Curious Guaddy

Monkeys are funny. Go with it.

If Comedy Rule #732 was “If all else fails, mock the French,” the CR-733 would be the above statement. Everyone should have a list of “default staples,” those things that can be thrown into a mundane conversation with the hopes of instantaneously instilling some of the funny. These are places/things/ideas that seem to hold up over time in the comedic realm, so much that they could be stand-alone commercials for TBS. Take location, for example. For years, Guam was a funny place to me. Most funny places don’t have to actually BE funny, just sound it. That’s why Uzbekistan, Swedesboro, and Funkytown are often locales where hilarity can ensue. So while places may come and go, my choice animal stays the same. Monkeys.

A recent anonymous poster (who hails from Princeton and is a black belt in shotokan (not so anonymous now, HAH!)) commented on YAB regarding a certain stuffed monkey that had made his way to the website of a certain a cappella group that YAB’s Editor-in-Chief was a part of in his undergrad days. You know that equation about pictures equaling a determinate number of words – here you go.

Yeah, that’s a stuffed monkey in a poncho. And I’m hoping Mike doesn’t actually bear any resemblance to him. But as our 4th Homecoming weekend as alumni is coming this very next weekend, to see this monkey on a current W&M organization’s website is indeed surprising to our anonymous commenter as well as many others. Why, you might ask?

That’s MY monkey.

I’d like you to meet Guaddy. Guaddy has been part of the Condon family since 2000. I first acquired him junior year and thought of him initially as a non-descript weird looking monkey that would certainly not aid my studies, but rather become another dust collector in Jefferson Hall 209. However, the legend grew. Give a monkey a banana – he’ll be happy. Give a monkey clothes – he’ll be famous.

It’s not that Spud shops in stores that carry monkeywear – the apparel happened by accident. Guaddy, with a sombrero and poncho, instantly became a cult figure for the Mexican revolution (or so I’m told) He gained prominent placement on top of the computer monitor (that’s my old CPU, Cameron in the pic) and was adored by all passers-by. But how in the world is he on the INTERNET?

One Accord, in the fall of ’01 revamped their website. It included headshots of all the guys. I was responsible for the camera work, and snapped some digital pictures at a rehearsal. All were in attendance – except for Jeff Locke. So when it was time to upload pictures to our webmaster, I was one picture short. Totally not cool with someone’s likeness being represented by “Photo Not Available,” I looked up for guidance from the Almighty. Instead, I got a hopeful glare from a monkey ready for Cinco de Mayo.

For two years running, Jeff Locke’s picture on the website was none other than Guaddymonkey – with a sign (note card + pencil) proclaiming “I SELL CDS.” Once Jeff graduated and moved to NYC, Guaddy’s quiet run on the world wide web drew to a close. He and I went to a bar, toasted his longevity and had a few laughs about it (Mexican monkeys drink Corona, apparently.)

2 years later…

Just like our anonymous commenter, I, too, was surfing through One Accord’s site. And like a phoenix from the ashes, I saw he had risen again (Guaddy, not Condon.) I had to e-mail the current webmaster to find out what brought upon this resurrection. He said that a couple of guys needed new pictures taken and he found this old file floating around on the One Accord server.

Golden Rule: Don’t skip rehearsal. They’ll make a monkey out of you.

Applied Ethics and the Fishing Industry

eth-ics – noun - The rules or standards governing the conduct of a person or the conduct of the members of a profession.

Ok, so I was 11 years old at the time. I wouldn’t even hear the word “ethics” until Saved by the Bell: The College Years tackled the topic 3 years later with the episode where Benson plays their professor and leaves their test out so they have to ponder whether or not to cheat. But I guess that raises a completely separate philosophical query – “can a kid who is unfamiliar with such a code of behavior be held accountable?”

Governing the conduct of a person, eh? Governing in what capacity? Remember, I’m 11 in this scenario. As long as I don’t make a sucker deal when trading baseball cards, I think I could be considered ethical. Let’s see, being 11 would have put me in 5th grade. I pretty sure I was fair to other people. But does being ethical extend to how an 11 year old treats God’s other creatures?

Considering the fact that it has existed since man first found open water, I think that the fishing industry is widely considered to be ethical. The premise of man catching fish for food and sport is fair, as long as you can assume the maxim that the fish have been given the same opportunity to angle for humans. Sure, the scales are tipped towards humans in this match, but that doesn’t mean both cannot play the game. This is my explanation for shark attacks – fish just trying to rack up a few points in the 4th quarter of a blowout.

When I was 11, I would spend much of my summer at the lake across the street from my house. Granted, this body of water is a lake like David Arquette is a “movie star,” but it satisfied myself and the other neighbor kids for many a summer. Sure you could swim and raft and do other stuff at the lake, but we were there to fish. With no intention to clean, cook, and consume our catch at day’s end, our brand of fishing was clearly for sport.

And what a sport it was.

Without a fishing pole, lure, worm, or tackle box in sight, I would set out on my excellent angling adventure with three tools – a net, a bucket, and a loaf of bread. After all, as experience showed, this is all you need to haul in a catch of oh, I’d say, 40 fish? Oh, there’s one other requirement for this method.

The fish have to be dumb as rocks.

The lake was/is stocked with small sunfish, ranging from 4-8 inches in length. They may not be big fish, but when you are wading into the water thigh-deep armed with only a net and a small piece of bread, that’s probably a good thing. Now while traditional fishermen may stand on the bank and cast into the water some 20 yards from their position, the 11 year old with the ethics problem goes right to the fish.

Step 1: Crush the bread so that when placed in the water it sinks.
Step 2: Place the head of the net on lake floor directly under bread.
Step 3: Watch the fading white piece of bread sinks towards the net.
Step 4: When bread disappears from view, pull net quickly to surface.
Step 5: Place freshly-caught fish (sometimes 2) in water-filled bucket.
Step 6: Repeat 40 times, or until dinner.

Two ethical questions arise from this method.

1 – Is it ethical to catch fish in this fashion? Should the age-old method of aquatic hunting be reduced to a sneak attack from below?

2 – Is it ethical that when one returns the fish to their residence in the lake, a few are selected not to be gently dumped back into the water, but skipped across the lake surface?

Fish never learn.

All-Star Sketch Comedy

After attending a college football game this past weekend, something very real occurred to me about fans of this brand of the game. People cheer for the team to do well, not the individuals. In college sports, players will come and go, but the institution will always remain the same. Each year, a new class will come in and carry the torch for their alma mater, and their loyal fan base can continue to tune in every week. With such storied franchises currently in the Top Ten (USC, Notre Dame, Alabama, Penn St.), it doesn’t matter the names on the back of the jersey – it’s the name on the front.

In the world of television, there is only one major show that emulates college sports. The institution has existed for nearly 40 years now. The major players, the stars have come, entered their names in the history book, and have left when it was time to move on. However, the system has remained the same, and the gameplan every week – to bring the funny. Even the first play in the playbook has remained the same –

“Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!”

Saturday Night Live has been doing their best to make people laugh with sketch comedy for three decades. The show has had some unbelievable years, and it had had its low points (1995-1997, anyone?). While the quality of writing has ebbed and flowed, it’s the cast members that make the show truly great. In the spirit of recognizing fine comedy, YAB now presents our All-Star cast of SNL.

We had a few criterion to work with in order to make this a valid list. Based on recent years’ rosters, the standard cast is at 12 – 9 guys and 3 women. In addition, we weren’t looking for the 12 funniest people that have been on SNL – we were looking for the 12 funniest ON SNL. That way, comedic greats like Billy Crystal, Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, and Ben Stiller don’t need to take up a spot – they brough the funny elsewhere. Finally, longevity counts. Each member on our list met the requirement of at least 3 years as a regular cast member, OR a combination of 4 years as a cast member or featured performer. This knocks out people like Chevy Chase and Chris Rock, who I don’t believe would have made it anyway.

In addition, SNL also has some comedic archetypes to fill – Presidential impressionists, a token black guy, a token fat guy, and an anchor or two to cover the Weekend Update desk. We got ‘em all. Ok, let’s get with the namin’.

Dan Akroyd – (’75-’79) – Original cast member who was the most omnipresent in the initial great recurring sketches. Remembered for: Beldar Conehead, Elwood Blues, Wild and Crazy Guys. Impressions: Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, Tom Snyder, Ricardo Montalban. Also a 9-time guest host.

John Belushi – (’75-’79) – Also an original, no one has had so much intensity when it comes to comedy. Remembered for: Jake Blues, Larry Farber, Steve Busahkis, the Samurai. Two-time guest host.

Dana Carvey – (’86-’93) – The man who bridged the gap between the late eighties mini-cast and the early nineties mega cast. Remembered for: Church Lady, Garth Algar, Derek Stevens, Hans. Impressions: Bob Dylan, Dan Quayle, George Bush, Dennis Miller, John McLaughlin, Johnny Carson, Ross Perot, Ted Koppel, Tom Brokaw. 8-time guest.

Jane Curtain – (’76-’80) – The funniest of three women who were there from the beginning, and we’ll forgive her for “Kate and Allie.” Remembered for: Enid Loopner (Nerd), Prymaat Conehead, Weekend Update. Impressions: Betty Ford, Joan Crawford, Pat Nixon.

Rachel Dratch – (’99-Present) – I hated Rachel Dratch when she first came on. However, she’s proven herself with great characters. Excellent supporting member in a sketch. Remembered for: Zazoo the Boston Teen, Sheldon from Wake Up Wakefield, Virginia Klarvin. Impressions: Weakest Link host, Nicole Richie, Calista Flockhart.

Will Ferrell – (’95-’02) – Like Phil Hartman, can be the character or the straight man in a sketch. Led SNL out of the mid-nineties lull. Still think he’s underappreciated for what he did. Remembered for: Craig the Cheerleader, Jacob Silj, Marty Culp (music teacher), Roxbury guy. Impressions: George W. Bush, Alex Trebek, Neil Diamond, Dr. Phil, Harry Caray, James Lipton, Janet Reno. They still miss ‘em.

Ana Gasteyer – (’96-’02) – Of the three (Oteri, Shannon), Ana was the only one without a gratingly annoying character. She played her roles well, and with high comedy. Remembered for: Bobbi Mohan-Culp (music teacher), Margaret Jo (NPR), Jonette from “Gemini’s Twin. Impressions: Barbara Streisand, Celine Dion, Debbie Matenopoulos, Hillary Clinton, Martha Stewart.

Darrell Hammond – (’95-Present) – Hands down, the BEST at impressions in the history of SNL. I won’t even bother you with original characters. Impressions: Al Gore, Al Michaels, Bill Clinton, Chris Matthews, Dick Cheney, Donald Trump, Jesse Jackson, John Travolta, SEAN CONNERY, Phil Donahue, Richard Dreyfuss, Tim Russert, William Shatner.

Phil Hartman – (’86-’94) – His resume lists 20 characters and 77 impressions. This guy was the total package. Another guy with impression chops, but the ultimate straight man in a sketch. Remembered for: Frankenstein, Jesus. Impressions: Frank Sinatra, Ed McMahon, Bill Clinton, Jack Nicholson, Lee Iacocca, Mario Cuomo, Ronald Reagan.

Eddie Murphy – (’80-’84) – As Spud recalls, the intros at the show are live, and you can hear the clapping over the announcer. When Murphy’s name was called, you could hear the roar, the leader of a weak cast. Sorry, Piscopo. Remembered for: Mr. Robinson, Gumby, Buckwheat, Tyrone. Impressions: Bill Cosby, Sammy Davis Jr., Stevie Wonder.

Bill Murray – (’76-’80) – The final of our originals, Murray brings this all-star cast just a fresh feeling of a guy who is naturally funny. He doesn’t have to even try. Remembered for: Nick the Lounge Singer, Weekend Update.Generally speaking, made any sketch funnier. May have even been able to save latter year crap like “Anything with Horatio Sanz.”

Mike Myers – (’88-’95) – My personal favorite, or at least in a tie with Carvey. Amazing, considering he’s from Canada. Remembered for: Wayne Campbell, Dieter, Linda Richman, Lothar of the Hill People, Pat Arnold of the Superfans. Let’s not forget when he played Phillip, the kid who tows the jungle gym right down the street.

And in the words of Myers in Coffee Talk, "Discuss!"

Awesome Win(d)

Playoff atmosphere can be completely electric. There’s just something about the “loser-goes-home, must-win” mentality that can drive the ordinary right into the realm of extraordinary. You can walk onto that field with still clinging to a thread of championship hope and if you fail to get the job done, you can enjoy that vacation a little sooner than you may have wanted. That’s nothing against vacation – it’s just a little sweeter when you can sit on the beach and drink your cool, frosty beverage out of the top of an ENORMOUS TROPHY.

I’ve been in a handful of playoff situations, and to my knowledge, I think I’ve even taken home a few league titles. And on a slow day where when my topic list is as dry as a Mormon kegger, I may relive some of that self-basking glory here at YAB. But in the meantime, we’ll have to focus on those who get paid to play out these magical events on the field – the pros.

On Sunday afternoon, the Atlanta Braves were playing for their playoff lives. To understand this scenario (listen up, Karen L. Yelito), you need to understand something about the Tomahawk Crew from Georgia. For the past 14 years, Bobby Cox’s team has managed to snatch the National League East title from the Phillies. Only once, however, in the last 14 have they gone on to take the ultimate prize – the World Series trophy. Instead they settle for making the playoffs, losing eventually to someone else, and head off to vacation with a lukewarm, perspiring beverage in a smaller, travel-size trophy. It’s like Stephen Spielberg having a Oscar-guaranteed script, but rather than going through the hassle of signing on Jack Nicholson to play the lead, he’s settles for Jack Black.

Atlanta came into the game ready to hold off the inevitable and planned on playing at least 9 more innings of baseball. And after 8 of those innings, they were coasting with a 6-1 lead. No problem? Maybe this was the year they’d get out of the NLDS unscathed. But then the winds changed at Minute Maid Park (formerly Enron Field.)

The Winds of Awesome.

Now Georgians, as it is well known in meteorological circles, are impervious to the Winds of Awesome. Ever since the place was founded by a guy named Oglethorpe, few from A-Town have ever felt the breeze that comes locked and loaded with luck and awe. And recently, Usher has used up most of it anyway.

Lance Berkman hits a grand slam in the eight inning to pull the Astros only one run back. Somewhere, Dale Murphy just went into cardiac arrest. In the ninth inning, Brad Ausmus hits a two-out dinger over the centerfield fence. This ties the game, and promptly reminds Atlanta that the Winds of Awesome are fickle; and we’re headed into extras.

In the 18th, 2nd-year 2nd baseman Chris Burke etches his name in playoff history, as the Winds of Awesome propel the 1-0 Joey Devine pitch into the left field seats. GAME OVER. Astros have a date in St.Louis Wednesday; Atlanta doesn’t have to cancel their annual “So Close” early October golf outing.While the Winds of Awesome affected Berkman, Ausmus, and Burke that Sunday afternoon, they reserved gale-force velocity for 25 year-old Shaun Dean.

In a major league season, roughly 77,760 balls go into the stands. 74 million fans go each year. Odds of catching a ball: 1 in 1000.

The playoffs at most are 41 games, normally end up around 35. That’s only 1,120 balls. And of that, only 70 will be home run balls.

Meet Shaun Dean – the fan who caught the Lance Berkman GRAND SLAM and the Chris Burke GAME WINNING HOME RUN.

New Critic on the Block

Great literature is in the eye of the beholder.

Ever since Hemingway McCaveman found a way to pen some prose on the granite wall (FIRE GOOOOOD!), people have been turning to the art of the written word to immortalize their thoughts, stories, and ramblings (YAB prefers the third in that list.) Writers have existed for centuries, as people make a profession out of putting their ideas into a transferable form, so that one day other future people will have something to occupy them on the Metro. Sadly, from the first moment Hemingway’s buddy, Grog Hunter, said that his cave etching lacked “a conceivable plot,” and the first critic was born. There is nothing like an outside opinion to ruin a guy’s life’s work. McCaveman would never write again thanks to Grog, even though as luck would have, fire proved to indeed be good.

Maybe he had an opportunity and a real talent about him, but we’ll never know if The Cavewall Chronicles would rank up there in the realm of the history’s great works of literature. I swear, God shouldn’t have given up smiting for Lent.

For centuries upon centuries after the first written word, critics have been declaring what books should be remembered as truly great. I wish I could say I’ve read a majority of these volumes, but grad school seems to dictate what I read these days. And last time I checked, you rarely place “Principles of Innovation Management” up there with the best of Dickens, Melville, and Chaucer. It is the critics who make determinations of what literature is truly great. What I want to know is – who died and made them deciders of what should be regarded throughout history as the Yankees of the literary world?

Just ask a 2-year old.

Great literature should be regarded as those works of print that capture the undivided attention of the reader, bringing them into the pages, and leaving them with a grand appreciation for the material they have just absorbed. For many of the world’s great books, they have proven them time and time again. But as I found out last Thursday night, a 2-year old named Patrick has his own two cents to add to this debate.

Robert Frost and DH Lawrence? Meet Bob and Larry.

As I watched from the floor of young Patrick’s room as Katie read him this selection as a bedtime story, the proof of a classic was right there in front of me. Part of our babysitting instructions was to allow the young lad to pick a book as part of his nightly routine. Sifting through the pile, a small hardcover edition about a couple of talking vegetables running through the alphabet with reckless abandon was chosen. Maybe the kid’s onto something.

Katie read Patrick the book with confidence and ease. I don’t care how simple the subject matter is – when you have an audience, you’ve got to bring your "A" game. Especially when the audience’s eyes are glued to the colorful illustrations, knows every word by heart, and will correct you if you stray from the script. There’s no way you would be able to sneak in the following:

G is for Grapefruit, fruit the size of your head. // Don’t you think that if I read fast, I can put you to bed?

H is hurrying through the end of this song, // Hit the gas pedal, make it up as I go along.

No, the kid would immediately realize your clever ploy. I swear, children at storytime are the most attentive of people out there. We need to put them to work as codebreakers or something. And as I watched Katie close with the final rhymes of X,Y, and Z, I watched as a satisfied smile grew across Patrick’s face. Mission accomplished. Time for bed, right?

Nope.

Patrick had decided it was now my turn to read Bob and Larry. Wow, a back-to-back telling?

That must be some great literature.

What Did You Say?

Here’s the scene: over at Monrovia Top 5 (or MT5 to those in “the know”), last week’s topic was a scenario: Top 5 historical figures you would have over for a dinner party. Two rules: all must be deceased and all are coming to the same dinner party. For no real reason, I chose this week to antagonize my frielumni by explaining why each of their quintets would end in chaos. This seemed like a good idea at first, but by the end of the 10th one, I was running out of the funny.

Comedy Rule #732: If all else fails, mock the French.

Liz Grimm, who understands the glory of SportsNight, posted the following 5: Harry Truman, Napoleon, Charles DeGaulle, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Martin Luther. 40% of this table share national pride with Gerard Depardieu. With this fuel for the funny fire, I penned the following:

Since Bonaparte and DeGaulle are French, Liz decides serve only the most exquisite French cooking a grad student’s income can buy. Fresh-cut French fries, French toast, and French-bread pizza. DeGaulle accepts gladly an occasion to sit, since it feels as it lives in an airport these days. Napoleon needs a phone book to sit on. But then Truman wages war when he insists that it should be called “Freedom Toast.” Oswald jumps to his assistance, firing shots from the grassy knoll in Liz’s living room. Martin Luther posts a list of grievances regarding how his meal was cooked on the fridge.

But before I posted it, I used www.freetranslation.com to convert it to French. That way, only Liz, Dave Reif, Zidanne, and some Canadian hockey players can get the jokes. Why? I have no idea.

But the real fun lies when I used FreeTranslation to convert it back to English. It then read as the following:

Since Bonaparte and DeGaulle are French, Liz decides serves only the French more exquisite cooking an income of the student of third cycle can buy. French of fresh cut fries, the French roasted bread, and the pizza of French bread. DeGaulle accepts with joy an occasion to sit, since it feels as it lives in an airport these days. Napoleon needs a directory to sit on. But then Truman takes the war when it insists that it called “the jumps of BREAD Oswald Liberty ROAST.” to his assistance, emptying blows of the mounds grassy in the parlor of Liz. Martin Luther posts a list of grievances of why his meal was cooked on the fridge.

I have no idea what this means.

Then an idea came to me. If so much can disappear from coherence in a quick switch from English-to-French-to-English, what if my delightful vignette continued to circle the globe? Surely another country’s language could put this all into perspective!

So from our revised English, the dinner party got relocated to Spain. Then back to America. And then to Germany, where certainly Martin Luther must have felt temporarily at home. But then it was reverted back to English, so that the readers of You’re a Blog can witness just what happens when you invite dead people to dinner.

Here’s the English-French-Spanish-German version:

Because Bonaparte and DeGaulle are French, Liz decides she can buy only the French the kitchen of more especially an income of the student that it of third cycle. French of the fresh cut fríe, has the French bread, and the pizza of the Baguettes roasted. DeGaulle takes an occasion hingesetzt to become itself with the good fortune at that because since life in an airport nowadays feels bad. Napoleon needs that a guide to become himself, in hingesetzt.

But then Truman takes the war if exists, that called “the BREADS freedom roast.” Oswald to its aid jumps, that empties the blows of the piles that are covered with herb in the living room by Liz.

Martin Luther announces a list of the complaints, of how his food was cooked in the refrigerator.

Finding Green in a Checkered Flag

Short of a blimp, a Times Square billboard, or a product placement on Survivor, advertisers have no bigger a forum than the marketing opportunities presented with NASCAR. As a marketing major (what was I thinking?) and a sports fan, I know that there are many places in which you can tack a logo, slogan, or a combination of the both (“slogo.” I’m copyrighting that one.) In baseball, there’s the rotating behind home plate billboard. In hockey, unsuspecting forwards can expect to checked, right into the heart of product promotion. Soccer puts the team’s sponsor right on their jerseys. But when it comes down to the most exposure, throw some money at a racing team in the biggest auto racing circuit in America and watch as your logo becomes more associated with the driver than the brand of car he drives.

If you don’t mind your ad traveling at 180 miles per hour. So blurry.

But from a marketer’s standpoint, it really works. People draw allegiances to products just as much as they do to drivers. Didn’t have a preferred office supply superstore before? Well, if you like Carl Edwards and the Number 99 car, you do now and you have no idea why it’s better than Staples. Blind loyalty.

Now sports have official sponsors of everything from soft drinks to reprographic solutions providers. But when it comes to NASCAR teams, there’s no monopoly to be found. If you’ve got the cash and an interest in cars that only turn left, you can sponsor a NASCAR team no matter how many of your rivals have the same exact idea. Exclusive License does not exist in NASCAR. The only licenses in this sport are Drivers’.

From my research it appears that there are 10 different industry categories that go head to head on the hood of uberfast vehicles. And since a sharp paint job tells you very little about the products’ actual attributes, I think it is a safe assumption that the quality of two rival products are best summed up by the NASCAR standings at the end of the day. Right? In a month completely rife with sports, let’s blindly proclaim some superior products and services based on the points standings.

Battle of the Shipping – UPS vs. FedEx. Because of Dale Jarrett in the #88 brown car, FedEx may want to rethink their NASCAR marketing strategy and stick to Tom Hanks movies.

Battle of the Breakfast – Kyle Busch drives the Corn Flakes care past his competition, Jeff Green in the Cheerios car. But remember kids, put milk in your cereal, not Busch.

Battle of the Hardware – Now this makes sense. The NASCAR watching public is a target market for home improvement. The #20 HD car of Tony Stewart has a slim lead over the $48 Jimmie Johnson car, once and for all proving that you can’t spell Lowe’s without SLOW.

Battle of the Wireless – It really doesn’t matter that the Alltel car is performing better than the Cingular car. They race for the NEXTEL cup. That’s like Coke and Pepsi sponsoring MLS teams to win the RC Cola Trophy. Waste of ad dollars.

Battle of the Militia – Greg Biffle’s National Guard car has outperformed the Army car of Joe Nemechek this year. Apparently, offense wins wars, but defense wins championships.

Battle of the Brew – Another target market lock, the soon-to-retire Rusty Wallace is making Miller Lite a better happy hour buy than Little E’s Budweiser wheels. Oh yeah, don’t drink and drive.

Call me Han; I'm Flying Solo

My Tuesday night course is titled “International Science and Technology.” When seeing a course title like this, one would expect a course full of how modern innovations in all fields have affected international business and how it differs from the different business strategies currently employed in the United States. And even if that doesn’t sound appealing, the fact that it’s a general requirement for my MBA discipline is. However, one thing seems strange four lectures into this semester.

The most international aspect of the course is the Swiss cheese on my mid-class sandwich.

It’s not that I’m anti-Swiss cheese. Aside from watches, chocolate, Miss, bank accounts, and the definition of fence sitter, this may be the best export those folks in Switzerland have come up with (even if 15-20% are missing due to big freakin’ holes.) No, my grievance is actually with the course, which has yet to mention anything outside of the United States. I’m not concerned to the point of raising my hand about it. That’s like volunteering to stand in the way of a hockey puck coming off of Jeremy Roenick’s stick.

Make that 34 hockey columns.

And while I sit there in a class where I only speak when spoken to, I realize that this is unlike any grad school course I’ve encountered before. Aside from being the biggest misnomer since Melissa “Shoemaker,” there are only nine people enrolled in the class. While the numbers are small, it made dividing into groups of three for an end-of-semester project relatively easy. The professor takes the row of nine, and simply has us number off. 1, 2, 3…

From the very first class, I had an assigned group. This is a fairly important fact for my academic success, as there is a 30 page project due at the end of the semester. We exchanged contact info, and went on our ways, destined to meet again when we would one day get around to this project. Nice to meet you, Tony and Mario.

One week went by and the next class came. I didn’t think to discuss the project since Mario was in class, but Tony was not.

Two weeks went by and another class session was held. Still no Tony, and Mario was forty minutes late. We’ll postpone this meeting one more week.

Three weeks went by and neither Mario or Tony are in class. The other two groups have already started their prelim research and are reporting back to the professor at the beginning of each class. I am having trouble merely confirming my group exists.

Yesterday, I broke down and took the lead on getting this party started right (not to mention getting the very same party started quickly.) While there’s no immediate correspondence from Tony, I get the following response from Mario:

I am no longer enrolled in the class, I notified the professor a few weeks ago. – Thanks, Mario.

And Tony is clearly in this class as much as the Indians are in the playoffs. In a class of 9 people, how did I get the two who couldn’t hack it? Time to e-mail the professor.

A man is an island, but it would be nice if that island were part of an archipelago if there’s group work to do.

Puck Everlasting

While it seems I have a host of other topics to get to this week, it would be a disservice to our readers if YAB neglected to kick off the return of professional ice hockey with a devoted post. During the entire existence of this blog, there has not been a single NHL game played. The first two months was acceptable – it was the offseason. But the following nine were puck-free thanks to a messy disagreement between those who own and those who skate, and a lockout ensued. But in this time, YAB has managed to mentioned the “Coolest Sport on Earth” in 32 different posts. That’s one in ten. So needless to say, we’re glad to see 30 NHL teams dropping the puck on a new season tonight.

Before you are able to know where the sport is going, you need to know where it’s been. And since we’ve been busy monitoring the lockout instead of, well, writing grad school papers, it appears that we’ve got our Cliffs Notes already prepared. To pass the time, YAB gave you our all-star movie hockey team. When the lockout was officially announced, we gave you a two-part employment solution for these poor players who were blindsided with free time. And we even took time to remind you all about what it means to be a sinister coach behind the bench. It’s not hard to write about topics of which you have a passion for.

(So why haven’t I written a column about Wawa? Weird.)

Well like I said, 15 games are on the agenda tonight, and with rules changes that have been implemented to increase scoring. Goalies have been inhibited vastly, as they can now be charged with a 2-minute penalty if they try to handle the puck in the corner. In addition, their pads now have stricter size maximums. Finally, their enlarged goalie stick will now be replaced with a Swiffer.

In addition, the red line, that which crosses center ice will no longer serve as a method to slow down the breakaway aspect of the game. This will create longer passes to faster guys who can sneak around the peripheral vision of defensemen and beat the goalie with a twisted wrister, to his Swiffer side. And finally, the NHL has implemented a overtime shootout system that will do away with ties. That’s a good thing; half of the players have no idea how to even put together a clean double Windsor knot.

I don’t know what else to say other than if you liked hockey in the past, then love the fact that it’s back in a framework that will encourage more competition, more action, and Joe Brescia to cry when his fantasy hockey team crumbles at the hands of Karen Yelito this week. For those who have yet to become fans, there’s no time like the present, and in the present, it looks like everyone but the Rangers, Blues, Capitals, and Hurricanes have a season of opportunity to look forward to.

I’ll leave you with an odd hockey-related story. The other day, Katie and I were making a late-night Wegmans run after work. I had already changed into “casual slacker” attire, wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Such an ensemble is incomplete without a baseball cap. I grabbed my Flyers hat and met Katie in her car.

After grabbing a cart and starting our tour of the Yankee Stadium of grocery stores, I passed a guy wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and a Redskins hat. He noticed the Flyers hat. This is not a big concern, rivalry wise. In the combined 105+ year history of the two franchises, they have never played each other. The Redskins guy tipped his hat and passed us by. But after 3-4 seconds, now 8 yards away from us, he turns back and as an act of solidarity, yells “Kjell Samuelsson!” and waits to see my reaction. I spin around to see him taking an air-slapshot with an imaginary stick.

Kjell (pronounced shell) Samuelsson was a big doofy Nordic defenseman for the Flyers in the early 90’s. He now is an assistant coach for their AHL franchise, the Phantoms. And apparently, this is all that Redskins guy can remember about ice hockey. I'm flattered. I think.

May the puck drop soon. Please.

Like a Moth to a Flame

One of my daily habits in to get my fix on entertainment news from the bastion of credibility known as the Internet Movie Database. Every morning, the right hand side of their homepage lists the latest in Celebrity News. At about 2pm, the second section, devoted to Studio News, will also be updated. It’s mainly stories that simply come off the AP or Reuters wires, and in the grand scheme of things, is of miniscule importance.

Credibility is not why you should tune in on a daily basis – they’re the San Diego Padres of the newsroom. I swear they told me once that Mel Gibson was looking to do a movie about John the Baptist and his adorable talking dog, St.Bernard. They also like to break incendiary headlines citing sources like the Fort Wayne Telegraph Standard or Cat Fancy Magazine. But they get the stories mostly right, and apparently that’s enough for me to spend 45 seconds of my morning.

Maybe if someone creates a new blog, it will take the place of IMDB on my morning rundown. Or maybe Joe Brescia could update his. That would work too.

Well, a number of stories interested me on IMDB this morning, which is what has prompted this post. Some are noteworthy, others are magnets for incurring my ire. Quick-fire style.

“Cage is a Dad Again” – 41 year-old Mr. Intensity’s third wife gave birth to young Kal-El on Monday. His wife Alice (who at 21 could actually be his child from an earlier marriage) is totally aware that her child’s initials are KC, and will make sure to cut up her food so that she doesn’t choke in the second half of dinner. It appears Cage has learned the correct way to have a baby after all.

“Anderson Victorious in Restraining Order Bid” – This is standard IMDB news fodder. I’d bet my Flyers jersey that you can tune in on any day and read at least one stalker or aggressive paparazzi story where they’ll quote someone like Scarlett Johnsson about how hard it is to be famous. This is where I remind her she was in Home Alone 3.

“Hilton: I’m Not Willing to Give Up My Career for Marriage.” - Well, at least she isn’t going to ruin marriage for the rest of us. Dude, you were going to marry a guy with the same name as you! That's a bad sign. You don't see Morgan Freeman and Morgan Fairchild together, do you? I would love to see this freakshow sign up for eHarmony now. We could find out once and for all if she knows how to read. (By the way, IMDB lists her career as future roles in movies playing the romantic lead opposite Jason Mewes. Wow.)

“Smith Reportedly Quits Fletch Film” – I haven’t confirmed this yet, and this may be our IMDB-patented prototype Retraction candidate come tomorrow’s edition, but it looks like Smith has given up on resurrecting Fletch. I totally understand him holding out for Jason Lee. But Smith may not be the best fit for this project. He loves the books, and would do them justice, but when the studio is so focused on making sure Chevy Chase does a cameo, maybe we’re missing the point completely. Sorry Kev, you’re making a Clerks sequel. And I hate the title.

“Reid Slams Unfair US Press” – So Tara Reid wants to be taken seriously as an actress. Ok, then let’s forget about yelling at the press and create some credibility on your resume. Also, it’s not good when your best friend is named “Bar.” It’s not like you were shafted for an Oscar nod in American Pie 2. This is about people putting blame in the wrong place. Like how the Yankees are chastising the Texas Rangers because they didn’t try to beat the Angels, and now the Yanks are opening their series with Anaheim on the road. (Maybe you should have just beated the Sox on Sunday, and things would have worked out.) Man, I need to get a towel. Spilled milk everywhere!

Oh, and the quiz below is still out there…

Three Hundred.

Well, it looks like we’ve made it the big 300. Another century of blog to get through the tough summer stretch of May-June-July-August-September. Well, maybe not tough for you – all sitting on the beach-like, sipping mai tais and eating Fritos, while your lonely computer sat somewhere far away on a desk. Alone. With only a surge protector to keep it company. And even though you were on vacation, YAB marched on. The Funny was there waiting for you when you returned.

But now it’s back to the grind, and YAB continues its quest to return to the glory days – those days where the new post actually reflected its calendar birthdate. Right now, the guys down in Statistics and Measures tell me we’re 10 off the pace. At 200, we were 6. But considering that gap was as high as 14 when I took off 6 days for a lawfully-wedded vacation of my own, we’re happy with what content we’ve been able to bring. Leak hasn’t stopped, but at least it’s been slowed. Look for big things in Century 4.

Maybe reaching this point should deserve some sort of upgrade. Like a new banner. Or celebrity endorsements. Yeah, that would be nice.
I can see it now – “Starting at quarterback, from Syracuse University, Number 5 – Donovan McYabb!” I think I’ll give his mother a call.

As always, there's a t-shirt on the line. Previous winners, I haven't forgotten about you. You have until Friday, October 7th (the real one, not the backdated one.)

1. In the great balance of fate, who decided to suckerpunch Chris with a well-placed Flavor Ice? (1)
2. Which rock gods of the 70’s managed to screw us in Charlotte by not playing a single song with the words “Domo a-regatto…” (1)
3. What Bill Pullman monologue was publicly mocked in the name of patriotism? (1)
4. What is the best method for trash removal in recently –surveyed Fairfax apartment complexes? (1)
5. What poem was parodied in order to break the news of a fallen Baltimore Oriole? (1)
6. Which of YAB’s Supreme Court nominees totally got the shaft? (2)
7. What movie was parodied in the spirit of Kenny Chesney’s now defunct marriage? (2)
8. Why was Sara Throckmorton’s name invoked in a post title back in June? (2)
9. Name one of the examples for Condon’s movie classification genre of “Stuff That Can’t Happen.” (2)
10. Who won the Pepsi-Coke war? What was the score? (2)
11. If a football team was cast in Ocean’s Eleven, who would play the Mormon twins? (3)
12. Why did Condon receive an onslaught of mocking from the friendly staff at the Tyson’s Corner Kinko’s? (3)
13. Which Mighty Ducks actor passed away over the summer, prompting an analysis of the “Mean Coach” archetype? (3)
14. In the world of BCE, what is the best way to conduct negotiations in a conference room (3)
15. Who is the incompetent HR Manager equivalent in today’s public education system? (3)
16. As a grad student, what are the only two businesses that one can start if you believe everything your Accounting prof tells you? (4)
17. Who has been appointed YAB’s External Auditor after questioning the use of the royal we? (4)
18. What obscure character actor got a whole post AND amusement park dedicated to him on a slow news day? (4)
19. If stuck with an unbelieving receptionist without any form of ID, what is the last resort that may get you into your place of business? (4)
20. How long was the torrential St. Lucian rainstorm Condon had to endure while seeking out his room keys underwater? (4)

Attend this!

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to take a few moments of your time for some brief instructions. If you could direct your attention to your flight attendant at the front of the cabin, thank you.”

I’m a word short and a day late on this one, but it’s time for another edition of “Little People, Big Mouths.” The first round, focusing on the epic battle of Gymnast vs. Retail, eventually Gymnast won as the stupid shirt got pulled off the shelves. Call me crazy, but in the Main Event of Flight Attendant vs. Hollywood, I’m not exactly pulling for the underdog.

“We’d like to take this time to review the features this aircraft has been equipped with in case of an emergency. I will now hold up a mutated seatbelt and show you how easy it can be to strap yourself in. Hey, why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

As reported here, three different Flight Attendant unions have banded together in a show of solidarity to try and convince the world to boycott the latest Jodie Foster thriller, Flightplan. Before I tell you why, can I ask a quick question? Why do we have THREE different flight attendant unions? Can’t we all just get along? Could you possibly have different agendas? Are some for the right to watch the in-flight movie, while others are stumping for the use of rollerblades to accelerate drink service? Ok, that was four quick questions.

“Yes, as I was saying, in the even of cabin air pressure loss, the compartments above will open up and an oxygen mask will drop down. Please put yours on first before assisting anyone else. That way, your children can take their mind off impending doom because you look like a duck.”

Apparently, Peter Dowling’s screenplay doesn’t exactly paint the flight attendant occupation in the best flight. Or in their words - “We could get over the rudeness, but the evilness, to be the villain that is not acceptable.” Ok, so flight attendants don’t save the day in this thriller. Hey guys, you can’t always be the hero. You had your glory – in Airplane.

“In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion can double as a floatation device. So can your flight attendant union leaders – they, too, are full of hot air, and should get you to shore in an efficient and friendly manner.”

Look, flight attendants are helpful people. They are responsible for the comfort and safety of all people entrusting passage in the friendly skies. And I’ve never had a problem with a flight attendant before. They’ve always been extremely accommodating when I try and fit this 6’4” frame into a seat with 1’3” of legroom. When it comes to your job, you do an alright job.

“I’d also like to turn your attention to rows 7 and 23 of our aircraft – these are our exit rows. In there is electrical failure in the cabin, the aisle will illuminate with lights directing you to these two rows. However, Chris Condon’s logic may indicate that we’re the ones who should exit now.”

But don’t get bent out of shape when you are made to play the fool in a Hollywood work of fiction. Did the EPA freak out when Ghostbusters made Walter Peck an absolute jerk? Did the NSA file a complaint when Will Smith took them to school in Enemy of the State? Where was the protest from the LAPD when they were the corrupt arm of L.A. Confidential? And finally, where was the AP press release from the Stormtroopers when they were portrayed as a white-suited trainwreck of a fighting corps? See, it happens to EVERYONE, flight attendants. I suggest you return your chair to its upright position, put all tray table into their locked position, and quietly excuse yourself from the spotlight.

”Thank you for flying Yora Air."

The Sounds of Silence

Wednesday nights, in a grad school sense, are no different this year than they were the last. I have two different classes for two hours apiece, severely cutting into my “Hey Chris, you need to watch Lost!” time from 6-10pm after work. The first class is Business Government Relations, where I can now say I’ve read Wealth of Nations by the father of capitalism, Adam Smith. I commend Adam Smith, who managed to have made a place for him in history books, overcoming an incredibly dull name. Had his name been something catchy, like Mercutio de Freefrenchfries, he’s a guaranteed best seller for centuries.

The second class is Project Management. For those who are not project managers (current typers inclusive), this is a course designed to teach an applied method to make the big picture no more than a box of organized puzzle pieces (Insert Kelly Barrett joke here.) But here’s where my class differs from the Mr. deFreefrenchfries class. This method is effectively a science. There’s a right and a wrong, and if one can grasp the former, they’re set – both in practice and on tests. And what’s more, there are textbooks that clearly delineate said science. What does this all mean?

Condon can get an A, learn the stuff, and make class time observations for YAB – at the same time.

First off, there’s a girl in my class you I am completely in awe of. She’s completely deaf and is pursuing her MBA. She sits in the front row, and can only comprehend the lecture via the translation provided by her two interpreters. The reason there are two are because, like a well-coached hockey team, they make line changes when they get winded or their sign language skills are wearing down. A typical shift lasts about 20-25 minutes. There is no penalty box for inaccurate translation. (But there probable is a cool translation for penalty box.)

On the other end of the exchange is the girl. The most impressive thing about her? In order to fully understand the lecture, she must pay attention for 110 consecutive minutes. If she puts her head down or her eyes start wandering about the room, she misses what is being taught. If for some reason I had a candle in class, I surely wouldn’t be able to hold it to her. After all, putting my head down or having my eyes wander about the room are two of the things I do best. Without these two key distraction methods, I wouldn’t be able to write blog, do other homework/reading, and most importantly, prepare for the upcoming fantasy hockey draft.

But in this class, the translator(s) gives me little reason to put my head down. Why? Sign language is incredibly mesmerizing. I find myself watching the hands that convert the professor’s droning more than the professor’s slides. For most words, there are signs. For those without signs, the translators will spell them out at the speed of wow. But for a topic as unique and specialized as project management, there are already a lot of pre-programmed words. And what’s more, these translators know it. Last night, I watched signs whiz by for “jargon, mutually exclusive, and compartmentalized structure.” Unbelievable.

While these words are all rare, they aren’t exactly entertaining (now you have an idea of how thrilling project management is). I do spend some time praying that the prof will use some bizarre and funny words in his lectures. Come on, talk about a blimp or a platypus or a flugelhorn – I gotta know the signs for those words. Sadly, I’ve thumbed through the syllabus. Not a whole lot of sections regarding duckbilled dirigibles. That play in the marching band.

I wonder if she takes foreign language courses. Now that would be an impressive translator.

A Video Game Shame

I maintained a healthy childhood playtime regimen of living in both the actual and virtual world. I grew up as a Nintendo enthusiast, but for every conquest to save Zelda, every Mario Kart race I won by photo finish, and every attempt to master the ultra-trippy Super Mario Bros. 2, I made sure to play outside with real people and in real games. I think kids these days play a lot of video games, and I understand why. The realism of modern systems is enough to make a kid think it’s the real world. Did I ever think I was getting on a real motorcycle when I played Excitebike? No, which made it easier for me to go outside and get tennis balls stuck in my dad’s gutters. And look, I turned out pretty normal. Right?

Well, I still have a gaming system, courtesy of the Prodigal Roommate, although much of the entertainment fare has been condensed to sports. I’m not picky – the general competition of professional athletics being translated to a quick-spinning disc will do. I may even, on a slow day, let you know the lengths we go to make it not just A game, but OUR game. (It’ll scare you, I promise.) EA Sports has a quality product, and I support them wholeheartedly. But what if I wanted to step off of the playing field and play a non-sports title.

Well, here’s an option from Hell.

That’s right, kids! Coming soon to an Xbox or PS2 near you is The O.C.. Based on the trendy (and from what I hear, addictive) teen soap opera on Fox, you, too, can be pretty and brooding at the same time! Here’s an article excerpt on the gameplay:

The style of play is similar to reality-simulation titles like “The Sims,” allowing fans of the show to explore the “O.C.” universe by dressing to impress, joining the right cliques, dating the right people, and striving to fit into the ultra-trendy community, Guillemot.

Hey Guillemot, whoever you are, I’ve got news for you. What happens when kids realize it’s more fun to dress to scare away, join the wrong posses, date the mailman or a fire hydrant, and strive to fit into a community that is completely dysfunctional and craves cupcakes? This is the real fun in simulation games – taking the whatifs and throwing them on their collective head. So while you finish up with the programming for this trainwreck, Best Company Ever will be releasing the following titles, just in time for your holiday shopping needs! Enjoy!

The A.C. – You are Bayside’s #1 jock, A.C. Slater. Make your way through high school while managing to fight off the evil hosebeast “Spanno” while maintaining your varsity letterman status in wrestling, basketball, football, track, and ever other sport that has ever existed.

The C.C. – Act as Chief Awesome Officer Chris Condon in his daily routine. The Kingdom of Ig demands that you bring the funny, while doing battle with dragons, volcanoes, and Redskins fans.

The D.C. – The very first public transportation racing game! Level 5 is a doozy, where you try and make it from Franconia-Springfield to Silver Spring in less than 6 hours.

The J.C. – A Biblical offering from BCE. Help Jesus lay the smacketh down on some Pharisees. Gain strength points by chowing down at the Wedding at Cana.

The M.C. – Become a master of ceremonies for a Fox reality talent show, a la American Idol. Goal: don’t be a tool.

The N.C. – Video game based on the intense rivalry between the UNC Tar Heels and the Duke Blue Devils. Lead your rabid college fan base in a prank war against a friend!

The P.C. – Navigate through the twists and turns of being an outspoken politician without offending any voting blocks. Also, be sure to keep sidekick Strom Thurmond under close supervision.

The U.C. – Get your money’s worth of your college dining plan by eating as much as you possibly can at William and Mary’s central dining facility. Bonus points for knowledge quizzes based on the copious amount of Flat Hat copies available.

Doom 1, Condon 0

Today was actually going to be a good day. I slept well, had a good shower and shave, even had time to throw an Eggo Waffle into the toaster oven (not literally, I don’t like smushed waffle.) My school bag and gym bags were quickly and efficiently packed, and I took care of bagging up the trash to take down to the dumpster (I am forbidden from throwing that off the balcony, it seems.) In the words of Jasen Andersen, “It’s a beautiful day!” (Well, they’re not Jasen’s words. He’s quoting something. He’s always quoting something. (To which he’d say. “I’ll give you a quote.” – Now that would be a Jasen Original.))

When mornings start off this well, something’s going to bring it back down to earth. Guaranteed.

So when I closed my door, I was on the lookout to see from which direction Doom may strike. The 4th floor landing was quiet – but not too quiet – I’m not exactly mouselike when carrying two bags, the garbage, and my keys. Hell, I’m never mouselike.

Katie has often counted that there are 59 steps between our apartment and ground floor zero. That’s nearly 5 dozen opportunities to get Suckerpunched by Doom. And yet, even with all those things to carry (and let me add, I’ve managed to get my mp3 player headphones in-ear during the descent), I managed to make it to the pavement, still on my good morning high.

Short of getting hit by a car, there’s not a whole lot to be careful for in the walk across the parking lot. I know someone who got by a car. Twice. In the same year. On the same road. Rhymes with Wearin’ Derby. And although she never actually wore derbies (other headwear, perhaps), I’m not her and I didn’t get hit by any vehicles this morning.

Seeing no need to take the trash to work, I deposited in the dumpster and descended the hill to my car. It’s not a hill, really. For some reason, the complex planning commission decided to do echelon parking, leaving me to take three or four precarious steps down to the next level of asphalt. I could walk around and take the gradual decline that normal people are accustomed to using. But I didn’t fall – good day still intact. (And my mp3 player opened with some Carbon Leaf. Rok.)

However, at this point, I am more petrified than ever. If nothing bad had happened up until this point, there’s a 90% chance that something will still occur to throw my day not only back to neutral, but into a tailspin of woe. The longer fate decides to hold you up, the more extravagant his pendulum backswing will be. Of course, there’s a 10% chance I’ll make it to work unscathed, which was precisely what my prayers were focusing on at the time I got to my car.

Percentages don’t lie.

After putting my bags in the car, I opened the door. Right leg in, sat down, reached across the passenger seat for the phone charger. And then, just about the time I was about to cheer in victory over fate, it happened. And the good morning high became that predicted tailspin of woe. After avoiding every land mine, my left foot (still outside the car) stepped down onto the biggest land mine of them all.

An unopened grape Flavor Ice.

Of all the things to accidentally step down on, it had to be an unfrozen tube of purple fruit juicy goo that is prong to cover your pant leg if any external pressure is applied. What’s worse, grape is my LEAST favorite Flavor Ice.

Suckerpunched by Doom? Indeed.

Cats and Dogs Living Together...

Kristen Cole covered this long, long ago. But it’s time for YAB to add their collective two cents into such a hard-hitting news story, I’m half-surprised CNN and FoxNews aren’t all over it.

The Naming of Printers.

Kristen used to work in a world where the printers already had names, Presidential ones as it were. The World of Condon exists without pre-named document producing units. That task is left in my hands. And now that the dust has settles on the new apartment and life appears to functioning normally, it’s time to knock some remedial tasks such as these off the docket.

But first a recap…

In college, I had a printer whose incompetence goes completely unmatched. I feel like I wore a rut in the grass to Tyler Computer Lab across the street from Monroe for all the times I needed to emergency print something and my printer would hardly comply. “What’s that? You need this for a class in two minutes?” my computer would smirk. “Too bad! I’m going back to shooting death stares at your roommate – why does that kid never wear a shirt?”

And so, Pongo was born.

Pongo is not an endearing name to given – I hardly would connote it a positive handle. Not a whole lot of rocket scientists or brain surgeons out there on the scene with the name Pongo. Dr. Pongo is a horrifying thought. Spud named him, and he was promptly banished under the bed. (Pongo, not Spud.)

Once Pongo took a liking to “Involuntary Forced Skydiving (sans chute),” it was time for a replacement. Enter the printer I bought from Alok and Anand Dash junior year for 40 bucks. It was new, unopened, and curiously cheap. But despite that initial uneasiness, Pongo’s replacement quickly won over its new owner for one special reason: it new how to talk. When you sent a job to print, it would pipe up with a strangely soothing voice and proclaim “Printing Commencing.”

Printing Commencing? Who talks like that?

Something needed to be done. I quickly found the wav file that Printer #2 was utilizing to speak all proper-like in our dorm room and deleted it. However, I remained fascinated in its speaking abilities and search for a replacement quote. Nothing on my computer would suffice. I even tried recording my own voice to say something clever, but I sounds like a robot myself on tape. And then inspiration showed up on the campus movie channel: Ghostbusters.

There’s nothing more comical than having your RA walk down the hall and stop dead in her tracks to hear bellowing from your room –

”THERE IS NO DANA, ONLY ZUUL.”

And that, boys and girls, is how Zuul the Printer came to be born.

But Zuul deteriorated over the years, and didn’t exactly “make the cut” of stuff to come to the new apartment. And even if he did, he’d be third-string on the depth chart. Because Katie brings a fearsome twosome to the table. A standard HP and her new Epson photoprinter. And for the last 5 weeks, they have gone nameless. Printers without identities.

Suggestions, anyone?

Emotion's Eleven

If David Akers can do his job in the name of groin-grabbingly bad adversity, I can at least catch up one post this weekend. Way to go, Dave. Now that man is an athlete.

There are two positions on a football team that garner a tad less respect than the rest of the roster, and both of them happen to play on special teams. First off, I love the term “special teams.” This moniker is reserved for the personnel units that handle kickoffs, kick returns, punts, punt returns, field goals and other score-by-kick scenarios. Ok, seems like a lot, right?

Yeah, and the D in Dallas stands for Dependable Defense.

These guys, typically backups at positions that don’t allow you to be best buddies with the buffet line, see the field no more than 8-10 times a game. Figure each special team play lasts around 6 seconds – and the special team has logged 1 / 60 of the playing time. Wow.

It’s not that these plays aren’t crucial to a team’s success, I just pose the following question – are they all that “special?” Does the head coach not find his offense, capable of mounting killer comebacks, special? Would you go up to hulking defensive ends and linebackers, who strike fear in QBs whose names end in –atrick Ramsey, and tell them they’re not special either? Doubt it. Seriously doubt it.

But every player that comes in on this unit also can play a role on the franchise’s two “ordinary teams.” That is, except for two.

Enter Mr. Kicker and Mr. Punter.

Their special jobs are simply defined. The kicker is responsible for kicking the ball off after scores, chipping in extra points and trying to put a three-spot on the scoreboard via the field goal. The punter sends all hopes of additional points far away, in the form of a booming arc of a punt. No one likes the punter, since his appearance in a game is never good news. Seems bland, yes? Let’s try a different route.

Let’s say a football team makes up the entire cast of Ocean’s Eleven. The quarterback is Danny Ocean. Now Danny’s right-hand man is the guy he was forced to handoff the whole heist to. Thus, the running back is Rusty. The linemen do the grunt work, oft-under-appreciated. Seem like the Mormon twins to me. I could flesh out this analogy some more, but I’ve already strayed once.

The kicker is the technology guy. It’s ironic I can’t remember his name.

Ok, thanks IMDB. Technology Guy is names Livingston Dell. Without him, Operation: Screw Benedict never gets off the ground. They have no idea on where the bad guys are, the video feed switcheroo goes to hell, and the clever “Hey Julia, your husband’s a tool on Channel 87” tie-in never happens. Without a kicker, you cede incredible field position to your opponent. You allow linebackers to kick extra points. You get offensive linemen who have sore necks from getting drilled by the aforementioned linebacker. Your poor quarterback has to go for two after every TD, since his neck-aching linemen threaten to go on strike. It’s not a flashy job, but it’s a necessity for it all to work in the end.

David Akers rose above his role of Technology Guy today for the Philadelphia Eagles. On a severely pulled hamstring, he hobbled out to the 12 yard line with time running out to punch through a field goal and to punch the Raiders an 0-3 ticket back to the Bay Area. You could see the pain on his face as he crumpled to the ground. Today, Danny Ocean didn’t wear number 11. He wore number 2.

In case you were wondering, in the world of Ocean’s Eleven, the punter plays the role of “Man in Casino.”

Welcome to the Hall of Cool

Apparently 45 minutes can make a difference. By the time I typically get in the car for the morning commute, flipping through channels leaves me with little to desire. Sports Talk 980’s going on about the Yankees-Sox race, WTOP’s got minute by minute Rita evacuation coverage, Z104 is playing Lenny freakin’ Kravitz, and Elliot’s talking up some grotesque disease like “monkey feet.” Looks like it’s time to pull out one of those CD’s I know all the words to. Hello, BNL!

But today was different. Having a big presentation this morning, I hit the parking lot running at 6:30. While the sun may not yet be up, it appears that I was, and as usual looking for something to listen to. And what’s this? Engaging radio banter? From Elliot, no less? Get out of town!

Elliot, the disc jockey on DC101 was reporting back on his very nice dinner the prior eve at a restaurant in Arlington, 2941. It’s on Fairview Park Drive just a stone’s throw away from the old Random Run digs, and it’s at the foot of one of those giant office buildings you can see from the Beltway (NOTE: KEEP READING, THIS ISN’T A RESTAURANT REVIEW BLOG, I’M JUST WORDY.) It’s a 5 star place with waterfalls and white gloves and expensive steak and fish you’ve never heard of. Can I vouch? Heck, no. I eat at the Five Guys down the street.

Also not in the business to review restaurants, Elliot was raving over the owner of this place, Rick Adams. No, he didn’t meet him. No, I haven’t met him, either. But I am taking this post to induct him as the First Member of the You’re a Blog brand-new Hall of Cool. Welcome Rick, here’s your members-only Green Jacket. (Don’t sue us, Masters.)

Now why would YAB bestow such an honor on no-namer Rick Adams? Well, I did some research (after hearing about the guy on the radio) and he’s led a pretty impressive last decade. Ok, like I said, he’s the owner of one of the nicest restaurants in Northern Virginia. In fact, he owns the office building it’s located in. Not to mention the near by lake. Hell, the guy’s sitting on tons of acreage that townhome developers would kill for. But I ask you this – how does this guy become so rich?

Long story short, Adams came up with serial line IP and also founded UUNet, a huge ISP in the nineties. He took his brainchild public, made Massive Pay Day #1, expanded operations, and then promptly sold his stake to WorldCom for Massive Pay Day #2. (Worldcom then tried to convince the world 2 plus 2 is threeve.) So, our first HoCer got rich by having a good idea, hitting the market big, and then selling high.

(The same should go for all of your Fantasy Football GMs with Cadillac Williams. Do it, trust me.)

So what does a guy do with eleventy billion dollars? Other than build a fancy office building and start a fancy restaurant where he brought a handpicked chef over from Italy to cook in it?

He buys an X-Wing fighter.

With Rick Adams’ IPO money, he purchased one of the actual X-wing fighters used in the Star Wars trilogy. Now most of them are miniature models – I’ve watched the featurettes. But for the hangar scenes, not to mention Dagobah, they had to construct some real life spaceships. And Rick Adams owns one of them.

And he keeps it in his backyard. This comes from the maitre’ D who talked to Elliot and was confirmed by a caller who lives four houses (read: mansions) down from Adams. When I was growing up, I had a swing set. Rick Adams can destroy the Death Star. I also am going to go out on a limb and assume he doesn’t do his own landscaping. After all, he’s gonna need Yoda to pick that thing up when it’s time to mow the lawn.

So welcome to the Hall of Cool, Rick Adams. Here’s your Green Jacket. Just don’t wear it at Augusta, so says our lawyer.

War of the Buttons

You know what the slowest part of my day is? Getting dressed.

I don’t care what you say about broken down Metros, waiting in line at the supermarket, sitting through prime time commercials, or sitting through corporate training initiatives, nothing sucks more meaningless time out of your agenda than getting dressed in the morning. I’m not advocating going to work lacking attire; I just find the whole “putting clothes on” routine to be a tad tedious. It’s not the process or the outcome that I have a problem with – it’s the convention.

Right now, the standard formal business attire for men at most offices has changed little over the last century or so. A suit or nice pair of pants takes precedence over jeans, and a good pair of dress shoes and socks can oust sandals from the picture. I have no problem with this part. If it takes you longer that 15 seconds to put on a pair of pants in the morning, you are either a) not awake enough to be dealing with such high-tech threads or b) those aren’t your pants, stupid – that’s your laundry bag. No, the reason I find getting dressed in the morning to be a drawn out exercise in inefficiency comes courtesy of the dress shirt.

A dress shirt has 13 buttons.

Trust me, I count them every morning. 4 on the sleeves, 2 by the collar, and 7 down the front. And by the time you get through the whole baker’s dozen, NBC has cancelled half of their new shoes, we’re up to Hurricane Zeke, and your Eggo waffle is icy cold in the toaster…again. To me, 13 buttons just seems overly complicated for a garment whose sole job is to cover one’s torso. It simply slows down the whole getting to work process. Here, I’ll show you.

If there are thirteen buttons to button on my shirt, it will take me 45 minutes to leave my bedroom, get to work and be at my desk, typing this blog.

If there are twelve buttons, my waffle doesn’t get cold, and I don’t have to wait another two minutes while I let it regain some warmth with a second whirl in the toaster oven. 43 minutes.

If there are eleven buttons, I’m ahead of a schedule that makes me turn on Sports Center, only to get sucked into Peter Gammons’ entrancing editorial on the Wild Card race. 39 minutes.

If there are ten buttons, I don’t rush out the door to make up time, only to leave my cell phone on the counter and have to run back in to grab it. 37 minutes.

If there are nine buttons, I stop on the third floor landing to look across the parking lot and locate where I parked my car, rather than aimlessly wandering through said lot in search of the elusive Honda. I need a homing beacon sometimes. 34 minutes.

If there are eight buttons, I’m in the car at 6:58, just in time to hear the traffic and weather on the talk radio station, which would help my commute greatly. 27 minutes.

If there are seven buttons, I’m not stuck at the gate waiting while the woman with the three dogs on leashes in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other untangles herself right in the middle of the road. 26 minutes.

If there are six buttons, I make the light at Wegman’s rather than sitting at red, pondering if it’s faster to take a shopping cart to work by lassoing the back of a metro bus and sitting inside it. 23 minutes.

If there are five buttons, there’s an open pump at the gas station. Right now, I’ve managed to pick the exact time when people decide to leave their cars at the pump to buy donuts inside the Kwikkimart. 19 minutes.

If there are four buttons, I don’t get stuck behind the school bus for 3 long miles. Enough said. 11 minutes.

If there are three buttons, the last spot on the upper level of the parking garage is still open, and I don’t have to park in the SAICatacombs, where my car will be that much closer to the center of the Earth. 8 minutes.

If there are two buttons, I’m wearing a polo shirt.

Cinematic Confession

Depending on your abilities to scroll, you may or may not have noticed some recent sidebar alterations that the YAB technicians were up all night working on. Karen Yelito has been added to the Old School bullpen, as her frequent tales of middle school idiocy will if nothing else have you thanking God that you are no longer required to roam 6th-8th grade hallways. We’re also considering a list of blogs from famous people that I read from time to time, but until I come up with just the right cadre, we’re going to phone it in on that one. This is just further motivation for those currently linked to become famous as soon as you possibly can.

But the real bell and/or whistle you can now see in the sidebar comes courtesy of Chris Smith’s brainchild “The Film Critic.” It is at this site that I’ve rated and reviewed around 370 movies, and was really my first opportunity on the ‘net to bring the funny. As evidence, I submit to you my review for that Ashley Judd/Hugh Jackman train wreck “Someone Like You.”

I saw this on a plane. I hoped it would crash.

Well, Smith has been busy making TFC blog-friendly. And his efforts will not go unseen. He has created a module that will list the last five movies I have seen, my rating of each (out of 5 stars), and when I watched said flicks. I figured this would be an excellent way to pass on my thoughts on reviewing movies without having to actually write movie reviews. Bonus.

So, yeah, while Smitty had developed this technology weeks ago, I had been hesitant to put it on YAB for one reason only – I am completely cognizant of the last 5 movies I’ve watched. The movies one sees can be a reflection of character. If I went to a blog and saw a quintet of Rob Schneider vehicles, I’d run from my computer screaming. Putting one’s recent cinematic cache out there for all to see is, as a movie fan, the equivalent of leaving your pile of newly-laundered boxer shorts out in the living room when company is over. No secrets here. And since this week is extremely busy, I’ve bit the proverbial bullet and added this feature. Which reveals to the world the skeleton in my closet:

I’ve seen First Daughter.

I was hoping to align this new feature’s addition after I had watched a slew of Die Hard or Rocky movies or something, but sure enough, there’s that bland Katie Holmes movie sitting there at number 4.

Yeah, you know the one – the girl from Dawson’s Creek is the President’s daughter, she goes to college, hilarity ensues. It wasn’t terrible, but it’s the kind of movie a guy feels compelled to hang some drywall and watch some rugby afterwards. But yes, I’ve seen it, and now you all know that. Bright red heart-covered boxers right on top of the laundry pile.* But before you start pointing and laughing, let me explain.

Fantasy Football cause men to act in weird ways.

Flashback to the date in question: 9/3/05. It was a Saturday night in New Jersey, as Katie and I had driven up to see the fam for the first time since the wedding. The weekend was largely commitment-free, as we were able to relax for a few days away from work and school. When I say largely commitment-free, I mean the only actual event was the Condon Family Fantasy Football League draft. Said league is a collection of Syracuse’s finest, all huddling around computers for one night of the year to pick their imaginary gridiron squads. My dad and I were not going to miss this for the world. However, since neither my mom or Katie were remotely interested in sitting around while we trying and predict whether or not T.J. Houshmandzadeh is going to have a breakout year for Cincy, they devised a contingency plan.

1. Go shopping.
2. Complete control over what to watch that evening.

The things I’ll do for fantasy sports.

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*For the record, I own no such boxers.

Roger, Roger

I’ll feeling ambitious today, so this may become a Multiple Post Monday (MPM, all rights reserved.) But then again, I’m feeling hungry, too. So rather than guaranteeing a multitude of funny today, any free time I get may end up devoted to seeking out a cruller or a bearclaw or some other incredibly bizarre name for a breakfast pastry. Somebody’s gotta be making up these names. I want to be that person.

But, no there’s no time to be the next great bakery naming wizard of my generation. Why, you may ask? That’s easy. I’m stuck on the phone.

In the land of cell phones and Caller ID, an incoming ring can be identified near-instantly. In fact, most people have so many of their circle programmed into their phones that actually KNOWING someone’s phone number in an emergency is a feat equal to having exact change for the Metro. When the phone rings, you can be greeted by a person’s name, perhaps a photo of them, or in a measure that’s Condon-approved, a picture of the caller’s cell phone. And from these identification features, one can be sure that they never get roped into a call that they want no part of.

Unless…

On the rare occurrence that your cell phone pops up as an actual phone number – congratulations, you’ve entered no-man’s land. Without a name or picture to make your pick-up decision a cinch, you are left pondering with or not to test these unknown waters. For four long, long rings. So when a 202 (DC) area code showed up in the middle of a workday, I took the foolishly optimistic response and made one big fateful mistake. ”Hello?”

A great comedy troupe once said that no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Well, a half-decent comedy blog now asks if when the Inquisition gets off work, do they cold call on behalf of the Kennedy Center? Oh, I think they do…

The Kennedy Center, for those outside the DC Metro region, is a beautiful center for the musical arts - just a stone’s throw from the Watergate Hotel. (Please, don’t throw stones near the Kennedy Center. They have many breakable windows. And your aim is terrible.) And since I took Katie to a National Symphony performance one Valentine’s Day long ago, I guess that would makes me a patron, now wouldn’t it?

Did I say patron? I meant sucker.

Roger at the Kennedy Center has called me for two reasons. One – to convince me to buy tickets for a concert series schedule for March-May 2006. Two – to prove once and for all that Roger is the best telemarketer on the face of the earth.

First off, Roger speaks with a refined, “I work at the Kennedy Center, I’m no schmo” kind of voice. You can’t argue with a guy whose English is light years beyond your own. He’ll pull some SAT vocabulary on you so fast, you won’t even get to say, “Sorry, I am not interested in booking tickets for next summer, I don’t even know what I’m doing this weekend.” Furthermore, his product, tickets to a four-performance concert series, requires more than a two-bit sales pitch. Before I know it, I’m being showered down upon with names or acclaimed soloists, featured performers, acclaimed conductors, and obscure musical selections from Russia, Germany, and anywhere but my mp3 player. Each pitch – about 6 minutes long, before I can get a word in edgewise. I heard 3 of them.

Here’s the problem. I have no intention of allocating 460 dollars for orchestra seats for next time next year. Even as I realize it’s a great deal and if I had the money, I’d be wise to do it, there’s no way Roger is going to get my credit card today. But how does one hang up on the arts? I mean, someday I may want to take part in such a deal. Alright Roger, it’s time to get clever.

“Roger, I appreciate the call, but I don’t have my calendar in front of me. Would you mind calling me back on Saturday and I’ll be able to let you know?”

Guess whose name just got entered in my cell phone?

Let Freedom Ring, Part 2

Back on November 11th, YABNews beat CNN, FoxNews, and E! to the presses with our dramatic re-telling of how Rob Harford gave Karl Marx a swift kick in the pants and sent he and his ideals of communism on their way. A miraculous diplomatic struggle, coupled with a fresh coat of paint later, Rob took his blog to the Land of the Free, on Veteran’s Day no less. For the past ~300 days, he has brought the funny under the name “America Needs Blog.” Well, after a tercentenary of days, the Red Bull-fueled monkeys that Rob keeps in his backpack of cool have gotten their act together to produce a sense of American Pride, Harfordian-style.

Since I’m friends with one of his helper-monkeys (I think Rob named that one Gamblor), I threw the little guy a banana in order to obtain an advance copy of the official national anthem of “america the blog-iful.” Rob, in honor of the occasion (the song, not my underground banana bartering), has re-named the blog appropriately. Enjoy.

O blogiful for Boredom’s eyes,
Rob aims to entertain,
With tales of hiring foreign guys
And Burger King’s insane!
America! America!
Rob will answer the call
On Vegas blokes and quota jokes
I’m a Yam, and that’s all!

O Batman, who Rob strives to be.
A hero from above,
Can soar through skies to snag the ‘bee
And date Jennifer Love!
America! America!
Rob dives across thy sod,
So help him out when Batman shouts
I want a free iPod!

Dorgon destroyed his Lotus work
But not his sacred blog
His door’s open, despite that jerk
Hops in – Kermit the Frog!
America! America!
Home of stand-up routine!
And where we see philosophy
To pee or not to pee!

O Rob, who drives many a car
None that will change CDs,
But four wheels only go so far,
Motorcycle Diary!
America! America!
On a Harley? Sure, why not?
He’ll quench the need for blazing speed
Just no one tell DELDOT!

O Quizzo friend, where have you gone?,
These drunkards cannot sing!
They’re butchering that Weezer song
I’d rather watch West Wing
America! America!
We hang on every word,
That Robbo writes, into the nights,
Praise be to thy Harford!