Make a Left at Spoon, Arkansas

Bunch of sellouts.

In a news item YABNews stumbled across a few months ago, the Dish Network was offering a decade worth of satellite TV every resident of any town willing to change their name to Dish. Well, it looks like a village of schmoes took the bait. Clark, Texas, a hamlet of all of fifty-five households will be enjoying free cable in exchange for the naming rights. L.E. Clark, the man who incorporated the town in 2000 (and promptly named it after himself) is a little ticked. Hey L.E., maybe you should have had a cooler surname so that your residents wouldn’t be tempted to seek a corporate sponsor. Like “Dontmesswith.” Yeah, I think they would’ve kept that one around.

DISH, Texas will no doubt see a population increase and some additional press coverage. I guess it’s kind of nice to have television included in your municipally-provided utilities. And since it costs nothing in taxes to provide to the residents, it’s not going to be a budget cut casualty anytime soon. We can leave that deletion for lesser important things. Like recycling.

My capitalization of the word DISH above was not the product of a sticky Caps Lock. According to the agreement, all uses of the company name in regards to the city must be in full uppercase mode. I guess when you find out you’ll be getting 872 channels, you tend to not sweat the small stuff. But writing it as DISH and not Dish gives this town an attitude. On maps, DISH will be yelling at its more well-mannered neighbors. On a list of school district closings, DISH will demand to be announced first, and will also insist to be the first voting precinct reported by the evening news. I could change my name to CHRIS CONDON, but such bravado will seriously hamper my lifelong dream job aspiration – “stealth ninja.”

But if you think the Dish Network is in the innovative cusp of the advertising world, you’re seriously mistaken. The article cites Half.com doing the same in 2001 with Halfway, Oregon. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico initially named themselves after the game show of the same name. (Unconfirmed reports on which came first with Laguna Beach – the town or the show.)

But these are merely little fish in the big pond of brand recognition. Just last year, Bay City, Michigan was persuaded by the auction giant to add one little ‘e’ at the beginning of their name. While innovative, this ultimately was a disaster for the small port city on Lake Michigan. The entire economy went to hell, as standard pricing became a thing of the past. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, was now purchased by means of rapid-fire bidding. For bigger items, like automobiles and furniture, this wasn’t a big deal. But it hit rock bottom when schoolchildren at their local 7-11 were raising the stakes for Snickers Bars. Everything was overpaid for (48 dollars for a Big Mac?) and the residents became so poor that the economy stalled and collapsed. Realizing their mistake, eBay felt bad and donated “it” to every citizen. Thanks, guys.

Yahouston, Texas has hit the ground running, desperately trying to distance themselves from the fact their baseball stadium was Enron Field for 3 years. Yahoo! offered to provide all sorts of free service to Houstonites - like mail services and streetside map kiosks. Google has promised to match their strategy by marching to Salt Lake City in names of rechristening the state Gootah.

I know what you’re thinking – where the heck is You’re a Blog in all of this? Surely increased readership would result from the press coverage? Well, we’ll let you be the first to know that we have an offer on the table with one lucky town. In exchange for naming rights, we promise that not only will their post office bring the mail, it will also bring the funny. Hold on – I have an e-mail I need to check.

It’s official! Our little blog is now the official sponsor of one lucky town. Say hello to Khan-YAB, Turkmenistan!

I can't wait to meet all the Turkmen and Turkwomen!

Rain of My Existence

Going to class on the Metro three days a week, I realize that there will be some changes in my commuting environment. I can’t sit in a comfortable chair. Music is limited to whatever mp3s are shuffled through my Dell DJ. And if I choose to yell at a fellow commuter for his stupidity, there’s a much better chance he actually hears my complaint. (Note to self: if Hefty McBiceps cuts you off in line for the escalator, just let it go. Let it go.)

But the most drastic change comes with the weather. And yesterday, the weather decided to let me know just who’s boss. The DC area got its first taste of winter chill last night, as the temperature dropped as cold as a monkey in a snowstorm. Honestly, I’m ok with that (the temp drop, not the freezing of our primate friends). I wear a warm coat to work, and I walk with my hands in my pockets. Furthermore, the Metro is a comfortable 95 degrees year-round. However, there was once other element that Mother Nature decided to add to the equation.

It wasn’t freezing rain. But damn, that rain was freezing.

Faced with a 6 block walk to class on E Street, I was not pleased to see what I saw coming up the epic-length escalated at Foggy Bottom. I first realized I was in trouble when I saw those entering the Metro station drying off and closing their umbrellas like Noah’s Ark had hit an iceberg. My hopes of a dry walk decreased when I turned the corner and saw “Caution: Wet Floor” signs dotting the entrance way. I lost the will to live when I looked up at the sky.

Now it wasn’t a thunderstorm that greeted me on the corner of 23rd and G. A key ingredient of thunderstorms is no doubt thunder, and unless the mild roar of four thousand people on their cell phones drowned it out, I didn’t hear a single clap. No, this was just rain. Cold, continuous, driving rain. Most people, on our elevation to street level, prepared for the coming precipitation. Standard stuff – putting away newspapers, opening umbrellas, buttoning up waterproof coats. And as the escalator took me closer to the skyflood, I stood. Helpless.

Wearing a wool coat and not carrying anything resembling an umbrella, I got dumped on. For six long blocks, all I could do was star at the ground, keep my hands in my pockets, and pray I don’t step in puddles. Now for anyone who happened to be in a similar predicament yesterday, YAB would like to present some “Lost in the Rain” safety tips. Who said we don’t write for the public?

1 – It absolutely slays me when waiting for a traffic light to change, people try to dry off by brushing water off of their head or clothes, like it’s going to make some monumental change in how wet you are. They spend so much effort trying to get their hair dry when they are no doubt another 10 minutes from their destination. Now your hands are wet, too, and that will come into play when you call your friend on your cell phone to tell her it’s raining. A cell phone in a slippery hand might as well be a lost phone in street drain. Butterfingers.

2 – Those who walk with umbrellas on city streets have a limited view of the world around them. The overhang of the umbrella (no matter how you pronounce it, Sathro) obscures your peripheral vision. Keep this in mind. Your overall width has increased, and you suddenly require more sidewalk without touching even a single slice of funnel cake. Translation: spaces you thought you can fit into in the past are closed for entry now. If you fail to realize this, you’ll be rudely awakened when a tall kid with an MBA bookbag and no umbrella gets smacked in the face by your water deflection unit. Only when it rains does the rest of the world realize how hard it is to live with the width of my shoulders.

Pay-Per-View Pals

When did ATM start standing for “All The Money?”

As a kid, they were many ways to get some cold hard cash into thy pocket. Allowances were doled out in dollar bills. Selling lemonade at a yard sale was good for a buck or two. Birthday cards (from the relatives who weren’t so concerned about saving for college) occasionally netted some additional greenbacks. And when all else failed, checking the coin returns of pay phones could help a kid save up for more baseball cards. It may not have been much, but as they say in Evita – “the money kept rolling in from every side.”

(Umm…did I say Evita? I meant, der…Super Macho Robot Killers 4. Ah. That’s better.)

Once you enter the real world, though, many of those avenues dry up. Most monetary gifts are now in check form. There aren’t coin returns on cell phones. Your allowance, now called a paycheck, gets directly deposited, and is really just a funds transfer. And nobody wants to buy lemonade from a 26 year old sitting on the sidewalk.

With every other cash money method ruled out, it looks like all of your dollars and all of your cents are guarded in that mighty vault called a “bank,” and the one posted sentry at the gates staring you down with his impersonal icy façade has his mechanical hands clutching your wad of cash. The ATM.

Now despite the hard, metallic exterior, ATM is actually a big softy. As long as the bank has some money with your name on it, ATM is totally cool with just giving it to you. All you have to do is verify you are who you say you are, and the little man with the bucket of $20s that sits in the little ATM room will feed some cash through its little black mouth. See, he’s not so bad. He gives you money!

The problem with this, however, is that ATM isn’t always nearby. Some similar looking clone may be, but not your buddy. The clone has deceptively matched the attire of ATM. Heck, he’s even got a little cubby for free envelopes (which also like yours, never actually has any envelopes stocked.) And he’s just as nice as ATM – happy to give you money at any hour of the day. But there’s one hitch that makes him an imposter.

He embezzles.

Every time you pay him a visit, he demands a dollar-fifty for your friendship. Sure, about 2 miles from your current location waits your true friend who charges nothing to hang out. But apparently, this guy feels that proximity is worth slapping a tariff on your relationship.

Pay-per-view friends are not great company, and especially not great on the bank account. It’s best to literally go the extra mile and visit ATM, a guy who says “Come on in, take whatever you need.” But for some reason, he occasionally says that he’s sick, with some malady called “Insufficient Funds” and you might be forced to visit his evil cousin. Or find the last remaining coin return in Tyson’s Corner.

I suppose there’s always another option. Supermarkets will gladly give you cash back after a purchase. However, methinks Wegman isn’t a true friend either. He’s got two tricks up his sleeve. First, you end up stopping in and buying something you don’t need just to get some cash. I’m pretty sure that’s why crap candy bard like Mr.Goodbar are still around. Secondly, It’s so painful to see that an otherwise minimal shopping trip for bread and paper towels turns into a $24.32 charge on the old bank statement.

Man, that better be some pretty freakin’ good bread.

Somewhere in Middle America...

After a brief 2-day assignment on Nordblog, YAB’s favorite phone-artist Chris Nordberg has been entrusted by his current university to represent the Tar Heel Blue at a very important luncheon. A handful of UNC MBAs were put on a plane yesterday to pick the brain of America’s second richest man, Mr. Warren Edward Buffett (not on the plane, but when they land). As you are reading this, he’s probably sitting down to lunch…in OMAHA.

Now, YAB was going to send one of our crack reporters with him to cover the historic event, but approving the expense reports in a business model that has zero discretionary income would require US to be on crack. Who knows what kind of ridiculous dinner tab a correspondent could ring up in Omaha? I hear it’s the Beverly Hills of the Heartland. There’s even a velvet rope to get into Dairy Queen.

Nonetheless, we managed to get a transcript of the conversation Nordberg had with Buffett. Please note – Nordberg spent the weekend in Williamsburg with many of his friends, and there was little time to plan out his prepared questions. Looks like he just shot from the hip. Well…you’ll see.

Chris Nordberg: Wow, Mr. Buf-fay, it’s an incredible pleasure to meet you.
Warren Buffett: Why thank you, Chris – but I can tell that you must be hungry for lunch. My last name is pronounced Buf-fett.
CN: Oh, I understand. So you’re related to Boba Fett. That’s pretty cool. I guess that begs the question – how did you choose a career as an investment banker over bounty hunting? I find my self struggling with that very question in my career.
WB: Son, you’re mind is racing a million miles a minute, calm down. We’re in Omaha. The most exciting thing that happens here are crop circles. My name is Warren Buffett, and I’m open to all questions you may have.
CN: Oh, sorry. I haven’t had any Mountain Dew in the last 24 hours.
WB: That’s okay, Chris. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Mountain Dew is a product of the Pepsi Company. I am a large-percentage owner of the Coca Cola Company, and I support my investment by knocking back about 5 Cherry Cokes a day. I don’t look down on you because you haven’t recently consumed a rival product.
CN: I appreciate it. Ok, my first REAL question would be that you have a most impressing resume, and I am trying to gauge my path to the top, at 26 years of age, to see where I am in comparison to you.
WB: That wasn’t a question.
CN: Fine. How much were you worth at 26?
WB: In 1956, I was worth $140,000 after investing $9k three years earlier. Granted, that’s in 1950’s money. It was an impressive run, in which I accidentally bought and sold Sri Lanka. I was young and inexperienced. But you learn from your mistakes.
CN: I agree. I’ve made my share of mistakes. There was this one time where I let Chris Condon make up a conversation between a billionaire and myself since there aren’t phones in Omaha and he needed some blog material.
WB: Is that this conversation?
CN: Nah, that was with Bill Gates. This one is real. So what is it like to be brothers with a musician? Are you guys twins?
WB: I don’t have a brother.
CN: Yes you do. Jimmy. I bet that Cherry Coke of yours tastes damn good after a cheeseburger in paradise.
WB: Son, we’re of no relation. In fact, I think we’re done here. Guards!

And that is the story of how Chris Nordberg got banned from Omaha.

Making Me Look Bad

And I thought a was a slacker before…

I’m not going to lie. High school came pretty easy for me. On a healthy regimen of doing my Spanish homework in homeroom, waiting until the absolute possible minute to write papers, and using the collective powers of the Senior Slack Pack (Smith, Morea, et al) to make up presentations on the fly, I was able to do just fine at old SHS. I didn’t apply myself as much as others, and that promptly drove those others up the wall. I had fun in high school instead. And granted, my parents probably would have preferred a more conventional approach to studying, but hopefully there will be enough funny in this blog to dissuade them. However, no matter how much of a slacker I felt like before, I feel like a MAJOR slacker now.

When I was 18, the most proactive thing I ever did was run a Fantasy Hockey league. In the past week or two of news, 3 guys have made me look like a chump.

When the beginning of the end for TO’s employment with the Eagles happened in the middle of last week, the fuse was lit my an interview Owens gave to ESPN.com, calling them a “classless organization” and dumping on McNabb while praising Brett Favre, the Interception Machine. Everyone reported this dialogue came from ESPN.com, but few have mentioned that the guy in the interviewer’s chair wasn’t Sean Salisbury or Michael Irvin – it was Graham Bensinger. WHO?

A freshman journalism major from Syracuse University.

Bensinger has proven that the first year of college is more than just going to meals in groups of fourteen people and writing papers until 5 in the morning. Some kids report on the verbal taunting that happened at the frats last weekend between Drunky and Beer-me. Graham Bensinger shows the world that not all millionaires eat their Chunky Soup.

Ok, next. In high school, an annual event that was oft hotly contested would be the Student Council President Election. Largely a role with little power, one senior will rise above the rest with clever campaign posters, free lollipops in the auditorium, an entertaining speech, and a large group of friends. But hey, it’s a nice resume filler for college, no? I never had the interest in running for such a position, but then again…

I’m no Michael Sessions.

Sessions is the brand new mayor of Hillsdale, Michigan. And he’s only 18 years of age. In a slim 2 vote victory (thanks Mom and Dad!), the write-in candidate beat a 51 year old incumbent. (wow, a guy has been a mayor for 51 consecutive years – crazy!). The kid was even on Letterman last night and presented the Top Ten. Apparently, the promising of soda machines in every classroom does get you somewhere.

Finally, there are no doubt many young, enterprising businesspeople in the ranks of the high school hoi polloi. Kids sell stuff all the time. Heck Zack Morris learned a valuable lesson when he sold friendship bracelets at the cost of 3 dollars and his friendship with Lisa et al. Profits from such ventures are great if you want to buy an extra slice of pizza at lunch. But some people think bigger.

Like Martin Halstead.

This British guy sold off his airline computer simulation firm he started when he was 15 (!!!) to buy an 18-seat plane and start Alpha One Airlines. And since Independence is in the tank, it looks like we should have some open terminals in the near future. Look at these overachievers, would ya?

But man, did I run a mean FHL…

Matchbox Aplenty

Okay, that’s it. NOW, I’m mad.

Up until this point, the rising gas prices didn’t bother me too much. Gas is a commodity that I need to purchase whether I like it or not. I need it for my car, which gets me to, and most often, fro. It’s just another line item in the daily expenses, and because of the economy’s cyclical nature, I can expect it to slowly recede back to levels that are easier to swallow (assuming hurricanes, wars, and the Edmonton Oilers choose to cooperate.)

But it’s when enterprising young start-up companies like Toyota, Ford, and GM decide to take matters into their own hands when I get a little ticked off. Yeah, I don’t like to see the pump wait until it hits 48 dollars to stop, but that doesn’t mean I want to see more fuel-efficient vehicles come back into vogue. While I don’t have an SUV, I like that they’re on the road. Much more room for bumper stickers for me to read while stuck on I-66 than a Neon or some other dwarfmobile.

CNN is reporting (seems like they do it a lot) that enormous SUVs will soon be phased out once again and a new market – “very small cars” will soon make a comeback. The Mini Cooper is just the beginning – soon all the major auto companies will throw their respective Micro Machines onto the highway. People like them because they’re fuel efficient and they are remarkably cheap. To a lesser extent, industry analysts also report a major selling point being that these new cars are “just so damn cute.”

That’s a technical term, folks.

The idea of the “very small car” is pleasing to most. People like to get as many miles to the gallon as possible. Manageable car payments are also highly favored. Even “cuteness” is a nice feature. Most people will like this foray into the miniature automobile market. I am not most people. And why, might you ask?

Chris Condon is 6 foot 4.

And he doesn't want to be a pretzel.

Tiny cars are great for teenage girls, race horse jockeys, lawn gnomes, oompa-loompas, professional gymnasts, Shriners, and Christina Toms. I do not fall into any of these classifications. I think. These new vehicles better not come with two rows of seating. I’m going to need the front seat to rest comfortably just in front of the taillights. Can you see me getting into that car?

We cannot stand for this miniaturized revolution. The car dealers must know that making cars smaller are not the answer! We demand respect in your designs!

No longer will we dunk basketballs for your amusement! No longer will we get things off of high shelves at your request. Even though we know that it’s raining before you do, we won’t share that forecast! You can’t look for us to find your friends in a crowd, for we shall duck! You will have to dust your ceiling fans all by yourself! We’ll lobby to raise the minimum height requirement on roller coasters! We’ll mock you by writing ranting paragraphs where the only form of punctuation is exclamation points!

Ok, I’m better now.

Floral Justice

When an animal is being improperly cared for anywhere at anytime, I have little doubt that the PETA Special Forces will swoop in on the wings of their Animacopter and thwart evildoers by removing the animal from the line of fire. They’re currently over in France assisting with the riots, since “car-burning” is about to give way to “puppy-kicking” as the preferred way to file one’s public grievances. PETA takes their job very seriously. It’s just a shame that there’s no one to take them seriously. (When your website’s headline proclaims “Partridge Sticks Up for Turkeys” you should know why.)

So there is an organization comprised of over 850,000 dedicating their time and effort to making sure animals are treated in a humane fashion. That’s cool. But YAB has another question for this near-million crowd.

Who’s looking out for the plants?

YAB is totally cool with PETA picking up the shield for God’s creatures, but what about His vegetables? Surely, in an era of deforestation, drought, and little kids running through flowerbeds, somebody should step up to the plate to make equally ludicrous demands on the behalf of greenery. That’s why someone, not Condon, but someone should establish and erect FLAP – Freakos who Like and Adore Plants.

Why am I choosing a mundane Wednesday to start a revolution in the protection of those who photosynthesize? Because as a part of my morning walk to the kitchen to fill the ole’ Nalgene bottle, I witnessed a first-class case of plant abuse, and I need an agency like FLAP to intervene.

Sitting there by the sink was a purple flowered plant looking for someone to read its last rites and send it off to the big botanical garden in the sky (or at the very least, the little black trash can by the Xerox machine.) It one of those ivy-looking plants where the flower’s leaves and petals are actually slightly fuzzy. But as said leaves and petals drooped down over the edges of the plant’s container, it was clear that the little guy has had very little lovin’ in the last few days.

ABANDONMENT! Recently, Corporate Telecom has been moved elsewhere in the building to make room for an expansion in Human Resources. (Arrr!!!) When once must pack up an office, one only takes as much as they actually think they need – it’s an opportunity for some housekeeping and housecleaning. Well, whoever used to care for this flower has moved up to the third floor and left him for dead. I can hear FLAP gasping in outrage now.

STARVATION! Dude, there must be 50 different people who use this kitchen on a daily basis, YAB’s editor included. I have to think the fuzzy flower has been here for a week, and it’s more than clear than no one has taken the extra few seconds to feed the thing. It’s not like it could be that hard – it’s sitting there RIGHT NEXT TO THE SINK. Oh by the way, FLAP hates ignorance more than PETA loathes puppykickers.

FLAP, since I just made them up, has very little in terms of start-up capital. No global headquarters, and definitely not any regional headquarters. So it could be a while until they get here to save the little fella and prosecute the departed phone jockey to the fullest extent of the law. I guess that buys all plant offenders a little bit of time to either right their recent wrongs or cover the tracks of past misdoings against our Little. Green. Friends.

I, sadly, am as guilty as the next guy. Sophomore year I was in charge of taking care of our apartment plant, Endor. I’m sure my roommates think twice about it now – I left him out on the porch over Thinksgiving break. Poor, poor Endor.

I can just here FLAP’s sirens now.

Addition by Subtraction

A new era is here.

Philadelphia Eagles brass, led by Andy Reid and General Manager Banner, finally finished a bizarre phase in franchise annals, suspending Number 81, as his playing days in Philly seem ended. In seven brief days, McNabb’s primary receiver has changed – his new name is Greg Lewis (Lewis’ Legacy will be discussed in a YAB piece when I can acquire Spud’s services in speaking Lewis’ killer nickname in a wav file. Friends, acquire speakers quickly.)

As a Philadelphia Eagle fan and a daily supplier in amusing YAB readers, I have a charge – a charge in speaking my mind regarding suspending Number 81. Hey, if Michael Irvin’s view is valued, Chris and YAB deserves a piece as well.

We are a fanbase - lean, mean and Green - and Eagles’ wins are all we really are seeking. Number 81 had speed and hands whereby he blew by CBs and defenses, and likely made differences where earlier wide receivers failed. When he was happy, Philly was happy. Dreams were realized, and ‘dem Birds succeeded in securing an NFC banner in 2004. Andy Reid’s squad desired a succeeding appearance in 2005.

Camp geared up, and 81 grew increasingly demanding. He balked in fulfilling his side, adding “cancerback” as a class in Reid’s player pages. A man demanding special praise in Reid’s scheme is an epic sized dilemma. When Reid decided 81 had surely remember his age (32!) and be mindful in manners, 81’s flashy smile disappeared. He resumed his childlike games. Bye, bye, 81.

Surrendering a 2005 campaign because a single player has been suspended is crazy. 8 games remain, and 8 chances Andy Reid has in changing Eagles luck. Sure, G-Men, Dallas, and Redskins are ahead. Sure, McNabb is injured. YAB cares less regarding 81’s childish ways. Suspending him enhances Birds' chances. MNF has us and Dallas in six days. Game is in Philly.

Fly, Eagles, fly. Sans 81.
-------------------------------------------

Look, Eagles fans. Keep positive on this season. There’s still a lot of football left. And if I was able to succeed in writing the above blog without a single use of the letters T or O, then Philly can find a way to do the same. Let’s roll.

Que pasa, NASA?

You gotta love rocket scientists.

Public opinion widely holds that the smartest people on the planet work at NASA. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration is a choice employment locale for engineers and mathematicians graduating at the top of their respective MIT and CalTech classes. These men and women can put men on the moon and control satellites eleventy billion miles away. But my question is this – are non-engineering personnel exponentially smart as well? Can I expect a NASA copy boy to rattle off quadratic formulas? Can the guy who mops the floor of Mission Control translate Sanskrit on the fly? Can the front desk security guard solve the almighty Rubix Cube? I’ve always wondered this.

In the meantime, CNN reports that NASA has decided to set its priorities regarding space travel and other activities for the coming years. With many, many, projects on its plate without the all-too-important condiment known as “funding” to supplement, it was time to figure out what to focus on and what to jettison off into space. As per the article, their goals are pretty clear, and like you would expect from rocket scientists, well-reasoned. Above all, NASA will look to find a replacement for the space shuttle. Secondly, a work-to-completion project of the International Space Station. Other projects, like how salamanders doing space walks as an indicator of proposed human existence in the galaxy, will get deep sixed shortly.

(Poor salamanders. Out of work. Again.)

But for a bunch of guys who could probably prove ridiculous equations like Speed of Light x Pi = Cuba, it doesn’t seem like they’ve got their priorities straight. Yes, I totally agree that the Shuttle is getting outdated and a more hi-tech version of manned spaceflight must be developed. And I have nothing against the International Space Station – I hear that their World Passport Continental Breakfast is to DIE for. But why spend money on these two ‘moderately-important’ tasks when there’s bigger fish to uhh, fly.

- More monkey launches – Monkeys, undoubtedly, are in the pantheon of all-time funniest animals. And frankly, the Geek image that NASA has been pushing for decades is wearing a little thin. It’s time to leave the protractors and slide rules at home and bring the funny. If NASA needs to change their image, they have to trust the almighty powers of comedy. It worked for Christopher Walken. Since 1961, there have only been 6 primate launches. And two of them were from France. This means there have only been 4 monkey launches that sent up non-cheese eating surrender monkeys. You want a reality show? Have NASA broadcast their monkey flights. I’m sure Fox would pick it up.

- Mess with Texas – Right now, the Lonestar State not only home to Mission Control, they also serve as the homefield for the Dallas Stars, the Houston Rockets, and the Houston Astros. Use your know-how to create the ultimate space-athlete. After all, we’ll be living in space sometime in the future, and we’ll need to extend our Olympic dominance to the Intergalactic games. I’m thinking the hand-eye coordination of Mike Modano grafted onto the tireless fastball of Roger Clemens. All on Yao Ming’s body. Yikes.

- Destroy the Death Star – I love it that NASA has been so busy with lending their facilities to film cinematic trainwrecks like “Space Cowboys,” and the galaxy has had to rely on a small rebel force to destroy a weapon that could vanquish Earth in a blink of an eye. How about a little less defense money for Iraq and a little more to ensure our shuttles can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs.

Holy Trade Secrets

This Week in Grad School…

On Tuesday, we had a guest speaker in my Int’l Science and Technology class. He was a patent lawyer, and a general all-around expert on intellectual property – trademarks, copyrights, trade secrets, etc. For all those lawyers who read the YAB, switch immediately to IPR law. It’s way cooler than whatever you’re looking to practice in (with the mere exception of Coles Law – that’s a tasty choice.)

In his discussion of trade secrets, Litigious McLawyerson explained that such instances of intellectual property are formulas (most often) that are kept a secret and not patented, in order to keep them off of public record. Coca Cola’s syrup mixture is famous for the lengths they go to keep a secret. Very often, you find that written record of concoctions are non-existent, or at the very most, written on a napkin somewhere in a vault.

(The napkins themselves are not trade secrets.)

One such secret recipe would be that of Listerine. Known best for its mouth washing agents and tarzan-inspired ad jingles, it was invented in the late nineteenth century and named after Sir Joseph Lister, an English chemist. Lister realized early on that his compound had many, many uses (how he decided to put it in him mouth to cure bad breath is beyond me.) Upon his death, Lister’s many possessions were distribute to close relatives, friends, and business partners. However, one special napkin was bequeathed not to his kin, but to another organization.

The Archdiocese of New York.

I (as well as McLawyerson) have no idea as to why the Archdiocese of New York played a part of Lister’s life, but the fact remains this: the Church is a 50% owner of all things Listerine. Granted, they don’t have monks making the stuff, they leave that to a little neighborhood drugstore firm called Pfizer. But every time a bottle is purchased, a little bit of that cost makes it back to Father Freshbreath.

McLawyerson estimates about $2 million per year, in fact.

Not a bad source of supplemental revenue. As a result, the Church has made plaque, tartar, and germs honorary “deadly sins.” Not nearly on the same level of the original seven, Cardinal Cleanteeth demoted them to “mildly annoying sins” and later to “bothersome venial nuisances.”

If Listerine is for us, then who can be against us?

Not to be outdone, Lucifer realized he couldn’t up the production of the three to the point where the Church would lose this income source, so he didn’t fight mouthwash with fire – he fought mouthwash with more mouthwash. A theory, if you’ll indulge me.

Scope is the work of the Devil.

They seem unassuming enough, just another bottle on the shelf. But their latest product launch has myself (not to mention the Archdiocese of New York a little concerned). Forget spearmint, freshmint, peppermint, and all the rest. Scope’s new flavor?

Cinnamon Ice.

Such a combination of coloring, wording, and flavoring is not of this world. Gee, thanks, Satan, now my breath tastes like fire.

Lunch is Served!

Who’s hungry?

For those who read YAB on their lunch break, what we have today is what we call “relevant journalism.” (This may be a first.) Your meal is on the literary menu, as I devote today’s column to the history of lunch. Not the origins of the mid-day dining occasion. Just mine in particular. (What do you think we are? Wikipedia?)

The reason this topic shot up the list o’ ideas was that I, Chris Condon, have created LUNCH. My traditional habit is to meander downstairs around noon to assemble a salad or sandwich for 3-5 dollars. Well you know what? I can eat for cheaper.

I brought my lunch. And it was delicious.

Every once in a while, I’ll get proactive as a measure of cost savings and purchase the required materials to make my own mid-day meal. It’s really not that difficult on the procurement end. A visit to the deli counter adds about 12 dollars and 4 minutes to your grocery trip, and assuming you have already frequented the bread aisle, you’ve got sandwich fixins for about 8 business days. The hard part is convincing oneself to get up 5 minutes earlier in the morning to fit “sandwich assembly” into the morning routine. Trust me, it’s like trying to pull a cement truck with your teeth. (or so I’m told. By Rob Harford.)

So you spend time trying to figure out what is so hard about making you lunch the night before, YAB takes you down the Memory Lunch Line Lane.

Kindergarten – Granted, kindergarten is only a half-day of school, so most kids probably end up eating when they get home. But just in case 18 5 and 6 year olds couldn’t make it from their cereal bowls to the triangularly-cut PB+J, the administration instituted a snack time at roughly 10 am. It was a great opportunity for the milk drinking kids to realize my allergy and mock me in a public forum. I should have fasted.

Elementary School – Here’s how the lunch ticket works. First, your parents make the choice that you will buy lunch over bringing it. Second, you must show a special aptitude for losing things, therefore convincing them that there’s NO way you can handle dollars and coins to pay for your meal. Third, mom has to write you a check, where you must go to the cafeteria office in the morning and exchange it for a roll of 10 bright pink tickets, that will be later redeemable for rectangular pizza and juice. Fourth, pray to God you don’t lose the roll of tickets.

Middle School – From a payment perspective, it’s roughly the same protocol as K-5. One curveball, however. For 8th grade, I had a retainer that I had to wear 24/7, except when eating. Now eating with a retainer in your mouth is as comfortable as sitting on a small charter jet for me, so I would place it in a napkin on a tray. Ok, surely you see the moral here. Kids, DO NOT put any valuable, especially those meant for dental correction, in napkin on a tray that you plan to throw in the trash. Affix an alarm or a buzzer to that thing, would ya?

High School – At SHS, I only had lunch my freshman year, and I brought my lunch (but not without the occasional Twookie purchase.) The rest of the years, I took an extra class and had to be granted permission by the choir teacher to eat during the first 10 minutes of class. This was fine, with the exception that Justin Morea would steal the apple and beat it to a bloody pulp in a game of catch (which he doesn’t do well.) By senior year, I had worked the system. Of my 8 classes, I got permission from 6 different teachers to eat my lunch. (I got a no from the class with all the computers, and no from the gym teacher.) This begs the question – do you take this opportunity to:

A) Stretch your lunch out, eating a little in each class
B) Pick a different class to eat lunch in each day of the week
C) Pack 6 lunches

Discuss.

Behind Closed Doors

The YABNews Desk, which performs its duties as consistently as A-Rod in October, has been caught sleeping on the job. The last time they submitted any shred of journalism to the editor was all the way back in August, and that was to report on sports, which they would probably do even if we didn’t pay them. (Wait. We don’t pay them. Oh, I guess that beggers can’t be… adage is true then.)

Pressed with a deadline, they searched the wires and came up with the front page of Cnn.com. Granted, this is the equivalent of asking the weatherman the forecast only to have him look at the sun, but we’ll take it. Dateline – Capitol Hill. In the Senate Tuesday, the Democrats invoked Senate Rule 21, a measure whereby everybody must vacate the legislative floor except senators. The doors are promptly closed, and the lawmaking body of the American Government operates in secrecy until they agree to open the doors and re-join the real world. Most news outlets are calling this a determined effort by the Dems to get the Republicans to follow up on promised reports regarding Iraq. YABNews thinks otherwise. As 100 senators said good-bye behind the closing door of democracy, we hypothesized a different motive:

SLUMBER PARTY!!!!

That’s right. As per the Constitution of the United States, our elected officials have invoked Rule 21 in order to hang out with friends, stay up late, and eat junk food together in the name of Freedom. What? Don’t believe me? Well, how about we prove it to you by reprinting our founding document of Liberty here on YAB without any revision, and you can be the judge as to what this closed door session is about (And law students, I’ll thank you not to fact check.)

Article I, Section 3: The Senate

The Senate of the United States shall be comprised of two Senators from each state, chosen by the legislature thereof for six years, and each Senator shall have one vote. This includes the representatives of the state of Delaware, who the Founding Fathers don’t so much see as a state as much as a haven for tax-free shopping.

No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the age of thirty years, and been nine years a citizen of the United States and who shall not, when elected, be an inhabitant of that state for which he shall be chosen. Look, we’re not trying to exclude, but as a civil body, we would like to see that our lawmakers be of an age where they can act with full dignity and with a killer discount on car insurance (assuming something called a “car” is someday invented, and the net worth of such an innovation warrants a need for insurance.)

Duties of the United States Senate include, but are not limited to: borrowing money on the credit of the United States, to regulate commerce with foreign nations and Canada, to establish post offices and post roads, to declare war, declare peace, and declare slumber party.

As for the final duty, the slumber party, the following explanation shall be included in this charter document, since Samuel Adams insists on life, liberty, and verbosity.

Any member of the Senate can invoke Rule 21, a call to slumber. Upon this declaration, all people who have a secret Senate decoder ring shall remain in the chambers and all who do not must vacate. The Senate shall then spend the evening behind closed doors and participate in traditional governmental activities:

Junk food consumption – the follow state delegates should be in charge of the following – Pennsylvania must bring chocolate, Kansas must provide popcorn, Washington shall submit candied apples, Wisconsin and Missouri shall bring beverages.

Sleeping bags – For whenever the Senate is in recess, the 20 minutes of the slumber party that are spent asleep shall happen under the public sleeping bag reserve. Democrats are allocated the blue ones, Republicans the red. Independent senators from the state of Vermont get their underwear put in the freezer when they fall asleep.The delegates from California are responsible for bringing videos in order to prevent lawmakers from getting too much sleep. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is a chamber favorite.

If policy must be enacted, debates and concessions must be brokered using high-stakes rounds of Truth or Dare. Please, if a large Kennedy from Massachusetts is ever elected, do not allow him to play. He’ll never tell the truth about Chappaquiddick and do not dare him to swing from the chandelier. He might squish the junior Senator from Rhode Island.

Also, somebody poke Senator Byrd from West Virginia. You know, to make sure he’s just sleeping and not dead.

Marty McSly

Did Sylvester Stallone build a DeLorean?

Stallone, the only man in Hollywood more unintelligible than the Governator, has apparently turned back the clock on his storied acting career. Even though the man will be celebrating his sixtieth birthday next summer, he has recently announced big movie plans for the future: Rocky VI, and now, Rambo IV.

I’m not going to use my word count to make “Sly is old” jokes. The man can bench press a Miata. Sure, in his prime he may have been able to lift larger vehicles – Hummers, Carrier Jets, etc, but I know which fights to pick and I’m not going to make wheelchair jokes at the expense of this guy. I think about lifting a mountain bike and I cringe.

Now I know the current state of the film industry is in dire straits. In an environment of sequels, prequels, and requels, original screenplay ideas should be exalted and pushed to the top of the stack (even if it does involve the protagonists going to White Castle.) Now despite all the other forms of entertainment out there (TV, Internet, paint drying), there is still money to be made in the theater. And I guess until someone breaks open the next blockbuster original idea, we’re going to be treading water with retreads. And who else to help us swim than the Sequel master himself, Sly.

I was watching a part of Scream 3 last night. This is the definition of a sequel that didn’t need to be made. Not only had they run out of ideas and creativity, they went on to alter plotlines of the first two, thus detracting from one good and one passable flick. Now will Stallone understand that these two new movies do not need to be made? Unlikely. Rambo will probably team up with Stifler to rid the jungles of terrorism, and Rocky will hit the comeback circuit, downing Glass Joe, Piston Honda, King Hippo, and Soda Popinski before losing to Mike Tyson’s ridiculous combo in the final scene.

(I can hear you rushing to fandango to get your tickets now.)

These franchises are worn – between the two we’ll be up to ten movies. TEN! That’s not original cinema. That’s a HBO mini-series. Now, I like several of the Rocky movies. Let’s not detract from them Sly. Why don’t you aim your sequel machine at the rest of your filmography.

Demolition Man 2 – It’s been 12 years since Stallone was last cryogenically frozen. Unfortunately, since Snipes will be busy making Blade 12, casting directors decide that Omar Epps can fill his shoes. Hey, it worked in Major League.

Stop! Or My Grandmom Will Shoot – Everyone loves a buddy cop movie. Especially when Stallone says “Aww, ma.” Every third line. But there’s a bigger question here - How the heck is Estelle Getty STILL alive???

Tango & Cash 2: Cash Money – Kurt Russell is above this. Teri Hatcher is above this. Jack Palance is above this. Therefore. Come see Sylvester Stallone play all four roles. He could be the Eddie Murphy of the new decade!

SpyKids 4-D: Game On! = In the previously installment, Stallone’s role of the Toymaker had height, width, and depth. Now he’s got to deal with a fourth dimension: senility. (Unless you count his multiple personalities from the last one.) He’s taking this to the next level!

Judge Dredd 2 – Dredd and Loving It – In the future, one man is the law. In the sequel of the future, one man falls asleep walking at 2 in the afternoon and mayhem ensues. Dakota Fanning as Warlord Abraham Fongor.

Arrested for Killing Penalties

Apparently, God forgot to pay his gas bill.

As of yesterday, the days of going to work sans jacket and taking the trash out sans pants have yet again disappeared. (I meant while wearing shorts, freakos. C'mon.) I can no longer get away with traipsing to the store in sandals, unless I’m cool with having frozen feet. (Note: I am not cool with this.) The winter clothes come out, and so do the cold-weather stories here in Blogtown.

Of all my memories, I can think of no other time where I’ve bundled up more than my weekly Saturday night high school excursion. Playing roller hockey in the Shawnee High School parking lot wasn’t just a game – it was a test of a man’s will. Wearing three pairs of pants, two sweatshirts, and a jersey really served two purposes. The obvious: keeping warm so that games last more than 15 minutes – these were often 3 hour affairs. The not-so-obvious – in 30 degree weather, we decided as a group decided that getting pelted by a whistling hard plastic hockey ball was considered “Not Fun.” Oww.

But hockey is hard to play with handcuffs.
I remember one game in particular vividly well. With 8 guys and a couple of goalies, we eschewed the standard “split-the-sticks” method of picking teams and allied for our hometowns. Medford vs. Tabernacle. For once, I played on a line with Joey “Sweep-the-leg” Brescia, Tim “Selivanov” Fischer, and Dave “Bullfrog” Kull. And as the temperature hovered around freezing, so did both teams’ ability to score. After an hour of hard play, it was only 1-1. And we were just getting started.

Or were we?

A Medford Police SUV pulled into the parking lot just beyond the ‘Nacle goal and stopped. He didn’t turn off his engine, but just parked with the car facing our direction. Now recall that we were playing under the lights of the high school parking lit – not exactly our own backyard. Figuring he would step out of his car at any minute to tell us we had to 1) pack up and leave the premises or 2) pack up and get in the back of the car, we mulled around a bit, preparing for the grisly fact that our weekly game was about to get deep sixed by the five-oh.

Nothing.

No, he just sat there in his car for what seemed like an eternity. But we waited on. For hockey, we would wait. Hell, I watched 5 overtimes of Flyers-Penguins during finals. Yeah, unless he says something, we’re not going anywhere. But standing around waiting and not moving – we would freeze if we kept that up.

Game on!

So for another 30 minutes, the game resumed. Our cop friend sat in his car, motionless. His window was tinted, so we couldn’t tell if he was watching the game or writing us tickets and booking reservations in the town jail.

But as the game heated up again, you began to forget his presence. Kull stole the ball behind Mike Hebert’s net and passed it out to Tim at the point. Time, always the graceful passer crossed it laterally to yours truly. Seeing a good sightline, I flicked a wrist shot at the net. Always the terrible shooter, it sailed to the left of the net – right where Go-Go Joey Brescia was parked. His redirection sailed over Hebert’s pad to score and take the lead.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL.

The cop’s SUV sprung to life as he threw on his red lights and siren. We celebrated like we had never celebrated before. After all, not only did we get a game-winning goal, we were simultaneously cleared of all charges.

A Thimble Full of Fries

I don’t care what silly toys go into Happy Meals. I don’t care what Disney movie signs an exclusive licensing deal with any fast food establishment. I don’t care what kind of special burger or chicken sandwich you can conjure up. I don’t care that you’re willing to throw in fries for a low, low price. I don’t care if you sneak a fry into your onion rings. And I don’t care if you have football playing royalty, giant purple Grimaces, or commercials with celebrities hawking your product even thought there’s NO way they eat it on a regular basis. You can take all of these promotional methods and throw them out the window of a drive-thru. In my mind thing, one thing is certain.

The single best fast food promotion of ALL TIME is McDonald’s Monopoly Game.

There are many snack products out there that offer you chances to win fantastic prizes by revealing what’s behind the label or under the cap. But as fun as cashing in a bottle cap to a confused merchant for another free Sprite is, the chance to win fantastic prizes by getting all three properties in a color group (not to mention a railroad quartet) proves way better. Not that I’ve ever won, but still.

But man, I’ve tried. In the bleak midwinter of 2000, I entered into a sacred pact. Knowing that the sheer buying power of one man (even a fast-food junkie like Nordberg) wouldn’t get anyone a yacht, home theater or a Money Bin anytime soon, Pax Mcnoplia was formed. It simply stated that the undersigned sextet of Mellor, Fraser, Reif, Condon, Viehweg, and Nordberg would combine their efforts and properties in order to form a winning combination. Any garnered prizes would be split six-ways between all Pax members (after taxes, which a payable to Mayor McCheese.) Curiously, one involved party (ends in –rockmorton) declined admittance. And no one is quite sure why.

However, despite the competitive spirit with which Pax Mcnoplia was penned, we didn’t come away victorious. Just sick of French Fries. I guess there was a few factors getting in the way. First, we all had meal plans on campus, which often seemed like a better option that spending my hard-earned Dean of Students minimum wages. Second, we didn’t account for the Hamburglar – I think Dave might have had the elusive Oriental Ave piece on his hash browns one morning, but as fast as you can say ‘robble, robble’ – his breakfast was gone.

It’s worth noting Sara didn’t win either. Phew.

I’m not saying that this marketing method will make families ignore their groceries and head to McD’s every night of the week. I just think that if someone needs a fast food fix, the prospect of taking some of Uncle Pennybags’ booty home will sway their vehicle in the direction of the Golden Arches. (I just wanted to see how that looked in print.)

So that brings us to 2005. Every now and then, I’ve stopped in during this sweepstakes for a drink on the way to class or a chicken sandwich on days where I don’t have time for dinner. I don’t have many game pieces, but wouldn’t you know, I’ve already got Marvin Gardens and Atlantic Avenue. Now I’m sure Ventnor Avenue must be the tricky one to get – my luck’s not that good – but 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. According to their website, if you collect all three yellow pieces, you get a private screening of the upcoming Glory Road movie and a chance to be in an upcoming Buena Vista Pictures movie. Wow! I could be famous! Hold on, let me check to see what kind of flicks they’re putting out these days.

Herbie: Fully Loaded. Sky High. Ice Princess.

On second thought, does anyone need Marvin Gardens and Atlantic?

Donut Dilemma?

I got an e-mail today from Wegman’s. That’s not terribly unusual; I get e-mail from my supermarket of choice all the time. Fortune Magazine once awarded them as the #1 Company in America to Work For. So if stocking produce, slicing meat, and price checking cereal aren’t what you had in mind, it appears that they’ve got some openings in the IT and Promotions department. After all, someone’s on the other end of this Internet e-mailing new product information, recipe ideas, and whatever else they feel like it. And judging from the latest e-mail from the Big W, somebody just got fired.

To: condon@hungrynow.com
From: wiggitywiggityweg@wegmans.com
Subject: We’re sorry about the donut dilemma

Now when this shows up your inbox, a few questions come to mind. Especially the following: “WHAT DONUT DILEMMA?” I figured opening the e-mail might shed some light on this glazed subject.

Pardon our Error
You may have recently received a Fresh News email about our new donuts. We are so sorry to ever disappoint our customers, but our new donut program is not available in all Wegmans stores.

Oh, that clears things up. Totally.

Now I don’t know if this donut program is in Fairfax, but it concerns me more that I have no idea what a donut program actually is. And since the IT guy who sent out this worldwide e-mail accidentally has probably been sacked, it looks like I’m on my own. All I know is what this brief e-mail has given me to work with. I guess I’m on my own to play Encyclopedia Brown (whom I might add, Liz Grimm had an immense crush on when she was 8.)

Now if I were in charge of implementing a donut program, I guess I’d have to start with donuts. Really good quality donuts. Not the pre-packed rubbish that Nordberg would sell his soul for – I’m talking the kind that makes you feel guilty for eating something so sinfully good, but then your feelings of guilt are quashed by the um, deliciosity of the donut. Expertly-crafted dough, scrumtrilescent filling, and above all, no jelly donuts. I’ve never seen a donut other than jelly stand as the sole survivor in an almost-empty donut box, and no donut program of mine will have to deal with such an outcast pastry.

So I’m assuming Wegman’s follows my train of thought (after all, I’m the customer, and I’ve heard I’m always right.), and this is the product that is part of their program. Remember, the e-mail said it was a program, and that entails much more than aging donuts on a shelf. In the business world, a program is a fancypants word for “something that’s not part of your daily routine, but you’ll have to find time in your busy schedule to get it done anyway, and management is watching you.”

Now these donuts won’t be for sale, you have to earn them. Anyone willing to run at top speed down an grocery store aisle and jump head first into the floor-to-ceiling paper towel display gets a donut. One catch: right before the towels stands one of the original American Gladiators – like Nitro, Tower, or any of the scary women they had on that show. Get by them, and by God, that Boston crème donut is yours for free.

Wow, that sounds pretty good.

(re-reading e-mail)

You know what? I AM disappointed! Why didn’t Fairfax get that donut program? Not enough Gladiators to go around? Booooooooo.

Funkytown, MD

Is it wrong to lie to children?In most instances, I would say yes. Kids, despite popular belief, are just smaller versions of adults and what’s more, they get to play with Legos way more than their taller counterparts. At young ages, a constant learning process is being undertaken, as the youth of today exhibit the curiosity and thirst for information that will make them the doctors, lawyers, businesspeople, and funnybringers of tomorrow. That said, the YAB staff, like every campaigning politician, is pro-education for kids.

(Just once, I would love to see this billboard – Vote Watkins – He’s Anti-Education.)

However, my pro-education platform does have one fringe group which we here at YAB would not like to support. When it comes to learning, as far as we’re concerned, they’re on their own. Yes, that’s right – it’s the “Co-worker’s Kid who is Bored at Work” demographic. Look, I understand when circumstances leave a parent with no choice but to bring their kid to work. But if that’s going to happen, please extend some professional courtesy and make sure he/she stays in your office. Bring toys, DVDs, doesn’t matter to me. I can’t get work done when being forced to play 20 questions with a 7 year-old.

Take Emily. Please.

Emily is a little girl who is in that “People think I’m cute, and I know it!” phase of childhood. She prances around our office every few weeks and disrupts productivity like a Quintin Mikell to a field goal attempt. In fact, I think on a prior visit I even threatened to put her to work. But today, I just can’t deal with the incessant questions, as I have too much to do in too little time. And since more often than not she chooses to make my cubicle her home base for the day, I feel more than obligated – it’s not just a right but a duty – to score one for the many working professionals who have to deal with similar problem children.

Young Emily, with her half-eaten breakfast, reckless demeanor, and enough Disney band-aids to patch the hole in the ozone, appeared yet again today, as she had convinced her mother that she was too sick to go to school (her mother figured out by the time she was zooming around our office that she was in fact okay and sent her back to school for the afternoon session. Hee-yah!). Today’s fixation was with her diary. As she sat across from me while I tried to do more important things (like blogging), she scribbled away, probably writing about how conniving she was, flipped to the section in the back: Address Book. I saw this out of the corner of my eye, and prepared for the big question: “Where do you live?”

Yep, it’s payback time.

“I live on 1-2-3 Main Street.” (she writes this down as absolute truth, never considering the fact that I might share this residence with every person who has ever been a sample credit card applicant, potential voter, or sample citizen at the United States Post Office. Like I said, no questions on this one.) ”What town do you live in?”

“Funkytown, Maryland.”

After some initial doubting, Emily went to others’ offices to verify my home location. While said others were not very helpful in the convincing, it gave me the time to change my address to 123 Main Street, Funkytown, MD in my Microsoft Outlook Contacts. So when she came back as a splitting image of Doubting Thomas, all I had to do was turn my monitor and show her the cold hard facts on the computer screen.

You’re a Blog: Outsmarting 7-year olds since 2004.

With or Without Shoe

Today’s blog inspired by a U2 song of a similar name.

See the stone set in your eyes

Man, had I known that what I was about to see on my Metro trip into class, I would have brought a camera. Let’s briefly set the scene. As I sat one row back from the opening near the train car’s door, said door opened at the East Falls Church stop. On came 7 college-age kids. 4 guys and 3 girls, yammering on how they are excited to be going to the 1st of 2 U2 concerts being held at the MCI Center. They sat in 3 sets of 2, with the odd man out standing between them all. And when the one girl accidentally kicked off her sandal-heel-monstrosity of a shoe, he was quick to pick it up. Shoegirl (as we’ll call her) was none too pleased.

See the thorn twist in your side

It would be one thing for the Odd Man Out to return the shoe to its rightful owner. But instead, to the mild horror of the girl, he jokes with the other guys how funny it would be if he just threw it out of the train at the next stop. Good, buddy, mock the girl. That makes a prank ALWAYS better.

I wait for you

He began to talk a bigger game. As we waited to get to Ballston, he even had the girl, for a fleeting moment, believing that he was going to pull the trigger and launch it. However, the wait for the next stop (Ballston is when you first go underground), seemed a little too long for this adrenaline to last. You could see it in his eyes; he couldn’t go through with such a dastardly deed.

Slight of hand…

So instead, as we got closer to the shoe’s theoretical destination, you could see his new plan, rather than throwing the shoe out to the shock and amazement of Shoegirl, Odd Man Out concocted a new plan. He’ll wait for the doors to begin closing. He’ll then throw the shoe, hitting the newly-closed doors, and the shoe will fall to the ground with a sigh of relief, a silenced yelp, and a hearty laugh from him and his buddies.

…and twist of fate

The Metro reached Ballston. Odd Man Out got ready for the toss. No one got on at this particular stop, which opened up his window of opportunity even more. The girl was just about ready to get out of her seat and grab her shoe from his cocked-back arm, and then the doors began closing. And from what I saw, the shoe was thrown forward, targeted for the sealing doors, and it was then when everyone watching realized that Odd Man Out had jumped the gun. His throw reached the doors – EARLY.

On a bed of nails she makes me wait

Have you ever seen when someone is watching a TV show with a major climactic ending on a videotape, only to find out at the pinnacle moment that somebody else has taped over it accidentally with some commercials? Take that rage and multiply it times eleventy billion.

And I wait without you

As the door closed for good, and the Metro started its way towards Virginia Square, I was on a train with a group of 7 people headed to a U2 concert with only 13 shoes between them. And when Odd Man Out was ordered off the Metro by Shoegirl at VaSquare to go back to Ballston and GET HER SHOE, I wondered the following. When Shoegirl gets to the MCI Center, what happens when she’s stuck in the Metro station hopping on one foot while OMO catches up? Not. Good. At. All.

It was Written in Numbers

If you wanted to win, then you should have tried a little harder.

In 6th grade, I had a reading teacher named Mrs. Etue. This woman scared the hell out of me. Before her, I had always given the “Scariest Woman Ever” to the Sherriff of Notthingham’s witchy advisor Mortianna. But once I met my match in the classroom, Mortianna could go back to, well, whatever it is that recluse hags that live in castle abbeys do in their free time.

Etue, who could have been Ron Artest in an educator’s clothing, made us read “The Lottery,” a short story by Shirley Jackson. What a messed-up tale to make a 12 year-old read. I hate to spoil it for you, but the premise is simple. A town kills one person every year (reasons unknown), and the selection is made by a random lottery of all the townspeople. It’s just something they do in Weirdsville. YAB is in no way endorsing such practice, as we feel that such protocol has become highly unnecessary. Ok, unless you are the Minnesota Vikings and need something else to do this weekend.

I’m glad the word “lottery” no longer has the definition of “obscure method of population control.” Instead, the connotation of the word now reads as “popular method by which hard work and achievement are deemed irrelevant for riches, as luck and $2 will suffice.” The winner no longer gets a one-way ticket to the cemetery. They now get $340 million dollars. Yeah, that sounds like a WAY better deal.

Powerball is a national lottery that is held in 27 states, Washington DC, and the US Virgin Islands. I have no idea why some states choose to participate and others do not, but let’s make one thing clear. No one will EVER win in the US Virgin Islands. I know every ticket has an equal chance to be the winner, but the odds are stacked against you, folks. Your entire island’s population is the size of Waterbury, Connecticut’s. Save your money, convince Puerto Rico to merge with ya, and then challenge North Dakota in a knife fight, winner takes statehood. But I digress.

As I alluded to in my opening, the $340mil Powerball drawing had one lucky winner last night who had all 5 numbers and the Powerball right. The ticket was sold in Oregon (not exactly neighbors on the map with U.S.V.I., I might add.) and somebody got all 6 right. They say the odds in pulling that off was 1 in 146 million. Fair enough. But is there a way the YAB community could have come together to predict that digital sextet?

Looking at the numbers that were drawn – 7, 21, 43, 44, 49 and a PB of 29 – there’s gotta be a pattern. And it has to be simpler than calculating an NFL quarterback rating.

7 makes sense. It’s the luckiest number around. Highest probability of coming up in a dice roll. PowerBall gods also like to get people’s hopes up. Anyone should have seen this coming.

21 is also a lucky number, thanks to BlackJack. Now only gamblers would have this one. Or those who think they know how to gamble because they’ve seen Rounders and Swingers a few too many times.

43 is a holy number in the sporting world – the former car number of racing legend Richard Petty. Other than #3 (Earnhardt), no one may be more revered.

44 is a sign of the twin. Double numbers have a way of appearing in elite company. I can totally understand how one ended up in the PowerBall sequence. Twins would have seen this coming – I do only because I hang out with Nordbergs.

49 is your one place where luck is present. The 4 shows the number of leaves on a clover, and the 9 is for the lucky nature of our feline friends.

29 is really kind of a hint at humor from the PB gods. In the US Code, Title 29 is the section regarding LABOR. And if you picked this as your PowerBall, you’re never going to have to work again.

So, would the Oregonian NASCAR freak who frequents Vegas with his twin brother and 29 cats please step forward and claim thy winnings?

Misled since Infancy

Nursery rhymes are a sham.

I know, I know – it’s not every day that a blogger comes out and attacks the big picture issues, but I’m willing to do it in the name of a greater good. I know that most people have had to focus their word counts towards things like Supreme Court nominations, the NBA’s new required dress code, and the 23rd hurricane of the year, but does anyone out there realize the source of all our problems. Yep, those silly little songs you sang as a kid.

I am as much of an optimist as the next guy (assuming the next guy is also an optimist), but let’s face it: living in DC does not come easy these days. For reasons unbeknownst to even most finance professors, cost of living is through the roof in Beltwayland. People take out mortgages they have no right being able to afford, gas prices soar like they came off the bat of Albert Pujols, and even freakin’ Panera Bread has upped their prices on a Pick-Two to over seven dollars. Even the Coinstar machine seems to be too rich for my blood these days.

Well guess what, kids? The source of our collective unpreparedness for rising expenses? Nursery rhymes. The nonsense that was drilled in your head when you were 2 no longer holds true anymore. And YAB is going to show you what we mean.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe // She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.

-- Do you have any idea how much a nice two-story shoehouse goes for in Tyson’s these days? Asking price is 600k. Hey lady, I know what you should do. Sell your shoe for a sick profit and move out to a boot in Warrenton. Don’t worry about the commute, either. You’ve got more than enough passengers to qualify for HOV.

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye // Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

-- No one sings about their money, because then the coffee bars know you are holding out on them. Replace “sixpence” with “Starbucks” and “blackbirds” with “pennies” and “baked in a pie” with “double decaf skim milk venti pumpkin spice latte”. I think I broke this rhyme’s metre. Now you know why coffee is so expensive. (Sidenote: who puts bread in their pocket?)

To market, to market to buy a fresh pig // Home again, home again, jiggety jig. // To market, to market to buy a fresh hog // Home again, home again, jiggety jog.

-- Look, home again isn’t exactly that easy. Let us assume that the pig store is inside the Beltway. I guarantee you will not be up for a jig after sitting for 40 minutes on I-66W to go 3 miles while two lanes are shut down to paint the outside of the Metro. Similarly, the hog store is really a specialty vendor in the city itself. Home again is not in your near future – carrying a hog down a metro escalator will slow you down just enough to miss that Orange Line train out to VA, and the next one’s not for another 16 minutes. (Postcript: “jiggety jog”? Who wrote this crap? L.F.O.?

This little piggy went to market // This little piggy stayed home //This little piggy had roast beef // This little piggy had none // And this little piggy cried "Wee, wee, wee." All the way home.

-- Renting doesn’t exactly come cheap for a bunch of unmarried, single roommates. Everyone has to work. So the big toe goes to market, he pulls down a paycheck, puts food on the table, pays his taxes, does all that a good toe can do. Toe #2 stays home?!? And what, watches as Big toe takes a second job to support his lazy ways? And it gets worse. How does Toe #3 eat roast beef, when there’s no indication that he’s gainfully employed either. Toe #4 can be admired for not eating the hard-earned food of the Big Toe, rather that fasting, could it hurt to maybe clean up around the place? And as for what Toe #5 contributes, well. I think we know who’s at fault when the other residents start complaining to the leasing office.

I may be Brawny, but I'm no Hardy

I should be better at this.When I was younger, there was much more free time. One thing you’ll find out (if you haven’t been to college yet), is once you reach that level of education, and afterwards, the working world, leisure reading becomes scarce. You spend so much time during your day devoting ocular attention towards textbooks, e-mails, reports, and ahem, blogs, you are much rather inclined to go home at day’s end at plow through a DVD or whatever sitcom TBS is showing for the eleventy billionth time. But when you’re younger, you’ve got time. Time for the Hardy Boys.

What Frank and his brother Joe accomplished in 58 hardcover blue books over a span of 50 years of sleuthing is unparalleled. There was no place Frank and Joe wouldn’t go. Old mills, cliffs, spooky towers, caves, sinister signposts – they had they fortitude to venture to the locales where the Scooby Doo gang would call it a day (assuming they could run home without being stuck pumping their legs in mid-air.) However, while offshoots, spinoffs, and sellouts continue to be churned out by greedy publishers, the original set of 58 prove that the authentic Hardy Boys have been out of work since 1979. Hey fellas, go get Chet and his jalopy and get back on the trail. It’s time to work!

Case #59 – The Wedding Reception Artifact

This is why I need the Hardy Boys to help out. I have tried my hand at super sleuthing, and I got back to Square 1 faster than the Vikings could say “Ship’s Ahoy.” You see, shortly after the wedding, Katie and I headed into Jersey (not to escape the terror – name that lyric ref.) but to see the family. What we returned with was the center of the mystery – a digital camera that somebody left at our wedding, some three weeks earlier.

Ok – so think, Condon. You’ve got a digital camera. It’s an HP, and as the evidence lies, it was found on the head table while everyone was exiting after the Charlie Daniels Danceoff. So let’s see, let’s enter the location of head table into the evidence.

Evidence #1: Artifact found at head table.

So this, logically, should narrow the list of possible camera owners to 14. And I’ll rule out both Katie and myself, since I have factual evidence that’s not our camera. So that makes 12 – a dozen people who are missing their wedding photographic memories. Wait a minute – that’s right! There’s more evidence on the camera! Let’s just turn it on and find out what pictures there are…

Evidence #2: A 3 second accidental video.

Clearly, the photographer did not realize that they were filming at the time. But upon further review, the video does reveal some alarming clues. It’s a capture of people’s feet on the elaborate hotel carpet of the Marriott. Most notably, the photgrapher’s shoes. BLACK AND SHINY. With our rental homogeneity, it is clear to me that the suspect must be one of the groomsmen! Ah ha! Make that 6 people.

Ok, so there’s like no pictures on this camera – except one. It’s a picture of a blue sky and clouds – nothing special. EXCEPT – it’s taken through the window of an airplane!

Evidence #3: A digital picture taken through the window of an airplane!

Let’s see. Best Man Mellor lives in Virginia. So do Above-average Men Caro and Pretz. AAM Brescia came from Delaware and drove down at 88 miles an hour. AAM Reif, despite being a Tennessean, actually drove as well. That leaves one and only one suspect.

Him: Hello?
Me: Hey Nordberg, it’s Chris. Guess what! I have your digital camera you left at the wedding! Please, shower me with praise and thanks!
Him: Uhh… (pause) I don’t own a digital camera. Click.

Anyone missing a camera?