Best Company Ever, Chapter 7

It’s been months since I last left the BCE with a mailroom full of penguins. Who knew they would advance of the corporate ladder so fast? I mean, come on! A movie deal? Hey guys when you come back from the your press junket with Morgan Freeman, would you mind doing a quick sort and deliver before you call it a day in the name of Happy Hour? And yeah, you better believe that they have a beer of choice. Doobie, doobie-do.

Taking a break from staffing issues, I figure I might as well talk a little Facilities, you know, to put my last 2.5 years of experience to use. Now no matter what your office setting is, it’s likely that at some point, you’ll find yourself in a meeting. Meetings, because of their pesky requirement of “involving more than one person” rarely can take place in your cube. And I bet your boss’s office isn’t big enough to hold more than two or three people at most. However, divine planning has given us an alternative from cramped convening.

And on the seventh day, the Architect made Conference Rooms.

For the most part, all conference rooms are exactly the same. Big table in the middle of the room, chairs all around (although always one less than you actually need), a credenza for the phone, an empty coffee pot, and enough Styrofoam cups to give Greenpeace a coronary. Throw some corporate art on the wall, maybe an easel or whiteboard for good measure, and dude, you’ve got yourself a meeting place. Hold up.

This is not the format for any conference room at the Corporate HQ of Best Company Ever. No, a BCE Conference Room must be able to provide all the functions of conference rooms at every other sucker company out there. Business must be able to take place, and with a level of importance and like every participant’s comment could mean fortune or failure. With that said, throw out the table, chairs, the Styrofoam and everything else. What this room needs is gaming tables.

Now I’m not just trying to turn a conference room into wherever those damn penguins are drinking right now – hear me out. By installing a corporate set of gaming tables in a conference room, a manager can expect his employees (and visiting clients) to become even more productive than before, and have a little, dare I say, fun in the process. Let’s design the room, shall we?

Regardless of what you plan to do in this conversational mecca, you are going to need a center table to convene around and hammer out an agenda. Papers will be passed around the table, but by the time everybody has their stack of papers ready, Mark in Logistics has fallen asleep. Solution: replace that silly fancypants oak table with an air hockey table and watch as paper magically floats from person to person.

Now a conference room, especially in an awesome company like BCE, needs to be multi-functional. Therefore, our floorplan must suit all of the following needs.

Negotiations – This type of meeting involves a back and forth between two sides as they move towards an inevitable compromise. Well, grab a paddle folks. With a ping pong table, both players must play to get their way. Miss a shot? You have to make a concession.

Strategy – Strategy meetings are also a popular reason to reserve a conference room. These are often difficult because there are too many balls up in the air to hammer out a plan of attack. It’s time to get said balls out of the air and onto the table. Grab a cue stick, we’re playing pool. Tackle the issues one-by-one until only the eight ball is left.

Personnel – Annually, important managers must do the impossible – performance reviews for a cadre of employees that they have no idea who they actually are. In order to make the random assignment of wage increases fun, throw the employees names on the backs of all the foosball players on that new table where the credenza was. Do a post-game evaluation of their efforts, and adjust salary accordingly.

Budgeting – We’ll just use the way we use to do budgeting now for costs and revenues that are completely unpredictable. Get Maintenance on the phone, we’ve got to hang ourselves a dartboard.

The Nomenclature of Cool

Who needs introductory paragraphs and comedic meandering? I’m just going to come out and say what’s been on my mind this morning, opting against my usual beaten path of verbosity.

The coolest name I’ve ever heard is Wolf Blitzer.

Blitzer, the face of cable news, is a man you should all know by face, but at the very least, by his incredible name. The silver-bearded rock of an anchor has covered every major conflict, disaster, and election for CNN since the early 90’s. His delivery is calming, his knowledge base is extensive, and his journalistic integrity is awe-inspiring. But even if he was a maniacal dolt who spent the last 8 years making up stories for Cat Fancy magazine, I’d still listen to him: because of the name.

What’s more, Blitzer is using his actual first name. When it comes to television news, anchors are not adverse to changing their names to garner greater appeal (Hey Philly readers, did you know Jim Gardner on Ch. 6 is really James Goldman?) But Mr. Blitzer goes by the name he was given upon birth – that of his grandfather. I was named after by great-grandfather. Just imagine where I’d be if his name had been something like “Thor” or “Indiana” or “Action.”

Thankfully, my great-grandfather wasn’t named Ron, either. I wouldn’t want to be Ron Condon. (Yep, Rondon.)

But while you may all know Wolf Blitzer for his reporting expertise behind a desk, his unbelievably cool name has gained him many other avenues of fame that the readers of YAB may not yet know about. Here’s a sampling…

TEEN WOLF – Forget Michael J. Fox. It is a little known fact that like many other great movies (A Beautiful Mind, Ray), Teen Wolf is based upon a true story. Sad but true, it told the real-life trials and tribulations of a young Wolf Blitzer in his hometown of Syracuse, New York.

BEEN AROUND THE WORLD – In the seventies, the man toured Europe as a correspondent reporter. He was so proficient at his job that they sent this American Werewolf to both London and Paris on many an occasion.

AIRWOLF - For a great eight years in the eighties, Blitzer contributed his name and his efforts to the television show Airwolf. Not only was he the mastermind behind the CIA operation known as “The Firm,” he can also be credited with coming up with the best theme song in the history of TV.

WOLF – Remember Jack Nicholson’s weird werewolf movie from 1994? Guess who did all his stunts.

PETER AND THE WOLF – Forget the play with the stupid oboe. In the mid 90’s, when it was slow at the news desk, Blitzer teamed with fellow anchor Peter Jennings to perform a two-man show just off Broadway. Their rendition of “Who’s on First” won critical acclaim.

GREAT SCOTT! – This is CNN, America’s Most Trusted News Source. I’m Wolf Blitzer. This just in: Scott Wolf sucks.

CLASSICAL REPORTING – In 2002, Blitzer took the greatest works of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and performed them live for the United States Congress. Armed with a piano, a string section, and working knowledge of the Israeli-Palestinian diplomacy, he received a standing ovation at the outdoor theatre affectionately known as – yep – Wolf Trap.

DURAN DURAN – Yeah. They’re hungry like him.

Trotter? I don't even know her!

Since I lack the skills, the connections, and the technical know-how, my chances of becoming a radio disc jockey are pretty damn slim. In addition, I am not a national recording artist with a hit single on the charts, so it’s equally unlikely that you’ll hear me getting a spin with my latest parody. Now the FCC is effectively a public domain, and I really have no way of taking my freedom of speech and getting my beautiful baritone voice over your airwaves. The FM dial will forever be an island that I cannot visit. But as the contemporary Buddhist scholar Everclear once said – “You could listen to the people on the AM Radio.”

In Philly, we have mastered the sports talk radio scene. We’ve got a bunch of South Philly Italians and a jerk named Eskin, we’ve given them multi-hour blocks of airtime, and we let them talk sports ALL DAY LONG. With every show a local broadcast, 610 WIP turns a fan base into a rabid one faster than Allen Iverson hits the showers after practice. (Practice?) This is a major reason Philly has some of the most die-hard followers in the country.

I called into 610 WIP once. I was like 19, and I made some comment about the importance of rolling four lines in a hockey playoff series, and how the Flyers would crunch the Bruins in Round 1. It wasn’t great, but it at least got my feet wet in the forum of “making my sports knowledge known to a metropolitan region.” Even if I never make it to the SportsCenter anchor desk, I would have at least had my 15 minutes of fame (or a buck-forty, as it were.) But that was then. This is now.

DC also has become proficient with the sports radio format, teaming with ESPN to maintain SportsTalk 980 AM. And just like 610 is a flagship for all things Eagles, Flyers, Sixers, and Phils, 980 serves the fanbase of the Washington teams. And in case you didn’t notice, said fanbase – not a huge cheering section for the City of Brotherly Love. Yesterday will go down as the day that I, Chris Condon, shut up a city of idiots.

(Citiots.)

(Note: not all DC fans are idiots. Most of quite knowledgeable, and love their teams, win or lose. And Philly has the same subsect of fans, too. So this is a disclaimer to let you all know I’m just talking about a small section of DC natives who have gone insane. Oh, and George Bush doesn’t care for the Washington Wizards.)

I flicked on 980 when I was out running some errands on break yesterday. I couldn’t tell you who was the host, but it wasn’t Kornheiser or Dan Patrick. The topic at hand was essentially this: an picture has been circulating via e-mail of a guy walking down a street in Philly with a black and red t-shirt on. He’s walking away from the camera, so all you can see is his back. Like a jersey in big red letters, the name across the shoulders is SATAN with the big 81 underneath. The spin of the e-mail and the current talkradio topic is that Philadelphia is a city that has completely turned on their star wide receiver, T.O., and even their beloved Eagles.

The first few callers took turns taking shots at Owens, which I’m cool with. He’s been a distraction all off-season long, and I can understand that. Sure, there are people who are vehemently against him these days in the Delaware Valley. Fine. But when the next few callers pointed out that the Redskins won yesterday, and without the fan support Philly is headed for the cellar of the NFC East. The host added that he expects the T.O. Satan jersey to make more than a few appearance at the Birds’ first home game next week.

This is when it hit me. Oh my God, I have to call. NOW.

Fifteen minutes later and a few more “Washington in the Super Bowl” callers later (you beat the Bears, guys. Chill.), the following exchange took place on SportsTalk 980:

Host: Hi, you’re on SportsTalk 980.
Condon: Hi there. I’m a long-time listener, first-time caller.
Host: Thanks for the call. What’s up?
Condon: Yes, well, as both a Philly fan and a hockey fan, I felt I needed to throw my hat into this conversation about the T.O. jersey. You see, I don’t think it’s that the city has turned on the Eagles at all. Regardless of all the off-season craziness.
Host: Ok, how do you know?
Condon: Well, that’s just a feeling I have. But I can at least tell you all that the Satan t-shirt doesn’t represent the views of Eagles fans in the least. As I said, I am a huge hockey fan. Which allows me to realize that this isn’t a T.O. mocking at all. What you fail to realize is that the Buffalo Sabres, whose colors are RED and BLACK, had a winger for the last several years named Miroslav Satan (pronounced shuh-tan) who just happens to wear number 81.
Host: (awkward pause.) Oh. Well then, I guess that closes and seals this topic. Moving on…

(Today's title courtesy of Jasen Andersen)

Wine in a Box, Cheese in a Can

Have you ever wanted to host a wine and cheese party, but didn’t know where to being? No, not at all? Too bad. That’s what I’m writing about anyway.

This past weekend, the Condons at the ‘fax held a small gathering for some friends in the area under the moniker “Wine and Cheese and Mayhem.” I know what you are thinking – what’s with the name. Well, the first two components happened to be the pre-selected food and drink for the evening, while the latter components was thrown in thanks to my marketing savvy ways. I didn’t learn much from my marketing major, but I did learn that in order to have a marketable product, it helps to give the people what they want. And in my strange line of thought, I decided that above all else, people just really want mayhem. Therefore, proclaim it, and hope that lots of wine erases any notion of empty promises.

Ok, with the invitation in the mail, it’s time to make you can at least come through on the pledge to have wine and cheese. And since the current State of the Fridge address only can vouch for some sandwich slices for American and very un-winelike case of Yuengling, it looks like an external supplier must be sought out. Good thing we live within walking distance to the Roman Coliseum of supermarkets.

Road Trip to Wegman’s!

Wegman’s, much unlike supermarkets named after a kings of their respective jungles, has the style and the floor space to house extensive wine and cheese selections. They actually have a wine cellar. But unlike most cellars, it is well-lit, well-ventilated, and I would be more than happy to evacuate to such a cellar the next time a tornado threatens Northern Virginia.

No wine cellar is complete without a WineGod. This is the guy who roams the shelves and shelves of wine, having a vast base on wine-to-food pairings at his fingertips. Having chicken cacciatore with a side of asparagus? He’ll pull this rieseling from some one-armed vineyard guy in Germany off the shelf. Having steak with a side of steak, to be followed by a steak truffle? Cabernet, hand picked by some guy he knows in the Napa Valley. Dining on Tater Tots and Fritos? Go upstairs, you cretin. WineGod has no time for you.

(But he will suggest a Zinfandel under his breath.)

Once your cart has been filled to the brim with wine, it’s time to head upstairs to the cheese section. Wow, it occurs to me that “cheese section” does not nearly do the place justice. Let’s say that the standard back-of-store chilled case with the obligatory cheese foods, blocks, and bags of shredded variety can be represented by that baseball field you grew up near that had the dirt infield and the orange roll-up fence for an outfield boundary. Got it?

Wegman’s is Yankee Stadium.

First thing you need to realize is this. At least 70% of the cheese there will be completely foreign to you. (And this has nothing to do with the fact 70% of the cheese is actually from other countries.) Also, as helpful as the WineGod was downstairs, there is no CheeseGod upstairs. Just a stockboy, removing fresh mozzarella from a container of ice and water.

I had no idea that mozzarella was an underwater cheese.

Nonetheless, stick to what you know – buy what you can pronounce, what’s not too expensive, what actually looks like cheese. Take a few leaps unto the unknown, and even brie can be seen as an option. If there’s ever an occasion for brie, it’s a wine and cheese and mayhem party. Not exactly your NFL-watching cheese.

There’s a lot more prep work involved, but I’m out of space. My internal editor just smacked me in the back of the head. More later.

(Postscript: There was a limited supply of mayhem. But I think somebody mistook it for a nice merlot.)

Metroblog

First things first – I’m not blogging while sitting on the Metro. First off, there’s nowhere to plug in my laptop. Secondly, much like my adventures in air travel, I have some difficulty typing the funny while my knees rest deep within my ribcage. Thirdly, as I have to assume wireless connection is about as reliable as cell phone coverage, this post would probably look something like the following:

“A funny thing happened on the way to my first class of the first semester. When I got off the Metro at Fog ------- ttom, there was this adorable los --- uppy, trying frantically to walk ----- the ---- p ---- scalator. Ev --------------- wner was dow-------e, I’m pre--- th----ppy ---- didn’t------farecard. --------------------------------- q ------------- lo --- ory --- never buying street vendor ice cream again.”

Nonetheless, this is my Metroblog. And sometime in the not too distant past, I found myself riding the finest vehicles the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority had to offer. As I have yet to master parking in Foggy Bottom DC for anywhere less than $30, I am resorting to spending a daily $8.95 to take the subway in and out of our Nation’s Capital. Heck, maybe I’m even saving money, considering I could but a plasma TV with the sum it takes to fill my Accord at the pump.

Most of my time on this peoplemover will either consist of sleeping with my head propped up against the glass or reading for the class that I’m due to have in a matter of minutes. The percentages for each activity is still undetermined, but why do I get a sneaking suspicion they will fall in the 97 vs. 3 area?

Going into the city, I have little complain about. At rush hour, the primary goal of the region’s citizenry is to get out of the city. They’ve paid their dues, bought their SmarTrip card and are headed out. I, in a true act of counterculture, am headed in. So as I sit on a largely-empty Metrorail car, I have some time to view the literature on above the windows:

6 Reasons You’re Riding the Nation’s BEST Public Transportation

1. No Smoking – Alright, good start, Metro. Totally agree with you on this. There’s nothing worse than coming home from a Nats game at 10:30PM standing in one giant cloud of smoke. (Ok, maybe it’s worse if you’re coming home from a Nats game at 10:30PM and you’ve lied to Congress about taking steroids. Eech.)
2. No Food or Drink – Ok, here’s where Metro’s claim of being the best goes awry. I totally understand that food and drink could mess with other passengers, but man, what an ideal time to take in some sustenance. Just bring enough to share with your seatmate, and let’s call it a day. (Don’t eat candy though. Offering it to the kid sitting next to you will go against everything he learned in Safety class.)
3. No Trash or Spitting – Yes, in an idealist community, the floors and seats are spot-free, spic-and-span, and if you were allowed food or drink on this train, you could dine right off of the carpet. In a metro community, there’s enough old USA Today copies to stuff a piñata. As for spitting, we're not in France, cool with me.
4. No Flammable Substances or Materials – This is what makes our Metro the best? Are you telling me that in Boston or New York, they’re totally cool with commuters carrying kerosene-soaked stacks of newspapers and old cans of varnish onboard?
5. No Audio or Video Devices – Now in the Age of iPod, most people are content with listening to their tunes by themselves courtesy of a nice small set of headphones. I am not most people. If this really was the best of the best, I want that aforementioned plasma showing me movies I don’t have time to see in the theaters. Like The Interpreter and Hitchhiker’s Guide.
6. No Animals – Two Words: Monkey Conductors.

Pubber Blips

I have long contended that when it comes to certain office supplies, there should never be a need to go outside one’s place of business for additional inventory. When it comes to paper clips, rubber bands, and, heck, I’ll even throw the omnipresent staple remover in here, scientific research should be performed to highlight just how much of each of these three are in daily circulation in offices across the country. I guarantee the tallies would be staggering.

Now here’s the thing about ordering office supplies – it’s really the one place that most standard office workers have access to corporate funding. Need to buy a new 7-ton air conditioning unit? Visit the Capital Use Committee. Want a new flat screen monitor? That will go across the manager’s desk at the very least. Heck, even the “company-sponsored” lunch isn’t a sure thing until the finance rep at the table nods once the meal is over. But office supplies – AH! That’s where YOU, the lowly employee, makes some big-time procurement decisions.

When office supplies are being purchased, whether from the Staples across the street or from the eleventy billion page catalog that props up your binder shelf, one thing is clear. The wallet on the other end of that transaction does not reside in your pocket. As a result, office workers are known to do ridiculous things. They’ll buy blue AND black pens, even though the only ever use blue. They’ll buy stuff that is completely frivolous, like desk clocks that project the time on their cubicle wall using a system of freaky blue lasers. (Brookstone also banks on this tendency.) But most importantly of all in the realm of ordering chaos, people continue to buy paper clips, rubber bands and staple removers.

As they say in Quiz Show, “I’ll take the third part last.” It’s not that staple removers are useless desk implements. It’s just that aside from remote controls, car keys, and your mind, it could be the easiest thing in the universe to misplace. Staplers are big enough to stay put – and rather difficult to unknowingly knock it on the floor. But a staple remover – that thing can sprout legs. You can take it to the copier room, and after a 25 minute collating session, completely forget that it made the trip. And since staple removers are about as unique as Martin Lawrence characters, no one can truly identify their staple remover in a police lineup (assuming staple removers commit crimes.) So what happens? Point. Click. Ship. A new litter of staple removers join their brethren. Enjoy your time, kids. It’s only a matter of time before you are cast away at the copier like those who have come before ye.

But all in all, the above is modestly excusable. After all, if the world was devoid of staple removers, we would be left with completely destroyed fingernails and pen tips. However, I have no sympathy for those who spend the almighty corporate dollar on more paper clips and rubber bands. If I had a goat, these people would surely get it.

Paper clips and rubber bands (Pubber blips for short) are not unlike pennies. There are more than enough in circulation, and when you need one, you can usually find one. The collect on your desk after you process whatever package from whence they came, and as long as you don’t mess with their factory-given shape and form, they’ll be there forever. You use them when you need them, often to bind documents that you are prepared to bid adieu to and send on their way. You get them when the same documents make their way back home to you. Regardless, everyone has a ready stock of them, since these items are so rarely disposed of.

So why in the world would anyone order more? Equivalent: “Mr. Cashier, sir, here’s a dollar, can you give me 100 pennies in change so that they can sit on my desk and do nothing? Oh, thank you so much.”

With that said, I’m out of paper clips. Help me, please.

Y-PAC? Why Not!

Who knew convincing the world of your identity would require not just the first and second, but the third degree.

As I rolled out of bed this morning, I felt well-rested from the Labor Day weekend and ready to tackle the type of week I have grown accustomed to over the last year. With planning season commencing at the office and classes kicking back in gear at GW, I was fully prepared to handle my schedule – which metaphorically – is the equivalent of taking your pocket calendar and inserting it in a blender. Perhaps with a banana, for added hilarity.

You want to make God laugh? Tell Him about your plans.

Because just when you think you’ve got in under control, you can expect to spend your morning dodging wrenches. My first one came at 6:49 this morning. Ready to head out the door to get a jump on my Inbox from Hell (exaggerating here – it’s not that bad, maybe from Wisconsin or parts less fiery), I do the standard Young Professional Accessory Check (Y-PAC).

Car keys – Go Launch.
Cell phone – Go Launch.
Cool shades – Go Launch.
Wallet – Postpone Launch…

Where is my wallet? With a new apartment, there hasn’t been enough time for mysterious hiding locations to crop up. It’s too early for my wallet to fall deep within the couch or underneath a stack of assorted papers and magazines. Heck, I can still tell you everything on my dresser at this point. While this may limit the number places to look for said wallet, it makes it all the more disconcerting when my search turns up little more than my set of Monroe Project hockey pucks and that syllabus I spent last night looking for. As a last resort, I dialed Katie, her commute already in progress.

Looks like my wallet is going to school today.

Now my careless leaving of the wallet in her car last night completely alters any morning routine I had hoped to maintain. Without any cash, I was forced to make a pit stop at Wegman’s to visit my friend Coinstar. Additionally, in the immediate departure frenzy, I managed to forget to complete Y-PAC, leaving my lanyard w/ID badge hanging on the closet doorknob. For most this wouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just go to the front security desk and get a temp badge. All I have to do is show my photo ID-

Uh oh.

Ok, so no photo ID. At least I know the woman who works there by first name and she’ll recognize me. Hey – wait a minute – that’s not her – who’s this other woman?

Turns out, in this age of Homeland Security, proving one’s identity is rather difficult. Without an ID badge or wallet (rife with identification documents), I had to resort to answering questions about my employment. Here are some helpful things to know if you are ever stuck in a similar situation…

• Social Security Number (it pays to fill out application forms correctly, easy one)
• Office Phone Number (this could have been easy, if I EVER DIALED MY OWN NUMBER. Her suspicion grew here when I hesitated.)
• Office/Cubicle Number (apparently, it would have helped to know this as well. The doubt grows…)
• Somebody else walking through the lobby to vouch for your identity.
  

Who would have thought it would be that hard to get into work?

Totally Alumnifying!

Last night, I did the reverse commute into our Nation’s Capital to attend a William and Mary alumni event. And just as I had hoped, I was able to make as little small talk as possible while generating a wealth of blog material. All social functions should work this way. Exert a little effort, get plenty to mock in return. Let’s just hope that I can put it all into to words. On your mark, get set, BANANA.

(That’s a little Joe Brescia humor right there.)

My first alum event in three or so years, the Government department (with which I chalked up a second major) was holding a cocktail reception for those who once roamed the corridors of Morton Hall. Most of the current professorship was also in attendance, reconnecting and catching up with students that they once hoped to influence. This is really their opportunity to see what fine Capitol Hillians, lobbyists, and all-around political activists we’ve become.

I work Finance. I write a comedy blog. Looks like one sheep went astray. Baaaaa.

When I first got to the Woodley Park Marriott, I had hopes of finding a directory of events, perhaps on an easel. Little did I know that the American Political Science Association (or APSA to slice word count) was holding their 4 day convention at said hotel. Aside from discussing modern politics and the issues that affect our world, it appears APSA is extremely proficient at easel-making. I counted 40 without any helpful info for me before I gave up and called my scout team, already at the reception. Stupid easels.

As I scoured far and wide in a sprawling lobby built for a killer game of Goldeneye, I noticed that practically every single meeting room was filled with an assortment of people, nametags, and light refreshments. Turns out William and Mary was not the only ones with the alumni reception idea. With each open doorway, I realized more and more – there’s free food and drink to be had, no matter your alma matter. Without a requisite singing of the campus hymn or an mascot identification system, what prevents any yahoo (or wahoo) from coming in to any room and totally faking their way to the bar?

Upon arrival, I did an initial scan of the room. Looks like a regular happy hour crowd, but with a heck of a lot more conversation. For those who make it a daily ritual to eat half priced appetizer and discounted beer, you’re not so much there for the social interaction – more so for the cheap wings and brew. But for those who meet their friend Bar once or week or less, it’s dialogue that rules the hour. And when you’re meeting someone who used to be able to hold grades over your head or classmates you haven’t seen in years, you might as well be prepared for a deafening roar.

I wasn’t.

Fact of the matter was, other than friends that I already see on a regular basis, there wasn’t anyone there I had a need or want to talk to. My favorite professors either did not make the trip to DC or had retired, and I just didn’t feel comfortable talking to my seminar prof whose class I rarely spoke in, or my professor for Politics in Film who doesn’t recognize me because our classes were held largely with the lights off. This leaves me with two options.

Go up to a professor who I never had and tell him how his course changed my life to watch his astounded face while he searches his mental class list for my name (I’m not wearing a name tag.) Second, pretend to be a new professor on staff – assistant or visiting, nothing to showy – and explain crackpot political theory to the eager young minds who are there for more than free Amstel. “Did you know we have 38 Senators that are actually Muppets? No? You have so much to learn.”

Oh, I get it. “little Joe Brescia.” Now that’s funny.

Trickle Down Pizzanomics

Granted, today would have been a perfect day to wax comedic on the skyrocketing price of gasoline in this country, but I must decline for two reasons. One – every other blogger on the planet has probably beaten me to it, as it’s almost noon o’clock, and I’m behind the times. Two – I already complained about fuel prices back in March, we launched into the $2.20 range. Call it a premature diatribe, but it appears I’ve already used us the funny in this department.

Unless you consider ramifications…

Yes, refueling you car at the pump this weekend may cost you between 3 and 4 dollars per gallon, plus an arm and/or leg, but that’s not the only place your wallet will feel the squeeze. You see, other services and industries have fuel costs built into the price they charge. Airline tickets could launch into the stratosphere. NASCAR drivers may have to win their weekly race just to use their winnings to break even against the day’s refueling expense. While you may think you are being shopper savvy by doing your buying online, it’s possible that the shipping costs will creep upward. And somehow, I don’t know how, but somehow, Ticketmaster will find a way to blame a surcharge hike on their need for gas reserves. I hate them.

But unless you are planning to purchase a new suitcase from Amazon to pack for a trip to Daytona, which you’ll fly to just to make good on that bleacher seat you bought from Ticketmaster to quench your need for speed, most of those price hikes won’t affect you. Your wallet would be safe. However, let’s bring this dilemma of secondary fuel costs to a more local level. And, yes, I’m typing in your direction, college students:

Ordering pizza.

For the Pizza Huts, Dominos, and that guy John who thinks he’s your daddy, their business model has just taken a hit faster than you can say “Little Caesar files Chapter Eleven.” Since most of them have cut overhead by deep sixing dining room seating, the fast food pizza business has become largely delivery only. And what do you need in order to get such a product to the people? Simple.

1. A car with an empty back seat.
2. A kid with his license and a taste for reckless decision making.
3. Fuel for the car to get to its destination
4. Cash for the kid so he doesn’t pay himself by eating the pizzas.

Now three things remain constant in that equation. (assuming pizza delivery kids don’t unionize and demand to be paid in Xbox games) However, lucky number 3 isn’t quite tracking as budget planners would have liked. So what happens when Exxon, Mobil, ExxonMobil, and all the rest put the squeeze on the pizza folks?Well first off, as a sign of preconceived hostility, the pizza places will refuse to ever deliver to a gas station again. So for graveyard pumpmonkeys, you’re going to have to resort to eating those Frosted Honey Buns that have been on the convenience rack since 1997.

Secondly, a bit of good news. In order to trim costs, the major pizza players will have to completely eliminate their advertising budgets. This is outstanding. If you think about the last five years, some of the dumbest, most insanely stupid spots have come from Dominos and Pizza Hut. Jessica Simpson? Pizza Head Man? Any one where guys come running because they hear the damn doorbell? Who’s running these ad agencies? The Redskins’ front office?

Third, let’s face it, folks. Pizza prices are going to increase. In order to pay for the extra fuel costs, your dining experience at your door will tack on a few bucks. But in the spirit of competition, the regular base pizza will remain at standard pricing – the sales team will at least be granted a tad of creativity.

“I’d like 2 large deep dish pepperoni pizzas, please.”
“How deep a dish would you like sir? 40 cents per centimeter.”
“Uh…”
“And today is 2 for Tuesday which means there’s a 2 dollar surcharge.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, got that one from Ticketmaster. Oh and pepperoni – how many would you like? That’s 35 cents per ‘roni.”
- click -

Things to Do after Sacking York

The readership of YAB is a fairly homogeneous bunch. Roughly 95% of our visitors call America home, reading their daily dose of funny in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. There are of course a few exceptions. We often see a long lost pal in Slovakia make his way over from Icarus Fallen, there’s the occasional Canadian wanderer who searched and found out I was the inside source on all things hockey, and don’t forget that I’ve been known to a Google source for “Honduran wedding traditions,” confusing several brides-to-be in Tegucigalpa. So, yeah, we’ve gone global with this baby.

However, in our quest for world domination, we’ve noticed that we rarely attract a visitor from other English-speaking world power – the United Kingdom. Granted, in our own ethnocentric prose, we rarely tip a cap to those chaps across the pond. And then it really hit YAB – we really know very little about the UK. So in an effort to manifest some international dipblogacy, today’s feature will focus on those who call and English Muffin, well, “muffin.”

The idea hit me when taping together an invoice package this morning. My office supplies, as I’ve mentioned before, are nothing uberfancy, but they are nice. With most – pens, pencils, scissors, highlighters – there is choice. But when it comes tape, there is one type and one type only for your adhesive needs – Scotch Tape.

Originally known as Scots Tape, the evolution of language has taken its toll and now the clear rolls of binding strip has come to be called Scotch Tape. Because 3M, the main producer of Scotch Tape, has locked away the historical origins. Well, because we cracked the secret password (3M apparently stands for “Money, Money, Money”), we have unlocked the vault and have come across these meeting minutes from a centuries-old United Kingdom executive meeting. Turns out Scotch Tape came to the new world because Scotland was well-represented at said discussion. Here’s a peek…

William Shakespeare, GB: As the representative of the crown, I would like to call this meeting to an order. As our table, round as the morning sun, hath chairs for a quartet, each one of the great lands of a Kingdom United shall have their roll taken henceforth.
Liam Neeson, NI: Having grown up in Belfast, I have been called from my post on the Jedi Council to attend this “other” council of sorts, to discuss matters concerning the union of our four lands. So why in the name of Seamus Fitzpatrick do I sit here across from a small blue fish? Who mocks Qui Gon Jinn?
Dory the Fish, W: What? Wait? Hello? Nice to meet you both. I’m Dory. I’ve been sent on behalf of the Welsh people for two reasons. One – Catherine Zeta Jones was busy. Two – I speak Wales.
Shakespeare: Mere fish, thy people speaketh in one of two tongues: English and Welsh.
Dory: Noooooow youuuuuuu listen heeeeeeeeere, Willllllyum. I am caaaapable of repreeeesenting Wales.
Neeson: The ability to speak does not make you intelligent, Dory. Now before I have to resort to using the Force to get my way, where is our fourth?
Shakespeare: He runs, as his people are prone to do. Late, that is. He runneth late.
Dory: Soooooo I was tooooooold that –
Neeson: Dory, you don’t need to speak Wales.
Dory: Yeeeeeeeesssss, I doooo-
Neeson (waving his hand) No, you do not have to speak Wales.
Dory: Noooo, I dooooo. I'm a Fiiiiiish, mind tricks doooon't woooork on meeee, Jeddddiiii!
Shakespeare: Anyways, brevity is the soul of meetings, so I call to arms the issue to be laid forth on our glorious table: a national adhesive. England would like to propose the use of paste. As an homage our people of fair London, their skin tone shall from this day forward, we shall bind our bindables with pas-
William Wallace, Scot: Just one second, good Sir William. There is another entry on your fair table. I am here to represent Scotland, and its treasured adhesive: Tape.
Shakespeare: But foolish knave, what be thy name?
Wallace: Fish and Jedi! I am William Wallace.
Dory: William Wallace is seeeeeeveen feeeeeet talllllllll!
Wallace: Yes, I've heard. Kills men by the hundreds. And if HE were here, he'd consume the English with fireballs from his eyes, and bolts of lightning from his arse.
Shakespeare: Now wait just one min-
Wallace: I AM William Wallace! And I see a national crisis here, now, in the name of bonding agents. You've come to decide on behalf of your lands, and decide you will. But glue? What will you do with glue?
Neeson: We will stick papers together, and we will be fine.
Wallace: Aye, with glue you may be fine, but with tape, oh with tape! Just think, Fish and Jedi, dying in your bed or bowl, many years from now, would you be willing to trade ALL the days, from this day to that, for one chance, JUST ONE CHANCE, to live without sticky gluehands? Yes, Shakespeare, you may convince some. But my friends, we shall come back here and tell our poet friend that he may take away our lives, but he'll never take... OUR ADHESIVE!

Hungry for Feedback

First off, the victims of Hurricane Katrina are in the thoughts and prayers of YAB this morning. While everybody likes a good storm, no one should ever have to be subjected to such massive levels of destruction and loss, and having visited New Orleans in the last year, YAB’s heart goes out to the residents of Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi and beyond. For those looking to help, please donate to the Red Cross. Thanks.

Ok, pushing forward, another story caught my eye on the CNN.com homepage this morning. This week marks the return to collegiate learning for many, this MBA student included. The first year of college for incoming freshman can indeed be an intense one. More homework, less sleep, more food options, less sleep, more free time to manage, less sleep, more freedom, less – you get the groggy picture. Well, according to the article, universities across the nation lately have been inundated with service calls, complaints, and requests regarding every facet of college life. Academics, housing, why the mustard dispenser in the dining hall is always empty – it doesn’t matter – college administration hears about it. This would be fine, if they were all coming from the students.

Nope.

Parents are making these calls into the school on their students’ collective behalf. Now I have no problem with concerned parenting, but when a mom calls the school because the plumbing is subpar – on her kid’s study abroad in CHINA – it’s getting out of hand. I propose that a Board of Absolute Ridiculousness be installed at all bastions of higher learning, where fines can be levied against the righteously dumb. Yeah you heard me, college needs one more B.A.R.

Sadly, this trend doesn’t stop at the gates of academia. YAB, too, has to deal with complaints on the most minute of issues on a daily basis. You may occasionally see them on the comments section, but we head most of them off at the past, directing such grumblings to the Customer Service Department. And today, and for today only, we’re going to let you peak into this pseudo-anonymous wail bag, so you can truly see just how finicky a blog reading public can be. Enjoy, and I don’t want to hear from any of your parents after the column.

“Umm, yes, I am calling to complain about the treatment about the fella at UNC who has been a great friend to you. The phrase “phoning it in” has become a bane and – uh, well, - eh, you get the picture. I’m going outside to play. – C.N., Chapel Hill

“What the heck is with the backdating? I have no idea what day it is or what to read and now I’m eight days late to all my appointments. – J.C., Media

“I want a column about how I’ve kicked your doors in over at Fantasy Baseball Land. About how it’s the playoffs next week, and Igfield Fly Rule has conceded the regular season to my glorious Army! I want some press!” – J.A., Georgetown

“Um, yes, I came across your site when I Yahoo searched “Ubercool Rob Harford.” Man, if I were Rob Harford (which I’m not, just a friend of his), I, I mean he would thank you for the accolades. That guy is awesome and available – ladies love me, uh, I mean him. – R.H., Newark

“I never lerned 2 reed or rite. Mor picturz pleays.” – M.C., Leesburg

“Great site, YAB. But you need more charcoal on the grill.” – J.R., Alexandria

“Coke is awesome, and if you don’t bring some home with you, YABbo, I’m going to install toasters, not toaster ovens, mind you, in every single room. So, HA! – K.C., the ‘fax.

“Wow, where’s the love? I’m Karen Yelito, the Holy Trinity of Cool, and I have a blog. How about some linkage? – K.Y., Baltimore

“Uh, oh. Goats.” – S.M., Falls Church

“I'll give you a blog.” – everybody else, USA

One Union, Two Minds

It only took a week.

When man lives alone, or within the company of other men, harmony can be expected. For man and his manly roommates share the same inherent thought process when it comes to decision making, event planning, and why it is possible to grill outside during a rain storm with no power or gas (assuming you can forage for dry sticks in the woods.) The logic is uniform, and the disagreements are few.

However, when man lives with woman, it’s a whole new ballgame. Said ballgame does not imply tension, but it does make light of the fact that the two are operating with different trains of thought. The key for successful co-habitation is to make sure that both trains are going to the same station. Man makes efforts to understand where woman is coming from, and woman makes efforts to do the same. If they’re lucky, they won’t end up in their respective corners, alone (in this case, Best Buy and Starbucks, respectively.)

In this educational exercise, Chris “Clever is my middle name, unless you count Patrick, then it really is not” Condon will be playing the role of Man. Katie “I can’t keep my new last name straight, identity crisis candidate” Condon will be starring as Woman. The setting – Saturday morning at the new apartment, in the midst of the initial set-up and cleaning of said location. The problem at hand – removing all the boxes from wonderful wedding gifts from the premises.

Woman: “Honey, can you start taking the boxes down to the dumpster? I want to vacuum over where they are all sitting.”

Man: “Not a problem.” (Man walks over to the stack of trash and analyzes its composition. 12 sealed empty appliance / moving / PotteryBarn containers. He takes a glimpse out the sliding glass door to the balcony, trying to mentally measure how the sun’s rays are today. He doesn’t want to do all four flights of stairs several times in this heat. If only there was another way…wait. Got one.)

Man: “Actually, I have an idea about the boxes. Let me know what you think.”

(Woman, knowing that Man is a creative mind is either expecting a joke or a stalling technique. She’s looked out the window at the sun, too.)

Man: “What if I ran down to the first floor and stood down below while you dropped the boxes one-by-one to me four stories down?” (Man awaits her acknowledgement of the plan like a child on Christmas. After all, he’s stacked the proposal in her favor – not only does the trash leave the apartment (which she wants), she gets the fun part! (throwing stuff OFF A BALCONY!)

Woman: (after watching Man’s lit-up facial expression) “Oh my God. (pause) You’re completely serious.”

Man: (knowing that his ubercool idea has not been shot down (yet), continues with logic) “Look, there’s no one down there – and the boxes are empty, so I can catch them. Plus it will save trips up and down, and finally, I love you. (Insert winning smile)”

(Woman, now well aware that this is not a joke nor a stall, evaluates the plan. Trash leaves, Man is eager to do job, now that freefalling projectiles are involved, and she is secretly excited to throw boxes off a balcony. Though Woman will never admit it. Oh, and that extra love sentiment was a clever touch.)

Woman: “Ok, put the boxes on the balcony.”

Moments later, Man stood four long stories below the balcony catching one-by-one boxes ranging from that which can hold only a cheese plate up to a full toaster oven. The results were resoundingly good.

Woman: “It was efficient, organized, and effective. I liked it.”
Man: “It was freakin’ awesome! Let’s throw more stuff off! Wa-Hoo!”

Indecision on the Menu

This happens every Friday.
On the final day of the work week, the general mood is known to rise a few notches, in anticipation of the weekend. (And now that I no longer have classes on said weekend, I shall join in this weekly lightening of spirits.) One can tell that the air is a little fresher by such telltale signs.

1. Everyone dresses casually, kicking it in jeans and the like.
2. People are less inclined to stay at their desks past quitting time.
3. People are also less inclined to arrive at their desks at their normal arrival time.
4. The front desk distributes puppies and ice cream and DVDs to all employees who say “good morning.”

I made one of them up. But I can’t remember which.

One final way to figure out if you’re at work on a Friday (other than looking at your calendar) is to observe mealtime behavior. Most people like to split their day in two by partaking in the ancient workplace tradition of “Lunch.” Whether you work through it or disappear from the office for hours on end, all are entitled to that mid-day meal. But on Fridays, if were only that easy.

People are a little looser on their dining options on Fridays. The purse strings come undone a bit more, and the idea of people straying from the daily eating routine becomes apparent. No longer are the masses compelled to stick to their brown bags or their mundane snack from the lobby convenience store. Nay! No later than 10 am on Friday morning is the crucial question du jour first uttered in offices everywhere:

“What’s for lunch?”

This is the most painful part of Fridays.

When it comes to whether we should order out for lunch, everybody instantly agrees. This is an ideal opportunity to break the mold, and you’ve got the backing of all your co-workers. No argument will be had. However, when it comes to just where to go or who to order from does this process become more painful than David Arquette doing Shakespeare.

One by one, the same old group of options will get proposed. No one really will show any affection or leaning towards any one selection, for fear of being judged by some imaginary Lunch Brigade. Nor will people take the effort to overrule suggestions, for the absolute fear of offending the one choice some other mute co-worker asking for divine intervention on its behalf.

This will go on for forty minutes.

I wish I could do something about it, like put my foot down and proclaim to the people, “Viva Chipotle!” or something but I’m rendered just as helpful as the rest. One would think that I could rise above such grueling discussion, but that’s part of it being Friday. If this spirited debate were to take place on a Monday – I would shut down people and tell them it’s Panera time; on Friday I settle for banging my head repeatedly on my desk. I would even argue politics, religion, and how underrated the flick Varsity Blues is on a Monday. But Friday – I can’t find the simple words “White Castle.”

And as all the options are lobbed in the air and struck down like a Any Roddick serve, we’ll find ourselves in a very familiar place – Square 1. And once we reach that point, it signals the death march down to the café, just like Thursday. And Wednesday. And Tuesday. And Monday.

This happens every Friday.

Leafy Green Sovreignty

I totally understand that this planet on which we live is far bigger and expansive than I will ever truly grasp. Each time I board an airplane for some new part of the Earth, I know that there’s thousands of airports I will never step foot in (I also know that said airports will have enough Starbucks coffee in them to fill an Air Bus…or 12.) And while I’m cool with not getting a full sampling of the globe’s terminals in my lifetime, I would still like to think that I am globally conscious of its scope and magnitude.

From a very young age, I have been interested in geography. If for no other reason than the Olympics’ Opening Ceremonies is far cooler if you know where nations are, I like to think that I’ve hold a sufficient working knowledge of national borders and the countries they delineate. Without looking at a United Nations’ roster, I feel that I could rattle off an easy 140 nations, without really trying. (But then again, I could dictate to you 30 varieties of cheese and every professional sports team in the U.S. – my brain lives operates in list form.) Don’t ask me to do all three, though – you’ll soon realize that there’s bound to be unintentional crossover – like the Tanzanian Muenster Sox.

However, I feel that I’m slipping. Today, I think I stumbled upon a country that I did not even realize existed. And we’re not talking “Spielberg-invents-country-for-new-movie” type nation, either. Nor did I find out about it on some sneaky CNN News Ticker. No, apparently the vogue manner in which to announce your newly-formed republic is in subliminal advertising. Here’s what I read on a cafeteria poster downstairs this morning.

“Now Serving Every Day – Fresh Vegetorian Lunches!”

Now this is where my four years of undergraduate education comes in – with a little deductive reasoning. Now while I understand that all of God’s people are deserving of lunch, I find it peculiar that I’ve never met a Vegetorian. Where would I even begin to look for one?

Germans are from Germany…
Romanians are from Romania…
The Swiss are from Swisstonia…
Italians are from Italy…
And that means Vegetorians must be from…ah HA!

VEGETORIA!

Excited about by newfound discovery, I looked around for more facts on the UN’s best kept secret. Starting there, I found that the United Nations does not fully recognize Vegetoria as a member state just yet. The UN, unbeknownst to most, operates just like a big league ball club. A new nation is going to have to endure the rookie hazing that comes with being called up to the big show. It’s just a shame that the diplomatic equivalent of “hot foot” requires the Security Council sending you a schedule for “Daily Time Zone Adjustments,” as they convince the boys in Greenwich to turn your clocks to and fro.

Vegetoria is, obviously, a nation that thrives on agriculture and the complete absence of livestock. Upon settlement, the ancient Vegetorians hunted pig and cattle alike, but not for sport or survival. Instead, chasing the poor farm animals across the green landscape into foreign lands has become an annual tradition and national holiday.

Also, while their language of choice is largely English, words typically associated with meat products have been omitted from traditional words and replaced with the letters Z-I-N-G. This holds true even for the Prime Minister’s estate, Buckingzing Palace. Hey, monarchy’s not a bad place to start when national credibility is at steak – I mean zing – no I mean stake. Phew.

I had no idea my company had much of a footing in Vegetoria’s economy, but at least they can be satisfied that lunch is now served.

The Anti-Gooooaaaliieee...

Yesterday, we had a little chat about occupations that really cannot afford a quick sprint to the water cooler, as the darkest parts of the Bible would rain down without someone manning that particular post. Today, we’d like to take this discussion in the complete opposite direction, taking an introspective look into a position that has proved as functional as track and field’s “Javelin Catcher.”

Ouch.

While its goal is not to make money, but rather to teach young minds, today’s education system must run like a business. And structurally speaking, it’s hierarchy isn’t that far off. A Superintendent of Schools and his respective Board of Ed operate no differently than a CEO and his Board of Directors – looking for ways to make large-scale impacts on the teaching arena and its capabilities. I’m not saying that the B of E cruises to and from the all-school musical or varsity football game in their corporate jet – but the similarities are strong.

The teaching staff serve as the heart of the organization – there job is to carry out the creation, implementation, and delivery of their product – Book-Learnin’. There are other functions I’m sure that support staff can be paralleled to – the school nurse is technical support, the hall monitors are internal audit, and so on. But no organization is complete in the modern economy without their trusty wing of Human Resources. Sure, I wanted to recruit pirates for these positions – but in a school, that would scare the clientele. It’s no secret even though they are deemed an essential cog in the corporate machine, most companies are not pleased with their HR departments. It was Dilbert fodder for years. And it is with this high-level of indifference and ineffectiveness that I have identified the HR arm of today’s education system. That’s right.

The High School Guidance Counselor.

Now, I’m sure there are diamonds in the rough. Employees who have been hired to mentor and assist the youth of today with plenty of resources for counseling, record keeping, and career advising. And do a good job. Some people will tell you stories of high school guidance counselors that have changed their lives in a truly impressive and dramatic fashion. Some people can share stories of their H.S.G.C. being their one true friend in the mean halls of teenage life.I am so not one of those people.

No, friends, my guidance counselor did little to launch me to my state in society. In fact, he did everything he could to dull my senses to a point where I would have been fine watching Martha Stewart’s TV show. One such example of our delightful meetings has been reprinted below. Permissions were not obtained, and we don’t really care.

Names have been changed to protect the oblivious.

Condon: Hey there Mr. Mister, you called for me?
HSGC: Yes, Chris! Come in, come in, please have a seat in my lunchbox of an office!
Condon: Sure, what has it been, two full years since you last wanted to speak with me? What’s up?
HSGC: Well, Chris, I’ve been proactive in the last few weeks and have been reviewing your impressive file…
Condon: Uh, thank you, I think?
HSGC: Yes, everything really looks in order – wow, even an A in Mrs. Newman’s Honors English – very nice. But unfortunately, Chris, I am afraid I have some terrible news for you, and I hate to be the one who has to break it to you…
Condon: Oh, really? Did something happen?
HSGC: No, no, everybody’s ok. But it’s about you, it seems. I know it’s April, and you are really looking forward to your days beyond Shawnee, but Chris, well, how do I say this, you’re going to be 1 class short of graduating with your classmates. I’m so sorry.
Condon: (pauses). Um, Mr. Mister? I’m only a junior.
HSGC: Oh, right. I knew that.
Condon: Sigh.

The Goooaaaliieeee!

And as one returns to work, another takes a break.

While Chris Condon returns to analyzing financial information, but also dusting cobwebs off the YABNews Desk, it looks like someone else has taken this opportunity to maintain the global balance of phoning it in. In Brussels (Belgium, not Sprouts), a third-tier girls’ soccer team received a complete shellacking by their opponents in a weekend friendly. It all went downhill for SK Berlaar when the opening whistle blew and the coach realized his goalkeeper had blown off the game to attend a rock music festival. With a lame duck defender trying to defend the net, archrival FC Malines eeked out the victory.

Final Score: 50-1.

The article, which is linked for your convenience here, evokes a few thoughts. First, I have to think that during a practice at some point, it would have occurred to the coach to maybe train another player in the fine art of net tending? Don’t get me wrong, I like to have some bench depth for midfielders, too, but no one else was able to stop 50 goals from going in? It’s like the Mighty Drucks ripping up Trinidad and Tobago in D2 all over again.

Secondly, this article really highlights just how crucial the position of goalie is. In the employment world, we like to call this job a system-breaker. If this guy or gal takes the day off, then one can fully expect full-scale chaos to erupt. The copier will break. The memo will be misplaced. The meeting conference room table will shatter into a million pieces, rendering all attendees silent in shock and awe. No one will no what to do, and your entire operation will go down in harrowing flames.

Not exactly your TPS reports kind of gig.

I tried to brainstorm some other underappreciated roles in today’s economy that would certainly signal doom if they decided to blow off work for a European rock festival. Here’s what I came up with.

Without a doubt, if an air traffic controller decided to take five without anyone getting his back, that spells disaster, and I’m not talking about shoddy control tower coffee, either. No one could possibly expect Ricky the Copy Boy to sit down and know what to do with all those blinking LED lights ever so slowly converging towards one another! Planes are at stake! Get back to your collating, Ricky. You couldn’t possibly be trained in time.

I think the oft-underappreciated role of restaurant busboy also would cause a major rift in dining operations should he decide to stay home and play Xbox all afternoon. The busboy, to my knowledge, is responsible for the setup, delivery, and cleanup of individual booths and tables, while the waiter/waitress type is in charge of taking orders and making sure the customer gets what they want. Well, what happens without the middleman? Table don’t get cleared, new food comes out, one plate at a time, only to be placed on already used dishes, teetering a happy couple’s meal slowly into the Leaning Tower of Chaos, whereupon food spills, the waiter gets a lousy tip, and can’t afford his own tickets to the European Rock Festival. Bummer, man.

Finally, let’s not forget the job of literary proofreader. Let’s speak hypothetically, and pretend that Icarus Fallen Czar Mattias Caro is picked up by a publishing company to pen his memoirs “Chile is Very Very Good to Me.” He sets out to work quickly and gets the manuscript to his editor in record time. Equally excited, the editor sends the copy to the proofreader’s office to make sure that Mattias’ fine William and Mary education taught him how to spell. Instead, Proofreader is out hitting on the cute brunette over in Childrens’ Books, and Ricky the Copy Boy is using his computer to check his Friendster account. Before you know, the world knows Mattias Caro as “the guy who loves to end his day at his local bar with his hand wrapped around a tall, frosty bear.”

Run, Mattias, run!

Nice and Sweet

(This is the fourth of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

The United States is an incredible place to call home. All those who have been fortunate to been born here are truly lucky. Your basic needs are well-tended to, you live in the world’s capital for film, professional team sports (save soccer), and popular music, and no one expects you to understand the rules to cricket. I’m sure there are those auxiliary reasons like the freedoms of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, too, but that’s just gravy under the bridge. Heck, in America, we bloggers can even butcher age-old expressions and get away with it.

But speaking of getting away, cruising through customs in hopes of foreign conquest is also a sobering reminder that stepping outside of the American Way can also be fun. And on a beautiful island like St. Lucia, a change in local attitudes can be as refreshing as Martin Lawrence doing a movie where he doesn’t play a law enforcement officer or a criminal.

First off, no one is in any hurry to do anything. The day isn’t about what you have to get done. It’s about the time in between those tasks that need accomplishing. The local people of St. Lucia don’t fill up their Things-To-Do List like a game of Jenga – their outlook is far more Candyland. Also, they made it clear that everything is in fact bigger in America. The food portions are smaller – which means you can try many different things rather than being full by the time the entrée makes an appearance. And sure, I would have preferred the doorways to be about a foot taller, but I’m just a tourist. (My poor head.)

On our first morning there, we attended an orientation for the resort. No one was wearing bright yellow t-shirts and setting up lofts, so I knew this would be different. Instead, I was wearing a t-shirt and bathing suit, sitting at 10 AM in an air-conditioned island bar with a drink in hand listening to the staff tell us who’s who and what’s where. But most important, he relayed to us the mantra of the week. Ok class, repeat after the computer screen your reading right now:

“No Pressure, No Problems”

And said tune is best exemplified in the following employee profiles.

1 – Robert the Bartender – Robert, the regular barkeep up at the swim-up bar up on the Bluff had the mentality of a Jersey diner waitress with the personality of a gentle old man. Let me explain. In order to acquire a tasty beverage on Robert’s watch, you had to order what you wanted while being half-submerged in pool water. He would take your order and head to the bottles…and return with something completely different than what you had asked for. Want a Jack and Coke? Ok, try this frozen drink I’ve made just for you. Robert wanted to give you his own island experience, even if it meant “bringing the pancakes when you wanted eggs.” No problems.

2 – The Burger Queen – Just down the path from the main pool, the Southwestern-themed outdoor restaurant doubled as a Beach Grill during the afternoon. And if it was a burger or hot dog you wanted, then you were left face-to-face with…yeah…the Burger Queen. A happy woman who constantly sang as she flipped (burgers, not herself), every time you talked to her she explained that the customer did not want McDonalds, did not want KFC, and especially not the Burger King. The only person who could take care of your hunger on vacation – Ms. B.Q. herself. (Although I did find it odd there was a KFC on the island – do St. Lucians even know where Kentucky is?) No pressure.

3 – Kimonos’ Dragon – One of the ultra-swank restaurants to dine at was a Japanese steakhouse dubbed “Kimonos.” And inside, was a show-chef named Dexter. Dexter was as Japanese as Moon Pies are lunar, but he had the showmanship to make a two hour meal fly by. Loved his job, loved his own jokes, and loved lighting things on fire. Personal opinion – if you can maintain a smile (and your eyebrows) while playing culinary pyromaniac six nights a week, then you’ve got it pretty good. In the words of Dexter himself, “Nice and Sweet.”

Indeed.

It Pays to Glaze

(This is the third of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

Leave it to Chris to make the recreational…well, trainwrecreational.

There’s a lot to do in the week leading up to a wedding. There are tuxedos to pick up, bags to pack, dinners to rehearse, tuxedos to alter, shopping to do, work to tie up, tuxedos to try on, bills to pay, passports to find, tuxedos to dry clean after playing roller hockey in them, toasts to prepare, churches to go to.Just kidding, honey. I knew right where my passport was.

This leaves that final round of pesky schoolwork somewhere on the list of priorities between “organizing my new sock drawer” and “actually writing down a list of priorities.” And while it would have been nice to focus all my energy on planning the wedding, it appeared that I had a few more deadlines to meet in that whole “pursuing one’s further education” initiative prior to the vows.

Hi, I’m Chris Condon, a Slacker Extraordinaire. Nice to meet you.

One by one, though, I was finding clever ways to slide in an hour or two to knock papers/assignments/tests off the academic docket (acadocket) Coming back to work to pound out a page or two on the legitimacy of a firm’s business model became commonplace. Resorting to returning to Random Run for some much-needed internet connectivity to e-mail group members. Or, my personal favorite – making up presentations as I go along, and watching in amazement as my professor and classmates are oddly entranced with my rapid fire deliveries.

One paper in particular, however, continued to elude my grasp as the big day drew near. It was nothing special – just a 10 page case analysis on Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Apparently, in a prior state of sanity, I told my professor I would turn said paper in on time – the Wednesday after the wedding for class. Gulp.

This one just didn’t want to be written. I tried to convince myself that doughnuts should be incentive enough to write a paper, but unable to find an actual doughnut button on the keyboard (whereby a pastry is jettisoned from the DVD drive), I had a half-written paper by the time I boarded the plane for St. Lucia.

Rather than kicking back to the bland romantic comedy Fever Pitch, I typed furiously, convinced I would complete my work before the plane touched down. This, my friends, was the easy part.

Getting a computer file from a laptop to the United States from St. Lucia via the Internet? This, my friends, is the hard part.

St. Lucia has Internet, don’t get me wrong. And from my limited usage of their system, I would go so far as to say it was even “high-speed.” But when Internet time costs 3 minutes for a dollar, there’s no time to take it out for a test drive.

The Sandals Regency Business Center has two computers, and in the vein of Harford, we’ll name them Diablo and I Hate You. All I need to do is transfer the file on my flash drive to one of the aforementioned computers, open up an email, and send Krispy Kreme on his chocolate frosted way.

Oh, so computers in the Sandals Regency Business Center don’t understand USB Flash Drive technology? Ah, no problem, the concierge desk prescribes I put the paper on a CD and transfer it to the desktop that way. Great! 5 dollars and a trip to the Photo Desk later, my beloved writings have been transferred and are ready for deployment. Let’s try our inept duo once more.

Diablo has access to the Internet, but a CD drive that can’t read CDs.
I Hate You has a CD drive that is functional, but has a down Internet connection.

Diablo! I Hate You!

After much soul searching and hand wringing, I was finally able to send my paper from the cushy desk of the resort’s IT Manager. Phew.

And that, children, is how the mighty Chris vanquished technology of yore into the dark night…all in the name of doughnuts.

(Never thought those words would combine for a sentence.)

BYO-Lyrics

(This is the second of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

When it comes to nightly entertainment at an all-inclusive vacation resort, it is up to the staff to design and lead events that will keep the clientele from either going to bed at 8:30 in the evening or wandering aimlessly on a foreign beach in a foreign land. When said clientele has a majority base of newlyweds, it really doesn’t take too much. Participatory games in the sports bar. Dancing out under the stars. I even heard of a spirited match or two of Shuffleboard and Lawn Chess. But those in charge, dubbed “Playmakers” by their management, know very well that the best way to break up the monotony of a weekly schedule with the same shows and events on tap, is to leave the entertaining up to the guests.

Talent shows are intimidating by nature, and this is for two key reasons. First off, a talent show is like an open-ended invitation that doesn’t tell you what time the party is, at what locale it would be held, and what guests should plan on bringing. No, it’s just a statement for having a party, no details attached. That way, no one quite knows what to expect, and more importantly, what is expected of them.

Secondly, most people’s true talents can’t be showcased in an amphitheater in front of dozens of blissfully happy strangers. Hey man, I can quote line-for-line every line of dialogue from Cool Runnings, but I wouldn’t on stage. (You don’t have 97 minutes to give me, and the staff will roast me for my weak Caribbean accent.) Hey, I also have an eerie knack for asymmetrical book stacking, but this isn’t a library, now is it? (Name the reference, cinephiles.)

The talent show came and went with little fanfare from the Condon camp. But that doesn’t mean that my time to shine had come and gone. While a talent show gives you little insight into what the people want, there’s another audience participation event of which there is NO confusion whatsoever. And lo and behold, look at what the Friday night activity just happens to be…

Karaoke.

(And I didn’t even need spell check for that.) (Nordberg.)

Sitting at a table with my wife and another couple we had met at dinner, there I was minding my own business. Up on stage, some guy from Indiana was tearing Bust a Move to shreds – so much that Young MC was heard crying himself to sleep on the mainland. In my chair, I looked forward to a fine evening of mocking those who can’t and keeping it to secret that I contain not one but both of the crucial ingredients to a fine karaoke performance. And it is with no further fanfare that I present the 5 Keys to a Money Karaoke Performance.

1. Have the tools AND the talent. As I mentioned above, it would behoove you to have two key elements of karaoke under your belt. First, it certainly helps if you are able to carry a tune. The crowd will thank you later. Second, be a general fan of song lyrics. Before you hit the stage and grab the mike, make sure you know your subject material. It’s not copyright infringement, pal.
2. Know your song. Pick a song you’ve, uh, heard before? The first time I ever rocked the karaomike, it was with my freshmen hallmates to Everclear’s Santa Monica. Didn’t know a lyric. Felt like a tool. Look. Don’t pull a Santa Monica.
3. Know your range. Hey, I like singing Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer at a wedding with all my friends too, man. But have you ever sang it by yourself, without anyone else, not even Jon Bon himself? It’s a little higher than you think. Karaoke is the ancient Japanese art of making people look stupid, so find your comfort zone and don’t leave.
4. Don’t follow the showstopper. That night, there was a guy who belted, and I mean BELTED, Like a Prayer in full falsetto mode. Had there been a roof on the place, he would have brought it down. You don’t want to be waiting on deck. I know there’s not a whole lot of control here, but if you could slide behind the guy singing some ballad no one’s ever heard for his girlfriend in the Key of Ouch, that’s a good place to go.
5. Instrumental Block – Many of your favorite songs, even if you don’t notice, have a fair chunk of music sans vocals. Be prepared with a joke or a dance to kill the dead air. My personal favorite is to read the words “Instrumental Break” off the screen like you had no idea they weren’t part of the song.
   

And it is with a triumphant following of the 5 Keys that I, Chris Condon, not only brought the Devil Down to Georgia, but to Saint Lucia.

(PS – If you are unable to master the 5 Keys, just drink heavily. You won’t remember it in the morning, anyway.)

A Matter of Life and Locked

(This is the first of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

Yes, it’s true. Watersports were included in the Sandals all-inclusive package. Water skiing, kayaking, paddle boats, catamarans, snorkeling – yeah, all fine choices. However, it wasn’t until one fateful morning where I chose to indulge in the greatest Caribbean water sport of them all: deep sea diving. But fish and coral were not the focus of such an excursion. Nay, this particular sightseeing mission was for a far more beautiful vista. That’s right.

Our missing room keys.

The water was, well, okay fine, warm and quite pleasant that fateful Thursday morning in the pool at the Bluff. This aquatic spelunking locale is not unlike most other standard swimming pools – well, except the aforementioned swim-up bar. As Katie and I spent the morning relaxing and floating our way around the premises, lying on floatent floatables (yep, making up words, just like old times), the bottom of the pool held only feet and mosaic printings of ancient Greek icons and astrological symbols.

Until, of course, I carelessly let our room key slide out of my pockets and become a captive of Davy Jones’ locker.

It wasn’t until I had exited the deep and was about to head down the hill to lunch when I did my standard cargo pocket check. On such a vacation, my pockets ran a little thinner, having no need to truck my wallet, car keys, and cell phone everywhere I went. But that did not mean it was acceptable to reach down to my side and pat my pocket to only find air. No, there should have been something there to find. Namely, a set of dark golden metallic keys on a neon green bungy designed to be stored on ones wrist.

I’d store said keys on my wrist, but let’s face it. Kind of hard to bring that rum and coke to your mouth without getting a housekey in the eye.

As I scrambled through the dining area and back down the steps, I knew exactly where I had left my treasured amulet of entry, in a precise generality sort of way. The only thing between me and lying down in my hotel room was four feet and six inches of the Sea’s finest. And to make my excursion a fraction of a league under the sea exponentially harder, God decided now would be a fun time to open up the heavens and drench those below with a St. Lucia-patented 12 Minute Rain Storm.

Crap.

As Katie kept watch from the balcony above, looking, hoping, and praying for just a glimmer of metal at through the driving splashes of rain, I launched head first into my adversary. The fun thing about searching for such a variety of key was that while keys no doubt sink, I had to consider the possibility that the neon green phone cord they’re attached to just may float. This means that my bounty could quite possibly be residing at any vertical depth of the fifty-four inches of rain-pelted water I now found myself surrounded by.

Don’t I get a treasure map or something?

I was methodical at first. After checking the poolside filters (those things have traps like sharks’ mouths), I began my sea-bed patrol of the outlying points below. Most of my time had been spent around the edge of the pool, anyways. As that phase of my search turned up no more than a leaf and somebody’s discarded beer bottle peeling, my heart decided to kick into the second gear. I came to the surface, dismayed and ready to regroup.

Did I mention it was raining cats and…island goats?

The scene up on the balcony had turned far more frantic, as dry diners noticed the weird kid patrolling the pool’s floor. Katie had set out to get a temp key in the case that I return to no avail. The current of the pool had since picked up, as if it knew it had an audience. Needless to say, gale force winds that would toss a tiny ship persisted, while I remain below the surface, feeling my way for both keys and now, for hope.

About to give up (had I been underwater for hours? days?), I plunged to the depths for one final scouring of where humans should not go. Now criss-crossing the pool, my search pattern had grown erratic and desperate. With one final stab out with my left hand, I grasped and like choir of angels had opened their hymnals to Handel’s Messiah,

I found them.

Am I a hero? No. I’m just a guy who likes his all-inclusive watersports.

This Blog is All-Inclusive

As I sit here crammed so close to my American Airlines window in Seat 28F, two things come to mind. First, it’s amazing how collected I can be when giant puffy white clouds of frightful doom are hurtling a mere eighteen inches from my head. If you stop to think about it, if my seat was installed on the other side of this industrial steel, it would be like Roger Clemens launching cotton candy from point blank range.

I was never a fan of carnival food.

Secondly, it occurs to me that in the whirlwind wedding weekend, the YAB Office has been a tad…empty. We’re talking tumbleweed empty. Yes, as the last five workdays transpired, and you made your way over to the best blog written by a guy whose name ends in –Hris Condon, nary a new post was to be found. Heck, I can’t even tell you what topic has been enjoying top billing for the fast week. Hope it was something earth-shatteringly important.

Who am I kidding? It probably was something as important as my musings on who would in a street fight between Captain Crunch and the Lucy Charms leprechaun. (Answer: military training is good, but it’s no match for the Fightin’ Irish.)

No, I was far away from YAB’s office with Katie on the sunny Caribbean island of Saint Lucia. Now I can’t recall studying much about St. Lucia, as I’m pretty sure she wasn’t around at the time of the Bible. But when it came to the meeting up in Heaven where God assigned who would be the patron saint of what and so forth, little Lucy must have gotten there early. After all, how else would she get to become the namesake of such a dazzling tropical destination?

Our resort of choice was Sandals. Perhaps you’ve seen their commercials on TV. There the ones for beachfront dining, picturesque swimming pools, lapping tides at sunset, and EVERYBODY IN NEON CLOTHING. First off, this is not why I picked this resort. Don’t get me wrong – I, like the rest of Medford Memorial Middle School, wore enough fluorescent apparel to blind oncoming drivers in the early nineties, but it’s safe to say I’ve outgrown said phase. No matter, really. Upon arrival, it was a relief to see that all other guests of the Sandals Regency in St. Lucia were not dressed to be seen from space, either.

Now here’s the reason you (assuming you are soon-to-be-married and have yet-to-confirm-your-own-travel-destination) should choose Sandals. A-L-L-I-N-C-L-U-S-I-V-E. Upon booking, I put my wallet away.

The meals were included, and they were quite good. The hotel room, and its fully-stocked bar was included, and short of some icy Gatorade, was more than satisfactory. Three-times-a-day room service for linens and cleaning – included. Drinks at every bar – yes, including those at which you must swim up to in the pool – were included.

Watersports? Yep.
Tipping the staff? You bet.
Complimentary pen and pad by the hotel phone? Oh, yeah!

Katie and I had a wonderful time on our honeymoon and would like to thank all of you for your friendship and support of our newly christened marriage. Who knows, maybe she’ll chime in from time to time here on the blogwaves. Well, it’s time to go – the flight attendant is coming by with the drink cart…

…and it’s included!

No disrespect to Christina Toms...

But it is the little things that make you laugh…

Today, being my last day at work before I take a much-needed vacation, started as normally as it always does. I got to my desk, knocked out an issue or three, left some phone messages for those on the West Coast who feel that “time zones” give them an excuse to still be sleeping, and then I got hungry.

Even though I’ve lived in the new apartment for two weeks, and said apartment is immediately next to Wegman’s, I haven’t found the time or need to go grocery shopping yet. Who knew planning a wedding was so hectic?

Oh, that’s right. EVERYBODY.

And thus, my stomach informed me it was time to go down to the cafeteria for a mid-morning breakfast snack. This trek is often uneventful, and this particular instance was proving little exception. I’m on the second floor, so I feel guilty taking the elevator to go down one lousy flight. Total Overkill. That would be the equivalent of me hailing a Boeing 737 to get to class in Alexandria. And had I taken an elevator, I would not have found the inspiration for today’s blog. After all, Blog works in mysterious ways.

Turning instead to the stairwell, I did what I often do going down winding stairs. As long as there isn’t anyone coming, I am known to put my hands on the handrails (makes sense) and take Grawp-like bounds down the steps. I can literally cover one floor in one swing. It’s impressive. But kids, don’t try this at home. Or at work. You’ll get caught.

I, with my cat-like intuition, never get caught. But today, I almost sounded the alarm when I practically landed on one of those hazard yellow caution stands. Narrowly avoiding it, I read the “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” warning with a sigh of relief, firm footing, and out the door I went to get my bagel and Mt. Dew.

But on the way back is where it turned…odd. As I re-entered the stairwell, the yellow warning stand was still there. However, there was something strange about it, now that I was looking at the back side. Most of these tents can be depended on to have the same words of caution on both sides – mirror images benefit both directions. But not this particular stand on this particular day. On the flip side, it imparted these words of warning to yours truly:

CAUTION ________ FLOOR

Ok, people. One of two things is going on here. It is possible that the B side also at one point displayed the word “WET,” and had merely been scratched off for reasons unknown. But then again…

CAUTION: FLOOR!

That’s right, stair users. Beware of the floor! We don’t want you to be nervous about you final step to the bottom level being wet, hot, slippery, or cracked. We just want you to know that you have no more steps to go – for you have reached the FLOOR! You will not, I repeat, WILL NOT, fall to the center of the Earth, for we have installed a FLOOR! You should feel safe in the knowledge that the architecture of this particular location comes complete with a lower horizontal plane. Just be conscious!

Okay, fine. No more morning Mountain Dew for Condon.

Jersey Pride!

Q: What did Della wear?
A: A New Jersey.

The above, as much as it pained my fingers to type it, very well could be the worst joke I have ever heard. Granted, with all of the cornball artists out there on the comedy circuit, there may be material out there that makes the above look like Monty Python – caliber, but for the time being, we’ll continue on believing that it does not get worse than this. Even I enjoy a good play on words, but let’s face it. I don’t know Della, don’t care much for her tastes in fashion, and she sure isn’t worthy of supporting her local sports team with such a lame sense of humor.

(Perhaps I’m reading in too far.)

The art of the new jersey is no laughing matter (not that the aforementioned joke has any of you rolling on the floor or doubled over in glee). For I am here today to give those less informed about the intricacies of purchasing, owning, and wearing athletic jerseys. There’s a lot that goes into such a bold fashion decision, and as always, YAB is here to help.

(Or to distract. Get back to work.)

With little exception, there are five major sports from which you can wear their uniforms as part of your everyday wear. I am not selecting them out of disrespect for other sports; it’s just that I have yet to see anyone walking down the street in an equestrian jacket, a speed skating suit, or a synchronized swimming cap without getting a bizarre look from passersby. Let’s run down the big 5, shall we?

A football jersey is likely the most popular choice for a jersey. It wears like a t-shirt, stays cool like a t-shirt, and can be slid over shoulder pads for some full contact grocery shopping. There isn’t anything like cut blocking a tower of paper towels, let me tell you. A baseball jersey is the ultimate in casual wear. Throw on some old jeans, a white t-shirt and PF Flyers with it, you’ll be right out of the Sandlot. Soccer jerseys are trendy in Europe, I hear. Can substitute often for a collared shirt, and can serve as nationality identification at an airport if you forget your passport. Basketball jerseys are glorified tank tops, and I personally stay away. But hey, that’s your call, Shaqdaddy. Finally, the hockey jersey is the pinnacle of the sports apparel world. Perfect for classes that come way too early on Saturday mornings. As long as their “shiny” nature don’t catch the prof’s eye and get you called on. (Damn you, Doc K…)

Now customizing a jersey goes a long way in terms of gaining respect from your fellow fan. When you decide to take a generic shirt from your favorite team, in any sport, you can take one of two paths. On one path, you’re an imposter. It is fine to wear a jersey with a favorite players name and number – AS LONG AS you don’t look like said player. It is crime in the United States to impersonate someone purposely, and they don’t let you wear your new gear in jail. On top of that, you’ll probably let your favorite team down. Wearing a A-Rod jersey is all well and good until Joe Torre tells you to get out to third base. One hot liner off the bat of Manny Ramirez that flies by your glove later, Yankee Stadium hates you.

Also, be careful who you emblazon on the back. Their tenure with the team is guaranteed to be shorter than the life of your jersey. (Why? Chris Gratton? Why have you forsaken me, former Flyer?)

The second option in the customization route is to fool no one – put your own name across your shoulders. Be proud of your family heritage by making your own identity part of the team. But be very careful – while the former route makes you an imposter, the latter could brand you a wannabe. If such is the case, do not stick your name on a team who is last in their respective league. For example, if the Pittsburgh Penguins see you sitting in the third row of their twenty-seventh consecutive losing effort, the coach may tell you to lace ‘em up. Here’s the problem – you’re probably better than some of the other guys on the team. Great, just because you have a jersey and marginal skill, the rest of your hometown team is in therapy with self-esteem issues.