Writer's Block Party

For some days of blog, the idea tank is running on E. But nonetheless, we press on with some sort of inspired inner sense of public service. After all, if the funny is not brought, then it is indeed left behind. And every time you leave behind the funny, an angel gets its wings clipped. And nobody wants angels with subpar flying appendages sailing through the air without any speed or steering mechanism. Do you?

Actually, I have no idea if that’s true. Can’t really confirm. In fact, some would go so far to say that I just made that up. Eh, it doesn’t matter. Because you’re still reading, and I haven’t actually said anything of importance yet. Muwaha.

Two posts ago, Rob Harford let the struggling writers of the world know, in one simple narrative, just how easy it is to blog. This man, my friends, is a pillar of the blogging community and his efforts to help his fellow blograde (that’s blog-rad, not blo-grade) has not gone unnoticed. If we here at YAB were in charge of those “Real Men of Genius” commercials, we certainly could write one about old Ro-Ha. (or at the very least give him one of those clever Starbucks Doubleshot commercials). For Rob has told us how to blog, and on a day when I’m reaching for ideas, I will take his advice and put each of his four prescriptions to the test. And for this little experiment, it appears I need something random to focus on. And as an homage to Rob, I shall make a common Burger King philosophy my target. Enjoy.

1. Try ranting. You know what really ticks me off? Burger King. Not the guy per se, but how he always cheats out of my order every time just gets my goat. Wait, I don’t have a goat. Damn! He already got it. So sneaky, that royal jerk.
   When I order French Fries with my meal, His Majesty always gives me a prefect order. One carton. All fries. All good. But what happens when I take the King for his true strength and order onion rings? One carton. Mostly rings. One fry. Did I ask the man to replace one of my onion rings with a fry. I’d like to think that if I wanted one, I would have ordered it. But instead, I’m left with an imposter in our mist – a fry that would be much better off in circular, breaded form. Bwah!
   
2. Educate your readers. From a business marketing standpoint, the reason for one loner fry tucked away in a sea of onion rings is quite simple. Burger King takes great pride in heir product offerings. Paramount to this pride is their love of their fries. A few years back, BK changed the recipe of their fries in order to compete with their archrival, the clown farmer. So even if you order the onion rings, the King would like you to know that the fries are to die for. Thus, in a chaotic stroke of cross-promotion, Burger King employees are instructed to insert an emissary from the fry world into your combo meal as a reminder to check out his friends on your next visit.
   
3. Talk about something that is important to you. – I wish I could say fast food is important to me, but it really is not. But corporate franchising is. I’ve rarely talked about Burger King in the past because I have spent very little time in my life residing in close proximity to a BK. The closest to my house in Medford was on Rte. 70, college had one down Richmond Road somewhere, and my three successive apartments in the No. VA have put my closer to Wendy’s and McDonald’s than the crown-wearing burger. What gives, Your Eminence?
   
4. Make something up. – I read somewhere that fast food ketchup packets cause cancer. Fryer beware.

Sandman Works in Finance?

As yet another beautiful Sunday afternoon fell upon the Washington DC region, a few things became increasingly clear. The Nationals have realized that they were once the Expos, and have continued their freefall in the Wild Card standings. The world has too many stupid moviegoers, as Dukes of Hazzard claimed the box office with $30 mil in ticket receipts. And finally, local man Chris Condon has a lot of homework to do.

We hold these truths to be self-evident.

There’s not a whole lot that can be done for the first two. The Nats are not getting the run support they need and idiot filmatics will storm the box office yet again to vindicate Rob Schneider’s worst movie yet. But something can be installed to aid the third: Chris Condon can come into work such a lovely Sunday afternoon to write a paper.It was really an easy decision to try and work from work instead of home. Even though home has everything put away and all the Ikea furniture built, it lacks a certain something: INTERNET. No sense getting Cox in here before the wedding, since I’ll have about enough time to watch the SportsCenter “Did You Know” on cable. Instead, we’ve moved our grad school ops to comfy cubicular confines.

Working on a Sunday afternoon allowed me to do something unique – something that I guarantee every single one of you reader-types has contemplated at some point in your professional careers. Opportunities like this are rare; Kevin Costner has made more baseball flicks than such occasions arising. As I sit at my desk in a quiet office on a quiet day, with only the whirring of computers to keep me from absolute silence, I realize that this is my chance to seize the moment. I retract my hands from my keyboard. I remove the pen from my ear. I push aside the financials binder I’ve been working with. And then, ever so slowly, I place my arms on my desk, drop my head, and…

Take a Nap.

Honestly, how many times in your standard work week have you regretted not going to bad one hour earlier? Or maybe it was that one last round at Happy Hour that is making your computer screen look fuzzy. Whatever the reason, everybody has looked at their desk at some point and contemplated mistaking it for a pillow. So yesterday, with nary a soul around (I can’t believe I just used “nary.” I’m sorry.), I stretched out, leaned over, and fell fast asleep for twenty minutes.

When I woke up, I realized I had done what so many have pondered and what so few have intentionally done. And as I got back to work on my paper, I thought about other activities that I would love to do in an office setting but will likely never get the opportunity. I call these the Bachman Turner Overdrive Five – a list of tasks inspired by BTO’s call to take care of business (even if it means workin’ overtime.)

The BTO 5 are as follows:
1. SPORTS TIME! – Nothing is more enticing than zooming up and down the halls of a cubicle maze on a pair of trusty skates. Most office carpet is thin enough to emulate the concrete that lies a sixteenth of an inch below it, so speed and traction are both well-represented here. To be extra daring, bring a stick and ball along for the ride.
2. CASUAL TIME! – Only after Hurricane Isabelle in 2003 did I get to wear sandals and shorts to work on a normal day. Comfortable footwear is essential to productivity, so make sure to leave the dress shoes at home given the chance.
3. MOVIE TIME! - Let’s see – empty office? Nobody home? Reserve that large conference room in the corner for yourself and grab the popcorn. Surely by now you’ve figured out the AV system in there – pop in a movie, kick back and enjoy. I recommend Die Hard – ultimate office building movie.
4. SNACK TIME! – Other than your water bottle and maybe a frequented candy dish, your food options at your desk are severely limited. It’s time to expand that palette. Set up a mini-grill and a cooler next to the file cabinet and throw down some hot dogs (or Fritos, if you’re Mitch Hedberg). Just be sure to avoid the sprinkler system. And NOT too much charcoal, either.
5. NAP TIME! – Ding! Check please.

Yellow Jerseys, Blackened Grills

July 26th would have signaled the one year anniversary of "You're a Blog." The celebration party would have been awesome. There would have been celebrities, good food, all our favorite commenters, a roast of Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon, and we all would have had a good laugh about it.

Too bad the invitations for the bash were mis-dated by seven days.

As YAB continues to battle its own Achilles Heel of Daily Blogging Pride, we offer a different kind of recap on the year. Since it only took us five lousy posts before we presented a clip show to our (at-the-time) four readers, recalling the highlights isn't that novel. Instead, we give you a year's worth of subliminal funny. We've brought it.

Just under our banner for BY05 (Blog Year 2005), we have thrown in an extra joke by means of the tagline. ESPN's Page 2 does it on a daily basis, and as a minor homage, we did it on a weekly basis. Some of you have caught them, and some of you read using XML and miss out. No matter, here they are now.

Ladies and gentlemen, the year…in taglines.

7/25 – Where wearing a yellow jersey in a cubicle does not make the day go faster.
8/1 – Dancing in the electronic riptide.
8/9 – Where we don’t take the Madden jinx lightly
8/16 – Where we are the first Jamaican Blogsled Team.
8/23 – Where we'll be here long after the boys of summer have gone.
8/30 – Where O’Boises are still O’Boisterous.
9/6 – Where we’re ready for some football!
9/13 – Where Condon gets his write on.
9/20 – Where brevity is not the soul of blogging.
9/27 – Where it feels like we’re running to stand still.
10/4 – Where we could erupt at any minute.
10/11 – Where we play a crazy game of poker.
10/18 – Where a Carlos Beltran homer just landed in our inbox.
10/25 – Where the hottest new show is Desperate House, M.D.
11/1 – Where Terrell Owens practices the Ray Lewis dance for hours.
11/8 – Where the Polar Express has a 40 minute layover for food and fuel.
11/15 – Where the wine glass and coffee mug just resigned from our cabinet.
11/22 – Where Chief Massasoit and Squanto come to kick back and watch some football.
11/29 – Where we are once again taking applications for Jeopardy Cyborg.
12/6 – Warning. Reading this blog can cause cuts, abrasions, or death.
12/13 – Where the little drummer boy just joined the German rock band Tannenbaum.
12/20 – Where we like a little wassail with out toast.
12/27 – Has anyone seen our old lang sign?
1/3 – Viva la resolucion!
1/10 – Where trainwrecks, contrary to popular opinion, aren't very funny.
1/17 – Where the Minnesota Vikings buckle like a belt.
1/24 – Where the nominees are.
1/31 – Where the groundhog goes for the weather.
2/7 – Where Cupid just got ARROWED.
2/14 – Where we’re under the table and scheming.
2/21 – Where our award show has a first name…
2/28 – Where we're wondering if New Orleans accepts the Big EZ Pass.
3/7 – Best homeless sign ever: Family killed by ninjas. Want money for kung fu lessons. Need revenge.
3/14 – Where we insert generic tagline here.
3/21 – Where we’re just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.
3/27 – Where strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
4/3 – Tagline! You’re It!
4/10 – Where we, have no, idea, how to, use, commas,,,
4/17 – Where we think that the Emperor’s Royal Guard look like giant Twizzlers.
4/24 – The Brawny Man’s Guide to the Galaxy
5/2 - Where our train of thought just left the station.
5/9 - Where we make you take finals but offer free stuff.
5/16 - Where we play chicken with the train, play chicken with the train-train. Uh huh.
5/23 - Where spelling out varieties of fruit in a pop song is completely unacceptable.
5/30 - Where Tom Cruise goes for his therapy.
6/6 - Where we can't afford to pay attention.
6/13 - Where we believe that pants should not be granted freedom of travel.
6/20 - Where we have an excellent idea where the funny is.
6/27 - Where this blog needs ketchup.
7/11 - Where Chicken Chesapeake is chicken stuffed with crabmeat
7/18 - Where crashing a wedding is not covered on insurance.
7/25 - Where somebody put too much charcoal on the grill.

The Secret to Corporate Success

Ohhhh, so that’s how they do it.

As I near the completion of my first year of further edumacation in the business discipline, I feel that I have learned many things from my program. The law of diminishing returns applies to amount of time studying. Always grab an extra soda at the beginning of the class, because they’ll be all gone by the second break. Don’t leave your cell phone lying out. How easy business would be if the only raw materials I had to buy was lemons and ice. Yep, folks, this is learning at its finest.

Unfortunately, the road to knowledge I have chosen may not be the one most productive. A graduate degree might not be the way to a cushy salary hike and the oversized leather executive chair that all have come to expect. As I found out while sitting in a financial review meeting yesterday, the cost of success isn’t two years of extra homework; it can be acquired for $24.95 on the Internet.

(I feel like I should hawking my find in a TV commercial wearing a blazer rife with neon question marks, no?)

This meeting was held in the office of one such man who had found the path to executive-ship. The salary, the chair, the everything. I do not know if he pursued the same method of further edumacation that I have since embarked upon, but one thing is clear: he has made it. And then I saw IT.

What? Pronouns aren’t descriptive? Fine, here’s a picture of IT.

Sitting on the table in front of me was this calculator. Although, I don’t know if I can vouch for sure that there was a table under it. After all, this is the BIGGEST CALCULATOR THAT EVER WAS. You could operate this thing with two hands if you wanted to. And unless my company starts hiring kangaroos to crunch numbers, this is the farthest thing from a pocket model I can possibly imagine. The display might as well be a drive-thru monitor at McDonald’s, and the numbers are so big you could use them as templates for NHL jerseys.

Am I exaggerating? Is Jeremy Roenick King?

So, yeah, at this point you may think that I am trying to convince you all that the man in charge became the man in charge because he had the world’s biggest adding tool. (You’re an adding tool.) Well, your thinking is wrong. The YABNews Desk has no archival evidence that bigger technology is always better technology. A cell phone is far more useful than a telephone booth. A microwave is way better than a microwave. I even concede that my laptop Attica is a better machine than my old compumate, Mookie. And finally, the little calculator I have with the tiny buttons and the miniscule screen can do battle with the aforementioned “NASA Can See Me from the Shuttle” model.

So why are we still talking about this?

Go back and look at that calculator one more time. Notice anything … peculiar? (Other than it’s the size of Texas.) That’s right – an ANSWER BAR! Most calculators have an enter key that yields the final result of your complex computation. This one has an answer bar. I have to think that an answer bar can be far more useful than wanting to know what the square root of forty-two is (6.4807407). Just think of the questions you could ask your calculator…

What is 24 to the 4th power?
ANSWER = 331776

Who is the answer to the Flyers’ Stanley Cup hopes?
ANSWER = FORSBERG

What am I having for dinner tonight?
ANSWER = CHICKEN

But these are all frivolous uses. There are more important things at stake. Which brings me to my conclusion. In order to become a powerful executive, buy an ANSWER BAR calculator, and ask your way to profitability.

Mowing in the Name of Citrus

I am sitting in my financial management class on a Saturday morning that came up on me way too quickly. This course, only two weeks young, has proven rather entertaining, as the professor rewards the witty by cleverly mocking those who deserve to be mocked. Pull no punches. I think that once you reach college-level education and beyond, those you knowingly ask silly questions should be open game for professors who must endure them. “There are no stupid questions?” Ok, fine, but only if such questions set the prof up for a slam dunk punch line.

Teaching methods in the accounting and finance fields are pretty standard. As they both function essentially as applied sciences, professors cannot get too creative when it comes to method of instruction. Dead Poets Society, accounting is not. You cannot do ratio analysis while standing on your desk, nor can you compute dividends while kicking a soccer ball and listening to classical music. Mr. Keating would probably implode in front of the class due to the subject’s rigidity. Not good.

Accounting is taught in two veins: for companies that produce goods or services. Each type of business is taught using the same model: apply the laws of accounting to a real-world example. And no matter what teacher, what classroom, what college, whatever, those real-world examples ARE always the same:

“Suppose you want to have a lawn mowing business…”
“You want to start your own lemonade stand…”

Apparently, every single rule of accounting can be explained by either selling a watered-down citrus product or by keeping your neighbors landscaping trim. Who knew?

Now most of you probably haven’t realized this, as entry-level accounting classes are reserved for those who want to pursue a business career or lost some sort of tragic bet. But as a veteran of several of these courses, I can totally vouch. If you are to understand how to balance sheets, state income, or make cash, um, flow, you’re going to do it by pretending to run your own lemonade stand or by firing up the old mower.

What if?

I sit here wondering if we would have been better off had these been the only two new venture offerings for aspiring moneymakers. What if you could only start a lemonade stand or mow lawns, and no other products and services were offered in the world (at least for compensation). What kind of world would we live in if you could only have one of two jobs? Would it be that much different?

Wow, that was three open-ended questions in a row. Sorry. We’ll just called it a “Liz Grimm Homage.”

First off, going to work would be simple. Half of the population would leave work every morning to cut the grass of the world. Granted, without the need for skyscrapers, store fronts, or well, any place of business that is not a stand with icy pitchers of lemonade, there would be a LOT more lawn. Enough lawn for everybody who seeks employment. I assume professional baseball would still exist (players wouldn’t be paid to play), but since there’s lawn in the outfield, there’s still a need. Soccer should make a rousing comeback as well.

When those who mow lawns get tired, there is relief! They simply turn off the engine and walk over to their local lemonade stand, which I fully expect to be on more street corners than Starbucks. (Actually, they may just take all of Starbucks’ current locations. Same difference.) These people make money by quenching the thirst of the lawnmowers (people, not the equipment) They go home, have big houses from their earnings, with you guessed it – spacious front and back yards. Cyclical, no?
I’m sure I’m leaving out an assumption or two, but I think I’ve got it covered. Oh, there’s one more thing that you can count on.

No Enron-like accounting scandals. Hard to screw-up entry-level.

Raffy at the Bat

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the B-more O’s that day;

Chi-town had out their brooms, for a sweep those boys would pray;
And then, when Mora lined to first, Tejada did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon this long Camden Yards game.

A few had left their seats, Beltway traffic they did fear,
But the rest stayed and hoped for one loud and final cheer.
They thought, if only Raffy could but get a whack at that,

The White Sox would unravel, with Raffy at the bat.

But Roberts precedes Raffy, and so did Byrnes-y, too.
And the former was a rookie and the latter, just too new.
So, with the closer throwing fire and a curve that’s far from flat,
There seemed but little chance of Raffy's getting to the bat.

But B-Rob smashed a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Byrnes, just into town, tore the cover off the ball,

And when the dust had lifted and men saw what had occurred,

There was Byrnes-y safe at second, and Brian over there on third.

Twenty-five thousand fans, they got up on their feet
For the O’s were all but escaping from the harsh jaws of defeat
As if Ripken was still playing, the faithful roared loudly at that,
For Raffy, mighty Raffy, was advancing to the bat.

Mr. Palmeiro was quite the batsman, part of a club that’s quite elite,
His hit count over 3,000, overflowing his stat sheet.
But to call him a singles hitter, well that would be a lark,
For over 500 times he swung and drilled the pitch out of the park.

He has played for many teams, and has worn many a shirt,
From his Ranger days in Texas, with the Cubbies he did flirt.
But as if it were the nineties, a jersey he had worn once before,
The man with the mustache now played for Baltimore.

A designated hitter, with few others could compare,
Mighty Raffy could be counted on to blast one through the air.
Any second now, with B-Rob and Byrnes-y there on base,
He would step out of that dugout, and they’d see his smiling face.

They could picture all the headlines, from tomorrow morning’s Sun
“Palmeiro and his Walk-off, the Orioles have won!”
But before they start the presses, the hero must appear,
The on-deck circle remaining empty, for what feels to be a year.

The call was Lee Mazilli’s, Baltimore’s faithful skipper,
To give his man the green light, to step out and deliver.
And just as he was going to point Raffy to head out to the plate,
The dugout phone, it rang, he answered, and told the man to wait.

This was not the news Mazilli expected it to be,
The league’s office was calling, on a matter void of glee.
A certain test had come back, and to nobody’s avail,
The score of a certain slugger fell in the wrong of pass v. fail.

As the mighty Raffy took one step onto the field,
His manager had recalled him, this new news he had revealed,
And with Roberts standing only 90 feet from home,
Out stepped but B.J. Surhoff, a pinch hitter, all alone.

And as Surhoff swung and whiffed a third and final time,
The crown wondered how Raffy could commit this awful crime,
A hero reduced to nothing, “Liar!” they would shout,
And there is no joy in Baseball -- mighty Raffy has Struck Out.

Best Company Ever, Chapter 6

In less than a fortnight, it will be time for me to push my office chair back from my desk, stand up, and leave behind all that is left to do. It’ll be vacation time, as I shall head for warmer shores following the wedding. The official vacation will be the week thereafter, but there is a strong possibility I’ll duck out a little early prior to the big weekend. Shouldn’t be a problem, I have approximately eleventy billion vacation days saved up.

Now if I am to take off that Friday, All Wedding’s Eve, I am going to have hand off one of my biweekly duties that will fall on said Friday. I serve as the Timecard Administrator (TCA) for Facilities and Finance. It’s not a hard job – I just have to monitor and make sure all 72 employees not only submit their electronic timecard, but also that they get approved by the 7 o’clock deadline. With some crash course training, I could easily delegate to a co-worker. Well then, wouldn’t that make for a boring Monday blog?

Enter BCE.

Best Company Ever sees this not as a scheduling fiasco for our protagonist, but an opportunity to find the perfect timecard administrator. A TCA must hold many key personality traits. He must be analytical – finding the fine line between those who are slacking off and who have plain forgot about timecard submittal. He must be authoritative – able to convince even the most important of managers to stop what they’re doing to submit. He must be firm – bending the rules for no one in order to ensure that everybody gets paid. Charismatic, cunning, and cool – these are the prereq’s for the Best Company Ever’s TCA.

He must be Morpheus.

With all due respect to former President Theodore Roosevelt, I’ve never seen someone speak as softly and carry a big stick as Laurence Fishburne’s character in The Matrix. A man so menacing that even a machine-run world fears what he is capable of. Yeah, that’ll strike some fear into submittal slackers. The TCA program has a lot of rows and columns to it, and it takes a keen eye to notice time charging discrepancies. After years of reading computer screens of vertically-moving green code, I think my boy will be up to the task.

On Timecard Friday, no task is too important that you cannot take the time to certify and submit your timecard. Morpheus will make sure of this. Well versed in the ways of telecommunications, our leather-overcoated TCA will stop at nothing to get you to take care of it, even if it means entering your phone line and embarrassing you on your call, no matter who is on the line, the VP of Sales or Dear Aunt Ginny.

Whoa.

Furthermore, as a TCA, I currently am the point-man for when anyone has a time-charging dilemma. They come to me with their questions, and unless I have experienced it in my own recording of hours. Usually, I do my best to not let them on to the fact that I have no idea what they are talking about, and merely instruct around the actual problem. Morpheus, if he were to take my place, is the zen master at such conversation technique:

Employee: I worked four hours on a Sunday, and I am an exempt employee. Is that overtime?
Morpheus: Do you want to know what overtime is?
Employee: Yes.
Morpheus: Overtime is everywhere. It is all around us. Even now in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your computer. You can feel it when you go to the copier, when you get coffee... when you sharpen your pencil. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.
Employee: What truth?
Morpheus: That you are a slave, Neo. And you aren’t eligible for overtime.

A Bunch of Trees. Sigh.

Thank you, CNN.com. You’ve finally given motive.

Prior to YAB, putting my thoughts onto paper only happened in three ways: e-mail, research paper, or parody. The first is a way of life, the second a rite of passage, and the third, well, my most creative outlet. Teamed with Spud, I spent several years as part of the parody band “Lyric Intensive,” performing shows up and down the eastern seaboard (read: only Virginia.) I have collaborated on the act of taking over thirty-five of your favorite songs (plus Mambo No. 5), ripping the original words from their comfy position on the track, and re-inserting new lyrics, rife with comedy, intricate rhyme schemes, and well, Reif. I think I even published one such song back in October.

I write lyrics, just not music. If I could, I would, but I can’t, so I don’t. This results in two main things. First, everything I write musically will rely on other people to complete the orchestration before I can personalize the song for myself. Second, I feel totally in the right to RIP APART third-rate lyrical stylings of professionals.

I’ve been pondering this post for a long, long time with one target in mind. As much as Shania Twain’s “Party for Two” drives me up a wall for its 1st grade rhyming, no one musical act in the past ten years has tortured the English language like the boy band LFO. And since their tune “Summer Girls” has appeared on Billboard’s Top “Summer” song list, we feel it our responsibility to look a little closer to their carefully selected verbiage.

The idea behind the song is a guy has met a girl during a vacation to the beach, and he’s recalling his first impressions and selected memories from their temporary romance. Seems simple enough. Occasionally the narrator (his name is Rich – he mentions it three times.) is able to produce some of these aforementioned sentiments. But then, in a genius stroke of complete idiocy, he picks the most random thing he can come up with to complete his rhyming couplet. Below is the opening chorus…

New Kids on the Block had a bunch of hits // Chinese food makes me sick. // And I think it's fly when girls stop by for the summer, for the summer.
I like girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch // I'd take her if I had one wish. // But she's been gone since that summer, since that summer.

Ok, wait right here. Your chorus structure would have been ok, except for reminding me of another light-on-content pop act, not to mentioning letting me know how well you fare with Kung Pow Chicken.

I could ramp up a rant on the shameless A&F plug, but I’ve got bigger problems. Like I said before, relevant wording is met stride for stride by eclectic pop culture shoutouts. Here are my Top Ten “I want to break a guitar over the songwriter’s head” Worst Lyrics Ever.

The fact I can come up with 10, and had to turn away contenders, speaks volumes.

1. Like the color purple, macaroni and cheese // Ruby red slippers and a bunch of trees.
   - In the lyrical world, sometimes you need to fill a few syllables in order to end with a killer rhyme. Enter “a bunch of.” When I hear “a bunch of” spat out, I’m totally expecting a clever finish. Ah, trees. Of course.
2. When you take a sip you buzz like a hornet // Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets.
   - The first line was meekly clever, ya know, right before you made one history’s greatest writers your drinking buddy. Whole bunch of sonnets? Really?
3. Your the best girl that I ever did see // The great Larry Bird Jersey 33
   - Not a tribute to the Celtic great, just his uniform. Curious.
4. Fell deep in love,but now we ain't speakin’ // Michael J Fox was Alex P Keaton.
   - And he would have sold your hide on the stock market. Two words: JUNK BONDS.
5. There was a good man named Paul Revere // I feel much better baby when you're near.
   - Near? You struggled so badly for something to rhyme with near that you called upon the guy who warned us the British are coming? Please step away from your pencil. You don’t deserve the lead you write with.
6. Summertime girls are the kind I like // I'll steal your honey like I stole your bike.
   - Ever wonder why sometimes relationships don’t work out. I find theft and robbery often play parts.
7. Hip Hop Marmalade Spic and Span // Met you one summer and it all began
   - Music Genre, Toast Applicant, Cleaning Solution – Somebody’s been looking around their apartment and turning inventory into song, again…
8. Cherry Pez, cold crush, rock star boogie // Used to hate school so I had to play hooky.
   - Remind what this had to do with any girl, let alone one from the summer?
9. Stayed all summer then went back home // Macaulay Culkin wasn't Home Alone.
   - Is there a metaphor I’m missing here?
10. You love hip hop and rock n roll // Dad took off when you were 4 years old.
    - Smooth, Casanova. Remind her of a tragic childhood memory.
    

I am going to crawl under my desk and cry now.

No Age Minimum Here

It just gets better with age.

No, not wine, you fool. It’s still way too early in the morning for that. Here at YAB, we trust in ice-cold Gatorade to take the edge off particularly rough AM agenda. And since I haven’t been tapped to become a Gatorade distributor by their home office in Chicago, Illinois, this requires a morning trip down to the cafeteria.

Now that I am officially off my bagel kick, such a trip has become even more routine and efficient. After all, no need to have to deal with the melty peanut butter or the silly Styrofoam containers when all the breakfast I need is sitting prepackaged in the refrigerated display case. I guess this gives a few extra moments to observe my surroundings as I wait in line to pay.

Our café underwent a vendor change a few months back, and ever since, I’ve never known what to expect. It’s a testing phase for them – trying to figure out what product lines and food offerings will be successful and which should go the way of melty peanut butter. I’m pretty indifferent to all of this change; as long as there’s salad, dressing, and a fork, I’m a happy camper. However, I have noticed that in the morning, our vendor has installed iron waffle makers. Normally, waffle makers aren’t interesting enough to get some print on a blog, but it was the accompanying sign that has caught my attention.

“Children under the age of 16 must be accompanied by an adult when using the waffle maker.”

Don’t misunderstand me, I am for kitchen safety just as much as the next guy, but WOW, what a restriction! Sixteen years old?!?!? Seems a bit, uh, high? There’s a debate that needs to be had on whether the measure has been instituted to prevent high school freshmen from burning themselves or eating waffles altogether, but that will no be today’s forum. Today, we aim to put the magic number of sixteen into perspective. After all, with that crucial “Old enough to fly solo on a waffle maker” bar being set at sweet sixteen, it says a lot about our society.

14 – According to most tenets of the U.S.’ Fair Labor and Standards Act, you must be fourteen years old to hold a job in today’s workforce. Granted, “rocket scientist” and “brain surgeon” aren’t awarded to people this age, but you can make some spending money as a stockboy, cashier, camp counselor – the list goes on. It’s good to see that the American government believes they have the ability to exchange responsibility for cash, but in no way should they go near that waffle maker.

15 – After doing a little research, I found out that the age of fifteen is the minimum age requirement to get married in 43 of our nation’s 50 states. (The other seven say you can be ready at 14, but I’d like to see them balance a paper route with last-minute vendor meetings and table arrangements.) Marriage is an incredibly serious deal, as you become responsible for the safety, well-being, and love of another human being. Whoa. That’s a lot to handle. But not nearly as daunting as pouring batter into a cast-iron breakfast preparation device.

16 – Waffles! Hooooooray!

17 – I know the privilege is granted at sixteen in VA, but in the great state of New Jersey, seventeen means you are old enough to drive. It’s a good thing that they spaced two titanic machines such as an automobile and a waffle maker one year apart. The logic is simple. Only after you can master preparing your very own waffle without adult supervision will you be able to handle a 1-ton car that can go upwards of 100 miles per hour.

Behold the Power of Pastrami

For every profession, there’s a hero you can look up to in the movies. Spend your days as a droning archeologist? Idolize Indiana Jones. Your work entails teaching the young minds of America? Look no further than Dead Poets’ Mr. Keating. Earning a paycheck for mopping the halls of some building? Will Hunting shows you the light at the end of the tunnel. Insurance Claims? Composer of Music? Pizzeria Owner? Mr. Incredible, Mr. Holland, Mr. Deeds.

Now all of these characters are easy targets for sources of inspiration, as they were all the main focus of the films in which they appeared. In fact, the list could go on, but I’ve got a word count to keep down here. And you have to get back to work.

For the accounting and finance professions, we do not have that one title character that embodies what we all someday aspire to be. Face it – amortizing lease schedules doesn’t tear up the box office the way, say, busting ghosts or warring with worlds do. That leaves us to idolize lesser fringe characters. That’s ok, because we have our man.

In Grodin we trust.

As a movie fan, it is a noble and rightful opinion to despise Charles Grodin. He’s an annoying actor who appeared in such travesties as Clifford and Beethoven’s 14th: Back to the Minors. I think he even had a late-night talk show once, but then again, who hasn’t? But his one lasting mark on the entertainment industry that the guild of number crunchers (GONC, for short) is that once character we all look up to, our very own Indiana Jones.

Enter Murray Blum.

In the 1993 movie Dave, Kevin Kline decided to make the Presidency more than just shaking hands and suffering heart attacks. In a noble attempt to save some homeless shelters slated for the financial chopping block (not to mention get on the good side of Sigourney Weaver), he rolls up his sleeves and decides it is time to balance the budget. But Dave cannot accomplish this feat alone – he is a temporary labor recruiter in his other life. Instead, he calls for two copies of the budget, some pastrami, and his accountant Murray Blum.

Eight hours later: Budget has been balanced. Hooray!

Now I seriously doubt that Mr. Blum had any previous experience regarding Senate and House appropriations and he probably does not have a single client who claims “NASA” as an line item expense, but he pulled through, for America. It just goes to show that firm grounding in general accounting principles can take you to great heights, which is why I am offering my services to the good people of Fairfax County, Virginia.

In today’s Washington Post, a story ran to say that the newer cost projections are putting the Metro line through Tyson’s Corner and out to the Dulles Airport over the mark by, cough, $100 million. Because Tyson’s is on a hill, and traction for trains going up hills is not always the best, expensive options are being evaluated for alternatives.

Enter Chris Condon.

By the power of Charles Grodin, I will march into your budget meeting, order up some pastrami, and amend your gawk-worthy overrun. I propose the following amendments.

1. Increase the toll on the Dulles Toll Road to 2.00, 12.00 if you drive an ugly car (Aztek? Honda Element? What?)
2. If the Metro is to come through Tyson’s Corner, advertise. There are hundreds of shops in the mall that would love to plaster their logo on the side of the train. Just imagine the talk as the train blurs by – “Did I just see that Eddie Bauer is having a sale? I couldn’t quite tell, so I better go to the store and find out for sure.”
3. Cheaper building material? Sure, one word.

Plastics.

A "Royale with We"

In a recent comment, a friend I know (who does the best Homestar Runner impression I’ve come across) felt inclined to point out something about our writing style here at You’re a Blog, Incorporated. We are glad to see that Matt reads with such a keen eye as it is only through a careful quality control process that any successful blog gets written. In fact, we’ve decided to appoint Mr. Weng to a post of External Auditor, whereby he is issued a tazer and gets to remind Condon of when he’s taking a few too many liberties with the English language. Hopefully, said instances will be few and far between, for the following two reasons:

1. Tazers really hurt.
2. Weng would have more time to spend over at his blog, which is worth the click.

Yes, Weng is absolutely right. YAB often operates in the realm of the royal “we.” At this junction, the easiest thing to do is to come clean and kindly explain to the loyal readers that there is no “we” at YAB, and it’s just Chris Condon over-formalizing his writing style. But that’s about as fun as going for a run outside my office building right now. There are other theories behind the royal “we.” So we lay them out before thee now. We’re not gonna lie to you. We are just deferring truth.

We submit to you the following reasons behind the royal “we.” Pick one and be satisfied. Pick two and be overwhelmed.

1 – Royalty is the annual recipient of some crucial tax breaks that you other working fools don’t get. Thus we employ them. It’s not bad to have the monarchy on your side. The tricky part was actually recruiting some royalty to take entry-level positions on our staff. Since I serve as Editor-in-Awesome-Chief, the only real open positions were for a copyboy and file clerk. And since most members of the crown prefer positions of “ruling over subjects” and “decreeing crazy stuff,” the job applicant pool to create a royal “we” was incredibly thin. I was forced to hire the Burger King and Dairy Queen. I had no idea they were married. What’s more – they live in White Castle.

2 – The royal “we” is actually unbelievably common place usage in the age of the Internet. In fact, all major information websites, from Yahoo! to CNN.com to FoxNews use the royal “we” to disguise the fact that they are simply sole proprietorships. And when you to stop to think about it, it’s really jaw-dropping how much those guys publish on a daily basis. I write one column a day; they write a news story for every flavor. That whole Associated Press thing? They’re just a royal “we” also. In fact, it’s just one guy who is an absolute newsmaking machine. He lives in California and his name is AP Slater.

3 – Yeah, so I use the word “We” a lot. Does that automatically mean that you can assume that I’ve got a multiple personality disorder? We’ll have you know that Chris and Condon write as one mind and one voice. No we don’t, you goofball. Without a sense of unity, Chris cannot do his job of bringing the funny on a daily basis. Chris doesn’t do the work, I, Condon, am the funny one. Shut it up, you. I have the first name for a reason and I’m running this show. The only reason you’re in charge is because you slipped the dude at the hospital twenty bucks when he was typing out the birth certificate. Right, because babies how so much discretionary spending cash. I have 6 letters. You have 5. Deal with it. Size matters not, ponce.

Maybe I should stick to the first person.

Hero Shirt!

The title is what my first name would be without the dynamic duo of P and C. Confused?

PC, often paired to abbreviate the tenet of Political Correctness, is everywhere you look these days. Christina Toms isn’t short – she’s vertically challenged. Chief Justice Rehnquist isn’t elderly – he’s a senior citizen. Terrell Owens isn’t holding out – he’s withholding service for just compensation. The movie Stealth won’t be awful – actually, I got nothing. Yes it will. Horribly horribly awful.

For the most part, a societal insistence on the use of euphemisms doesn’t bother me that much. Mainly because I don’t pay attention to most of this silliness. There’s no way Toms is getting me to call her vertically challenged – she’s a little person standing tall. Rehnquist isn’t going to ask me to call him a senior citizen – he has no idea who I am. Political correctness only shows up when you say something wrong. And I do not believe I have committed any major crimes against the English language, so I’ve got a clean rap sheet.

While those who can put their PC-feet in their respective mouths are subject to mockery and ridicule, we here at YAB feel that America is a land of equal opportunity. Not only should those who stomp all over sensitive grounds be made fun of here at YAB, but even more so, those who try and make the world overly politically correct should be put in front of the firing squad. Well, friends, it’s time to lock and load.

This story may be a few days old, but it hasn’t escaped the HAL9000-like eye of the YABNews Desk. Perhaps inspired by the activism of Sir Bob Geldof, it appears now that many teachers in the UK have decided to champion a cause. But instead of eradicating poverty in Africa, the cause is far more foolish. According to the newswire, the Professional Association of Teachers will very soon have to debate whether or not British boys and girls will ever fail again.

Well, that’s not entirely true – it’s not that kids across the pond or going to get “wicked smart” at the drop of a hat. It’s just when they put that two plus two equals threeve on their next math test, teachers won’t be able to assign a mark of failure. Instead, in place of such a heinous word, the activists would like the phrase “deferred success” inserted. So when your kid comes home with an exam where he claimed the capital of Australia is “Outback City,” you can’t chide him for failing. He has instead opted to defer success.

Huh?

“Defer success” is probably the most overly formal term I have ever heard in my history of utilizing the English language. Even more so than the “upside of anger.” Not only is it uppity, it also makes a few assumptions. First, it assumes that all pupils will ultimately achieve success. Even with their ban on the word fail, there’s still going to be the kid who has no interest in academics whatsoever. Secondly, deferring success implies that each student who would have failed under the current nomenclature is making a conscious choice to hold off on doing well, delaying the inevitable shower of passing grades. “No, no thank you Ms. Wilcox. I appreciate the offer of success on this spelling test, but I have opted to spell “giraffe” with a j and a silent t in hopes that I may put off the success coming my way. Thank you, now may I have some tea and Fig Newtons?”

In other news, the Phillies open up a 3-game stand in Houston tonight. I am hoping that they do not “delay victory.”

Too Hot to Handle

In this nation, we have a highly evolved system of financial management and monetary regulation. The banking world exists to let everyone, from Poor Richard to Richie Rich have an alternative to stuffing their life savings under the mattress. Now it does not matter, for the most part, which bank you choose to do business with. In fact, I’m pretty sure most people just use the bank with the most convenient ATM (you know, for some fast cash for a late night T-Bell run). Maybe some people like to say “Wachovia.” I know I do.

Regardless of your financial institution of choice, banks have been created for two things. And it is these two things that we, as American citizens should be able to rely on. First, banks are responsible for your money. Their job is to hold it, not lose it, and hopefully incrementally add to it on your behalf. Secondly, if it weren’t for banks, how can the world expect me to know the day’s time and temperature?

As I was driving to work today, I joined most of the commuting world and tuned in to some 24-hour newsradio. Granted, it wasn’t the format I prefer, but there was a bus crash on I-95 this morning and I wanted details. In my brief stint on the AM dial, I found out the Washington DC area is going to be stifling hot for the next few days, as the heat index will easily climb to the 110 mark by tomorrow. Wonderful. It’s a good thing I’m not attempting to move this week.

(Please stand by. My keyboard just exploded in a sarcastic fireball.)

But just because I heard the prophecy of heat does not mean that I have any idea what it is like immediately outside my vehicle. And since WTOP doesn’t broadcast such detailed weather facts, I realize that I’m just going to have to rely on that bank on Leesburg Pike to fulfill its second of two duties and tell me how hot it is right now. The has not fully risen of the new PriceWaterhouse HQ building yet, so I’m at least hoping for a balmy 81 or 82. I sit at the traffic light waiting for their big digital board with the red letters to switch from the current time (7:08) to the temperature.

(blink)

333.

Now I know that while carrying everything to my car this morning, I was breaking a minor sweat across my brow, but I had no idea it was THIS hot. 333 degrees – and I’m just praying that’s only Fahrenheit. Either over the weekend I developed some sort of genetic immunity to heat so hot it could boil ketchup, or a nuclear heat wave rushed into the DC metro area in the twelve minutes since I closed my car door at Random Run, just four miles away.

Both seem unlikely.

But can anyone come up with another reason for the bank on the corner to be telling me that the temperature currently is 121 degrees above the boiling point? I know what you are thinking, the thermometer must be broken. Well, I am here to defend against such a crackpot theory. If the thermometer doesn’t work, and thusly making the banks of America unable to perform one of their two primary duties. And what happens to their credibility then? If that temperature is a product of malfunctioning systems and miscalculation, what ELSE is malfunctioning and miscalculated? Financial statements, account balances, even the number of lollipops in the teller’s jar – none of this data can be trusted. We’re talking major treasury meltdown here. So if you’re going to come here and tell me the thermometer’s busted, I’m withdrawing all my money and putting it under my mattress.

With that said, who wants to help me move my bed this weekend?

From the Cojubuvech

Now I realize why Ikea furniture is so inexpensive. No labor costs.

Unless, of course, you include the countless hours Katie and I spent last night putting together a trio of cabinetry for the new apartment. Ok, maybe I could count them. But that defeats the need to blog, doesn’t it? Whatever the duration, I spent last night turning efficiently packed cubes of wood and screws into furniture. Who knew I was a carpenter? (Quiet, Walrus, nobody asked you.)

I have to say, the Ikea furniture retail system has got to be the best export from the fine nation of Sweden that I’ve ever encountered. (2nd place Volvo, 3rd place Nordbergs-who-don’t-phone-it-in.) The instant I’m about to complain about the work involved in making a simple television stand, I’m reminded of how reasonable the price was for said stand. Sure, I could have shopped elsewhere, carted home a finished product, but then I wouldn’t have been able to stop on the way home for that huge steak dinner, where I paid for everybody in the place. Mmm.

(Sure, I’m exaggerating.) (Or am I?)

However, for all you future Ikea shoppers, I fear for you. I have seen the future and I have no need for shades. In years to come, the Ikea business model will take drastic turns, and they will not be for the better. And what do we have to thank for this ideological slide? Simple. Continental cooperation.

The European Union (EU) is a group of European countries that work as one unit in order realize the benefits of cooperating on a political, economic, and social scale. Great advances have been made in the last decade to unify the continent, making its collective voice just as strong as the United States in world matters. To achieve such a voice, each country had to sacrifice something that was synonymous with their national pride. Currency is one such casualty (well, for everyone but England.)

Guess what Sweden has to give up? Yep, you guessed it: Ikea. It’s not that the big blue and gold buildings are going to go away; it’s just that from now on, they need to incorporate some business trademarks from other nations in the EU. The following are my top seven favorite changes resulting from Ikea becoming an EU-corporation.

1. Germany – Improvements in supply chain management can be expected, as a new plant in Hamburg is so efficient and serious that all existing facilities are closed down. Nobody smiles.
2. Slovakia – Thought brand names at Ikea were weird before? Slovakia has taken on the task of adding random J’s, B’s, V’s and U’s to product titles. The Swedes used to call it a couch, now it shall be known as cojubuvech. Comfy.
3. Greece – A new brand will hit the shelves in 2007, labeled Athos. You will be able to construct your very own towering Ionian columns using only an Allen wrench. Amazing!
4. Czech Republic – Barely beaten out to the naming job Slovakia got, the Czechs have instead opted to improve Ikea by supplying manpower. You see, with the NHL back in town, the New York Rangers are about to give Jaromir Jagr his walking papers, and I hear there is a vacancy in the Scarsdale store for “stockboy.”
5. Hungary – Will oversee management of the in-store concession areas and kiosks. Will promise not to devour the merchandise.
6. Netherlands – In order to deal with expansion within Europe, raw materials are at an all-time low. The Dutch have struck a deal with Nike to outfit the nation in Air Jordan’s, while all their previous footwear is recycled to mass produce end tables.
7. Italy – Italy promises not to invade rival furniture galleries and suffer embarrassing defeats on behalf of the EU.

Great Expectations

Writer's Block? You have no idea.

Writing a daily blog isn't too hard, assuming the ideas of how to bring the funny are continuous. As long as the Post-it of Knowledge still has an uncrossed word on it, and it doesn't sound like a Seinfeld monologue topic, I've got a lead on a column. Granted, not all of them are Holy Puppy blogs, but it doesn't take much to get me to churn out a page and a half of funny. That said...

While blogging may come fairly easy to me, there are other areas of the written word that absolutely leave me in fits. Such a classification can be summed up with three horrifying words.

Forced. Personal. Sentiment.

It's not that I don't know how to put emotion into words; when I take it upon myself to convey feeling to someone by means of putting it to paper, I feel fairly proficient. Think you cards, notes between friends, personal e-mail - any recipient of such a document is receiving genuine me. Hopefully, if I play my words right, I will have captured the Essence du Condon. Sounds like a cologne. (Silly wordsmith, cologne doesn't talk.) (But if Cond was able to be captured in a cologne, I guarantee you the bottle would be very tall and would never break when dropped on the ground.) (Ok, too many parenthesis.) (I'll move on.)

The difference between such correspondence and writing that leaves me with a dried-up quill is that pesky "Forced" part. Personal sentiment is when Condon voluntarily conveys his feelings. Forced personal sentiment is when Condon has a proverbial gun to his back and is required to write. A set amount to write, a set time period to write it in, and my wit turns to mush.

A perfect example of an F.P.S. that just about everyone has to endure occurs in the waning days of your high school career. Once you have taken your finals with all the impetus of a sponge, there are a final few days of the school calendar to wait out before that mythical diploma is yours. Will you be staring at the minute hand until your name is called? Nay. You and your fellow seniors have a call to arms. And what is your issued weapon? A yearbook and a pen.

Being asked to sign somebody's yearbook is an F.P.S. This is not a writing exercise you have most likely applied for. No, you've been handed a pen and pointed towards a blank space. And did I mention that this ink will be immortalized in that person's yearbook, oh I don't know, FOREVER?

Yeah, no pressure.

You do your best to throw in a common memory you would have forgotted three weeks later otherwise, some sage advice for the future, and perhaps some contact information. But let's face it. Shakespeare and Hemingway didn't write their best work next to "Student Activities," and neither do I.

Modern day example - at a going away party for a co-worker, the department created a very nice framed caricature of said employee as a going-away gift. I thought this sounded good, until I realized we were all to sign this outer frame with some sort of send-off or thank you. Ack! F.P.S. rears its ugly head again. And since my office has come to expect the funny from me, I feel like eleventy billion sets of eyes are drilled into the back of my head as I grab the Sharpie and approach. Writer's Block. Again.

At last, inspiration! You've all left me with no other choice but to write the antinote.

Dear John,
Insert generic good-bye and well wishes here.
-- Chris Condon

Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes

To each their own, but let it be known. People notice.

The office workplace is a locale of professionalism. Every day, men and women walk into their respective places of business dressed to impress. Whether it is a power tie, a sharp blazer, or some other article accompanied by an intimidating adjective, you would be well-advised to look the part. All day long, people pass in the halls in their Sunday best, praying to God they don’t spill coffee/soda/Danish on them. If they succeed, they shall make it through the day maintaining this upper level of style.

Until…

…until they realize their company-owned building has a fitness center on the first floor. As an added perk to working in the regional HQ, employees can avoid paying ridiculous membership fees at WSC or Bally’s and get their run on without even getting in their car. I, for one, have been a member for over two years, as evidenced here, here, and here.

Once the workday is over and it is time to hit the gym, all fashion sense goes out the freakin’ window. Gone are the intimidating sounding adjectives and the color coordination. In are the clothes that you wouldn’t be caught dead in sitting at your desk, or for the most part, out in public. But now you’re in the Gym Zone, where everything is in play.

Now I ran track outdoors prior to my treadmill days, and from my experience, everyone can still have their style. Lou Jester rocked “The Flash” look. Chris Bromily made it hip to run in ugly high-tops. Scott Lightfoot insisted on skin-tight apparel. (Not actually Scott Lightfoot in picture. Just a replica.) I kept it real with standard l-sleeve t-shirts and athletic shorts. And I still do.

However, I wish I could say the same for my colleagues downstairs in the gym. I present to you the 5 Biggest Gym Zone Fashion Errors:

- Spandex. As the esteemed philosopher Matthew Lillard once proclaimed in the movie Hackers: “Spandex – it’s a privilege. Not a right.” I can’t agree more.
- Formal Lifting – These are the guys who come into the gym with no plans to ever work on their lower bodies. The only area of fitness they are interested in maintaining are the, and I quote, “the guns.” They’ come in half-changed, with a tank top, but managing to leave on the dress slacks and fancypants shoes.
- Short-shorts – Most-often a crime perpetrated by older men, let it be known that the checkered UMBROs are now as helpful as trying to cure a fever with a medicine ball.
- Layering – I kid you not, there’s this one woman who often uses an adjacent treadmill who gets on wearing no less than four layers of clothing. As her run (read: leisurely stroll) progresses, she strips down to match the “increasing” intensity of her exercise. By the end, she’s down to a t-shirt and shorts (like the rest of us normal people at the room temp of 72 degrees), but there a mega-mountain of clothing at the end of her ‘mill. Very strange.
- As for number 5, I confess I am the reason that this should be added to the list. Two nights ago after work, I headed down to the gym for my workout. Astonished, I opened my bag to find my shirt, shorts, socks, Dell mp3 player…but no running shoes. Rather than call it a day, I threw on the shirt, my running pants and hit the weights…in black loafers. No, I didn’t do my run, but I did do a circuit of machines.

Did I get half my workout in despite the packing error? Yes. And did anyone notice? No.

Gavel With a Vengeance

While this story may be more aligned with the alley of Icarus Fallen, I think we are going to keep this home right here at the YAB NewsDesk. You see, CNN.com is reporting that tonight President George W. Bush will announce on national television his first-ever nomination to the Supreme Court of the United States. Recently, Justice Sandra Day O’Connor has opted for retirement over dressing just like her eight co-workers, and that has presented Bush with an opportunity to fill her chair.

Justice Stephen Breyer was last added by former President Clinton in 1994, meaning that for the last eleven years, there have been no changes to the reserved parking down at One First Street in NE Washington. According to the article, there is wild speculation that Edith Clement, a Circuit Court judge in New Orleans may be that choice, and that very well may be true. But the YAB NewsDesk thinks otherwise.

Our sources, which often remain unconfirmed anonymous because it’s really just Condon making stuff up as he goes along, have President Bush going in another direction. This is not out of disrespect for Judge Clement, as we assume her job isn’t as easy as the Big Easy implies. But rather, it is because there’s just a better candidate for the job out there. YABNews does not take this prediction lightly.

This Supreme Court Justice nomination has a lot riding on it. As the court keeps aging, (can we find a way to stop that?) this will be the first of numerous appointments in the next five years or so. We, the people, (did I steal that from somewhere?) need a justice to be a leader for the 21st century. A person of principle (no, not a Beta brother), where political ideologies are cast aside in the name of the Law. My fellow Americans (did I just steal that, too?), the man that President Bush should and will nominate tonight for such a high post should be none other than:

Samuel. L. Jackson.

Surely you know him. You shouldn’t even need his resume for such a post. But for the unconvinced, I give you the man in action. As you will see, his record has been exactly what Congress should be looking for.

This man, Samuel L. Jackson, has a long and storied career of respecting the law and upholding the rule of justice. From a very young point in his career, he knew that it was always best to Do the Right Thing. He has held several positions declaring what is illegal. In 2004, he aided Mr. Incredible to foil a plot by those who felt they were above the law. In Loaded Weapon 1, we saw Mr. Jackson time and time again stand up in the face of drugs, crime, and a shoddy parody.

The man has all the intangibles you should be seeking in a nominee. He has served on other Councils with authority. He served three terms with colleagues far older than Rehnquist on the planet of Coruscant. This man is totally used to the dress code – wearing long flowing robes were standard issue. In addition, he’s no stranger to a court room, having visited extensively in A Time to Kill and Rules of Engagement. When it comes to a hung room of justices, Jackson will be able to plead his opinion to the other eight with vigor, knowledge, and style. After all, he is The Negotiator.

But his most compelling reason to become a Justice is hidden in the dialogue he once uttered in 1994, under the pseudonym Jules. This man knows about judgment and upholding the rights of those who aim to do good…

“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”

Assuming he doesn’t get eaten by a shark.

Sofa, So Good

I went shopping for two different things this weekend. And from my experience, I have concluded that the methods required for each purchase are completely opposite. Let me explain.

I went to the supermarket for cleaning supplies yesterday afternoon. The process for cleaning supplies is very easy. First, you know exactly what you are looking for. Second, that product is sitting on a shelf. Third, the price for that Windex is pretty standard no matter which supermarket you go to, give or take thirty cents. Pick up the product, take it to the front, pay for it, and go home. End of transaction.

The second shopping trip of the weekend was for something far more important: a new couch. The protocol for procuring a couch is far different from the above Windex scenario. To illustrate, let’s consider the Windex again. Had I implemented the couch technique there, I would have walked into the supermarket, found that the varieties of Windex are different from those in any other supermarket, tried out each bottle by spraying the frozen food doors, selected the Windex that “just feels right,” told the stockboy which one I want, filled out some paperwork, and expect the Windex at my door in 4-6 weeks.

Sounds simple, eh?

Fortunately, this all makes more sense for a couch. But I have to admit, even some of that is a little peculiar. Over the weekend, Katie and I went on such a mission.

When you arrive at a furniture store, it’s like walking in to somebody’s house. With the intention of buying their possessions. I’m glad this practice is limited to places of commerce. I can’t imagine having to go around my apartment and apply price tags to everything I own. Anyone who came in, from a friend to a missionary to a lost neighborhood kid could peruse the goods and opt to throw money down on the counter. Unless, of course, they choose to buy the counter.Now how do you know what couch is right for you and your place?

You may look at a couch and like/dislike the material, whether it be leather, vinyl, micro-fiber, twizzler, whatever. But when shopping, pay no attention to this. You can put any final finish on it, no matter what the floor model looks like (except maybe the twizzler. This is no Willy Wonka showroom.)

You may look at a couch and like/dislike the color, but again, it doesn’t matter as you can change that in design. Therefore, there shall be no ruling out of couches do to the fact that they appear neon orange, girly pink, or shimmering silver. All remain in play, and you’re just going to have to deal with looking a little silly evaluating it as an option.

It’s about the feel, stupid.

In order to effectively shop for a couch, you need to sit on the merchandise. After all, with comfort being the number one decision point, you just have to. Would you buy a car without test driving?

Now it may seem silly, but you need to kick back and relax in a large room with many other strangers walking around, who are thinking about doing the very same thing. Now I’m not saying fall asleep; (although I could), but don’t just sit on the couch like you are in a job interview chair. Slouch. It’s the only way you’ll ever know if this is the couch for you.

With a personal seating history that has included a couch with a plywood infrastructure and a 30 year old pullout that has deteriorating metal framing, it’s nice to see that the furniture industry has humored me with a good price on a new product. It’s no senior year Camm dorm couch, but it’ll do.

Mr. Potter's Lullaby

Donald Duck was onto something.

Ok, not about the “walking around without pants” thing. Society would not be cool with everybody following in the footsteps of the cartoon duck on that one. But when it comes to learning, this quackpot had some serious brains. In 1959, Donald took time out of this busy schedule of posing for pictures with kids, donning one emotionless expression after another, and cut together an educational film. That flick, “Donald in Mathmagic Land,” was the pride of elementary school math teachers everywhere, and force fed to students on any day when there was a sub in charge. Haven’t seen it? Let me give away the theme: Math is magical.

(And if you couldn’t guess that from the title, you might want to consider retaking the 4th grade.)

Ah, magic. Seems to be the only thing people can talk about these days. And why not? At midnight tonight, millions up WAY past their bedtime will run to the Borders and get their hands on J.K. Rowling’s latest installment, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Ever since the last one came out in 2003, every pundit not focused on politics has been trying to predict what will happen in this penultimate edition to the young wizard and his friends. I thought about writing a blog with my predictions (the pundit that I am), but since I have yet to get through Book 5, that would be fairly inane.

However, even without getting all the way through Book 5, YAB is pleased to tell you exactly what happens to Harry once the series reaches its conclusion in Book 7. There is much speculation as to whether Mr. Potter will survive the series at all, ending as some sort of martyr. Well, I have the facts, and I am more than happy to share.

Harry Potter will survive.

What’s more, he is now an accountant in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Question my research methods all you want, but the easiest way to find out what someone is up to (assuming VH-1 hasn’t done the leg work for you) is to look them up the phone book. And that, dear readers, it precisely what I did.

After completing his wizard education at Hogwarts, it appears that Harry has decided to get out of the spotlight for a while. So he did what any other self-respecting celeb would do: get a real job and move to Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now I’ve never been to Tulsa, or any other part of Oklahoma for that matter, but I have to assume there are far fewer flashbulbs and news reporters there than at those frenzied post-game Quidditch press conferences.

As a CPA, Harry Potter no longer hides from muggles – he helps them with their finances. The decision to enter the accounting field for Mr. Potter did not come without controversy. When we first alerted the Ministry of Magic of his decision, it was wildly unpopular. Lesser men and women are now in American prison for doing magical things with numbers on financial statements – leaving Harry a prime target for any whistleblower looking for point fingers.

This isn’t to say that he can’t use what he learned at Hogwarts in his new profession. Just like his days on Privet Drive, he has found the line between magic and non-magic and uses it to balance not only his life, but his clients’ books. He sharpens his No. 2 pencils with a flick of the wand, his enchanted calculator can plow through cash flows without the headache, and that invisibility cloak comes in handy when a frustrated customer is waiting in the lobby, and he wants to sneak out to his favorite Tulsa watering hole for a drink.

I guess one day when Professor Snape called in sick to class, Dumbledore had the substitute throw in Donald in Mathmagic Land, too. Who knew?

Something for your Bike Spokes

For the most part, the things that you held dear during your youth probably haven’t changed much. There are only so many innovations toys and hobbies may take over the course of twenty years. If you were a video game kid, you’ll notice the controller has more buttons and the graphics have become insanely real, but it’s still the same idea. If you played with action figures, those little guys may have a few more accessories, but other than “ninja-brain-chop” action, their skills have gone unchanged. If you had an EZ Bake Oven (and this serves as a full disclaimer that I did NOT), I have to assume that the cookies you could make are as bland back then as they would be today. As much as things change, they stay the same. Except…

One childhood hobby of mine has underwent a dramastic change (that’s a Chris Smith word) since I last paid attention to it. And it only took a Chapter 9 bankruptcy proceeding for me to notice (the equivalent of a MAC truck in the financial world.) Burlington County’s own Fleer Trading Card Company has officially printed its final batch of baseball cards, crumbling under $40 million in debt. I had no idea Fleer was based in Mt. Laurel; if I had maybe I would have supported them in my youth. But it’s highly unlikely that my investment would equal a cool $40 mil. That’s a lot of Kevin Stocker future star cards.

Here’s the thing about seeing Fleer head to the dugout for the final time. It was going to happen sooner or later. When I was 6, there were three biggies in baseball cards – Topps, Donruss, and Fleer. I list Fleer third because that’s where they belong. When it came to collecting baseball cards, you really picked a brand and stuck with it. And when it came to design, reach, and photography, Topps was the best. Donruss, which did feature hot/cold zones for batters on the back, were a fine runner-up, but never the one you’d brag to your friends about. Fleer had a product merely to exist and make money (Objective: FAILURE). If these three were action blockbuster movies – Topps was the Star Wars, Donruss was the Tron, and Fleer was any Hilary Duff flick you can think of.

Baseball cards were the perfect way for a kid my age to spend discretionary income. Notice I say “were.” Today, baseball cards are the perfect way for eleventybillionaires to spend their discretionary income. In 1988, I could walk to the pharmacy in Ocean City and buy a pack of cards for 80 cents, hoping to get that killer “Todd Van Poppel” rookie. (For non-sports types – let’s just say Tony Danza could lace a double into the gap off of this highly-touted phenom). Today, 80 cents could buy me, um…three quarters and a nickel.

In the following years, packs crept to 4 or 5 dollars for a pack of fifteen cards, but it was justified. In a decade of Pogs, Pokemon, and Power Rangers, (and other collectibles beginning with ‘P’) this was a quality product. But then it all changed.

I blame the Internet.

Kids who now were rich thanks to dotcom ISP’s spent good money on their past hobby: cards. Pack prices skyrocketed, upwards of $100 per. And what had changed in the product? Extra features. Cards good for redemption of other memorabilia – game-used bats, jersey swatches, balls, seats, utility infielders. Cards were inserted with official signatures from ballplayers. It is an unconfirmed rumor that Upper Deck even offered through a lucky card the rights to Indians shortstop Omar Vizquel. Just imagine – an authentic Omar Vizquel – doing your homework and cutting the grass!

Once the best way to get kids excited about professional sports, the hobby has gone off of the deep end. And unfortunately for Fleer, someone forgot to fill the pool. Rest in Peace, Fleer. If you see Rickey Henderson in Heaven, let him know I have his rookie card.

What do you mean Rickey Henderson is still alive?

Insert Smash Mouth Lyric Here

Trying once again to emulate ESPN’s The Sports Guy, I give you the rambling thoughts of a running diary, collected during the 76th Major League Baseball All-Star Game in Detroit. Enjoy.

8:02 – I really wish I could get this off with a bang, but the pre-game commentary has been anything but interesting. A featurette on David Eckstein?? Commentator Kevin Kennedy specifically states that Eckstein certainly doesn’t have the “skills of an all-star,” but he is a true team player. Yes, and I hear he has a great personality as well.

8:15 – Ok, here are some quick hit impressions of the player introductions.
Felipe Lopez – Who?
Dontrelle Willis – Mushmouth lives!
Brian Fuentes - See Felipe Lopez.
Cesar Izturis – Racehourse Jockey
Carlos Lee – His nickname is El Caballo. Mr. Lee, may I introduce you to Mr. Izturis.
Chad Cordero – Get a little curve on that brim, son. It looks like you just bought your hat at Modell’s.
Bob Wickman – “I’m gonna eat you.”
Kenny Rogers – I really think, at least from this angle, that the man looks like George Clooney. What would have happened with George Clooney had kicked assaulted a cameraman? (Answer at the end of this column.)

8:21 – Each of the starters have come out of the tunnel holding a baseball. I’m sure this is just an attempt to make some money by MLB, as no doubt we’ll see these in an auction in the coming weeks. Most players completed the awkward “shake-my-teammates’-hands-but-don’t-drop-the-ball” process, but Bobby Abreu had other intentions. He throws the ball into the stands – for free! Not only is he a home run derby champ, he’s the people’s champ!

8:31 – After Brian McKnight aces the National Anthem, a stealth bomber flies over Comerica Park. Unfortunately, it has a mind of its own and it’s choosing its own targets. Hey, Brian, why do you think Jamie Foxx declined this job?

8:37 – Tim McCarver has made his first appearance. This is the man, while broadcasting the ALCS, stated, “The thing about ground balls is, they have a tendency to go out of the park.” I feel dumber just hearing his voice.

8:41 – DHL showing us for the second time their “There’s no crying in shipping!” commercial. Cute idea, but as I watched it later for the eleventy billionth time, it’s really a poor parody. And the “crying guy” has grown more awful than Bartolo Colon’s haircut.

8:44 – Scooter, the FOX Sports talking cartoon baseball. tells us what a change-up is. (“Another word for Slowball,” he explains). I sit here wondering if my job could have talking cartoons to explain the blatantly obvious. Oh wait, it does.

8:54 – Hey, there’s real-live baseball happening. A-Rod singles, despite the fact he is wearing bizarre white baseball cleats. Man, even in uniform, he’s got this metrosexual thing down cold. (Meanwhile in NYC, Jeter is sitting in a barco-lounger eating Fritos in his underwear.)

9:01 – As the best hitting catcher in MLB history steps to the plate, it makes me realize just who Mike Piazza is becoming - Jack Parkman. Parkman is the opposing slugger in the Major League movies, and Piazza is morphing into him. Even down to the little shimmy when he steps to the plate. Oh, and Mark Buerhle strikes him out.

9:09 – Miguel Tejada just turned this double-shutout into rubble, launching a John Smoltz pitch into the seats. Right after Joe Buck predicted him as the MVP. I smell conspiracy. No, actually I smell the toaster. Waffles are done!

9:24 – Blockbuster commercial. I hate this “no late fees” scam. The guy in the spot says “What if you had a rental car and returned it 7 days late, and the car company said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, no big deal!” Wow, great analogy, Blockbuster. Why don’t you mention that if he returns the rental car 8 days late, he has to BUY THE RENTAL CAR.

9:29 – David Ortiz just launched a rocket against the bottom of the right field wall. Two AL runners score. Ortiz, rounding first, passes out from exhaustion. Once, just once, I would like to see a big guy try and stretch a single into a double.

9:51 – Ok, not a whole lot has happened in the past half-hour. Spud and I just had a conversation about how in love the Japanese people are with Seattle centerfielder Ichiro Suzuki. I predict he runs for public office in Japan after he retires. Chevrolet, as a chief sponsor, is not as much of a fan as Ichiro knocks a two-run single to Abreu in right. There’s no word in Japanese for pick-up truck.

10:05 – Clemens enters the game. Piazza exits. For those who lack the back story, there was a feud between these two about two years back. Piazza mocked Clemens in public. Clemens threw at Piazza. Later, Piazza got a broken bat grounder off of a Rocket fastball, and the barrel of his bat coincidentally charged the pitcher’s mound. Clemens picked it up and threw it at Piazza. Yeah, no bad blood here. Had Manager Tony LaRussa left him in to catch Clemens, it would have been nice to see Clemens try and throw the ball through his catcher, not to him. Sigh.

As the replacements come in and the innings grow long, so does this diary. The AL went on to win 7-5, with Tejada getting the MVP, as predicted by Joe Buck. Tim McCarver made Chris Griffin from Family Guy sound like a genius, David Ortiz was put on a respirator before being replaced in the sixth, and even Kenny Rogers came in for some poetic justice, as Andruw Jones rocked a slider into the left field bleachers.

I leave you with this thought. No matter how good you are at something, pursue your dream. Don’t let skill or talent get in the way of your goals. Proof? Two words: David Eckstein.

Trivia Answer - Absolutely nothing. He's Batman.