “Hair Metal.” Just because these bands look like they had as much experience with makeup and hair teasing as your 5th grade friends do does not mean you should start buying their LPs. Other than Bon Jovi and a few other acts from Jersey, stay away. We hope this will help far more than “Generic Response” Abby did. -- YAB

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DEAR ABBY: Wow, great job with BORN today. Way to give her nothing to work with. I see that you demonstrated the feel that many decades of the past once held, and that was a good idea. The 20’s were roaring, no doubt. I suppose the 30’s were romantic, if being broke and unemployed has that charm for ya. The 40’s were fashionable, ok, I’ll give you that. The 60’s and 70’s, you nailed them in a word. And you made the girl feel good about the 80’s. But I have one question for you.

What happened to the 50’s?How could you just skip over a decade, like it didn’t exist? Wait until the poor kid gets to US History in high school and when it’s time to talk about post WWII capitalism, the Communist hearings, the labor union merge, polio vaccine, and Korean War, she’s going to look like an idiot! The least you could have done was assigned a random adjective. Like “Zesty.” -- YAB

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DEAR THOMAS DOLBY: If she really did blind you with science, how the heck do you maintain and see your extremely weird personal website? That probably means you don't read the blog, either. Oh well. -- YAB

Fasten Your Seatbelts

And to quote AFI’s 94th greatest movie quote of all time:

"I’ve got the need – the need for speed!"

I don’t have any good speeding ticket stories to relay, so please check out Rob’s and Sara’s recent accounts for highway hijinx blogging. No, there are no police cars or high-speed chases in this story, just a battle for the road between two fine specimens of vehicular craftsmanship. This road (figuratively speaking) isn’t big enough for the both of them.

(Literally speaking, it was a four-lane road, so I guess it is.)

The setting is a traffic light on Eisenhower Avenue in Alexandria, VA. Alexandria, as few may know, stands only slightly behind LeMans, Indianapolis, and Daytona as a mecca for high-performance racers. Some would say I was in said mecca because of the caliber of car I drive. (Others would say I was on my way to class.)

As I toed the intersection line in my street warrior, a ’99 Honda Accord, I knew that no one ruled the road like me. I’ve got the finest features of a top-notch driving machine: air conditioning, seats, power windows, 3 out of 4 doors that work. I move in a veritable drag race dream. As far as I’m concerned I own the road. But then hesitation pulled up along side of me.

Lamborghini. Countach.

I thought those things were just in the movies. But sure enough, a bright red monster of a sports car had lined up at the traffic light to my left. If you need a visual, click here. And the guy inside this thing? Older white guy, probably late 50s. Cool glasses. Sharply Dressed. I couldn’t make out what he was listening to, but to take away from his visage of cool, I’m going to report it as Paul Anka.

So there we were, two road warriors waiting side-by-side at the traffic light at Cameron Parke Place. Now kids, YAB does not in any way endorse drag racing. It is very illegal, very dangerous, and just plain not feasible in rush hour traffic. Fortunately, Mr. Countach shares the same respect and concern as YAB for driving safety and the law, so he wasn’t about to blast off the line, either.But the score still needs settling.

I don’t know where Mr. Countach was headed, but frankly, I didn’t care. I needed to prove once and for all which was a better brand of sports car – a Lamborghini or an Accord. He appeared to not even care that I was staring him down, but I’m sure he was just bluffing. He knew just as well as I did that once that traffic lights turns, he and I would be deadlocked in a clash of high octane proportions. Nothing left to do but grab the wheel with both hands, slide my foot closer to the gas pedal, and watch.

Green.

Both of us left the line in a fury of slow and safe acceleration. Side by side, barreling down this residential street, we both moved faster and farther from our meeting point. After 12 seconds, we had both made it to our top speed. Thirty-Five Miles Per Hour. Now both combatants in this drag race could push their pedals to the their respective metal, but there’s local law enforcement that would prefer we didn’t. So there we were. Neck and neck at 35 mph.

I don’t stand for ties.

Giving it everything I had, I push my car to the limit. I couldn’t let Smirky McFancycar win this battle, even if he Is still feigning like we aren’t actually racing. Here I go…36…37…

And it was at 38 miles per hour that I proved to the world that an Italian sports car is no match a ’99 Honda Accord.

Classified Information

First things first. Last night CBS aired the American Film Institute’s Top 100 Movie Quotes List. As always with AFI, I was thoroughly impressed. You can check the list out at www.afi.com. This would have been a tremendous topic for today, had I not already used it back in November. (Check out Spud’s 70’s picks in the comments. I think I saw every last one make the list.)

Second things second. Watching these types of shows makes me want to evaluate my owb movie collection and its merits in the history of cinema. If you are going to be a movie collector (and I do endorse such a hobby), there are no set rules of how such a DVD assortment should be composed. There’s only one rule: Buy what you like. It’s your money, and those are your eyes. As for me, I pride my collection on being a delicate blend of the best movies and the most entertaining and fun to watch. For every critically acclaimed Schindler’s List in the stacks, I’ve got a Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. For every mindless joyride named Armageddon, there’s a Bridge on the River Kwai.

Ok, so if you do have a movie collection, and if it’s growing past the level that you can precariously balance on top of your television, you’re going to need a classification system. When you are just starting out, say, under 30 flicks, alphabetizing them will do just dandy. But as it grows, that’s not going to cut it anymore. You won’t be able to fulfill a “what your in the mood for” feeling by scanning A-Z. That’s where YAB steps in.

The Prodigal Roommate and I, upon moving into the apartment back in 2003, devised the patent pending Random Run Classification System. And we now bestow it upon the good readers of YAB. The premise is simple. Any movie that you buy will fall into one of our 14 genres. An eclectic and varied collection should find a normal distribution into each of the 14.

Type A – Standard Movie Genres
Action – Does stuff blow up? Put it here. Examples: Die Hard, Desperado, Gone in 60 Seconds.
Comedy – Movies that have the primary intention of making you laugh. As you will see, this supergenre has been pared down a bit by other categories, but is still necessary. Examples: Airplane!, Monty Python, Stripes.
Drama – Always has been a vague and massive genre. Most often a sweeping story that relies on the script and the acting. Examples: Dead Poets Society, A Beautiful Mind, Rain Man.
Horror – Scary Stuff that intends to be scary stuff. Examples: Scream, The Sixth Sense, What Lies Beneath.

Type B – Fringe Movie Genres
Adventure – It’s action, but with a purpose! Examples: Pirates of the Caribbean, Indiana Jones Trilogy.
Family – Fun for the whole clan (or for just you, if you lack said clan). Examples: Shrek, Chicken Run, The Santa Clause
Romantic Comedy – If it’s after your heart and funny bone simultaneously, stick it here. Examples: The American President, Shakespeare in Love, High Fidelity
Thriller – Ah, yes, too often lumped with action movies in collections, these movies are driven by suspense, not explosives. Examples: North by Northwest, The Game, Bourne Identity.
War – There’s so many action movies out there, that fingering through all the titles could grow tiresome. Do you want a movie with military force? Examples: Platoon, Braveheart, Hunt for Red October.

Type C – Chrispud Original Genres
Crime Drama – For every movie that doesn’t quite fit into drama, think about the plotline. If it centers around commiting a crime, going to jail, or appearing in court, it’s a crime drama. Example: A Few Good Men, Road to Perdition, L.A. Confidential, Silence of the Lambs
Dramedy – Is it serious? Is it funny? Avoid a decision and select Dramedy! Examples: Almost Famous, Truman Show, With Honors, Big
Indie – Some movies just have that feel of low-budget, great story, original work. So even if it is a major studio work, put it here. No one will know. Examples: Pulp Fiction, Clerks, Memento, Hackers, Trainspotting
Sports – The tone of these flicks span so many genres, why not pull them together into one? Examples: Field of Dreams, Cool Runnings, Seabiscuit, Varsity Blues
Sci-Fi/Stuff That Can’t Happen – This should grab all of the standard fantasy movies, but should also incorporate any movie that requires involvement of non-horror supernatural intervention, extraordinary ability, and unexplainable phenomenon. Example: The Matrix, Star Wars, Frequency, Spider-Man, Back to the Future.

Hello Moto!

It’s the end of an era.

I could get colloquial and verbose on such an occasion, but frankly, the honoree deserves neither. A hero marching home from war deserves a parade. A beloved icon can expect some fanfare after a long and storied career. A king can be the center of grand gala so that the kingdom may show their gratitude. But no. None of that will happen in this instance.

My cell phone is being retired. Period.

That’s right. Despite whatever silly allegiance I pledged in this delirious March post. Now I’m not doing a 180 on my prior logic, when I stated that the level of service I require is “Marginally Functional.” I haven’t lost that minimal requirement. It’s just that old Kyocera Version 1.01 can’t hack it anymore. It’s time to lay this phone of three years to rest and join the rest of you in the world of flip-phones, picture-taking, and Styx ringtones. There’s just one problem.

I think my old phone is on to us.

Ever since I placed my order for its replacement last Monday, the Kyocera has been behaving worse that usual. It definitely has figured out that I’ve been out seeing other phones for the last few weeks, and furthermore, that I’ve made a commitment to another handset. As I have waited patiently for Motorola to make its grand arrival over the past week, Kyocera has made it clear that it’s going to go out with a blaze of glory.

Hell hath no fury like a scorned cellphone.

For most of last week, it was the same old stuff that made us grow far apart. When people would call me, the screen would glow blue (as it should) and be blank (as it shouldn’t). When I would call people, I had to emulate the Micro Machines guy and get everything I have to say out in the 3.5 minutes of talk time my battery would allow. Thus has become standard operating procedure, and thus, I thought nothing of it.

Once I confirmed that the new model would arrive this week, that’s when Kyocera flew off the handle. After all, in comparison the replacement is no ordinary model; ‘tis a supermodel. And this did not sit well. Not well at all.

This past weekend, I had to endure altogether system shutdown. The phone magically kept its energy at a level where it wasn’t high enough to, I don’t know, call and answer, but just enough to say “I’m going to make you regret your decision for the rest of my life.” And when I tried to up the juice in the battery, I might as well been trying to plug my phone into a flagpole. Nothing. Turns out the contacts in the charger have conveniently gone dead. Yeah. Coincidence I’m sure.

I’ve would have better luck calling people with my shoe.

Well, as I have sat here typing this, old friend, a certain somebody has shown up in my cube. And after I get through the activation protocol, which I expect to take all of four minutes, it will be System Shutdown for one last final time.

Well, it would be if the battery hadn’t been dead since Saturday.

Driving Home a Point

After all this time in the DC area, it’s surprising I haven’t focused on traffic earlier. I’m not going to champion this city’s cause of being the most congested roadmap in the country, because I’ve got to believe there are towns out there that have it worse. Los Angeles, New York – they’ve got to have at least the same number of vehicles, but with half the civic engineering foresight. No matter how you look at it, DC at least has a decent highway installation that makes logical sense. Now only if we can get the federal government to relocate operations to Leesburg…

With that said, today I will try and apply common sense and logic to this city’s traffic problem. Sadly, I have no solution to actually fixing it – unless you let me pass a law that bans all tractor trailers, Virginia State Trooper cruisers, and Honda Civics from the roads (these three classes account for 87% of all vehicles on I-66.) I could also suggest that we stop funding senseless appropriations in VA for a few years (like the mythical I-495 Mixing Bowl) and divert all funding to finishing the Metro to Dulles. And on this Metro, they will serve light refreshments. I’m thinking cookies and Fresca. No doubt, people will get off the roads then.

But until I get the Zack Morris-patented ability to call Time-Out and freeze time to make the necessary budget adjustments, it appears we are all stuck. But do not feel defeated, good commuters. YAB is providing a special service to you today, as we look to debunk some of the mysteries of the interstate. Today we tackle the Theory, no wait, the LAW of Vehicular Car-ma. Enjoy.

It’s fairly simple, really. In the vein of Isaac Asimov, the Law of Vehicular Car-ma can be easily and comprehensively stated in the form of three rules:

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

Ok, now I shall explain it in something other than Dorkspeak. When someone reads you a chapter from their novel of woe about having a treacherous time on their drive home, or to the game, or whatever, you can let them know that due to Vehicular Car-ma, there will be an equal and opposite driving experience where that person will have everything go right. Conversely, if someone brags to you about their ability to cruise to your place despite it being 5 o’clock on the Friday before Memorial Day, you can bet the ranch that sometime in the near future they will be slowed to such a crawl that Granny McOldsmobile pass them.

I will use my driving experience yesterday to further explain the Law. Driving from Manassas to Alexandria to the abode of Mr. Andersen, I took Rte. 1 South, just by the stores at Potomac Yard (for Jerseyites, think the stores in Moorestown). On this short one mile stretch of road in front of this mecca of commerce, there must 8 traffic lights. I got stuck at 7. But did I get angry? No. Did I honk my horn (See Rule 3 above.)? No. I knew that sometime soon I would come into good navigational fortune.

Sure enough, I decided to stare my traffic lights nemesis square in the face as I left to go home last night – and my chosen route would be right down the heart of Old Town Alexandria. 13 traffic lights from end-to-end. After waiting at the very first one, I cruised through every last one. 13-0 streak. I made it home in record time. And all was right again on the scorecard for the Driver Condon.

Vehicular Car-ma extends past traffic lights as well. Take the gridlock of rush hour. For every lane you choose that hits a pocket of progress, you will get stuck in a lane that you cannot get out of. It’s just a balancing act.

You can gain more than some by your knowledge of the road, however. If you know that the right-most lane will be the victim of a slow merge at some point, it would be wise to stay left. But this advance is a product of skill, not luck.

Everybody is susceptible to the Law, no matter how good a driver you are. You can only hope that the good Car-ma hits at the times when you most need it, and the bad Car-ma counters at a time where you’re in no hurry whatsoever. Got it? Good.

Time to go get me some cookies and Fresca.

I'm Your...Your Density.

The year is 2005. Twenty years later, 37 year-old Marty McFly has returned to the quiet California town of Hill Valley. After spending the morning in a nostalgic haze near the Clock Tower, he drives his brand new shiny black truck over to the house of an old friend, the recently retired Emmett “Doc” Brown. This is where we join them…

MARTY: Doc! Wow, DOC! It’s really you! It’s so good to see you! And Einstein, she’s had puppies! Wait, Einey was a girl? Nevermind. Look, I was just in downtown Hill Valley and I miss everything that we saw happen over the years. I want to go back, back in time to-
DOC: Marty! There’s no time!
MARTY: Doc! There’s always time. You’ve got the DeLorean. We can just set the circuits for 1985 and-
DOC: Marty, I sold the DeLorean on eBay so that I could retire. The new time machine is a 1990 Volvo Tank. Now we time travel in true style! But that’s neither here nor there. Marty, if you want to see 1985, rent our DVD. If you want to see a great story of romance and, follow me back…to the future!
MARTY: Don’t you mean past?
DOC: Shut up!

The Volvo heads back in time to August 22, 2001.

MARTY: Why are we in Williamsburg, Virginia? And what’s with all those college students with bright yellow shirts?
DOC: This is William and Mary, and those students, my boy, are the Orientation Staff for the incoming freshmen. This is their training week. Standing outside Washington Hall on a sunny afternoon sure beats being cooped up inside, that’s for sure. Now watch as the always tall, always clever Assistant Director Chris meets the strikingly beautiful staff rookie, Katie.
MARTY: What’s with the flowery language, Doc?
DOC: I’m trying to impress Clara, the schoolteacher I met in Back to the Future Part III. And as you can see, so is Chris, because Katie will, too, be a school teacher –
MARTY: Don’t say it –
DOC: in the FUTURE!
MARTY: I should have seen that coming. So look, Doc, I’ve got to get back before Jennifer wakes up on her porch swing –
DOC: Ok, ok. Kids these days! Always in a hurry to get somewhere. I’ll fill you in on these two in the car. So Chris and Katie met at Orientation training briefly, but then hit it off more formally at Katie’s 21st birthday at Paul’s Deli. Following a trip to a campus coffee shop after an a cappella concert later that month, their first official date was a trip to Baskin Robbins. Their friendship grew into a relationship over the course of their senior year, complete with fireside chats, Frisbee catches, and long walks on an empty golf course…
MARTY: Uh, Doc? If we don’t hit 88 miles per hour, we’re going to crash right into the Thomas Jefferson statue…DOC!

(the Volvo disappears in thin air. It reappears just a mile away at the amphitheatre at Lake Matoaka, still at William and Mary. The time circuits read June 20, 2004, 7:07pm.)

DOC: After all this time travel, Marty, you haven’t figured it out. It’s not WHAT we’re going to hit, it’s WHERE we’re going to hit. What time is it? GREAT SCOTT! Ok, we’re a few minutes early. As I was saying, Chris and Katie graduated William and Mary, and both found themselves in the DC Metro area shortly thereafter. Katie went to work as a teacher and Chris as a financial analyst for SAIC. Even DC rush hour couldn’t keep these two from growing closer together.
MARTY: Quit monologue-ing, would ya? Shhh! So, when are we?
DOC: That’s Chris, down on his knee, and that’s Katie, accepting his marriage proposal. Of course, this day had much more to it. Chris took Katie to their alma mater for a nice daytrip. They did many of the things they’d always talked about doing, but never have time to in the midst of their hectic work schedules. It started with lunch at the Cheese Shop, followed by a leisurely walk down through Colonial Williamsburg and campus. They stopped to play Frisbee outside Swem Library, and even walked over the infamous Crim Dell bridge. All day long, Katie wondered if this day would become THE day. But after dinner, as Chris drove them back to campus for only a quick visit to Lake Matoaka, it seemed as if it wasn’t to be today. But as you can see, Marty, there’s the surprise ending to this story, as he kneels down in front of her at lake’s edge. The rest is history. Or is it the future?
MARTY: I wonder if my proposal to Jennifer happened on as beautiful a day as this one. Doc, can I-
DOC: Marty, what have I told you about that? Knowing the details about your own future can be catastrophic to the whole space-time continuum!
MARTY: Alright, alright. Look, Katie’s calling her family now!
DOC: Yes, on their trip back to Northern Virginia, they’ll call just about everybody they know. It was indeed a wonderful day. But enough of this sitting around, we’ve got to go! Check the glove compartment, Marty.
MARTY: What’s this? A letter? (opens it) It’s an invitation to the wedding of Christopher Condon and Katherine Pretz, to be held August 13, 2005. And we’re invited? Doc, we have got to get back!
DOC: Yes indeed Marty. Back. To the FUTURE!

Brought to You By...

One of the first jobs I interviewed for when I got out of college was with AOL TimeWarner. This was when I still thought my future was in marketing. The job opening was with their TimeLife division. You know these guys. They are the ones who spend their lives creating obscure retrospective media collections, and selling them in neatly packaged box sets, videographies, and magazine collections. So if you want the Best of Three Dog Night or a glorified collection of ZooBooks, give TimeLife a call.

Anyways, the job was to buy TV airtime for advertising such wares. It would have been a great application of my undergraduate knowledge, but as the resumes fall, it was not meant to be. But, honestly, could you see me buying and selling ad space for a living? Billy Crystal did in City Slickers, and look what happened to him. He named a cow Norman. What a boring name. Had he had a different profession, he could have come up with something MUCH better.

So even though I don’t work in TV ad sales, and never will, I like to consider myself informed on that particular industry. The premise is simple. TV stations have shows. They spend money to acquire the shows. They get money to buy the shows by selling some of their airtime to advertising. The more popular the show, the more money they can ask for. And yet, networks lose money year after year due to a revenue shortage. If this was a Best Company Ever post, I may give them the key to fixing that. But no, not today.

As I walked out of that job interview in Old Town Alexandria, I couldn’t help but notice another office building across the way. It was the PBS building (and no doubt was paid for by Viewers Like You.) PBS is the exactly the type of network TimeLife could buy ad space on which to show infomercials. In fact, I bet they probably work hand in hand over a pizza at Quattro Formaggi down the street.

But here’s the tricky thing about ad space on PBS: there isn’t any. Most of their programming runs commercial-free, which means they have an operating budget that has little revenue. Companies everywhere – denied! No space to be bought here. I suppose you could sponsor full-length programming, but then you would have to be one of two things: a LETTER or NUMBER.

What a racket.

As long as I can remember, letters of the alphabet have joint-sponsored episodes of PBS’ flagship Sesame Street with various single digit numbers. Doesn’t this seem a little fishy to anyone else? Here’s some problems with this business operating plan.

- The Letters and the Numbers must have incriminating photographs of Muppets robbing a bank, because this is a completely one-sided marketing deal. On one side, PBS gets the money to run and produce their television program. On the other, much more lopsided end, letters and numbers get blatant product placement. A large portion of the show is devoted to talking up the sponsors of the day, whether it be in character dialogue, songs, skits, or educational cartoons. My guess is that about half of each episode is dedicated to such ridiculous promotion. Only NASCAR sponsors get this much airtime. I’m appalled.

- Where exactly do Letters and Numbers get this kind of cash to be sponsoring children’s programming?? The are parts of the English language and mathematical system, not free-wheeling, spend-happy companies. I understand that Letter K makes some money through cereal, Letter O has gotten into rum, and Letter X still makes some residuals from starring on Family Feud, but surely this isn’t enough dough to produce Sesame Street! There’s some backroom accounting going on hear, I just know it.

- Why can’t other companies spend some money on America’s kids and sponsor a show? Why only the Letters and the Numbers? They’ve got a monopoly here, and Uncle Pennybags is rolling over in his graves (he’s buried in Marvin Gardens, by the way.) Just wait until the SEC reads my blog.

Waiting...

Fallen Hawk

Just when I was ready to launch into a study on the role of the English muffin in the Revolutionary War, I find that YAB has a larger purpose. Sure, it would be interesting to find whether or not this Thomas we hear of allied his breakfast food with the Redcoats or the Minutemen, but that'll have to wait. Please, if it would so please the readership, remove your hats in a moment of silence. For we have lost a true competitor.

Lane Smith, an actor for many years, died yesterday at the age of 69 after a long-term battle with neuromuscular disease, more commonly known as ALS. Smith spent most of his career on the small screen, with recurring roles in Lois and Clark and a slew of Lifetime-esque flicks. Early in his career, he grabbed roles in Network and Red Dawn, but it was in 1992 when Lane Smith made his pivotal mark on the acting profession. For Lane was cast by director Stephen Herek to play the villain in the sports genre classic, "The Mighty Ducks." Not that hockey fans needed another reason to grieve, but today we spend talking about Lane in tribute.

Coach Reilly, we are going to miss you.

Here's the thing. Lane Smith's portrayal of Jack Reilly is not what drew millions to have seen TMD in its 13 year existence. No, that would have been Coach Bombay and the Ducks. While the Ducks may have been unconventional in composition, they did the best with what the residential confines of District Five gave them. But ask any GM of the National Hockey League this: What are the key elements of winning hockey team? They'll respond simply with a laundry list of positions the Ducks managed to fill: a sniper (Fulton Reed), a gifted scorer (Adam Banks), tough-as-nails defensemen (Dave Karp), an agitator (Jesse Hall), an a moderately skilled player with a huge heart fo the game (Pacey Conway). Ok, so they lacked stellar goaltending, but they made up for it in the intangible "hijinx" category. Did the mid-90's Red Wings have hijinx? I think not. (In fact, Igor Larionov hasn't even smiled in 22 years.)

But with such a winning combination assembled under the banner of the Duck, one needs an even more menacing favorite to put them in their place for 90 minutes before they can fulfill the "Vindicated Underdog" role, so crucial in a sports flick. Said favorite would be the Hawks, the team that Bombay played for as a kid, coached by a man who's been coaching them for 400 years - REILLY.

Lane Smith made the "Mean Coach" archetype believable, and he's the lynchpin to the whole movie. Where Ed O'Neill in Little Giants and Robert Duvall in Kicking & Screaming failed, Smith succeeded. A movie coach villain must be sinister and never show a point where they turn to the good side. Even if truly inspired by the Ducks' come-from-behind win, he CANNOT appreciate their ways. He can be respectful to the winning coach, and even congratulatory, but a coach villain cannot be expected to be turned into a noble coach after one Conway triple-deke.

Man, Lane Smith just had the look. The slicked, every hair in its place look. The black leater jacket with the intimidating Hawk logo emblazoned on the back. And when things were going well, he even invokes the Dracula-inspired collar flip-up. A coach villain must be as cool as he he is hated. This is where the Iceland coach in D2 fails. Never cool. (I honestly think that this one character difference is what makes D1 far better than D2.)

And what about his strategy? A coach villain is going to play dirty, whether you want him to or not. And most likely, the refs are going to magically not see whatever wrongdoing transpires. His strategy is designed to bring the underdog to their core before rising to glory. Had Reilly not sent McGill to cross check Adam Banks on the breakaway, the Ducks would have won, and skeptics could attribute the win to them having Banks, a former Hawk. Reilly HAD to get him out of the game, so that we could see the original Ducks come together to win.

In most youth sports, the head coaches most often have a kid on the team. I can only think of one time in my youth that I knew a guy without a kid on the team. Well, in the world of coach villain, this only heightens his legend. Reilly coached a well-oiled team of kids, none of which were a Reilly. He didn't coach to be close to his son, he coached for the W. And in the eyes of an underdog, this is a far more imposing reason to overcome.

Yep, Coach Reilly, despite being a Hawk, is the heart of "The Mighty Ducks." Thanks for the performance, Mr. Lane Smith, and God Bless.

Get thee to Atlantic City

I don’t know what it was this past Saturday morning that gave me the magic touch. It could have been that muffin I had at class. At the time, I thought it was a mere above-average muffin; perhaps it was baked with luck.

Mmm…luck.

My Saturday morning class has become a product of knowledge, rather than achievement. You see, our entire grade is based on three memos we need to turn in, and there is no midterm or final to worry about. This changes my study methods dramatically. I can now pay attention and learn for learning’s sake. I no longer have to worry about what minute details needs to be furiously scribbled down. I can take in the all the public policy I want. And…

I can communicate with the outside world during the slower parts of class. This normally happens during the latter half of class. And when I began one such conversation, I had no idea that I about to invoke the power of keen foresight (which I had no idea I actually held.) The dialogue was simple. I mentioned to a friend I was driving up to Philly to watch the red-hot Phillies take on the Milwaukee Brewers. He asked for a prediction. And then I typed my prophecy.

Before I reveal, take this into consideration. For years, my dad has asked me how I thought the outcome of baseball/football/hockey scores. Being a sports fiend, I can normally give you the winner. But like any other person, pinpointing the scores and individual statistics is an exercise in futility. I might as well be stepping to the plate against Roger Clemens with a fish.

Fish make terrible bats. I make terrible bets. Nonetheless, I threw the following statline his way.

“Randy Wolf – he’ll pitch 6 1/3 innings, and surrender 3 runs on 5 hits. But the bullpen won’t hold that, probably give up two more. Phillies 7, Brewers 5.”

This random conjecture was a marginally informed one, but hey, it’s not like I had money riding on it.

Maybe I should have.

The game itself was great. Back and forth through the first 5 innings, the Fightin’s would grab a lead only to have the Brewcrew match in the following top half. 2-2. 3-3. And as the bottom of the sixth ended with a pinch hitter for Mr. Wolf, the Phils ended up with a 4-3 edge.It wasn’t until Geoff Geary took the mound that I thought to glance up at the massive left field scoreboard for Wolf’s final line. But then, like some sort of statistical magic trick, I saw it:

R. Wolf: 6 IP, 5 H, 3 R

So I was off by one hitter in the seventh. So what? I’ve never been that accurate in my life. I was so please with myself that I barely noticed Geary’s 7th inning meltdown as Milwaukee put 2 more across the place to take a 5-4 lead on the Phils.

The back and forth nature of the game, the electricity of this current hot streak, the batters due up next, it all seemed like the stars were aligning for a comeback. And then the Heavens played the clincher.

Now pitching for Milwaukee: Ricky Bottalico.

Now Ricky Bottalico has been a Phillie two or three times. He was always a little fish thrown into the shoes of a bigger fish (that is, uh, if fish wore shoes. Or had feet.) Philly knows him for the below-average reliever he is. He practically got a standing O. And this was before he gave up lead-ff singles to Michaels and Abreu. And definitely before Pat Burrell took his slider and made it a left-field stands souvenir. Thanks, Ricky.

The tilted the score back in the Phils’ favor, and after two more innings of silent bats from the visiting team, the final score was etched in the scorebook for good. Phillies 7, Brewers 5.

Somebody get me a lotto ticket.

Digital Personal Statement

Hey there. My name is Thumbkin. Pleased to meet you.

I’m Condon’s thumb. You don’t hear from me much on the blog. Typically when the bossman puts my brethren and me to work, the only key I’m responsible for is the space bar. Very little of what he has to say can be conveyed by the absence of letters. I guess that makes me a role player. Behind the scenes, contributing to the funny, but not bringing it. But that’s not today. While the other four drum incessantly on the desk during class, I’ve snuck onto the keyboard to type to you all a personal statement. And I’m going to use all the keys. Even caps lock, JUST BECAUSE I CAN.

Sorry about that.

As I inferred above, I’m far from an only child. While I may be the first of five fingers, I’ve got three brothers that are bigger than me, and they don’t let me forget it. To be completely honest, I’ve always been a bit of a loner. Every family picture has me standing far away from the others, off to the side. Heck most of those portraits have me lying on my side while the other four stand shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers. It’s not that I don’t like my brothers; they’ve just got a different function than I do.

As far back as I can remember, they’ve all known what they want to do when they grow up. The brother closest to me is Pointer, and I bet you can guess what he does for a living. Bossman relies on him to instruct, to gesture, and to press. He’s kind of a one-trick pony. Regardless, it’s a good trick. Anytime extension is needed, he’s the one who gets the call.

Tallman is a bit of a jerk. He makes very few friends, especially when the rest of us are curled up sleeping. Then you’ve got Ringman. For 25 years, I’ve barely seen that guy lift a – well – himself. But come August 13, or so he claims, he’s going to become a lot more important. Pinky hasn’t figured out what he wants do just yet, but that freeloader seems to be content living in Ringman’s shadow.
Where does that leave me?

For months, I’ve thought I was destined to live as a finger without a cause. I’ve tried my best to pursue career paths that generations of thumbs have before, but none of them seem to be a tight fit. Many city-dwelling thumbs find work as “Public Transportation Hailers,” but I think Chris has been in a taxi maybe five times in his whole life.
I often take the lead as the hand’s “Cell Phone Dialer,” but I feel there’s not much future there either. I keep catching glimpses of the cell phone world becoming “hands-free,” and that would surely mean layoffs for hard-working thumbs everywhere. I’ll steer clear, thanks.

I hear there’s a market for thumbs who like to watch movies, as critics. Of course, the creativity level of that job is extremely limited. It’s either up or down, and that’s what America likes. I would have no idea on how to tell the public different feelings like “good with reservations” or “not a good movie, but very entertaining.” This would drive me insane.

As you can see, I’ve done my research and scoured the want ads. There’s just nothing conventional out there for a hard-working thumb. That’s why I want you to take me completely serious when I let you know what I’ve decided to do. My career selection is something in which I can excel, earn a solid paycheck, and once and for all distinguish myself from my brothers. Ok? Well, here goes nothing…

I am going to become a professional wrestler.

Stop laughing.

I’m serious. Turns out that there’s whole league of thumbs out there in the world that grapple with one another in competition. It’s a sport of dexterity and speed, agility and strength. I’ve got all of these skills, thanks to a childhood of Nintendo and Playstation. And unlike other prominent wrestling outfits of the 21st centuries, it’s not rigged. It’s a sport full of storied tradition, complete with a ceremonial song. I haven’t learned it yet, but I know there’s counting involved.

Well, this has been fun, but I have to go. If anyone asks, “Where is Thumbkin?” I’ll be at the gym.

Crazy Bald Dancing Guys Need Not Apply

It’s amazing what YAB will do for free food.

After knocking two blogs off the to-write list yesterday, a skeptical friend was so confident I couldn’t write three he bet me a free lunch. And since he had proposed an attractive wager, I even let him pick the topic. Well, you know what?

He was right.

But even with that delicious filet mignon-stuffed lobster meal in my rearview (hey, I wasn’t paying), I can’t pass up a good blog idea. Besides, I want to show the readers what is possible when you ask me to bring the funny on something you come up with. His request:

If you were building a new theme park, who would you build it around and what rides would it have? And Please justify your decision:
a) Any characters from the MARVEL comic universe
b) Any characters from a Kevin Smith movie
c) Any character from any movie that F. Murray Abraham has ever been in

You know, even if this hadn’t been posed to me, I probably would have hit it sooner or later. An amusement park is wonderful outlet to entertain the children of the world, while at the same time making money by the truckloads. All you need is a venture capitalist who likes to ride on roller coasters, and POOF! – you’ve got an amusement park.

Ok, time to “justify my decision.” I can’t choose Marvel as my theme because it’s unoriginal. The Six Flags chain has staked the claim in superhero amusements by signing a deal with DC Comics. I’m pretty sure they’ve devoted about 7 rides to the Batman franchise alone. If I were to strike a deal with Marvel, I’d have to pay them with money I don’t have, plus Stan Lee would insist on making cameos in all of the park’s stage shows. Not on my watch, Stan. Not on my watch.

I can’t choose the ViewAskewniverse of Kevin Smith for one simple reason. High-speed motorized rides should never have to involve a QuickStop. Enough said.

That leaves me with C. And what better way to celebrate the incredible acting career of thespian F. Murray Abraham than erect an amusement park that he didn’t ask for. Plus, I don’t have to sign away my first three years revenue in a lucrative corporate sponsorship deal. I just have to ask F. Murray Abraham nicely. What a gent, he is.

First things first. The park shall be named Murraysville. And it shall be located in Murrysville, PA. Elizabeth Grimm, a local in M-Ville will serve as proprietor and chief of operations. I haven’t asked her yet, but how often do you get to pay tribute to a god of the silver screen like F. Murray Abraham? Furthermore, Murrysville is a suburb of Pittsburgh, where Abraham was BORN. Freaky.

Now Murraysville will have many of the standard amusement park features that make places like Six Flags, Disneyworld, and yes, Sesame Place so successful. Concessions, merchandising, season passes – all of this will be standard operating procedure. But one cannot forget the lynchpin to the whole park: meandering characters with giant heads. What Mickey, Bugs, and Cookie Monster have done for our rivals, employees in F. Murray Abraham costumes will do for Murraysville. A couple of prototypes: FMA’s rich antique collector Cyrus Kriticos from Thir13en Ghosts, as well as the renegade Star Trek leader Ru’afo, who will promise to be nice to the children than he was to the Ba’ku race.

Did I mention we’ll have attractions? Here’s a sampling…

“88 Keys” – Take a ride with tormented Amadeus rival Antonio Salieri on a roller coaster sure to crescendo to the a melodic peak rivaling the Allegheny Mountains, only to come racing down through our frightening flames of woe.

“Shoot ‘em Up Suarez-Style” – Hey kids, ever want to be in a drug cartel crossfire? Take the trigger of Scarface’s right-hand man Omar Suarez in a battle for all the cocaine in Miami! Get a perfect score in this shooting gallery, you win a oversized stuffed elephant!

“Last Action Mirror” – Assume the role of FMA in this Ah-nold flick by not only betraying Jack Slater, but even your own sense of surroundings as you scramble to get out of this house of mirrors before Slater realizes what you’ve done.

“Finding Funhouse” – Based on the sleeper hit Finding Forrester, become condescending Professor Crawford, as you do battle with a virtual-reality Sean Connery in a battle of wits, prose, and giant foam jousting sticks.

Ok, so who wants a ticket?