Walkin' on the Boulevard

This is a story of broken dreams.

I am a Deputy Financial Controller, which means I report to the region’s Financial Controller. It’s an easy thing to do, since his office is just two doors down from my cube (ok, it’s technically one door down since the office-in-between is also a cube and by design, lacks a door. But I digress.) My supervisor unfortunately does not enjoy the same reporting proximity, as his boss sits in San Diego. But every few months or so, she comes to visit us here in the Commonwealth, and that nearly guarantees one extra fringe benefit with my job:

FANCY. LUNCH.

There are two key aspects that are involved in making your mid-day meal a fancy lunch. The first important part is that you’re not paying. For 255 out of the 260 workdays in the year, you find yourself responsible for providing your own lunch, whether it be bought in the café or brought from home. So when the opportunity arises to eat on someone else’s dime, you seize it like there’s no tomorrow (or dinner.) Secondly, a fancy lunch is never held at one of your regular lunchtime haunts. It is often in a location that you would never even consider eating at, since you try not to spend more than 6 bucks on your whole meal.

If your starter salad costs 6 dollars, you know it’s a fancy lunch.

Because we dine out so infrequently at my company, it’s okay to have the occasional fancy lunch. If we were a lobbying firm, then I’d want my tunafish to be salmon, my carrot sticks to be 14 karats, and that juice box would be Capri Sun – anyone who drink fruit punch out of a silver reflective bag must buy their suits on Rodeo Drive. So when I was told yesterday we’d be going out to lunch today at steakhouse extraordinaire – MORTON’s – my hopes were as high as a Shaun White 1080 board grab.(I’m an Olympic geek. Sue me.)

But before I could go spend my lunch hour engorged in a porterhouse of NY strip, I had to sit through an excruciating group training session about a new project management computer system we are about to roll out. When it comes to coming up with the guest list for these things, the instructors assume that no matter the topic, it’s always good to have a finance perspective on things. That’s sound for the most part. Except that I end up at trainings that have about 8.2% relevance to my daily tasks and responsibilities. But I can persevere. I got steak on the other end of this class.

Or do I?

What went from a glorious daydream of the best lunch in months started to slip at about 11:15 during training. The plan had been to have the finance team exit stage right after this module was completed at 11:30. But then an ad-hoc lesson was tacked on and squeezed in right before the lunch break, which would now be pushed back 30 minutes until noon. For 37 of the employees in the room, this mattered little. Their bag lunches that were being provided via catering would just wait patiently outside the door a little longer. For the 6 of us, apprehension seriously started to set in.

The powers-that-be in the back of the room, the aforementioned supervisors, saw the clock and started to whisper. It was not looking good. I’m not great at reading lips, but I shuddered when I saw the word “tomorrow” mouthed from one to another. Hell, at this point, I was hoping they had said anything else, even “Sbarro.”

Looks like lunch has been postponed, as I sit here eating a hastily constructed ham sandwich from the bag lunch table.

Talk about a fall from grace.

Junk in the Comment Trunk

I’ve been hesitant to put up that comment authentication tool for the commenting YAB public for three reasons, really. First, I want those who would like to bring some funny to be able to crack jokes uninhibited, not being forced to spell words like “yinoxjti” or “bloufzarn” or “ovechkin.” Secondly, I know Mattias and Nordberg have both been making great strides on their spelling homework in recent weeks. I wouldn’t want to confuse them, making them think that there is more and more vocab to master. And thirdly, I wouldn’t be so wildly entertained by some of the junk comments that hit the board on a daily basis.

I’m sure every now and then those who frequent this site on a daily basis see the occasional random appearance of a non-sensical post, whereby YAB is being used as a springboard for the start-up business world. Granted, every morning, I pull out the e-squeegee and wipe the slate clean so that I can single-handedly thwart their business model (ok, double-handedly. E-squeegees are very heavy.)

Since January 14, YAB has been inundated by 108 generic comments that all follow the same exact format. This is no fan of the funny, this is the blog equivalent of an automated dialing machine. And like I said, it always follows the same syntax:

“ blog. ”

Let’s break down the art of the junk comment, shall we?

1 – The is the first strike of the mass marketers to get my attention as the YAB Chief Awesome Officer. In the last 45 days, YAB has been called prodigious, exciting, creative, sensational, suitable, astonishing, unusual, inspiring, energizing and hype. Whoever this guy is, he’s married to a thesaurus.

2 – It’s not that we don’t welcome readers from overseas, in fact it’s kind of cool to think that what we write is showing up on computer screens from Albania to Zaire. But our auto-comment man is just piecing together the English language like it’s an LFO song. A typical example would read as such: “This site I love much and it out did itself and will be back!” What will be back? You? The blog? Sanity?

3 – The second sentence always talks about surfing. ALWAYS. And it will pull the title from the particular post it is referencing for added hiliarity. And as I write post 396, I assure that no post has been safe, dating back to July 2004. It’s like blindfolded darts, and YAB is the doorway to the left of the dartboard. Another example: “when I have time to surf the net, I consistently find blogs about The Goooaaaliieee! In much favor.

I never knew how much you cared.

4 – Finally, the sales pitch. I’ve been targeted to help hawk cash advances, ice fishing shelter, boomerang supplies, work at home jobs, skydiving supplies, Spanish wedding planning, and shoes.

This morning, I received a perfect example of all discussed methods from a guy who posts as “Crazy Dan.” It read:

“Tis the season! I was searching the web and found entry Writer's Block Party. I really like your site and found it worth time reading through the post. I am looking to publish a comprehensive site ranges many types of historical needlework. All those interested in this area will find this article of interest as it is written from many perspective. Please feel free to take a look at my blog at atm machines and add any thing your want.”

All I have to say is Wow.

Workin' on the Cheney Gang

I’m glad I don’t have a job which requires me to bring the funny in exchange for compensation. There are just some days where comedy isn’t easily put into the written word. I feel like it’s often Fridays. Trying to bang out one more post before I take a hiatus for the weekend sometimes is as hard as pulling information from a hot-air balloon crash survivor. Sometimes comedy requires scouring the newswire for something comical. And then sometimes –

Dick Cheney shoots a guy.

I’ve spent the last week trying to get my brain around the ramifications, both comedic and political, of the Vice President of the United States being the guy on the other end a double barrel shotgun that wounds and hospitalizes a fellow American. Since I’m late to the game here, I’m sure Letterman, Stewart, and the rest of the pros have made all the jokes already. But just because somebody’s late to the party doesn’t mean that they don’t get a piece of the copious snacks and beverages. Well my name is Chris Condon, and I’m here for some Fritos.

Let’s just think about this for a second. Dick Cheney shot a guy, a lawyer friend of his, in Texas last week. Granted, this can happen to anybody – I’m sure hunting accidents are quite frequent in this day and age, but we’ve got the Number 2 in charge of the US of A trained with a firearm so astutely that if the President is ever attacked, we no longer need Secret Service guards. Just the VP with a concealed weapon.

This, of course, assuming that whoever attacks the President has brought along some quail in close proximity. Um, for moral support. Yeah.

The President is Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. It’s part of the executive powers bestowed upon him in the Constitution. The Vice President has no part in the military. The greatest things he gets to do is:

1) Succeed the President in times of removal
2) Break ties in the Senate
3) Shoot guys in Texas

Ok, the third one is a bit of a newer power, but I think it’s time we had a new Texas Ranger. Walker has totally lost his credibility hawking home gym apparatuses during early morning infomercials. The law needs to be laid down, and Chuck Norris is slipping in his old age.

So what happens to Mr. Cheney now? Could he brought up on involuntary manslaughter charges should the lawyer not survive his stay at the hospital? Sure he can, but I’m not sure if he gets convicted. Vice Presidents have a history of avoiding trial proceedings, dating back to when Aaron Burr was called up on murdering Alexander Hamilton, and employing the “I’m not hearing you, I’m not hearing you” defense when served with a summons to court.

Of course, that was 200 years ago. But even if Cheney is convicted and jailed, wouldn’t that be grounds for the fastest Presidential pardon in history? It would be the equivalent of Cheney rolling double 4’s, just missing Marvin Gardens and instead going straight to jail, only to throw a 5 and 5 TEN to get out of jail and, while he’s at it, land on free parking. He wouldn’t even have time to be fitted for a ball and/or chain.

He’d just have to make sure he doesn’t throw another double 5's right after that.

Stop Me if You've Heard This One

Frequently last spring and summer, a YAB catch-up post would be penned while I sat in the chair of a grad student, listening to a lecture which had little relevance, importance, or even inflection. When I wrote those long, long ago, I felt that I had a justifiable cause to not pay attention. The professor’s yammering was not anything on which I would be graded (since there were no tests and the only deliverables were unrelated papers), nor did I see any future application in whatever career I end up with. And it was this justification that I wrote 2-a-days last summer.

Turns out I had no idea what justifiable cause was.

Looking back, that reason was no more than old-fashioned rationalization. I gave myself a reason to write, nothing more. Why did I come upon this revelation, as I sat in class yet again last night? Easy.

Now I know was justifiable cause is.

Let me explain. I am taking a professor for the second time in two semesters. Last fall, his course was called “International Science and Technology.” This spring, we call is “New Venture Initiation.” For the most part, these are two different topics. One deals with foreign applications and ramifications of have a hi-tech business overseas. The other is a glorified entrepreneurship course. Is there some overlap? Maybe.

Last semester, the course devolved into a speaker series. Maybe my professor was busy, I don’t know. But we had many entertaining speakers, the most interesting being an intellectual property lawyer who had much to say on the world of patents, copyrights, and trade secrets. In fact, it even spawned this post about the Catholic Church hawking Listerine. Hell, I even gave I guy a name: Litigious McLawyerson.

Guess who’s back?

I went into class last night well aware that we were having an IPR lawyer. However, McLawyerson was not the listed guest on the syllabus. It was another guy. But as I sat down in class, unpacked my notebook, and got ready for a relaxing 2 hours of trademark talk, I realized the speaker loading his PowerPoint looked remarkably familiar.

MCLAWYERSON.

Now knowing that it would be impolite to repack and leave, I realized I had been tricked. I was the only student in the class that was in the last semester class, and this presentation was IDENTICAL to the one I had heard just three months earlier. Screwed, with no way to voice my annoyance. Or is there?

Déjà vu, anyone?

When I was 12, we went to Colonial Williamsburg on a family vacation. The first day, my mom and my sister blew us off to attend some “American Girls” tea party with the writer of those books, leaving my dad, myself, and Dr.Bisignano to roam wild in the village of CW. One of our stops was at the shop of the “Cooper” (that’s Colonialese for “barrel-maker.”) The re-enactor had mastered a killer West Indies accent, to make the tourists think that he had come from the Caribbean (which was often the case in that era.) At the end of his talk, he asks the crowd where they think he’s from. After guessing every major island chain in the Sea, he finally lets on he’s from Arkansas.

So when my mom and sister rejoined us the next day, and revisited the same cooper, I found myself at 12 years old in the very same situation I have encountered with McLawyerson. When the cooper finished his talk and asked about his own origins, legend has it that I didn’t even hesitate when I declared, “ARKANSAS.”

So when McLawyerson asked any question last night that he was certain no one would know the answer, you better believe I answered EVERY last one. Why? Easy.

Spite.

Vault! Who Goes There?

Last May, the Coca-Cola Company lost a heart-breaker to PepsiCo here at You’re a Blog, when each company’s rival sodas squared off in match play, with the boys in blue taking the best-of-nine tourney 5 to 4. If you recall, it was all square in the final frame, when the battle of the citrus sodas was announced. And in a walk, Mountain Dew demolished Mello Yello despite the Days of Thunder product tie-in. A blowout ensued, and Coke was left dumbfounded after coming so close to greatness.

Sound familiar, Bode Miller?

As the Seattle Seahawks can now attest, when you lose the big one, the best thing you can do is put it behind you, rebuild and retool, and get ready for next year. Now I’m not YAB will host another Cola War in ’06 (Recycled Funny? Never!), but it’s nice to know Coke isn’t settling for second best.

Since the new Coke of the 80’s ended up being a disaster, they now know better than to tinker with already good products. Instead, they have decided to upgrade their bullpen, and sign a new closer (since Mt. Dew effectively connected on an inside-the-park grand slam against Mello Yello.) With spring training around the corner, it seems that they’ve got their rookie.

VAULT.

I found out about Vault when I went down to grab lunch this afternoon. Normally, I do not partake of the bottled soft drink cooler, but seeing that they were stocking yellow Gatorade for the first time in, oh, EVER, I headed over. And sure enough, there was Vault, a green bottle with what looks like tire treads around its midsection, boldly proclaiming “Drinks like a soda, Kicks like an energy drink.” Ah, it drinks AND kicks. Sounds like a donkey with a penchant for tequila shots.

Anyways, I passed on entering the Vault today, since I wanted to research it a bit first. But even before I could Google, something from my past shot to the forefront of my mind. Could this? Is this? Will this be?

A second coming of Surge??

For those not in the know, Surge was Coke’s mid-nineties response to Mountain Dew. It was green. It was sugar-laden. And it was actually pretty damn good. Freshmen year of college, Spud actually donated his entire supply of blood donated to the American Red Cross so that he could have this one soft drink pulsing through his veins. It disappeared for good in 2002, due to the fact that Coke decided that the only way to enter the new millennium is to add lemon, vanilla, or lime to every single product offering. And since a “Surge with Lime” had the potential to literally turn your skin green, the project was abandoned.

And yet, 4 years later, Vault has rolled onto the scene. According to Wikipedia (they amaze me more everyday), there has been a sweeping effort of “soda activism” online for the past quadrennial under the heading www.savesurge.org. And the reviews in the blogosphere have been raving. (But then again, most of the blogosphere is populated by raving lunatics, so that’s pretty much par for the course.) But the real reason that Vault is going to survive can be traced back to, yes, Days of Thunder.

Mello Yello had a stock car. It still exists today.
Surge did not have a stock car. It was deep sixed long ago.
Vault? Looks like the rumors mill is alive and well.

Leading the Charge

Wireless phone technology has completely changed the way people communicate in this day and age. No one is relegated to waiting at home to hear from a friend about plans on the horizon, and no one can be out-of-pocket for that long without a worried comrade contemplating calling Missing Persons for their whereabouts. (Is this a problematical age?) No, it’s the cell phone that is now attached to everyone’s hip that keeps them constantly in the network. And all is well and good, assuming one key piece to the technology is in working order…

The Cell Phone Charger.

For most of you, the cell phone charger provides little resistance. For most of you, you have a convenient place where you can plug your phone in at home, and quite possibly an auxiliary power source in your car. Because of your expert use of the cell phone charger, you telecommunicate with all of the prowess of an Aston Martin or Jaguar on the wireless highway. You see that rusty red Ford Pinto in the right lane maxing out at 23 miles per hour? That’s me. And my cell phone.

Now as I mentioned in this June post that I was living on the cutting edge with a new flip phone, and that came complete with two chargers. There was a nice honeymoon period where all was well. It didn’t even resent me when I left it turned off for a week when I went on an actual honeymoon in St.Lucia post-wedding. With the phone, I find no faults, and it finds no fault in me.(Ya know, assuming cell phones have the capacity for logic and fault process assessment)

I know what you are thinking. If you have two chargers, why the heck is your phone always dead? (Some of you are thinking currently, “What’s for lunch?” but I don’t have the answer for that one.)

The number one thing that can make your home-based charger completely useless is going on vacation. If you take a trip away from home for more than 24 hours, it’s likely that you’ll rip the plug from the wall in a spirited attempt to stay on time and throw it in your bag. You leave, you enjoy your vacation, you come home. And you have one of the following two reasons to thank for having a dead-on-arrival cell phone.

1 – You left the charger plugged into the wall wherever it is you came from.
2 – You packed the charger in a place you’ll “never forget,” only to have a better shot of snowboarding a halfpipe without landing on your head than actually locating it. Once again, phone is dead.

As for the car charger, that thing was as well-crafted as snowball on Miami Beach. I’ve had the thing for 8 months, and its effectiveness seems to be deteriorating. First, one of the two prongs failed to grip inside the phone. This meant that every turn the car made, the phone would break free and fly across the vehicle. Now, the second prong has failed, leaving no actual method of connection between charger and phone.

With a missing home charger and a faulty phone charger and far, far away from any San Diego Chargers, I’m left to charge my phone by holding the car charger upright while driving, while the phone balances on top. It’s like holding an ice cream cone while driving, except that partaking of said dessert will leave you with an electric shock and your car in a ditch. Hmm. Must be Rocky Road flavor.

But last night, I had a revelation. I thought of a pocket. It was a Hot Pocket. I microwaved it up something fierce and was glad this revelation had vanquished my hunger.

But then I had a vision. A vision of another pocket, the side one on your suitcase that you never check. One where you would “never forget.” And sure enough, there it was. My home phone charger.

My Cellamaphone is back in business.

Red-dy, Aim, Mock!

On Sunday night, I had enough forethought despite all of the meteorological chaos outside to bag up my dry cleaning to take into the office on Monday morning. I was proud of myself, the fact that I was able to tear myself away from watching the Olympics to grab a large white trash bag and count dress shirts as they entered said bag. When employing this variety of pre-planning, the shirt bag ends up by the door so that when I walk out of it to go to work, all I have to do is swoop down, grab, and go.

Oops.

For those who weren’t YABbites back in September of 2004, I wrote a post that elaborated on my dry cleaning philosophies. That post is linked here. But for those who are enrolled in remedial mouse-clicking, I’ll summarize. I dry clean my dress shirts ALL AT ONCE, leaving two shirts out of the batch. One shirt is worn the day I take in the dry cleaning. The other is worn the day I pick up the dry cleaning. Every other shirt I own is part of the dry cleaning. Such a system is highly effective, efficient, and has very little margin for error.

Like I said, oops.

Having forgotten to grab the bag on Monday, I knew from the moment I remembered during yesterday’s commute that I would have to find a way to make up the void in the shirt lineup. I find my situation very similar to that of the 2005-2006 Philadelphia Flyers. This year, the Orange and Black have been ravaged with injuries, so much to the point that on any given recent night, 8 first-year players have been inserted into the lineup. Hockey is not like baseball, where if an injury occurs you’ve got a backup on the bench ready to go. In hockey, everyone on the team plays in every game (thanks to the world of rolling four lines. If someone goes down, the coach needs to call the minors for a replacement.

Looks like I’m calling the minors.

I have some casual button-down shirts that can pass the office dress code, but I try my best not to have to call on them. They are often much brighter colors, which 1) I don’t want to have to look at as I type on my keyboard, and 2) makes you instantly 73 times more visible to co-workers. Being visible is not a good thing in an office. Being visible to people above you means they see you more readily when they’re trying to delegate. Being visible to people below you make you a choice target when they have a question. It’s a no-win situation.

Nonetheless, I called the minors and put on a nice checkered red Eddie Bauer shirt this morning that I got for Christmas. It’s a great shirt, I love the color, and look forward to wearing on many an occasion – outside the office, that is. But I figured it’s not a big deal, and I’d be getting back my starting lineup tomorrow when the dry cleaning is picked up. Easy, easy. It was almost too mundane.

We don’t write about mundane here at YAB.

No more than three minutes after sitting down at my desk, a co-worker walks by, stops, and sees my shirt.

“Awww, how cute! You wore red on Valentine’s Day!”

And just like that, I’m the guy who dresses up for holidays. I’d type more, but I have to sew my leprechaun costume for next month.

Day of the Monkey (obs.)

As promised, today has been declared DAY OF THE MONKEY, a showcase of why our primate friends are hilarious by default, even if YAB has failed to feature them in the last 19 months of bringing the funny. But at the same time, it has come to my attention that a little global athletic competition known as the Olympic Games begins today, so as editor-in-chief, we’re torn as to whether he stay the course or drop a YAB Olympiad Preview on you all.

YAB Writing Rule #55: Don’t waste topics. Combine them for comedy’s sake.

Tonight in Turn, Italy, human athletes from around the world will convene to compete in the toughest sports that winter weather has to offer. As a viewing public, we can’t be guaranteed the United States will match the medal count of 34 when the Games were last held in ’02 (on American ice no less), but they are plenty of medal hopefuls.

According to the IOC’s Olympic Charter, the purpose of the Olympics is to “contribute to building a peaceful and better world by educating youth through sport.” I’d like to point out that in using sport as an education tool, it mentions nowhere in the Olympic Charter that the teachers must be human. And just like that, YAB has opened the doors for another athlete contingent.

Monkey Olympians.

Now, I know, I know that this could make a lot of the competitions in both the Summer and Winter Games a tad unfair, considering once you let the monkeys in, all sorts of other animals will start lobbying from inclusion. Cheetahs would rule the track and field events. Elephants would rock Greco-Roman wrestling. And I have a feeling that penguins would make pretty sweet short-track speed skaters. But maybe if the animals, namely monkeys, were allowed to participate in a non-competitive fashion, more people would tune in to some of the less popular Winter sports (and thusly, make NBC a very happy broadcasting network.)

Without further ado, here are the top 3 Olympic sports that a Unified Monkey Team would do well to compete in (Letterman style, of course):

3 – Monkey Luge! - One of the best aspects of monkey physical comedy is their ability to flail without any rhyme or reason. This is the complete opposite for lugers. In order to succeed in the luge, one must be totally comfortable lying on his back with the arms pressed to his body, legs as straight as arrows, and head back to the point where your only steering mechanism is prayers. This is why watching luge is rather uninteresting – no action. Monkeys have no shot at complying this technique, leaving viewers with lugers that are flailing wildly at 90 miles per hour praying that they haven’t eaten their last banana. That’s entertainment.

2 – Monkey Curling – In the sport of curling, large rounded stones are pushed down an icy track by one team member while two others clear the way and determine its speed by using brushes to clear the stone’s path. There’s a lot of precision and technique to this sport, which actually requires little athleticism at all. Enter the monkey team. While Norway is struggling on whether to go for points or knock out the monkey stone in the middle of the score target, the monkeys have a counterstrike plan. On their next turn, a monkey slides down the ice, with helper monkeys clearing the way with brooms (assuming they don’t beat each other senseless with them.) When the monkey reaches the end, he leaps off the ice and tackles the Norwegian waiting his turn. Hilarity ensues. (And if you need proof, that monkeys can slide, go watch King Kong.)

1 – Monkey Bobsled – I find that there is a direct variable correlation between level of funny and number of monkeys. Therefore, send 4 monkeys in a bobsled down an icy track and actually entrusting the smart one to steer the thing would be as high as comedy would get. Do have faith in them to finish the run without crashing a la Cool Runnings? The contemporary philosopher Trace Adkins, in his 2005 opus, states that a woman has it, and I quote, “going on like Donkey Kong.” And since DK was a fixture on the Super Mario Kart circuit for years, I think that racing is in the primates’ gene.

But that’s just me.

Always the Bridemonkey, Never the Bride

Back in October of 2004, I wrote a post in 6 minutes and resigned myself to be happy with whatever ended up on my computer screen. My improvised ramble of a post touched on the topic of bringing the funny while under pressure. In it, I talked about “default funny ideas,” topics and things that are guaranteed laughs. And from watching the Super Bowl ads, it became clear to me that the high-powered advertising agencies, when lacking an innovative idea (like cat herding or Terry Tate) stick to their default funny ideas. Monkeys are at the top of this list.

You’re a Blog exists to bring the funny. And since monkeys are well-regarded as the funniest animals on the planet, you would think I would have stuck to my default, at least once, and did a monkey centric post? You would, wouldn’t you?

To test this theory I did some research.

Of the 388 daily posts to date, the word monkey has shown up in 28 of them (29 if you count today) That’s a noble 7 per cent, I suppose. But it seems that talking about real-live monkeys with real-live funny problems was never one of the 28. Always in passing…let me show you with the magic of copy and paste.

1. We mentioned monkey chow in an SAT question.
2. We grilled Smith on all his DVDs featuring monkeys.
3. We claimed a monkey with a cold was part of Quality Control Team.
4. We claimed we’d employ typewriter monkeys in 2006.
5. We shuddered that it was as cold outside as a monkey in a snowstorm.
6. We called the French “cheese-eating surrender monkeys.”
7. We talked about Guaddy, the One Accord monkey. He is not a real monkey.
8. We mentioned in passing the disease “monkey feet.”
9. We bribed Harford’s helper monkey into leaking his national anthem.
10. We suggested DC Metro System should have monkey conductors.
11. We referred to gas station attendants as “pumpmonkeys.” That was harsh.
12. A Sonic Deathmonkey reference for our Movie Band Live 8
13. We claimed pro ballplayers all have monkey butlers.
14. We thought monkeypirates might be a good ‘Zine topic.
15. We used the word monkeywrench.
16. We used the word monkeywrench again.
17. A report about monkeys would be a fixture on YABNewsradio.
18. Hey, the CareerBuilder monkey ad made the ’05 Commies.
19. Mr. T called T.O. a jivemonkey in the toaster debate.
20. Typewriter monkeys would be hired if Microsoft bought YAB.
21. Some rant about an omelette-making monkey in our lobby.
22. On CIA agents, I made up a last name for one: Monkeystrummer.
23. Not just pro ballplayers get them; I wanted a monkeybutler, too.
24. Angry monkeys attacked children in India. ANGRY, not funny.
25. We said the Anaheim Angels have the Curse of the Rally Monkey.
26. The aforementioned default funny idea.
27. We decided that monkey terrorists would suck.
28. Yes, the Wicked Witch had flying monkeys.

Two conclusions to draw out of this little exercise.

Monkeys are apparently fit to fill any occupation and do their jobs to the point of hilarity.

YAB sorely needs a funny monkey story.

Stay tuned tomorrow: Day of the Monkey.

The Holy Sacrament of Truncation

“And it came to pass in those days that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized of John in Jordan. And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him: And there came a voice from heaven, saying, Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. And then the voice said, get cracking on those cost reports, Condon.”
- Mark 1: 9-11, sort of

Wikipedia defines having a God complex as “someone who is said to act so arrogantly that he might as well believe he is God or appointed to act by God.” Sufferers from such a psychological malady have included Napoleon Bonaparte, Caligula, and Matthew Lillard’s character in Hackers. Chris Condon is not part of that list, even though he is typing this sentence in the third person. But if he ever were to show up on that list, at least he’s got an alibi.

It’s all in the name.

My full name is Christopher Condon. In the world of standardized electronic forms, someone down the line has to decide the number of characters to provide for people to input the letters of their name. For last names, most forms allot 10-12 spaces. With the last name Condon, I’ve got room to spare.

But the first name, for reasons beyond my perception, is often limited to 8 characters, and on occasions a mere 6 characters. That’s fine; I understand that space is limited on those standard forms. But Christopher is 11 letters long. Which means that when it comes to the data entry world, I’m a perpetual victim of truncation. "Christop" does have a nice ring to it.

But as I’m reminded once every financial period, my company doesn’t have the 8-letter field, only the sixer. The mail guy shows up with my hard copy reports only to reveal the following report header:

DISTRIBUTION ID: 181454J
JOBNAME: JOB COST P13 FY06
RECIPIENT: CHRIST CONDON

Well, hallelujah, my reports are here. Praise the…me!

This hasn’t been the first time in my life that I’ve been mistaken for the Son of God. In elementary school, we’d devote a week in March to taking CAT tests to prove our mettle in word association, math, and language skills. And sure enough, the folks at the California Achievement Testing Board were short on time and spaces, so the six letter first name rule was instituted. But I ask the testing board this – wouldn’t Jesus get a 100% no matter the subject? Didn’t SATAN test Him during his 40 days of fasting, telling him to throw himself from the top of the temple? Yeah, look how well things turned out for the devil. The CATB was very lucky that Christ spared them despite their foolish test.

But I guess there is a flaw. The Bible says that there is only one God. And If I recall, I was in a class with 2 other Christophers, not to mention 1 Christine. Once the holy Sacrament of Truncation is performed, that makes 4 Christs, not 1.

And because I was surrounded my other potential Saviors, I knew from that point I was not in fact Christ, I just share the name. As a result, I do not have a God complex. (But if I could turn the water cooler into a wine cooler, that would rock.)

Wait a minute, wine coolers are for girls.

Shave and a Haircut, 6 BLADES!

There are people out there who make a living as product testers. They examine new offerings from companies, evaluating their marketability, usefulness, and style. In return, they either get a small sum of money or the product itself. Wow, that sounds like a pretty good gig to have in one’s spare time.

Hey Sony! If you need a plasma TV tester, I’m your guy!

Ok, ok, I’m not really expected that to happen. (Sony doesn’t read my blog, as far as I know.) But even if they did, why would they hire a guy who has no experience in the product testing arena? They’d probably expect me to turn their plasma on its side for a makeshift air hockey table (which would be way more convincing if there were ever a hockey game on television.) (I need OLN.)

Well consider this my audition. One of the least liked Super Bowl ads of 2006 ran a few times and baffled the viewing public with each additional appearance. Let me recount their sales pitch.

- Top secret mission in the desert
- Two scientists get out of a chopper with suitcase
- Scientists walk into lab with hi-tech “Fusionator”
- One scientist places cylinder of blue mouthwash in machine
- Other scientist opts for orange juice
- Fusionator turned on and liquids collide
- A new razor is formed.

Um, have you ever combined mouthwash taste with orange juice taste? This did NOT spark images of a pain-free shaving experience.

Anyways, I decided to go to Gilette’s website to get a virtual tour of the new razor with 5 blades. Now I’m not quite sure what the fifth blade provides, since four seemed like overkill. (Moral support, maybe?) But thanks to the interweb, they’ve got answers for all my questions.

As the crazy flash intro breaks the thing down by part, I’ll do the same.

FRONT – As advertised, the thing’s got 5 blades. They’re 30 percent closer to one another than the Mach 3. That’s no technological revolution fellas, that’s standard physics. If I’m in an elevator with 2 other people, and then the door opens and 2 more get on, I’m forced to get closer to everybody. (Warning: Gilette does NOT recommend shaving in a moving elevator.) In addition, there’s a “Flexible Comfort Guard” below the 5 blades to adjust to the contours of the face. Actually, it’s just rubber that’s serving as a placeholder until Gilette can figure out how to get 8 blades on that sucker. Coming for Super Bowl XLI – The Gilette OCTO.

HANDLE – I love that they actually feature the handle as its own technological breakthrough. Dude, it’s got a new gripping surface. Man, that’s good news. My current razor handle is made of popsicle, and I kept dropping the damn thing.

BACK – In the back, there’s another blade called the “Precision Trimmer” that shall be used to trim sideburns, shave under the nose, shape facial hair, and CUT YOU when you forget that it’s even there. Hell, while we’re at it, why doesn’t Gilette tack on “crime deterrent?”

Whoa…wait a minute….(counting)

(1,2,3,4,5……6!) There’s SIX BLADES! Man, that is amazing!

Commercial Success II

2.5 million dollars

Judging from last year’s post Super Bowl blog, it cost companies an additional $100k to get their ads from cutting room to living room this year. Some would be afraid that that extra money to buy the timeslot may cause nervous budget analysts to slash production costs by the approximate same amount, leading to even worse ads than 2005. Looking back in retrospect, last year’s crop of ads was ultimately weak, and it makes last night’s surprisingly strong as a class. However, people don’t remember classes, they remember individuals. The stars. The ones worthy of Top-Ten status.

This was a year of improvement on the part of the advertising industry. Anheuser-Busch avoided out-of-date fall backs, like Cedric the Entertainer or that idiot campaign with the daredevil (Ted Ferguson?) Movies made the presence felt, but as I am starting to realize, this is wasted ad space unless you have serious blockbuster potential. After all, we were privy to trailers for “16 Blocks,” “Running Scared,” and “V for Vendetta,” and the average fan couldn’t even tell you which was which. Also, it is clear that the cola wars ended years ago. Coke hasn’t put up anything in a long time, and based on this year’s Pepsi fiasco (Why, Jay Mohr, why?), Coke may have won sans omission. Granted, the stunt double one wasn’t bad.

Here are the second annual Awards for the Super Bowl Commercial Offering, or for short, the Commies. (As always, any resemblance to a fallen economic and political system is unintentional and completely coincidental.)

Top 10 Commies, 2006

1. Bud Light – “Secret Fridge” – Like the airplane spot of last year, the unexpected comedic turn is what made this excellent. The comedic beer ad has a formula – straight lead-in, comic twist, hilarity, product cut-away, and then back to the scene of the ad for one last joke. The college kids bowing down to the kitchen table is what propelled this to the top of our list.
2. Budweiser – “Young Clydesdale” – Going with the heartwarming angle is always a risky one. But this one improved on the goat idea from a few years back. This wasn’t a low-brow year of ads, which helped this one find footing.
3. FedEx – “Caveman” – Did anyone else notice that the package that needed delivering was a stick? Classic and clever. Best FedEx ad since the pigeons and Danger Zone.
4. Sprint – “Crime Deterrent” – Please tell me someone else saw this one. While America went back for refills and to avoid the Rolling Stones at all costs, a quick ad from Sprint featured two guys in a locker room, with one explaining all the features of his new Sprint phone. Best laugh-out-loud ad there was.
5. Bud Light – “Bear Escape” – Did I mention how glad I am that they’ve retired Cedric the Entertainer? Ending was a little weak, but a strong ad nonetheless.
6. Career Builder – “Sales Forecast” – Last year, I didn’t LOVE the chimp office ads, as it seemed like it was overkill on a perpetually easy comedic staple. This year, they gave the campaign some external funny ideas, such as the sales growth chart and the chimp smoking a cigar using burning $100 bills as kindling. Well done.
7. Ameriquest – “Patient is Dead” – I’m glad Ameriquest led with this one over the airport one, since it had more originality to it. The look on the mother’s face was priceless.
8. Budweiser – “Streaker” – This should have been higher, it really should have. The most original football-theme idea, the sheared sheep could have been an instant classic. But the celebration of the sheep detracted from the spot a bit. I hope this campaign continues for a long time.
9. MasterCard – “MacGyver” – It’s such a shame that so few people recognized him. The checkout part of the commercial was the best part.
10. ESPN Mobile – “Sports Heaven” – This refers to the 60 second version. Not a funny ad, I’m just a sucker for good production. Very well staged.
11. Joseph Stalin.

The Martin LAW-rence Theory

Just because it’s part of my last name, I don’t own a condo…

Martin Lawrence has made a very nice living in Hollywood in his last 15 years in the entertainment biz. He had a very successful sitcom, has gotten his stand-up routine to the silver screen on two different occasions, was the initial host of Def Comedy Jam, and was even engaged very briefly to the great Lark Voorhies. (So sorry, Screech.) But while all of those feats are indeed impressive resume-padders, his current state in life finds him as a movie star. This weekend, his “Big Momma’s House 2” is the incumbent champ at the box office. But we here in the YAB Moviehouse feel that this is as good a time as any to introduce a startling trend in this comedian’s ascent to cinematic stardom.

It’s the Martin LAW-rence Theory.

Funny men can mean big business at the box office time and time again. Most of them reinvent themselves with new characters each go-round. Ben Stiller has played every thing from a Dodgeball monster to a male model assassin. Jim Carrey has gone from pet detective to Count Olaf. Hell, even Chris Rock has gone from a wanna-be thug rapper to whatever he was in the crappy flick with Eugene Levy (all I remember is “Tiger Woods Y’all!”) But Martin Lawrence? He’s stays well within his comfort zone: crime. Of the 11 movies Lawrence has made in which he was the star, he has played a criminal or an officer of the law an astounding:

NINE TIMES.

9 out of 12. That’s remarkable. That means if you are flipping channels and come across Martin Lawrence bringing the funny, there’s an 75 percent chance he’s either running from the law or attempting to enforce it. And this isn’t an issue of typecasting either. No, no. Because each character approaches his profession from a slightly different angle (save sequels, of course.) I shall let the following evidence of such statistical anomalies speak for itself.

Martin Lawrence is a cop!
Bad Boys (1995) – Lawrence plays Mike Lowery, a Miami detective. Teams with Will Smith on a mission to reclaim a heroin shipment.
Big Momma’s House (2000) – Now Lawrence is an FBI agent assigned to witness protection. And the only way to protect said witness is to dress up in an old lady fat suit. Comic genius!
Bad Boys II (2003) – The nice thing about sequels is that the main characters rarely change professions. Another detective role. Shocker.
Big Momma’s House 2 (2006) – Once you go sequel, you never go back. FBI agent, part deux!

Martin Lawrence is a criminal!
Nothing to Lose (1997) – As car jacker, Lawrence’s T. Paul thinks he’s at the top of his game. Enter Tim Robbins as a co-conspirator. Exit credibility.
Life (1999) – Stuck in jail with life imprisonment, Martin’s a bad criminal. Why? Because he got caught.
What’s the Worst that Could Happen? (2001) – Good God, how many jewel thieves can one guy play?

Martin Lawrence does both!
Blue Streak (1999) – Looks like the screenwriters are getting tricky. Lawrence plays a jewel thief (CRIMINAL!) who after his jail sentence looks to recover a diamond he hid – in the police station! For the rest of the movie, he poses as a POLICE OFFICER! Pure genius.
National Security (2003) – First he’s a cop. Then he gets kicked out. Then he becomes a security guard. Then he solves a crime. Then he ends up with stolen goods. Then he runs from the law. Then he saves the day for the good guys. My head hurts.

9 out of 12. Good enough for a theory.

Famous Pennsylvanian Not Named Bettis

Well it’s about time YABNews got their act together and actually reported something…

Our sources are telling us that today, on Groundhog Day, America’s annual tradition of completely casting off the abilities and education of meteorology professionals in favor of a glorified rodent in a hole in the ground, has come and gone, and it does not look good on the horizon. (After reading that last sentence, I realize I kind of made it sound that the groundhog predicted the apocalypse. YABNews tends to be a little sensationalistic during fiscal year end.)

The idea is simple. If the Almighty Groundhog of Pennsylvania, Punxsutawney Phil, comes out of his hole to cloudy skies, he does not see his shadow and proceeds with his day unafraid (that is, if the 50,000 bystanders don’t scare the complete hell out of him). This means spring is soon approaching. On the other hand, if the sun is shining and causes Phil to see his shadow, he’ll freak out and run back into his home, fearing that shadows somehow are equivalent to six more weeks of winter. Regardless of his prediction, it’s a guaranteed certainty that a fat guy in a top hat and long coat will pick him up by the torso and hold him up for the frozen faithful to see.

Personally, I would hate if that happened to me every time I made a forecast in my job. “Hey Chris, you have predicted a budget over run of 60k! Hey everybody! This guy did his job like he’s supposed to! Everybody look at him as I sway him to and fro!” This is a blatant misuse of managerial positive reinforcement philosophy. Thank God we don’t treat pro athletes this way.

(Or do we?)

Here are top 3 things that YABNews finds as a little strange concerning Groundhog Day:

1 – Does this method of forecasting seem COMPLETE BACKWARDS to anyone else? Groundhog sees the shadow (which means it’s sunny), that’s six more weeks of winter. Groundhog sees no shadow (which means it’s a crappy, cold, cloudy February morning) and that means spring will be here soon? Imagine if I had predicted the Oscar nominations with that logic. “Well, I hear Stealth was the flimsiest story of the last 5 years, so that’s a lock for Best Picture. It will have some tough competition with Son of the Mask.” I would say we should get some actual educated weather folk on the scene, but life has a tendency to repeat itself.

2 – Little know fact: Chris Condon has actually been to Punxsutawney. And from my travels, I know one thing is for sure. Phil has been predicting a hazy shade of winter since 1886. Now unless Phil was a Galapagos turtle (and thus making the “coming out of the hole” an all-day event), this little guy is not the same one that was being pulled out of a hole some 120 years ago. I know this for a fact.

For 364 mornings of the year, Phil wakes up not in a natural habitat, but in a glass case in the Punxsutawney Local Library. They take good care of him there, giving him some of the eddentials – food, water, OTHER GROUNDHOGS TO PLAY WITH. Yes, friends, Phil is actually “Phils,” as there are 3-4 of the little guys as they just pick the most frisky one that morning and throw him down the hole. It’s rigged in every way.

3 – According to Wikipedia, Phil doesn’t want have the prediction throne all to himself. There are others vying for the glory, and according to Wikipedia, their 2006 results are split.

6 more weeks of winter — Punxsutawney Phil, Buckeye Chuck
Early Spring — Wiarton Willie, General Beauregard Lee, Staten Island Chuck, Shubenacadie Sam, Jimmy the Groundhog

Ah, old “Jimmy the Groundhog.” Would have been funnier if his name was Sue. Then we could hold him liable for false predictions.

NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY

Still muddled in the midst of our year-end close, getting out of bed is admittedly harder each morning. Until all of this documentation as per governance regulations goes away (Thank you very much, Mr. Sarbane and Mr. Oxley. I hate you both.), there’s nothing more that I want to do than stay under the covers. In the morning at the Casa de Condon, Katie gets up first (she has to get her teach on way earlier than me) and then I follow suit. Once she vacates the shower, it’s my turn. Fiddle-dee-dee.

But today was no ordinary day. I had a welcome surprise awaiting me.

It’s NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY!

Don’t get the wrong idea. By declaring today NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY, I am not admitting to blowing off an afternoon of work to catch One Life to Live and General Hospital. I’m a working man, and I don’t have time for mid-afternoon drama. (Although, I think it would be hysterical if we had a ranking officer in the military whose name was something like Gen. James H. Hospital. NO ONE would take him seriously. I guess he could always delegate responsibilities to Captain Crunch.)

No, NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY is the day in the recurring toiletry cycle when it’s ok to break a new bar of soap out of the package for daily use. There’s nothing finer that a brand new bar of soap. I’d expound on this, but before you can find out where you’re going, you need blog about where you’ve been.

At the end of the life cycle of a bar of soap, it’s a pretty sad state of affairs. Once a proud contributing member of the hygiene society, the soap bar has been reduced to a shriveled, small, soap dish tenant with little self-respect. In those waning days of effective life, the soap has become no wider than a paper clip, more slippery than an ice cube, and so sharp on the edges, you better be stocking band-aids in the shower. God forbid you try and clean under those fingernails. That type of soap will cut you with the fury of a thousand papercuts.

What’s more, the size of the dying soap bar does not make it easy to use. When it’s no bigger than a cracker, how exactly are you supposed to apply the soap? Hold it with four fingers around its edges? If you apply any pressure with those fingers, it’s going to find the same fate that the cracker would. Crumbled pieces, on the floor.

(And there’s nothing more fun that having the drain clogged with fallen soap shards.)

But there is hope. For all of the pain and hassle you had to go through utilizing that old soap bar in its waning moments, you will be rewarded on (you guessed it) NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY. A brand new bar of Irish Spring waited for me on the newly vacated soapdish this morning.

And it was great.The ability of a bar of soap to fill out your entire grip, still have that new-soap smell (this is how I picture the entire nation of Ireland to smell, by the way), and knowing you don’t have to ration your suds throughout the shower – this all can turn around what was seeming to be a rough morning. But there is one caveat when it comes to NEW SOAP WEDNESDAY.

If you drop it, it’s going to hurt your toes a lot more than its predecessor.

Cond-nominations 2006

In the world of track and field, sometimes the final score of a meet wasn’t the most important stat. Sure, it’s nice to win as a team, but when you personally only have control of the outcome in maybe 3-4 events, and your fat-guy throwing team is an annual liability, you can only hope for the best. Total points become less important. However, the idea of the PR – that never gets old.

PR, which is short for personal record, is a number that will stay with you, that is, until you manage to beat it. I will always know my best 110 high hurdle time was 15.08. And that was 7 years ago. Recalling my Cond-nomination Oscar Prediction PR is not as difficult: it was only last year. Mike Nordberg (the proprietor of Nordblog) did the mathwork for me: 83% correct, or 33 out of 40. Let’s see if we can set a new PR with this year’s predictions, which will be revealed tomorrow morning. (Hey Engineerberg, I’m counting on you to do the math again.)

Best Picture
Brokeback Mountain
Crash
Good Night, and Good Luck
Munich
Walk the Line

This is my first big surprise. Most predix I’ve seen have had Capote as a lock. After seeing it, I’m not as convinced. I just don’t see voters rocking the vote for that one.

Best Actor
Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Capote
Terrence Howard, Hustle and Flow
Heath Ledger, Brokeback Mountain
Joaquin Phoenix, Walk the Line
David Straithairn, Good Night, and Good Luck

Russell Crowe could sneak in here, but I feel like Cinderella Man was realeased eleventy billion years ago, causing Academy members to forget. Please don’t hurt me, Maximus.

Best Actress
Joan Allen, The Upside of Anger
Judi Dench, Mrs. Henderson Presents
Felicity Huffman, Transamerica
Charlize Theron, North Country
Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line

I actually saw the Upside of Anger back in March. Wasn’t a huge fan of the flick, but this was a strong leading performance from Joan Allen. Wild card, indeed.

Best Supporting Actor
George Clooney, Syriana
Matt Dillon, Crash
Paul Giamatti, Cinderella Man
Jake Gyllenhaal, Brokeback Mountain
William Hurt, A History of Violence

Last year I picked Alan Alda because he looked like Nordberg’s dad. This year I’m picking William Hurt. Does anybody’s dad look like William Hurt?

Best Supporting Actress
Amy Adams, Junebug
Maria Bello, A History of Violence
Catherine Keener, Capote
Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener
Michelle Williams, Brokeback Mountain

I have seen a total of one of the movies in which these five ladies were in. If I ace this one, may I go to Atlantic City and let it ride.

Best Director
George Clooney, Good Night, and Good Luck
Paul Haggis, Crash
Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain
Bennett Miller, Capote
Steven Spielberg, Munich

Let’s see, we’ve got an actor, a writer, a rookie, a crouching tiger, and the guy who made Private Ryan. Eclectic indeed. (Maybe I should have gone Cronenberg.)

Best Adapted Screenplay
Brokeback Mountain
Capote
The Constant Gardener
A History of Violence
Munich

Even this was Best Adopted Screenplay, Baby Geniuses 2 ain’t coming home with me…

Best Original Screenplay
Cinderella Man
Crash
Good Night, and Good Luck
Match Point
The Squid and the Whale

We’ll see you in the morning, Oscar.

Ducks Fly Together?

Oh, how the Mighty have fallen.

Back in 1993, the Stanley Cup contending Detroit Red Wings found themselves opening the season staring across the red line at a brand new team, wearing a brand new logo, and playing in a brand new arena, known by the local fans simply as the “Pond.” For the new Anaheim franchise was owned by the Walt Disney Company and with naming right firmly intact, they decided to create an homage to the District Five legacy and name the team…

The Anaheim Mighty Ducks.

From a business standpoint, it made sense. If Disney is going to own professional sports teams, then why not tie them in with other aspects of their entertainment empire? The briefly owned baseball’s Angels – tying them in with Angels in the Outfield (arguably Adrien Brody’s finest work.) And I have to think that if it hadn’t been such a big international Olympic story, Disney could have funded the Jamaican Bobsled Team with such obscene cash that they wouldn’t mind being called Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Initially, I’m sure there was some hesitation from the players, but concessions were made. Paul Kariya, their first draft pick ever went on to film killer cameos in D2 and D3, and the other rookies got to go on an equipment shopping spree at Hans’ store all on the tab of Mr. Ducksworth. And for 13 years now, the Anaheim Mighty Ducks have competed with pride and honor, displaying their faith in waterfowl for a mascot.

But now, Yahoo! is reporting that a name change is on the horizon. Shortly after the Mighty Ducks lost to the New Jersey Devils in the Stanley Cup Finals, Disney sold the team to Henry Samueli. Samueli, while having extraneous I’s in his last name (it’s spelled Samuel, dufus), lacks vision for the Mighty Ducks. He is looking to start over with the team, and has announced that come the 2006-2007 season, they will drop “MIGHTY” from their name. He’s got the players giving sound bites on the positives of becoming the Anaheim Ducks. Just great.

If I’m a player on a rival team, let’s say the San Jose Sharks, I’m feeling pretty good about being a Shark and I know that if a Shark and a Duck meet in a dark alley (ok, a dark, water-filled alley), I’m going to shred that Duck. But say that this is a Mighty Duck I’m trying to stare down, well then, it’s not so easy then. That “Mighty” is what gives me a reason to fret a bit. After all, I’m just a Shark. I’m not a Mighty Shark.

What would Gordon Bombay say, Mr. Samueli?

Actually, I know exactly what he’d say.

Have you guys ever seen a flock of ducks flying in perfect formation? It's beautiful. Pretty awesome the way they all stick together. Ducks never say die. Ever seen a duck fight? No way. Why? Because the other animals are afraid. They know that if they mess with one duck, they gotta deal with the whole flock. Oh, man! I'm proud to be a duck. And I'd be proud to fly with any one of you. So how about it? Who's a Duck?

(Fulton: I'll be a Duck.)
(Charlie: Yeah. Me too.)

Bombay :Now we're the Ducks! The MIGHTY Ducks!

Don’t make that mistake, Mr. Samueli.

Fighter Jets and Yardwork

I can’t believe I’m actually opening up Microsoft Word to attempt a blog right now. Granted, I missed yesterday (which I plan to make up over the weekend, I was kind enjoying being only 14 back…) and today is no different in amount of stuff I need to get accomplished, but as loyal readers, you deserve something for your lazy Friday while I’m doing what I can to break my neck (without any actual neck breakage).

That’s figurative right there.

For those of you in the corporate world, at some point you surely experience what I am going through as we speak. Business is so incredibly cyclical, I half-expect Lance Armstrong to wheel by my corridor. Financing activities get repeated every four weeks. (Doesn’t it seem like the same goes for LOST episodes?) Financial periods come 12-13 at a time. But at some point it has to end. All of it. Throw a stick in the spokes of progress, mark down the final score, and start fresh when you come to work on Monday. There’s a term for this in the business world, and it haunts me in my sleep.

FISCAL. YEAR. END.

What does this all mean, I’m sure you’re asking. To put it simply, there is one day every year that is designated as the moment in which all work must be caught up and booked. Let’s use an analogy here. For 12 months a year, let’s pretend that each cost and piece of data is a leaf. At the end of every month, you need to rake the leaves. As long as they get into proper bags, you can use estimation to tell your boss (we’ll call him Leafmaster L) how many leaves you think are there and how much they weigh.

(Sidenote: the analogical equivalent of the neighborhood kids jumping in your leaf piles is ultimately a hard drive crash.)

But at year end, leaf piles and bags aren’t going to cut it. And the leaves can’t be raked either. They must be individually weighed, measured, filed, and sorted into a warehouse of leafboxes (probably the size of shoeboxes, I’ve never been to one) so that the Leaf Archive Department can report to Leafmaster L’s boss.

Got it?

Now come Monday, I’ll have to help the archiving department by filing my final financial numbers for the fiscal year. In a completely separate analogy, this is like being in the cockpit of a fighter jet, in an attempt to land the thing on an aircraft carrier. 11 months of the year this is smooth sailing, you could even request permission to buzz the tower i.e make a bold projection. (Negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full.)

But in Period 13 on the eve of a new fiscal year, it’s not a standard flight. You’re coming in too high, then too low, then too straight (how is that even possible?). Wind is blowing your projections (and those damned leaves) all over the place. With a new deadline every four hours, you’re lucky to remember to put down your landing gear. At some point (which I expect to be about two hours from now,) you just have to close your eyes and use the force. Press the “Land” button.

And then pray you didn’t accidentally press “Fire Photon Torpedoes.”

I'd Like to Make a Revelation for One

Back in June, I gloated about the scary accuracy I exhibited in predicting statistics of an idle Phillies-Brewers baseball game, which I saw in person in the City of Brotherly Glove. At the time, I would have called it the Godfather Part II of my prediction history. But taking recent revelations into account, it makes that fortune-telling look like Caddyshack 2.

*shudder*

Now the Phils’ example held little impact on the world. Had I know, I could have made a little cash on the side, but I’ve failed to repeat that feat and would ultimately cost myself serious dough (and everybody I know Christmas presents this past year). But as you read the below true story, be advised that I’ve apparently channeled something fierce from a nether-dimension. All Donnie Darko-like and stuff.

Two nights ago, I spent the final hours of the night (4-6am) in a lighter state of slumber. There are two advantages to this. First, you wake up periodically, only to find out you can sleep longer. It seems that it’s only time to get up when you are completely dead to the world, so this transitory sleeping state allows you to have such an illusion. Secondly, being so close to consciousness allows one to remember and recall their dreams with startling clarity.

Look into my crystal ball.

The last dream I had that fateful night was set at my desk at work. (so sad, I know) A co-worker of mine was sitting in my guest chair across from me. Now this was an actual person with an actual identity, not some weird dream-infused character like the Hamburglar or Gheorghe Muresan. I’ve known this person for 3 years, and have developed a good working relationship. (Hamburglar and I, for the record, would make terrible co-workers. I just can’t handle when your food disappears from the dept. fridge, and that guy’s a prime candidate.)

So we’re sitting there in my dream and my co-worker explains that she’s decided to leave the company. I remember something about her saying she no longer wants to work full-time, and has decided to spend time at home with her kids and teach some religious classes in the fall (this person is Jewish, so I guess my dream was thinking Hebrew School.) I recall something about apologizing for the sudden announcement, but it was “just time to move on.”

Apparently it was “just time to move on” for me, as my damn alarm clock freaked out shortly thereafter.

When I woke up, I thought it was cool that I could remember what I had just dreamt. It rarely happens, and most of my archived dreams are from childhood, which I only remember because they come up in conversation every now and then.

Flash forward (my morning commute is boring.)

At a staff meeting at about 3 in the afternoon, among other announcements, my supervisor informed us that the very employee I had this premonition about had resigned earlier in the day. She had chose to leave because of another job opportunity up in Baltimore, and that he knew little else.

HOLY CRAP.

I wonder if there are Hebrew Schools in Baltimore.

Down with the Mancharge

Budget Cutting Method #72 – Textbook Shopping

Now as a student, the Man doesn’t play a huge role in your education. You know that you go to college so that you may gain skills so at some point you can go work for the Man, but for the most part, he leaves you alone while you wax academic in your classrooms of choice. As long as you mind your business, enjoy your time in college, and don’t get all fussied up to protest some cause on the President’s Lawn, the Man will leave you be. After all, the Man is busy making cell phone commercials.

But there is one place on campus that the Man reigns supreme: the college bookstore.

I can’t imagine that there is a single university that has strayed from the Man’s model of the ideal college bookstore. It is designed to be a sterile, unfriendly place. It suffers from an extreme lack of character, is often cold, and is wall-to-wall books. The stock of such an establishment differs greatly from the inventories of your local Borders or Barnes and Noble. How are these book’s pre-selected to avoid those retail outlets?

More boredom for your buck.

The Man likes to stack his books horizontally, as opposed to the traditional vertical book spine configuration. Some would say that is how he divides what you need to purchase for each course. I would say it is so that the knowledge contained within becomes flat more quickly, and would be equivalent to partially unscrewing the caps of soda bottles to release carbonation. Anything cool that could have been in those books is DOA when you get back to your room.

As for pricing, you can take the Manufacturer’s Suggest Retail Price (MSRP), add a 6% boredom tax, and a 19% The Man Surcharge (Mancharge), and that’s how they get their pricing. I guarantee that your textbooks are more overpriced than Google’s stock. And $587.32 later (EACH SEMESTER), who can we thank for such a monetary whacking? Yes. The Man.

Well, I’ve had it.

I am in grad school to finely tune my skills in the areas of finance and commerce. And even if I retain little from my coursework, I can say I’ve gotten something out of my travails in MBA-land. For I have beaten The Man by seeking ways around him.

(He’s a man of great girth.)

Let’s say you have a textbook that costs $190. (And I do.) Now going to an online vendor of popular appeal (amazon, Borders) may get that book down to $170. Going to a wholesaler online maybe even drop that to $155. But I don’t want to learn $155 worth of new venture initation, even if the book was WRITTEN BY MY PROFESSOR. I’m ok with putting a price on knowledge, and I guarantee it’s not $155.

www.half.com is just the place to stick it to the Man.

So what if I have to wait for my books to come in from Wyoming? So what if they’re called “International Edition”? So what if they are soft cover and too tall to fit on a standard shelf? So what if the vendor was “jazzybooks83”? I paid 62 dollar for a 190 dollar book. And I’ve stuck it to the Man.

Renegade Bakery

Bagel, I don’t even know who you are anymore.

Oftentimes, when I know for sure that my stomach will not allow me to make it to lunch without appeasement, I’ll head down to the cafeteria (site of last week’s donut stampede) for a bagel. Now it’s a simple menu selection, I know, to get a bagel. They appear to be fresh on a daily basis, and serves as a solid palette on which to alternate peanut butter or cream cheese. Plain bagel. That’s how I roll.

You don’t expect much when you plan on eating a plain bagel. There won’t be poppy seeds all over your desk. There’s no additional flavoring that could fight the cream cheese taste and send you into a dizzying taste bud mistake. And because so many other people prefer something a bit more complex, it’s guaranteed there will be at least one available, even when you wait until mid-morning to grab some breakfast. But one thing I do expect my plain bagel to abide by is that is picks its friends wisely.

The plight of a plain bagel is sad, really. You live about 6 hours, and your path in life is either ingestion or ad hoc hockey puck (ad hockey puck?) The only time you get to make friends is by sitting in the bagel bin waiting for a suitor. Parents expect their children to pick their friends wisely. I expect my plain bagel to do the same. And sadly, I’ve been let down.

My bagel has been hanging out with Onion Bagel.

Onion Bagel is the renegade on the block. In most neighborhoods, he’s kept completely separate from the other bagels on reputation alone. Regular bagels don’t car pool with Onion Bagel. If you decide to take Onion Bagel home as your own, as well as some other Bagels, he’s kept in a completely different bag. He comes from a completely different type of household – one in which a mother with breakfast food ancestry mates with one from the vegetable clan. And this is not the sweet smell of cross-food-pyramidial love. The offspring, Onion Bagel, is for lack of a better word, odiferous.

The influence that Onion Bagel wields is very attractive to the other bagels. He’s the morningfood version of the kid with the leather jacket, earring, and the torn jeans. Onion Bagel does not mess with cream cheese or peanut butter. He’s confident enough that he brings enough taste to the show that he doesn’t get partnered with one of those condiment-dweebs on the school field trips to my breakfast plate.

In my experience, Plain Bagels are raised to be honor students. They don’t get involved in the shadier dealings of the bakery. But this morning, Onion Bagel’s influence was as present as ever, as he must have convinced the café workers to let him hang with the other kids. And now as I sit here at my desk with my newly adopted plain bagel, there’s something different about him. Not by sight, or taste, or touch, either. This is olfactory.

He’s definitely friends with Onion Bagel.

I'm coming for you, Philbin.

An excerpt from a discussion I had earlier today…

“When I need to go into a meeting when I vendor that I’m ticked at will be present, it’s like I need something to do just before that enrage me enough to bring my actual feelings back to the surface so that they know how much they annoy me. Like having some video saved on my desktop of a play where my favorite team was cost a game by some egregious call made by the ref. Now THAT would be ideal for the situation.”

A few seconds later, it hit me. I’ve never used the word egregious in conversation before. Where did that come from?

In fact, I didn’t even think I knew what egregious meant. I never remember taking the time to actively seek out its definition. It’s not a necessarily complex word, reserved for the higher minds, but it is a bit unusual. The first thing the local Webster’s to at least ensure I used it properly (despite having no previous knowledge it was part of my vocabulary:

e-gre-gious. adj. conspicuously bad or offensive.

Ok, so I nailed it. That’s a relief. I would have hated for it to meant something like “booty.” (That would have changed the above sentence completely.) But this leaves me puzzled. Just where do people pick up words that they have no idea of their origin, only for them to be revealed years later?

My first guess, of course, lies with the SATs. This word just has that feel to it, you know? Like at some point nine years ago you stared at it long enough on a test that would likely determine your future for the next four years in some stupid analogy, that while it didn’t make any sense at the time, it’s come back to prove its worth. In fact, I think I can remember the exact question, laced with other meaningless words.

vociferous: copious as ebullient: ?
a) egregious
b) verisimilitude
c) acquiesce
d) monkey chow

I picked D.

But after a little research, I have found that egregious was Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day for August 29, 2005. Looking back to the post with that date, it appears that I was busy ripping the local sportstalk station for their egregious conclusion regarding the SATAN 81 jersey. Coincidence?

Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the perfect use of the word to officially add it to the rambling wreck that is my speech patterning. Then again, maybe I just have a subconscious urge to cause harm to a popular daytime talk show host and just EGG REGIS.

Only time will tell.