By Our Showers Combined

Showers should be a simple thing, really. Turn the knob to appropriate levels of hot and cold, stand up, and wait for the corresponding water to blast out of the faucet over thy head. Add soap and shampoo to the equation. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Rins-

It’s no wonder my water bills are high. It’s a vicious cycle.

At my home in Fairfax, it IS that simple to take a shower. In the vein of Whose Line’s Colin Mochrie hoe-down songs, “I Like Showers! I Take Them Every Day!” Showers are a great way to start the day if you have an inherent guarantee that all associated equipment and shower machinery are in effective working order. This should be expected in one’s own apartment. But as I learned once again this past weekend skiing, when one goes on vacation, the only shower you are guaranteed is a shower of laughter when your daily cleansing ritual all goes to hell. I’ll get to that one in a second.

There is precedent in such a theory. Here’s 3 citable cases.

Time: March, 1998.
Place: Orlando, Florida
Event: When on the SHS Senior Trip in Walt Disney World, I was placed in a room with Aaron Boblitt, Justin Morea, and Chris Smith. Among other late-night activities (Risk, anyone?), we waged war with the adjoining room of four fellow Renegades led by Chilkotowsky the Great, and pillows were the ammunition. It’s just a shame for them that we were Greater. For the next three days, any shower taken by me had to be with extra caution. Not because of a sneak attack, but because in our bathroom we held the entire 10 pillow stock of our rivals’ room tucked away, and I didn’t want to get them wet. They could also double as loofahs.

Time: July, 2001.
Place: Paris, France
Event: The Illustrious Elizabeth Grimm booked a hotel room on behalf of the Monroe Project Three to kick off the Marketing Majors’ Month of Eurofun. Good news: We did not have to decide where would be a good place to stay in the 26th largest city in the world. Bad news: the room was designed for short French people. With the shower head below my own head, I found that it served as a better handle than it did a water dispenser. That is, of course, until it fell off in my hand. There’s nothing like walking out of the bathroom and handing the only vital shower component to Sara to inform her that the shower is now all hers.

Time: August 2001.
Place: Heidelberg, Germany
Event: You never know what you’re going to get with a youth hostel. Sometimes you will be put in a room with 50 other cots and 50 other travelers. And sometimes you’ll get your own room with just your fellow tripmates. In Heidelberg, the case was the latter, which meant we had our own shower room. Said shower room, unfortunately, only had two temperature settings: HOT and SURFACE OF THE SUN. There’s nothing like taking a shower in a foreign country by running a wash cloth under the sink in order to stave off melting flesh to relax at day’s end.

Time: December, 2005
Place: Bethel, Maine
Event: The width of the stand-up shower was the width of Chris Condon + 4 inches. That’s 2 inches off of each shoulder. If you drop the soap, you might as well dry off and get dressed – it’s a bigger lost cause than the Cheaper By the Dozen II. You decide how enjoyable it was to shower.

Vehicular Car-ma Revisited

Back in June, I imparted my own personal LAW of Vehicular Car-ma. Without a publisher in tow, I’ve been quick to publish my own intellectual findings for the readers of YAB, and the premise that there is an inherent transportation balance in the world was one of them. Just to review (and to make sure copy-paste still works), here’s the Law in its entirety once more.

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

When scientific laws are published, the scientist is often required to present real-life scenarios to back up their findings. Back in June, I skated through the “Post New Entry” phase of publication without even thinking about it. I guess that’s one of the perks of being your own editor.

It’s time for some facts.

Last Saturday, the Law of Vehicular Car-ma took to the friendly skies. As Katie and I attempted to catch a plan to Portland, Maine, we saw the law put into action. Here’s the basic itinerary information you need to understand this tale. The flight is at 8:15. It goes from Dulles to Portland. Condon is sleepy.
As we left our apartment with 7 bags ski-fun at 6:34 AM, the 10 minute ride to Dulles’ economy parking lot was smooth and fast. By driving and parking for $9/day, I had calculated that we would ultimately save $14 over taking the taxi (plus we got control of the in-car radio.) We found the bus to the terminal, and it was even heated. Car-ma is UP!

Getting into the terminal at 7:00 we still have an hour and fifteen minutes to get checked in, feast on an airport Cinnabons and Starbucks. That plan was dashed when we found that the United line snaked not only around the clever maze design, but also around the back of the terminal, past the US Air desk, through the front door, down the Dulles Toll Road, and ended somewhere in Bethesda, Maryland. (I might be exaggerating – I had Cinnabon on the brain) That’s a downgrade for our travel plans. Car-ma is EVEN!

After a half-hour of standing line, the electronic message boards over the counter start flashing a prophecy of Car-matic doom: “45 Minute Baggage Cutoff.” After finding a supervisor (who I might add, could single-handedly start an E-A-G-L-E-S cheer with her volume) curtly informed us that because we hadn’t checked in, we had missed out flight and we would need to rebook. Demoralized, we moved to the re-book line, where from the general demeanor of the others in line, you’d think we were forced to watch Jennifer Lopez do Shakespeare. Car-ma is DOWN!

Once re-booked on the noon flight to Portland, we realized we now have all morning to kill in the Dulles Terminal. Why not start with looking at the big board of departures. Sure enough, there were two flights on the board to Portland – our new one and the old 8:15 one. But wait – what’s that? The old one’s BEEN DELAYED until 9:30??? Dude, we’re so getting back on that flight – that’s plenty of time to check baggage!!! After talking with the supervisor again, she made the arrangement to get our baggage into the correct holding pen and our tickets re-booked. Forget EVEN, Car-ma is UP!

That’s Vehicular Car-ma. No matter what transpired, we were on our original flight bound for Portland, Maine – with extra time to eat breakfast, wake up more fully, and even buy a Brad Meltzer book from the airport Borders for the trip. But remember the rules of the Law – we are currently UP, but V.C. is a zero-sum equation.

This explains why three bags didn’t make it on our plane. EVEN!

Nothing But Time

In my lifetime, I’m happy to say that I have won a varied assortment of award hardware. I kicked Roman tail on the National Latin Exam, reigned supreme as the Spelling Bee King, smoked the competition on Monrovia Top Five’s favorite websites, and I may be on my way to my first ever fantasy sports championship this upcoming Christmas. Yes, the accolades have certainly been nice, but at the age of 26, I am now starting to realize that there are bigger prizes to be won out there. And we’re not even talking Academy Awards or Stanley Cups. Nay, there is one award that is left for me to win that will vindicate me as stand-up gent my mom always insists I am.

Time’s Person of the Year.

The past honorees form a most impressive Who’s Who of global contributors past, and my ambition to be Person of the Year shall in no way detract from their important achievements and accomplishments. Rudy Giuliani. Pope John Paul II. The Computer. Nixon. DeGaulle. Churchill. Condon. Yeah.

I’d like to see Churchill blog from his vacation in Maine.

Occasionally, in the event of a tie or a theme, Time will select multiple recipients in order to spread the wealth and make for a better cover. As it seems, 2005 will be one of those years in particular, where 3 homo sapiens will be graced with the greatest honor a person can apparently receive. U2 frontman Bono and Bill and Melinda Gates have been selected for their tireless charitable contributions to world issues, in both monetary and time expenditures. Bono has made a living leading today’s best arena rock band, Bill designed the software interface that changed personal computing forever, and Melinda has a thing for guys with v-neck sweaters, khakis, and bright white tennis shoes. If we can’t turned to them to save the world, then just who exactly?

Now pulling double duty in order to receive such acclaim isn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. But that’s why Bono and Bill made such a great team. In order to get everything done they needed to in 2005, each was able to help the other one out in the day job. YAB got an exclusive here, showing you how great minds can think alike.

While the Family Gates was busy writing checks to develop child illness vaccines, Microsoft’s newest product, the XBOX 360, had a few final details that needed tending to. Without even hesitating, Bono stepped in. First off, Gates and his team had considered changing the base color of the system to blue, in order to more fully align with the rest of Microsoft’s product offerings. However, Bono stepped in and championed green, a nod to his Irish roots, and threatened the design team they would have to work Sundays, bloody Sundays if they refused to comply. Also, while Gates was picking up the tab for breakfast for everyone in El Salvador, Bono snuck into the testing labs and greenlit 2 new gaming titles, where players will wear XShades – oversized green-tinted sunglasses that will allow them to see the screen in XVision. But with titles like “Running to Stand Still” and “Where the Streets Have No Name,” the programmers aren’t quite sure of the game’s objective.

Meanwhile, U2 is in the midst of their Vertigo tour, and Bono has missed a few tour dates in order to hand out bracelets for the ONE campaign at local malls and libraries. Now U2 is most creative on the road, and most of their songwriting takes place there. Gates agreed to chill with the Edge, Larry, and the other guy and pen a new version of an old classic. YAB has gained possession of an excerpt…

The Start Button looms,
In the corner of your screen
Windows zoom
Faster than what you’ve seen

And Apple sucks
Except for iPod which plays this tune
We’re making bucks
We’ll have a rival product soon

You thought you beat us, Jobs
That’s one thing you thought for certain
But listen here
These Windows do not come with curtains

It’s a beautiful Gates!

Fade to Slack

On August 20, 2005, 36 members of the GW Accelerated MBA program sat in Alexandria facing the final Financial Management quiz of the summer semester. This final quiz was the only thing that stood between them and finishing the first year of their graduate degrees in stule.

On August 20, 2005, 1 member of that same cohort was sitting by a swimming pool in St. Lucia where the only multiple choice questions he dealt with was “What will be your next drink from the swim-up free bar?”

No, I didn’t pick D – All of the Above.

Now it’s not a big deal that those 3 dozen classmates weren’t with me in St. Lucia. However, it is a big deal that I wasn’t with them in Alexandria. That’s okay, I thought at the time – my professor said that I can arrange to take it when I return to the States. Content with that knowledge, I did the only thing a academically conscientious student could do in such a scenario – I went for a swim in the Caribbean Sea.

Now it’s been nearly 4 months since that swim, and my transcripts are still showing a big old ‘I’ next to MGT 250. No, I doesn’t stand for two grades worse than an F. (The only thing worse than failure is Idiocy, as it would seem.) I stands for Incomplete, which until I make up that final quiz, paints a pretty accurate record of my achievement.

Now, as the YAB faithful know, I’ve been pretty busy this fall. I moved into a new place, got married, took four course, watched the entire 1st season of Lost, worked full-time, went to Homecoming twice, and I even found a little time to fuel up the Playstation. What I haven’t had time for – easy – take Quiz #3 downtown in the Dean of the MBA Program’s office.

Had I taken this exam in September, I would have been able to recall most of the material I had learned in Saturday morning lecture. Take this sample question –

“A money manager is holding a $10 million portfolio that consists of five stocks. The portfolio has a required return of 11 percent, and the market risk premium is 5 percent. What is the required return on Stock C, which has a beta value of 1.0 and 2 million invested?”

My answer in September would have been fairly accurate: Easy, first find the beta of the portfolio, which turns out is 1.02. Then find the actual return of the portfolio, which is .059. Finally, computer the return of Stock C by adding the actual portfolio return to the product of portfolio beta and risk. But September passed, and I didn’t find time.

Had I taken it by October, the concepts would have been beyond me and my answer would have really just been an assemblage of finance-sounding words. The stock portfolio, once taking into account the net present value of the required return, assuming cost of capital money money whoo whoo, should be delivered as dividends to Condon so that he may buy candy bars.

A November exam would not only have forced me to forget all of the requisite finance vocab, but I’m pretty sure knowledge from other areas would seep in to my response. I believe the best course of action with this portfolio is to trade Stock A and Stock D for Tom Brady and the Bears’ defense, and hope that the required return for Stock C is good enough to make the Monrovia Top Five.

This morning I was supposed to take the final once and for all, but the professor didn’t send the exam to the dean. Maybe it’s for the best. I may have just imploded on the spot.

Fire and Slice

When you’re standing in the freezing cold staring dully at your apartment building going into tantrum mode, you’ve got some time to kill. No one around seems ready to play “Catch the Icicle in your Teeth” or “Dodge This,” so you are less inclined to play in the snow and allow memories to pass the time. One such recollection popped into my head last night, so I figured because of its relevance to this morning’s post, it’s worth the second blog of the day. Damn, I’m productive.

Fire drills are far more welcome in college. There are a few reasons for this. First, you’re asleep a lot less frequently. That’s fewer hours of the day in which a fire alarm, real or fake, can drag you from your bed. Secondly, you live in a building of your friends and peers in such a number that in order to kill time outside, a spontaneous game of ultimate can break out. Third, fire fighters are WAY more aggressive in dormitories. They’ll run up and down the hallways banging on doors completely crazed, you’d think that Blockbuster ran out of copies of Backdraft. High comedy all around.

In college, fire alarms are also largely unscheduled. You have to rely on stupid college kids to do stupid things, like run their sleeping bag through the dryer or microwave their leftovers shrouded in aluminum foil. Stupidity, in general, is an unscheduled phenomenon. This is why you never know when you are going to be asked to vacate the premises.

Mid-terms can do funny things to your daily routine. It was the middle of October and I had just finished a paper for my US History course, when I decided that I did not feel like going to the dining hall for dinner. I had rarely ordered pizza before, much less for a party of one. But these were pre-Wawa days at W&M, and the only snack food outlet was the crappy Sentry Mart across the street. (Where you never knew if the powder on the donuts were sugar or, um, the ‘other’ merchandise) I did what my stomach ordered: I called Chanello’s for a medium cheese pizza.

The pizza came; I ate, and tried to read a chapter or two in Microeconomics. This was the only sure-fire way to induce a long nap. It’s okay, I just had pizza, finished a paper, and it’s still warm out. Good night…

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-

Waking up to the fire alarm, I saw that Dave was nowhere to be found. The sun’s still out, so I couldn’t’ have been asleep that long. Which means I was only in a light sleep, and that the alarm had *just* gone off. No big deal, I thought – Jasen’s luminescent turtle probably blew a breaker. I conformed, grabbed another slice of pizza and a disc and headed outside.

And as I stepped out the front entrance of Monroe Hall, I saw that the other 153 residents were already outside on the other side of the street. Turns out I vacated a good ten minutes after everyone else. But who can be mad at the guy who brought a Frisbee?

Everyone – if the guy who brought the Frisbee didn’t bring enough pizza for everybody.

Fire and Ice

After yesterday evening’s complete lack of naptime, I was fully prepared to go to bed last night at a more-than-reasonable hour. A man of my word, I fell asleep on the couch slightly before ten, and Katie convinced Sleepy Chris to go to bed shortly thereafter. Even with the 40 second sleepwalk in between, I was guaranteed an astonishing 8.5 hours to have pleasant dreams like “sitting at a computer screen knowing damn well that the infernal paper is over and I can concentrate on more serious things, like www.websudoku.com.”

But such slumber was cut rudely short when just before 2 am, I awoke to find Katie putting on her shoes and winter coat. Now Katie, as she has related to me in the past, has a Sleepy Katie alterego that has caused her in the past to get ready for school at 12:30 am, only to find out her shower is seven hours premature, but I quickly realized this wasn’t one of those times. Why was this revelation so clear?

Oh yeah, the piercing scream of the fire alarm in the hallway.

I did my Sleepy Chris fire prevention check as I struggled to find shoes and a coat for myself. I wasn’t on fire. Katie, too, did not appear to be on fire. The fireplace wasn’t even on fire. Looks like the coast is clear. It’s just a shame that the fire alarm doesn’t understand commands like “there is no fire, you no longer have to kill my ears.”

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

As we headed down four flights of stairs and towards the heated confines of the car, it appeared that the fire alarms of the building had united in protest, causing neighbors to also wearily come down the stairs into the 21 degree cold. I don’t think I had met any of my neighbors before. I should have brought them a housewarming gift or something. Maybe I could get them an ACTUAL FIRE, since our building was clearly lacking in one of those.

20 minutes after the initial shrieking the fire department arrived on the scene. They showed no sense of urgency, most likely because the building wasn’t actually going to be engulfed in flames anytime soon, and the closest smoke in proximity was coming out of the cigarette of the state trooper that lives on the third floor. Since there wasn’t going to be any “putting out of flames,” I secretly prayed for the fire department rookie to do something rash like freak out and drill the smoker in the face with the hose. That would have been worth the icy jaunt to the parking lot.

I think that fire fighters are heroes by nature. Yet upon their arrival, we hardly gave them the welcome they truly deserve for their hard work and courageous responsibilities. I think for such an entrance, the people they are trying to save need to be sincerely frightened. Take Ghostbusters, for example. When Gozer goes “Artest” on the roof of that CP West apartment tower, the sky turns black and portions of the stone building fall 80 stories for no apparent reason. That’s the reason the Big Apple faithful chant “GHOSTBUSTERS! GHOSTBUSTERS!” when Ecto 1 pulls up.

When Engine 429 pulls up, all they got was a “hey, don’t hit my car.”

After 40 minutes of “Fire and Seek,” we were all allowed to return to our apartments with the satisfaction that, yes, there was no fire. However, the fire alarm would persist until shortly after 4 am. Shouldn’t the fire department be able to turn those things off? They’ve got big axes, don’t they? I’m sure they could chop their way through a wall and wires with one good swing. I would have gladly sacrificed my security deposit for that.

(But only if they let me swing the ax.)

All Day and All of the Night

The Kinks must have been killer students.

The idea of an all-nighter should only 1) pertain and 2) be attractive to those between the ages of 18-22 and attend a full-time undergraduate program of study. Such an academic learning tool should only be employed by such a college student when 1) there’s way too much fun happening to do your schoolwork during normal hours and 2) your professors have ganged up on you to try and make you crack like it’s the opening scenes in Full Metal Jacket. Well, guess what? Last night was an all-nighter, despite the facts that I 1) am not an undergraduate student and 2) am not wearing a jacket, full metal or otherwise.

Yawn.

For graduate students with a penchant for biting off more than standard chewable quantity, finals in December could be the worst week of the year. In fact, the only thing I can think of worse than finishing all deliverables for four classes while working full-time in a span of a week would be a 7-day marathon viewing of “Mama’s Family: The Complete Collection” on DVD. What’s that? I’m supposed to be Christmas shopping this week, too? You’re kidding, right? That’s it. You’re all getting this for Christmas.

So last night, my finals week came to a head with a 12 page paper on the economic theories of John Maynard Keynes and Joseph Schumpeter. Here’s my thesis: it’s an Austrain guy and an English guy arguing why Adam Smith sucks. Oh, and one other thing – it’s singled spaced. And as of 10pm last night, the amount of written paper on a scale of NOT to SO ranged somewhere around…well you get the joke.

All-nighter, here we come.Except there is a problem here. As it has been well-documented in the YAB Archives, any lack of motion on Condon’s part for more than 12 seconds will guarantee that he’s fallen asleep for good. And after doing two take home tests in two days, you better believe I’m starting to run on empty. In this day and age, I’m just not capable of staying awake the entire night. I have a better chance of making it as a race horse jockey. That doubles as a lawn gnome. When I’m not busy as Christina Toms’ stunt double.

So from about 12:15 until 2:30 last night, I was asleep on the couch (my old friend.) But other than that, I was slamming away on the keyboard about the precepts of entrepreneurship, creative destruction, and general equilibrium theory. (With the occasional run through of checking all your blogs – why don’t any of you update between 3 and 4 AM??) Nope, I just don’t have the energy to pull an all-nighter anymore. I suppose I could quote Toby Keith’s “Not as Good as I Once Was”, but I actually have no idea what the chorus actually means.

My first all-nighter occurred fall semester, 1998 during my freshman year. I had a 10 pager (double spaced, thank God) for my history seminar and it was due at like 9 am the next morning. Now my speed of type wasn’t nearly where it is now, which is why I expected that to take me most of the night. I finished at 5am. When you finish at 5am, mere hours from morning, it becomes a pride issue for a freshman who has never pulled an all-nighter before. Why not stay up to say that you did it?!? 3 hours of sleep aren’t going to help much, right? So that’s what I did. I stayed up, flipped on the 19” TV, and watched whatever was on the campus movie channel.

Titanic.

Rule of thumb: Even if you’re by yourself, do not watch movies that try to make their audience cry when you haven’t slept in the last 24 hours. It will turn ANYONE into a leaky faucet. I just remember sitting there on my bed, watching Gloria Stuart throw that damn necklace off of the SS Bill Paxton, and thinking to myself, “Why am I crying? Why? Just why?”

S.S. Carlton

On weekend evenings this time of year, two different events are certain. First, every person looking to spread Christmas cheer decides to cram into their local mall to purchase gifts in the name of Consumerism. Second, for everyone else who was unable to find a parking spot at said mall, end up attending their office Christmas party. For this blog, it looks like we can put Condon in Column B.

The annual rite of passage that is the office Christmas party ends up in one of two forms as well. If it is chosen to be held during working hours and on office premises, there’s a good chance by the end you’ll be begging to go back to work. Such activities include:

• Deck the Copier with Reams of Paper
• Having yourself a Merry Little Coffee Break
• Secret Santa is Coming to Town (and bringing you a paperweight)
• Ugly Christmas Sweater Syndrome (UCSS)
• Awkward Speech from Boss who is watching Productivity go down the tubes

But for some lucky employees, the company decides to break out beyond the cubicle walls and really thank the work force for a year’s worth of hard work (or at least a few month’s worth of marginally effective work) My company does it up big come Christmas. Which is why last Friday I spent the evening at the Tyson’s Ritz Carlton in my holiday finest. Party!

Now if only I find the ballroom…

The Ritz Carlton, I have realized over the last two years, is not built like a normal hotel. Normal hotels have a standard entrance on the first floor with a lobby that is the only entrance into the building. From the lobby, there are elevators to take guests up to their rooms or to other hotel facilities. The meeting rooms and large rentable spaces also reside on either the first floor (with the lobby) or perhaps on a subfloor, so that the associated kitchen can be built at ground leve. The Ritz Carlton was not built this way. It was built like a cruise ship.

I’ve been (on) a cruise ship. Once. But from my limited research, the standard architecture is such. The important floors, those floors where the management spend great expense to make nice for guests, are nowhere near the lobby. Restaurants, dance halls, off-shore casinos – all way above the ground floor. On a boat, the ground floor has two types of rooms. 1) Giant mechanical rooms with important boat stuff like “engines,” “rotors,” and “torpedo tubes.” (for high-seas battles between Carnival and Norwegian) 2) Steerage-small staterooms for staff and cheapskate college students taking the senior trips from William and Mary. (um, so I hear.)

Extra passengers can buy discounted tickets and sleep in the torpedo tubes.

The Ritz Carlton is no different. The bottom floors have nothing fancy, except a small lobby for business meetings. Check-in is up on 4. There’s probably some smaller hotel rooms for cheapskate recent college graduates who want to say “Hey, I’ve stayed in the hotel where Michael Jordan lived while in DC!” And one would have to climb out of the depths of the Ritz to find that the ballroom, the fancy shops and spa, not to mention the entrance to the adjacent garage all reside on the 6th floor, just where a cruise ship would have the buffet or the pool. It this madness? No. Is it fancy for the sake of fancy? Yep.

And that, kids, is how to spend 20 minutes looking for your office’s Christmas party.

Cups of Life, Groups of Death

Last time we did this, it was the MLB all-star game, which about 7 people worldwide were genuinely interested in. In this iteration of the YAB Running Diary, we’re going across the Atlantic to give you our breaking analysis of the 2006 World Cup Selection Event. We figured that covering an event expected to garner a worldwide TV audience of 350 million is news that could help our readership. At about 4 o’clock today, 32 nations will find out their initial opponents for WC06, and because of a complex lottery process that leaves the Dalai Lama scratching his head, we’re try and makes sense of it all. I hear Dalai’s a huge soccer fan.

What we do know thus far is that 8 countries have been identified as top seeds, meaning that they have an inherent advantage over their three pool mates. That’s fine, they’ve earned it. But it’s like giving someone Park Place at the beginning of Monopoly, and you know they’re going to pull the “Advance to Boardwalk” card on their first roll to Community Chest.

There’s a problem here, though. The Netherlands and Czech Republic are ranked 2 and 3 in the world, and they’re waiting in the foyer waiting to be seated. They’re going to end up in somebody’s group, and likely steal the show. Picture Jason Mraz about to start his concert when somebody notices Bruce Springsteen getting a pretzel at the concession stand. Sorry Mraz, you’ve been upstaged by the Boss. And the Boss wears wooden shoes.

Ok, I’ll shut up and wait for the seedings. I’m already at 250 words.

3:26 – As we wait for anything, it should be noted that Germany, as host country, has been seeded in Group A, and the defending champ, Brazil, is already in Group F. Looks like some subliminal advertising to me. Hmm…

3:44 – Apparently if you want something to start, you need it to wait until you leave your computer to use the restroom. Next time I’m waiting for a movie to get through with commercials, I’m going to go for a run around the theater. The seeds have been places. From A-H, we’re going Germany, England, Argentina, Mexico, Italy, Brazil, France, and Spain. ‘Bout time.

3:46 – This is where the fun begins. Ecuador is blinking on my screen. And I have no idea why. Oh, somewhere in Germany, their name has been pulled out of a hat to join…Germany. I was worried there for a second. Could have been a power outage in Ecuador or something.

3:48 – The Ivory Coast, a first time entrant, joins Argentina in C, while Paraguay is slated to chill with England in B. Paraguay, apparently has been on a hot streak as of late, and has a strong distaste for Coldplay’s music. This could get ugly.

3:49 - The Angolan powerhouse (I’m sure those words together is a first) have drawn Group D, and therefore, Mexico. Ghana will be part of Group E, with Italy. Italy doesn’t have a good track record with African nations, ever since they LOST A WAR to ETHIOPIA. Australia has gotten the Brazilians in F, and Russell Crowe promises not to hit Ronaldo in the face with a telephone.

3:52 – I’ve have France Togo in G.

3:53 – This leaves Tunisia to join the Spaniards in Group H. Instead of Germany, games will be played halfway – somewhere in the Mediterranean.

3:54 – Onto the Europeans, where the strengths of the groups will largely be decided. The Germany group grabs Poland for an Iron Curtain rematch, Sweden will be in B with England and Paraguay, and then it happens.

3:55 - Jason Mraz, thy name is Argentina. You have to play the Netherlands.

3:56 - Portugal – Still reeling from a loss to the U.S. in 2002, the Lisbonians have drawn Mexico’s Group D. While that really has little comedy value, this has been documented for the sole purpose of typing the word “Lisbonians.” I feel like this should be a word you can throw into conversation just to keep the attention of someone who is growing disinterested in the topic. “The funny thing about the Iraqi election is that there’s just an utter lack of LISBONIANS in the race.”

Ok, no more caffeine. Promise.

3:58 – #2 Czech Republic has just upstaged Ghana by also joining Italy’s Group E. Poor Ghana. It’s like Thanksgiving dinner with the Philadelphia Eagles, and Ghana just got seated between Hollis Thomas and Shawn Andrews. That makes Ghana Todd Pinkston. I’d hate to be the fourth team in this group. Group of Death potential!

3:58 Croatia, Switzerland, and Ukraine unceremoniously get placed in the remaining groups, and YABNews focus shifts to where the United States is going to end up. Of the 8 groups thus far, it’s pretty clear that some would be better than others. Here’s a breakdown, best to worst.

Group H – Spain, Ukraine, Tunisia
Group G – France, Switzerland, Korea
Group F – Brazil, Croatia, Japan
Group B – England, Paraguay, Sweden
Group A – Germany, Poland, Ecuador
Group C – Argentina, Netherlands, Ivory Coast
Group E – Italy, Czech Republic, Todd Pinkston

Group D is not an option since it already contains a North American nation.

4:00 – Serbia is like the last kid picked for EU playground dodgeball. They had to wait until all the other European kids got picked, even the LISBONIANS. They sheepishly will attend the Springsteen concert in group C.

4:02 – Costa Rica is forced to be the third team to have to play Germany on German soil in Group A. Meanwhile, things are looking good for the U.S. Of the above ranking of the 7 groups, the 2nd and 3rd worst are off the board!

4:03 – Group B is gone, too! Make that the 2nd-4th worst! Here we come, immortality! (That is as long as Group E gets filled by the likes of Japan.)

4:04 – Iran closes out D (no consequence), and the United States starts to flash. Here it comes. Which will it be? Routing the Spaniards? Fleecing the French? Battling the Brazilians? H? G? F?

4:05 – The United States have been assigned to Group E.

4:06-4:11 – Condon is passed out on the floor.

4:12 – At 4:05 this afternoon, the United States World Cup hopes took a major blow by becoming a member of this year’s Group of Death. A moment of silence, please.

Dressed to Regress

On a Casual Friday, it’s nice to see your fellow co-workers enjoy the liberty of dressing down a bit in order to pay homage to St.Weekend, who is schedule for arrival tomorrow. On a standard Casual Friday, you can expect more jeans and sweaters and less suits and ties. And this mere wardrobe change can affect the demeanor of an entire economy. Laid back, and looking to close out the week in style.

On a Casual Friday following a snow-filled night, people reason that the horrid commuting conditions give them full validation in taking the dress code down yet another notch. Everyone accepted a dress code of mediocrity, but snow (and the brushing off of one’s vehicle) apparently gives people that extra liberty to phone in their appearance. (For a relevant analogy, check out “Marlins, Florida, 2005-2006 at your local library.”)

Case and point – standing in the lunch line to pay for my salad today, I was behind a gentleman who took that extra liberty, downgrading his sweater to a sweatshirt. And not just any sweatshirt – the classic Animal House John Belushi “COLLEGE” sweatshirt. And this guy was easily pushing 45. But hey – it’s SNOWING! – we can get away with it.

Rather than be a member of the disapproving establishment (The Man and I – not exactly poker buddies,) I figured I’d use this opportunity to brainstorm for the next snowy Friday. The following is a list of famous cinema apparel that I would love to own and wear on a Casual Friday, snow or no snow.

1. Now, wearing a hockey jersey to work is a gutsy move – considering very little hockey takes place at most major places of work. And what’s even more offensive, wearing the jersey from a team that beat your own favorite team in a championship series could be cause for a treason hearing. But I would stand up in the face of those charges to wear a bright red Gordie Howe Detroit Red Wings jersey to work, as made famous by Cameron Frye in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Not only would it be immensely comfortable, it sends out the message, “Look, I should be in bed today, but since I’m here, you should just get it out of the way and lower your expectations of me. It’s Friday, and I think I may blow off this afternoon and go to a parade.”

2. When it comes to footwear, most companies require it. Even on Casual Fridays, something must be keeping the soles of your feet from touching the industrial grad office carpet. I think just once I’d like to make my footwear optional. I’d show up for work like John McClane spent most of Die Hard – loose-fitting white shirt, comfortable pair of pants, and shoeless. Look, he was in an office building as well, so management cannot completely frown on it, can they? If that was the case, I’d also refuse to use my office phone, walk around with a walkie-talkie, and insist someone named Argyle brings my car around when I cut out for that aforementioned parade.

3. What happened to hats in the workplace??? In the fifties, all businessmen wore fedoras that matched theirs suits or coats. Now, nary a hat to be found. So I’d like to have a selection of hats that I could wear for different Friday tasks. For all important meetings, I’d wear the hat of Indiana Jones. For laid back financial analysis, I’d like to don a ball cap from The Natural. And when it’s time file, let’s get that Hogwarts’ Sorting Hat out. Works like a dream.

Collaborative Chaos

And I’m spent.

Part of the MBA-charmed kind of life lies in the coming together of various students to contribute and collaborate on a common effort in order to achieve desired results, those results determined by the preferences and requirements of an authority figure, most often a professor of a class which the various students have in common. Or, in much plainer Condonspeak – Business students do GROUP WORK.

And they like it as much as Mariah Carey likes a sensible turtleneck and slacks.

Under the right circumstances, group work can be fun. It requires an interesting task at hand and a group entirely composed of good friends who are equally capable. My ideal group would be made of Sara Throckmorton, Jasen Andersen, and Scooter the Muppet. (No offense, Nordberg, it’s just that if Scooter was able to produce the Muppet Show each night with all of those crazy people, he’s gotta be effective in group work. If you want, you can deflect the glare from Jasen’s shiny head during presentations. Thanks.)

But now that I’m in grad school and out on my own, effective group members are hard to come by. I spend the past weekend, not to mention the last three days in overdrive to get a mega project complete for my Project Management course. I had a right-hand and a left-hand man on this project, but their combined efforts couldn’t even produce an audible round of applause. They say no man is an island, but this past week proved them wrong. I was the main island stuck in an archipelago of ineptitude.

Ok, fine. I’ll turn off the metaphor generator now.

In order to commemorate an 80 page paper where I composed, oh, 73 pages of it, I’d like to countdown an all-time Top Ten list of faulty group members from my better days at W&M. Protecting their true identities won’t be a problem, since the brain trust of Yaz, Sara, Nord, and Chris have had aliases for them for years. We only give people nicknames who deserved them, and you only deserved them if you decided to go against the flow of knowledge and hinder class in some matter.

-Idiot Girl (Real Initials: R.S.) – You see, when Nordberg thinks someone needs a nickname, he gets right to the point. No sense on bringing creativity into things, he's get to the point. That’s what you get with Nordberg – all business. If he was a food critic, he’d write thing like “the steak was very…meaty. And steaklike. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the countdown.

-Trophy Wife (C.B) - On the first day of Consumer Behavior, when asked by Szykman her three ideal jobs, she said “Writer, CIA agent, or a trophy wife.” I can’t make this stuff up.

-Captain Obvious (K.C.) – You gotta have this person in class. The person who says things like “do we need to know the words in bold red print?” She also managed to use her connections in group projects to get us absolutely nowhere.

-Summarizing Chris (C.M.) – Ok, you’re sitting in a group meeting. You say, “I think the best part about USAToday’s business plan is their ability to produce a paper in both print and web format.” And then Summarizing Chris says, “I think what Condon is saying is that USAToday really is on to something with print and web format.” Sigh.

-ShoeGirl (A.W.) - Shoegirl sat behind Sara and me in E-tail Management. Her shoes were never same twice (mostly heels, occasionally shiny silver tennis shoes), and her MAKEUP AND JEWELRY MATCHED HER SHOES. Sorority personified.

-Duchovny (L.F.) – I’m still convinced that this guy was on the X-Files. He was the splitting image of ole’ D-Squared, but with a lot less paranoia. In fact, most classes I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or abducted by aliens.

-Crazy Girl (L.H.) – Yeah, guess who came up with this one, too?

-Rockstar (S.L.) – There’s one guy in class that insisted on mentioned he was in a band with every comment he made. He could find a way to do it no matter the topic. “Yeah, I think Heinz was stupid to make other colored-ketchup. Although my bass player is allergic to tomatoes, no matter the color.” WHAT?

-Wendy Hi-lighter – (W.B.) Ok, she’s a B-school exemption, since Dave and I met her in Comparative Politics, but she’s gotta make the list. In government classes, many students highlight important facts from lectures that may come in handy later. Wendy decided her entire notebook was important. If she left it out on Barksdale, I bet helicopters would try and land on it.

-Finance Dork – (C.N.) – Aw hell, it’s Chris Nordberg.

Hard-Hitting News

Over the last 24 hours, the DC Metro area was blanketed with 5 inches of snow. And for once, the area was somewhat prepared for it, as most schools look to have a 2 hour delay (including Katie’s, who very well could still be in bed right now.) Maybe DC is learning how to combat snowstorms, even though their local forecasters have no idea how to predict accumulations. I swear, we’ve got the Super Doppler Dartboard method in full effect. Eh, it’s okay – it’s seems that we’re better off than last year.

As I looked out my window this morning and out at Lee Highway, the roads looked good. Sure, my car was covered, but that’s what ice scrapers are for. Looks like it’s going to be a normal day. Then again, the fact that I am writing about my morning this early in the day probably says otherwise.

I’m a glutton for comedy.

Walking down the 58 steps is much easier than walking up them – especially when I’ve got my schoolbag with me. The sheer weight of that one carry-on alone is enough to propel me down the 3 flights at record speed. The other thing it does it prevent me from doing anything with my left arm. My right hand, on the other, well, you know, is holding my keeps and scarf and otherwise rendered helpless. On my way down those stairs, I probably could be attacked by ninja lawyers and there would be nothing I could do. Good thing the stairwell is a confrontation-free zone.

Oof.

That’s the sound of Chris getting drilled in the chest by the Washington Post.

On days with less than 5 inches of snow on the ground, the Washington Post delivery guy is kind enough to drop my neighbors’ daily periodical on their doormats (which strangely enough, are actually forbidden in our lease agreement) When there is 5 or more inches of snow, WP Guy stays in his truck and chucks the rolled up paper out of the driver’s side window. I really can’t blame him. I’m sure the inside of the truck is way warmer than the outside, and throwing a newspaper is way more fun than gingerly placing it on a doormat.

The truck was parked right in front of our building as I descended the final flight of stairs. At the time, I had no idea that he was delivering newspapers, much less winging them out of the vehicle. But then I saw him grab a paper, roll it, and wrap it in the plastic – all ready for deployment. And just three steps from reaching ground zero, everything went slow motion in some Matrix-fully-aware-stream-of-conscience mode. The last thing I remembered was the paper leaving his outstretched hand with impressive levels of velocity and trajectory.

Remember earlier when I said my arms were pretty useless? This is where it comes into play. The man’s head turned AFTER he released, and everything happens so slowly that I actually saw the shock on his face in my peripheral vision. Why was I looking at him in the peripheral? Easy – there’s a flying newspaper coming right at me – that sort of thing kind of grabs your attention. All I could think was –

“Dude, that’s gonna hit me.”

The paperman apologized profusely for the errant throw, but when that kind of thing happens, you just have to laugh it off. Or plan to show up at his apartment the next day and hit him with a binder of financials.

That’s only fair, right?

Best Company Ever, Chapter 8

It’s just another Casual Monday at the beginning of December for the Best Company Ever, and rather than prepare for what could become a hellish year-end, Chief Awesome Officer Chris Condon has decided to enjoy his past strokes of genius (like this) and kick back and open the financial papers. You never know when BCE might make headlines. Oh crap, what’s this?

“BCE sells stakes in Bell Globemedia to Torstar, nets $1.3B”

Now I could read the article only to find they’re talking about a different company altogether, but hey, I’m Awesome and I don’t have time for details. CAOs rarely do. But what I do know is that I just managed to sell a company I didn’t even know BCE had for a cool $1.3 billion dollars. Two words: Stupid Canadians.

Selling nothing for something can really rock the perspective of an executive with an itching to use the newfound funds for personal Christmas shopping. Many CEOs would spend this virtual blank check on luxuries – yachts, jets, struggling MLB franchises. But BCE knows better than that. The Best Company Ever will not get use their riches for personal gain. Duke Cunningham has taught us to be wise in the ways of the corporate expense report.

However, we do have a duty to use the money to improve our company (Is it possible to improve upon the Best?) And so, we’re going to do a little damage control. The CAO knows better, but his employees may not. In case we get into such a spot where the government pulls a shock and audit, we’re going to need some in-house legal counsel. And BCE Chapter 8.

The legal department will be staffed entirely by ninjas.

When it comes to Corporate America, the number one legal service attorneys can provide to companies are advice and direction on how to handle lawsuits. A lawsuit often arises when another party feels they have been wronged by the company in some fashion. 9 times out of 10, the company wishes that this headache would just go away. Regular lawyers will drag the proceedings out with paperwork to discourage to plaintiff from continuing with their grievance. Ninja lawyers, as directed by their professensei, Master Tetsu, prefer the filing known as “Plaintiff Vanish.” Yeah, that’s way more effective.

One of the greatest talents a ninja lawyer possesses in natural speed. This is good news, concerning how wordy regular lawyers get when composing lease agreements, contracts, and other documentation. When I need an interpretation of language, a ninja lawyer can scan it with the velocity of a thirsty cheetah and rather than e-mail me the answer, his method of informing me yes or no is far cooler. One shuriken in my door for Yes, two for No.

And man, you’ve got to see a ninja lawyer litigate. The blowhard counsel that our accusers found in a phonebook can go on and on about “legal precedent” and “facts of the case” and “pushed his client down many stairs,” but you can hear the fear in his voice. No matter how his oration goes, he secretly knows that the white-cloaked defense ninja in the corner standing silently is just going to do something ridiculously cool the moment he looks away. Phonebook lawyer blinks, and WHAM! The case has been thrown out on account of the plaintiff secretly admitting they love the flick “Surf Ninjas.”

Of course there are few kinks to be worked out when employing shadow warriors to be your law department. On Monday-Thursday, most people at BCE wear suits and dress professionally, and then dress down for Casual Friday. Ninja lawyers spend the first four days in black pajamas. How do you dress down, you ask?

Easy, they become invisible.

Invisible employees are a pain to keep track of.

Stalling Tactics

Enough strange occurrences have happened to me in the last week in the realm of public restroom facilities that I suppose the Porcelain Gods are influencing me to give them some pub here on YAB. In fear of getting caught without toilet paper sometime in the near future as retribution, I guess I’ll oblige them now. Three vignettes, good readers.

UNO! - Dave Barry in one of his eleventy billion books explains to his female readers the protocol men employ when using a public restroom. I won’t steal his comedy, but I will briefly explain it. If there are five urinals on a wall and they are labeled A-E with A being closest to the door and E being closest to the back wall, there is a specific order of use as additional men enter the bathroom. Gent 1 uses E, Gent 2 uses A, Gent 3 takes C, and Gent 4 waits until one of A,C, and E is vacant. B and D are not options.

I was just doing my part, as I walked into the restroom at Macy’s Monday evening when I saw that A and C were being used and E was open. I took it, even though I discovered it was the one for the vertically challenged. Not a big deal, I thought at the time. But then Guy A and Guy C left. A janitor came in, and saw an empty restroom with me at the far stall, the kids’ stall. Like I had picked that one because I couldn’t handle the regular height. I swear he laughed when he put those puzzle pieces together. And this is one of those instances where there’s nothing you can do. Karma just flushed your dignity

DEUX! – Shortly thereafter, I left the men’s room at precisely the time a woman was entering the ladies’ room. As the door was closing, I lifted my head (which was difficult, considering the jr. camper complex the janitor harnessed me with) and briefly saw inside. Can someone please explain to me why the front room (yes, I said front room) of the women’s restroom has a COUCH and COFFEE TABLE in it? This is no mistake. Macy’s has their furniture department on the 3rd floor, not back here (side question: why are department stores bathrooms at least a half-mile from the merchandise? I feel like I’m a Goonie running from Mama Fratelli in this labyrinth.)

Ladies of YAB, why do you need plush seating and neatly fanned magazines in your public restrooms? And answer me the bigger question, does the back half’s luxury match the front? Do the sinks have faucets that are shaped like swans and spout forth rich chocolate? Are there flat panel TVs that compliment your hair? Do the mechanical hand dryers have a caramel scent to their air? I demand answers!

THREEVE! – This one is much shorter, but at least it doesn’t revolve around my misfortunes. Before my class presentation on Tuesday night, I stepped inside the academic hall bathroom to make sure my tie was straight and my hair wasn’t mohawked. As I stood in front of the mirror in silence, the air was suddenly filled with the musical stylings of the guy in the middle stall. At the top of his lungs, he gave me a rousing rendition of the chorus from a Collective Soul tune.

“Whoa-oh-ah-oh…Heaven let your light shine down!”

You have to love people with iPods and no sense of volume control.

The Need...for Greed!

I guess this makes him dangerous.

The talking heads on the 24-hour cable news outlets have spent the early part of this week covering the crashing and subsequent burning of Congressman Randy “Duke” Cunningham’s public career. An eight-term representative from the Golden State, the Duke was recently nailed in a tell-all investigation of how he used his job title to his advantage, accepting gifts and payments ranging from down payments for an Arlington Residence to a $130k yacht which he named “Duke-Stir.” Aw hell, I’d throw him in jail just for that.

(My once and future boat will be named “Peace Be the Journey.” Hope you know why.)

YABNews, who up to this point had been rendered useless thanks to a tryptophan weekend bender, was poked with a hockey stick so that they could add their two cents on the matter. Surely, someone other than the U.S. District Court should have seen this coming. A trip down memory lane via his official House biography should reveal some clues…

“Duke's experience in Vietnam and his background as an educator prepared him well to train fighter pilots at the Navy Fighter Weapons School -- the famed "Top Gun" program at Miramar Naval Air Station.”

Now we’re talking.

When a Congressman is elected to office, one of his first duties (after taking that oath thing) is to hire his staff. Capitol Hill staffers are responsible for maintaining the legislative operation, especially at times when the Senator is doing donuts in his yacht in Georgetown Harbor. Now an office is only going to act as ethically as its composition, so the rampant appearance of cronyism should have been a hint to the American Public how crooked the Duke is. After all, he DID staff his office entirely with Top Gun pilots. Our crack team found a recent employee roster.

Chief of Staff – ICEMAN – The Duke knows that being a elected official is a busy, busy post, and he’s going to need the best pilot out there to lead the office into battle, I mean policymaking. He must be cool, calm, and collected, and be able to intimidate other Chiefs of Staff when he needs something done. If his name is the one on that plaque in Miramar, he’s Duke’s wingman.

Press Secretary – SLIDER – With so many questions from the media, a Senator can be swamped without a good press secretary. The reporters are silenced every time Slider calls for a briefing, steps up to the nest of microphones, and just flexes for 20 minutes. No more questions after that.

Legislative Director – MAVERICK – When it comes to legislation, the Senator relies on his LD to help research and track policy. Selecting Maverick was an easy choice, considering he served with his father in Vietnam. Oh, and it cracks the Duke up when Maverick seeks “permission to buzz the mailroom.”

Legislative Assistant – MERLIN – Yeah, there’s even room for Tim Robbins in government. LAs have less influence on drawing up policy, and since the Duke trusts Maverick, he’s okay with Merlin having mainly administrative duties. The Duke recalls fondly of the April Fools’ Day when he instructed Merlin to write a brief on Congress’ move to invade Canada. “You’re gonna do WHAT?????”

Interns – WOLFMAN AND HOLLYWOOD – Keep our two favorite screw-ups on temporary labor staffing in order to make sure they do their job. It’s mostly data entry, but they also are in charge of greeting dignitaries who have come to see the Senator…

HOLLYWOOD: Mr. Senator, the Emir of Brunei was here to see you, but we, uh, have misplaced him.
DUKE: What do you mean misplaced?
WOLFMAN: We went for coffee, he slipped off somewhere. I said to Hollywood, "Where'd he go?" Hollywood says, "Where'd WHO GO?

Get Fracula on the Phone

I had no idea we were running that low.

On the way to work, if by chance I take the Downtown Vienna route to Tyson’s Corner, I have much more to look at than interstate signs and the back of the little red Jetta that has managed to cut me off on consecutive days. Route 123 is not unlike Route 70 of South Jersey. Traffic lights and commercial establishments line the roadway, and the likelihood of hitting the lights correctly in rush hour is about as good as this has of being entertaining.

Off to the right, an freestanding electronic signboard parked in front of the INOVA Healthcare building has appeared in recent days. These are the same sort of things roadwork construction crews use to inform you that your hopes of making it home for MNF are officially dead. The board cycles between two different messages, neither of which I have paid attention to before. But today, for some reason, was different.

SUPPLY IS LOW – WE NEED YOUR HELP

was followed shortly thereafter by…

DONATE BLOOF NOW!

It’s a good thing I was sitting at a red light at the time – I would not have believed what I saw had I only seen it once. But after a confirmation, it became clear. America’s hospitals are suffering from a bloof shortage.

Now I’ve never donated bloof, but then again, no one has ever asked me to. In high school, I participated in blood drives, which were always a good time. You got to leave class at some pre-assigned time (you hoped it would be during Physics and not Gym) and head down to the gymnasium. They’d let you lie down on a table and nearly drift off to sleep in exchange for a pint of blood – which your body would replenish anyway. After naptime, you got to sit at a table and drink sugar-loaded iced tea and eat mini-frosted donettes while your non-charitable classmates were stuck in their desks learning about Kepler and Newton. You would try and look weak for as long as humanly possible before a faculty member caught onto your game and sent you back to class.

Blood Drive Day always ended with a extremely light-headed game of Ultimate on the football field.

But bloof? That’s totally a different scenario. The most terrifying thing about agreeing to donate bloof in my predicament is that I actually have no idea what it is. I could blindly agree to assist their cause, sure. But then I’d be lying down on the donation table when the doctor calmly explains that “bloof” is a medical term for something I need, like “ear.” I can’t afford that chance. I hate wearing crooked sunglasses.

And what would I get as a reward for donating my bloof? I have a feeling there will be no iced tea or donettes this time. Because bloof is no doubt more rare than blood, much of the drive’s funding probably goes to the actual extraction process. This doesn’t leave a lot of cash for refreshments. And while the inner feeling that you just helped save somebody’s life does have some value, I’m really in it for the free snacks.

And the Frisbee.

Can't Stop the Moon Rush

When it comes to the Thanksgiving travel season, everyone has their own game plan. Some take a day off from work and get on the road while the rest of us are killing time until the bossman says we can go. Others seek public transportation, preferring to be crammed into large airplanes or express trains rather than their own vehicles. A third small but clever group convinces friends and family to come to them, so that they may enjoy sitting by the fire instead of on the Turnpike. And there’s Condon and his grass roots movement – the Moon Rushers.

While I can by no means take credit for such a practice, I wholeheartedly endorse such a travel itinerary. The premise is simple: Wait Them Out.

Leaving your home much later then the sane people allows one to cruise at your normal driving velocity without any hindrance of gridlock, congestion, and all of the fun that comes with getting 3 miles per gallon. Conventional wisdom says that the earlier you begin your journey, the sooner you will arrive at your destination. Moon Rushers just put sand in Conventional wisdom’s gas tank.

Wait Them Out.

Moon Rushers wait until the sun has long set and most travelers have checked in to hotels or made it to Grandmother’s house. They effectively neutralize expected traffic by killing the time in far more enjoyable places than the driver’s seat of a crawling sedan. This Thanksgiving, I used the DC rush hour to catch a late matinee of Harry Potter. While you were on the Beltway, I was taking in the Quidditch World Cup. How? I waited them out.

Moon Rushers don’t forget things when they pack, either. Why? They are not rushed to get an early start and can actually think about the three days of clothes that are getting thrown into your bag. They’re not the ones wearing a sweater and gym shorts at Thanksgiving dinner. Nay, Moon Rushers are sharply dressed, well-packed, and feasting in style.

“But Chris, why isn’t everybody a Moon Rusher?”

That’s really a good question, Inner Monologue. If being a Moon Rusher is the solution to traffic avoidance, Conventional wisdom dictates that everyone would wait until 10:15 at night to drive from DC to Jersey. Hey, remember what we did to Conventional wisdom? That’s right. Sand. Tank. Oh, and we waited them out.

The real reason that not everyone prefers the life of the Moon Rusher is that not every Sunday driver can withstand the fortitude required to complete a successful Moon Rush. The reason is simple – we drive in the MIDDLE of the NIGHT. Moon Rushers have an archenemy that must be defeated in order to reach their destination. You guessed it.

Sleepytime.

Driving at night is hard. Especially when you have been awake for over 16 hours. Moon rushing requires an ability to defy the odds and not only stay awake outside your typical schedule, but also operate a 1-ton piece of machinery at 70 miles per hour. Well fear not, the Moon Rushers have a Code. It is a Code that reveals the secrets of fending off the thoughts of introducing Mr. Fender to Mr. Guardrail.

Keys to Staying Awake on a Moon Rush

• Music is your friend. Between the radio and CDs, keep a ready source of music that you can sing at the top of your lungs without any reservations. Utilization of the vocal chords works wonder. Rookie Moon Rushers start with the classics: Bon Jovi and Journey.
• Video Kills the Radio Star – With a limited water supply, your old pipes may not get you through. Follow an SUV with a DVD player and try and figure out what’s on. Animated flicks are the easiest to follow, but hey, settle for infomercials if it helps.
• Icy Blast – A shock to your vehicular climate will do wonders to give you a short-term burst of energy. Roll down the window. Stick your forearm out for 30 seconds. This method, of course, will became less effective with each use, so you may need to resort to using your head. By putting it out the window, too. (Note: stop singing when the window’s open. Truckers will think you’re crazy.)
• Invent passengers – While Katie was sleeping on the way up Wednesday, I picked up a fictional hitchhiker named Zeus. Zeus, when not serving king of the Gods, loves Su do ku puzzles. Told me all about them. NOTE: Making up people does not make you crazy. But it does allow you to ride in the HOV lanes.

Intermittent Holiday Joy

I’ll tell you what. You find me some boughs of holly, and I’ll be happy to deck some halls.

Now that we’ve put Thanksgiving in our rear-view mirror and no one seems to really care that the Finnish people celebrate Independence Day on December 6th, YAB turns its attention towards Christmas. Now as for as preparations go, the YAB desk will most likely have to put much of it on hold, as the Thanksgiving holiday set us back a bit, but while we did not take advantage of Black Friday or sit on Santa’s lap, we’re aware that Christmas is here. Need proof? Just listen to the radio.

I don’t know how one would decorate a blog for Christmas. I suppose I could screw with the colors or the fonts, or once and for all figure out the world of pictures. Maybe there would be a secret hyperlink in each post that if accidentally clicked, your laptop would fire a candy cane at your head. But let’s face it. Someone will be caught sleeping while reading and lawsuits aren’t exactly what I want for Christmas. (Although “You Got Caned” has a comical ring to it…) I guess if you can’t holiday-decorate a blog, you could always blog about holiday-decorating.

The year was 2001, and I was in my second-to-last period of final exams for my entire life (assuming that I don’t go to grad school…damn.) As the weather turned colder on the outside, the inside of my dorm room was as plain as could be. Scattered textbooks, laundry-in-waiting, Chris Nordberg wasting time on our couch – nothing extraordinary in the least. As we returned from Thanksgiving break, Spud and I both found ourselves full of holiday cheer and decided it was time to make sure all passers-by knew it. We needed to decorate.

The Christmas decoration of a dormitory room is highly limited to due a lack of money, time, and square footage. Most people who undertake such a task normally limit themselves to some cut-out snowflakes on the door or perhaps a couple of stockings hanging from the closet. In a room that had no place for a tree, and there were rules about installing a fireplace on the 3rd floor of a 4 floor building, we quickly realized that standard indoor Christmas deco wasn’t in the cards. But walking the aisles of the Williamsburg Target gave us an idea.

(If you are a former RA of Chris Condon, please stop reading now.)

In a 21’ x 13’ room, there is a perimeter of 68 feet around the wall edges. When we decided that the best way to celebrate the holiday season was by lining the ceiling with icicle lights, that number became very important. For those not in the know, icicle lights are the glowing white Christmas lights that hang down in vertical strands of 5-8 individual bulbs, giving the effect of icicles hanging from a roof’s edge (assuming you have radioactive snow.) Starting at the sink (always a great place for electricity), the seven ten-foot strands were woven in and out of the ceiling tiles to hide much of the base wiring and leaving the illusion of the icicles themselves. This continued all the way around the room.

Because of the many dorm room staples we had around the perimeter of the room (beds, desks, Casio keyboards), this wasn’t exactly easy. But once we had come full circle, it was time to light up our dorm room with a warm Christmas glow. Some 840 individual sparks ready to ring in the holiday season in a perpetual light of joy. All there’s left to do is plug in the strand to the outlet and…

They blink. ALL of them.

Every single strand blinks on and off in every five seconds or so. And not all at the same time either. It’s like they all have minds of their own. And no two minds have any interest in thinking alike.

Sure, we got used to it, and managed to study for finals in varying intensities of illumination. I think I was even able to sleep with them on. But for any visitors to Camm 244 that year, we had a holiday message for them:

Merry Seizure Christmas from Chris and Spud.

Encino Turkey

Here in Washington D.C., an annual Thanksgiving tradition at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is to ship a turkey in from some state rife with gobblers (this year, Minnesota) so that the President of the United States may invoke Article II, Sec. 2 of our Constitution. With one mighty chop of diplomacy, the Executive-in-Chief spares the life of the lucky turkey (who no doubt has jet lag) by granting it an official pardon. Harry Truman began this Caligula-esque practice back in the 50’s, and we’ve been letting birds spread their wings in the name of freedom ever since. Too bad they cannot fly.

But turkeys granting freedom to people? That’s a new one.
42 year-old Chicago resident Mark Copsy was on his way home from the supermarket with the centerpiece of his Thanksgiving dinner, as well as his son (Mark, don’t mix them up.) when he spotted a vehicle slam into a neighborhood curb and burst into flames. Quick to react, he ran to the car to find an elderly couple stuck inside. With the doors jammed and the smoke thickening, he tried to use his kung fu abilities to kick open the car’s windows. When that failed, he realized there was only one other thing to do. And this is a direct quote:

“Hell, I’ll just use the damn turkey.”

Talk about a hero. After fulfilling his life’s purpose, he was sent to the Butterball plant, slain, iced, and ready for some basting (the turkey, not Mark Copsy). This bird was thrown into an inferno of a situation, risked premature cooking, to save the lives and the Thanksgiving of two people. He didn’t ask questions – he just kicked some glass.

While I don’t know how the insurance company will handle this one, I do know that this is a heartwarming holiday story of practicality. After all, if a turkey can be used as a sledgehammer, what other dishes on your feastly table can serve other purposes in the calamitous face of danger?

CORN ON THE COB – Picture this: you’ve witnessed an accident and you’re out of daytime minutes on your cell phone. But yet, you still have to get a message to your local Emergency Response. Write down your predicament on a piece of paper and rubber band it around an ear of corn. Throw it as far as you can. Even if it doesn’t reach its destination, somebody will pick it up and continue its journey. Why? The aerodynamic properties of corn make throwing said vegetable so much fun that people will do it without question.

STUFFING – Yeah, it tastes great and there never seems to be enough of it to go around. But have you ever considered a fuller utilization of its spongelike quality? Next time a cat or baby gets stuck in a tree, spread a layer of stuffing on the ground below. The treedweller can fall through the air with glee and land with the softness of Charmin. It will also save you that broken arm you’d get if you climbed up after them. (And for the record, I have no idea why there’s a baby in the tree. Maybe poor parenting.)

CRANBERRY SAUCE – Explosive material, such as dynamite, should be detonated within a barrel of yams in order to minimize the damage and maximize “flying goo.”

YAMS – Serve no purpose. On the dinner table or off of it.

You’re still thinking about corn throwing, aren’t you?

My Sharona

Who says politicians can’t get down?

CNN is reporting that Israel’s Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, the man who became the leader of the embattled nation in 2001, has decided it’s time to go. Unhappy with how his vision for the Israeli future is progressing, he’s putting on his “I’m Number #1” hat and making some changes. Despite being the one in charge of the political faction in power, he’s not too pleased with what’s transpired. It’s time to change.

The year was 1973. Sharon and his military buddies were kicking back in their bunker on the Sinai front after a hard day of fishing in the Suez. Six years prior, they had seen the bulk of their wartime action, fighting for six consecutive days, but all in all, it had been smooth sailing for a while. The men got together and decided they should celebrate the good life they had. An Evite was sent out, and the right-wing soliders let everyone know they were going to throw a party. The called it a Likud Party, which is really just a fancy Hebrew word for “Toga.”

Ariel Sharon’s party was well-known and well-attended for many years, up to this day. He enjoyed playing host for the Israeli people, but Likudpalooza wasn’t exactly what he had planned that day in the bunker. It started out exactly as the even planners had envisioned: a civil affair where people who shared the same preferences in the important issues (what music to play, where to put guests coats and weapons, whether Doritos are better as Cool Ranch or Cooler Ranch.) Dinner parties are indeed nice, Sharon thought at the time, but ultimately, he wanted to make sure that all his neighbors were cognizant that when it came to running a party, he was THE man. As the party rolled into the 80’s, they began to get the message.

But now that it’s 2005, Sharon is getting tired of this party. They’ve been playing Haddaway on the stereo since 1992. No one has thought to pick up salsa on the way to the party, making these Tostitos as dry as the desert sands. There was a raucous game of Twister that kept the joint jumping back in ’86, but the board has since been covered up by the coffee table that Netanyahu crashed through when he was forced to resign as Party Master of Ceremonies. Even Gaza Strip Poker seems dull.

So CNN is absolutely right when they are reading the tired expression on Ariel Sharon’s face. He knows that unless somebody brought Cranium, this is the beginning of the end for a party he first drew up the invitations for over thirty years ago. The time has come for the most powerful party animal to put down his drink (Mountain Jew Kosher Red), open up the closet in the foyer, grab his dusty, dusty coat, and quietly exit stage left.

But here’s the problem with Sharon. As wise as he was to leave a party that had been lame for about 5 years, he’s still got a fever. A fever to dance, to play, to party. And since he is still the Prime Minister of Israel, he’s going to use his status to organize a new party. Since the only other shindig on the block is currently billed the Labor Party, there’s no way he’s just going to grab a goblet over there. That sounds like work.

Long story short – Ariel Sharon’s throwing a Party. And you’re invited!

Slicin' the FKL

Here’s an unusual YAB comment from the weekend. And it’s not the first of its kind. “Hey Chris Condon, you got an interesting blog here! I'm definitely bookmarking you right now! I have a Fantasy Knives site. It pretty much covers fantasy knife related stuff. Come and check out fantasy knife if you get time :-)”

Now granted, I could finally buckle like a belt and put up the word verification in the comment process to avoid this sort of spam I end up deleting on my own, but where would we be then? Monday morning with writer’s block? I don’t think so. We like out YAB readers to be able to comment without having to correctly spell “svtwfm” or “b3foof.”

This particular comment topic, fantasy knives, does not appear on recent posts, either. In fact, only the column titled “Dihydrogen Oxide” receives visits from our crafty visitor. I have no idea what fantasy knives have to do with our study on water coolers, but I guess we attract all types here. Even British people in search of the phrase “crunchetty crunch.” But I think there’s a far more important issue here.

Fantasy Knives?!?!?!?

When it comes to fantasy sports, I’m no rookie. Having been the general manager and owner over the years for approximately 7 fantasy football teams, 4 in fantasy hockey, 3 squads on the e-diamond, and even a brief but misguided foray into fantasy golf, I’ve become the textbook example of how to run a team to a 3rd place finish. But while managing 4 teams at once (currently) had covered my interest in simulated management for the fall, my interest has once again been raised with the advent of a new sport – fantasy knives!

Being the GM of a Fantasy Knife team can’t be easy. When your entire roster have an acute ability to “cut you,” personnel issues are a bit of a touchy subject. Now I’ve never run a fantasy knife team before, but I’m willing to try new things and fully expect to not come out of my rookie season unscathed. But before I can even play the first match, I’ve got to get myself a team.

The fantasy knife draft is only a few weeks away, and since our random commenting friends have only just informed me of the sport this past weekend, I’ve got some research to do. And since I have no idea how the sport of knives is actually played, we’re just going to have to make it up as we go along (Nothing has changed, it seems.)

The categories in which FKL teams are to rack up the statistics are fairly simple compared to other fantasy sports, and there’s only five of them – “Shiny,” “Pointy,” “Sharp,” “Size,” and “KQ,” which stands for Knife Quotient. The KQ is difficult to define (like a QB rating), but ultimately is scored on how scared a person would get if being chased by a madman (this season, he’s sweaty-toothed) with said implement. It’s pretty confusing, I’ll admit, but I’ll try anything once.

Except Gogurt.

Being late to the game, I’m not getting the number 1 pick in my FKL draft, so I guess I’ll have to do without “Machete.” But I think with some luck and some draft savvy, I’ll be able to build a championship team. Just imagine a starting lineup with the following all-stars:

1. Cleaver
2. Scalpel
3. Swiss Army
4. Bowie
5. Excalibur

Take my knife. Please.

Strange Shopfellows

One of the benefits of working at a corporation with an employee count in the 5 digits is the number of perks the folks over in Pirate Resources are able to negotiate on our behalf. A common corporate marketing strategy these days for many industries (cars, clothing, travel) is to offer a small discount to a huge firm in hopes all of their employees take their business to them. Now, I haven’t bought my BMW yet, but it’s nice to know that I’m a Corporate Club Customer in their showroom. I feel much less guilty about eating their complimentary cookies and test driving cars with no intent to purchase.

Well, with holiday shopping season just around the corner, it looks like Macy’s has stepped up its efforts to win my gift-giving dollars. When I returned from lunch this afternoon I found a bright Red booklet waiting for me on my chair. Now I’m sure a rep from the department store didn’t visit my cubicle during my absence, which means that my company has struck yet another corporate partnership. A partnership – in deceptive advertising (Dun-dun-DUNNN!)

(Apologies – our sound guy was let go last week. When he slammed the door behind him, it resulted in a loud…silence.)

The red Macy’s booklet, surely rife with coupons and savings just ready to spill out into my chicken salad, proclaimed “It’s our friends & family savings event!” and “We’re giving you our 20% employee discount!” There’s also a weird picture of a woman in a parka with a red Macy’s bag precariously balanced on her head. Ok…

I had no idea Macy’s and me were that close.

We’re certainly not related via the bloodlines. Macy, according to this website, finds its origins in Old French. The closest I’ve ever been to being a being Old French was eating a day-old quiche. Maybe if it was O’Macy or MacY, but it’s not looking like we’re swimming in the same gene pool. And what about friends? Don’t get me wrong, Macy’s, I had a blast registering at your place, and the fact that we’re neighbors these days garner you some privileges, but when you say everyone at my 43,000 employee company is your bud, the term friend loses a bit of its luster. It’s like an Evite where you throw a shindig and invite everyone you’ve met in the last six months.

Maybe that’s why I’m getting a 20% discount, Macy’s. Have too many people realized your clever ruse of friendship that you’ve resorted to bribing? Will you stop at nothing to ensure you don’t eat alone in the cafeteria? Well there, I’ll just be completely honest with you and your “Check Yes or Yes” ways.

I’m still interested.

Turning inside the booklet, I read what exactly the 20% friendbribe entails. After all, when it comes to friendship, it’s the small print that will tell the difference between a long-lost yearbook signee and a groomsman in your wedding.

-“Shop at any Macy’s East store or online at macys.com.” – This means one of two things. Either Macy’s is playing favorites with their Eastside buds (Come on over and play Nintendo at my place, but don’t tell anyone in California) or that Macy’s West is where the truly cool stuff is and I’m being deemed a second-class pal (Pay no attention to that Xbox on the shelf – this is old school Nintendo, baby! Bemyfriend!)
-“Pay any way you like.” – Time to test this bond. Do you guys accept produce as payment? How many bananas for those dish towels?
-“15% Off almost everything* in the Home Store” – I love the asterisk. It’s like Macy’s says that I can borrow his Legos, but had his fingers crossed behind the back the whole time. In this case, the asterisks represents “cosmetics, fragrances, selected lease depts., everyday values, restaurants, services, gift certificates, gift cards, brial kiosks, previous purchases, furniture, and mattresses.” Man, I really was in the market for a bridal kiosk, too.
-“You could win $50 instantly” – Translation: if by the slim chance that another friend or family member accidentally drops a $50 bill on the floor and you are the first to pick it up.