Zen Pickle

I’ve never shown such devotion to a relative of the vegetable family before. But then after writing a business plan for New Venture Initiation last night, my brain is operating at about the same brainwave capacity of rutabega.

No matter what time of the day it is, it just may be a pretty good time to push back from your desk/TV/XBox, and grab yourself a snack. Do it. You know you want to.

The outside world is constantly putting pressure on the people of today’s society to do the complete opposite of what YAB has encouraged above. Snacks are the work of the devil, they say. Diets can lead you to a happy life where photographs of you are always displayed side-by-side so onlookers can see how skinny you’ve become! (Note: results may vary.) People like Chuck Norris and Brooke Burke have crazy contraptions to help you out even if you do decide to heed YAB’s advice! We live in a health-conscious world, and snacks are not for those who conform!

But wait, there’s hope!

If you need a snack that’s delicious, nutritious, and non-fictitious, then we wish you’d consider the almighty pickle.

Yes, the pickle.

First, let’s get the “Health is Great!” side out of the way. According to the back of a jar of Mt. Olive whole dill pickles, the approximate number of calories in each Vlassical Snackable is, GASP, zero. Not a single calorie, no matter the girth of the super-sized gherkin. Mr. Norris, if you are reading, please note this fact for the record. YAB is not promoting gluttony. We’re doing are part to slim America.

The topic came to mind when I saw a co-worker washing out a large empty jar that formerly held pickles in the office kitchen yesterday. It was a modest size, some 20 ounces or so. Probably held individual spears that she ate with her sandwich at lunch. I got all nostalgic to the days when I enjoyed such a snack with such regularity. Why no more, you may ask?

Wegman’s doesn’t carry them.

Well, not exactly. They carry pickles, sure. However, they fail to package them in the best possible container – the 128 oz. massive jar of dill pickles. There’s no other way to fly. When I lived in the Random Run, Spud and I used to keep these massive vases as trophies. (Last time I checked, there’s about 12 to gawk at up on top of the cabinets.) Needless to say, that’s a lot of pickles. (Grand total calories = Still Zero.)

How does such a snack carry such great taste AND sensibility??

The year was 2000. The apartment was Governor’s Square. And the weapon of choice was a pickle. For some reason, on our way out the door, Spud ran back to his room to retrieve something. For some other reason, the pickles were left out on the countertop, inches from where I was standing. (Don’t worry folks, pickles are OH-KAY at room temp, too.) Call it spontaneity; I can’t quite explain why I pulled one spear out and winged a wicked knucklecurve of a vegetable at Spud when he exited his room and into the dimmed hallway.

And I certainly can’t explain without even looking, he caught it and fired back.

And now, your pickle of ZEN.

Turning Monopoly into Candyland

I hate publicity stunts.

Everybody likes a competition. The pitting of rivals against one another, in the name of conquest and victory, has become the tell-tale sign that American would prefer Equality, as long they play to ten and have to win by two. Sports are the best representation of this phenomenon, and racing strangers on the interstate isn’t far behind. But rather than take the competitive spirit into your own hands, Madison Avenue has thought that they would keep score for you.

YAB has made no secret of its belief that a certain “melt-in-your-mouth” delectable should all be colored RED for their political leanings. But while M&Ms may have rubbed elbows with Khrushchev with the Blue additions, it was the American people that voted them into office. Hell, they would even go on to win a 600,000 vote run-off to be declared America’s favorite ad campaign icon. While the Land of the Free has been able to avoid a second Cold War, a different agenda of the M&M comrades has seeped through our defenses.

General Public Voting Ad Campaigns.

This is when a company, seeking a popularity boost, decides to change their product in a convoluted method of extreme makeover. Changing a product is a difficult thing to do. You risk alienating your loyal customer base, and until the new product hits the market, it’s a complete crapshoot no matter how much market research you did. (New Coke, we’re looking in your general direction here…)

However, America loves competition, and the ad wizards behind M&Ms were quick to realize that. M&Ms are now forever tainted pink, and other companies are following suit with widespread voting sweepstakes that will get the American public talking about their flat-lining product soon enough.

Hasbro, say it ain’t so.

The king of board games (short of Jasen Andersen), Hasbro has made a living of making regular toys, like Mr. Potato Head (but then again, a potato that wears a hat and has Picasso-like interchangeability is anything but regular.) With several successful product lines, they scrounged up the cash to buy all the biggies in the board game racket, from Milton Bradley to both Parker Brothers. And now that they have one, Hasbro has taken their Monopoly and decided to screw with the formula.

Over the summer of 2006, the real estate on Uncle Pennybags’ block is undergoing an exercise in rezoning. With a vote out to the American public, Hasbro has decided to give new names to all the properties on the Monopoly board. And rather than keep them Atlantic City-centric, each of the 22 properties will be a landmark from Hasbro’s 22 pre-selected American cities.

Sorry, Baltimore. No dice.

The public is left to decide which of the three proposed landmarks will make the board. For example, DC has the Washington and Lincoln Memorials and the White House. (The ‘House currently leads.) But for places like Cleveland, the choices are more obscure. Northcoast Harbor? Euclid Ave? Jacobs Field? I’m all for baseball parks being called American landmarks, but unless your name is Wrigley, Fenway, or the House that Ruth built, you better not be on my Monopoly board.

I declared M&Ms communist because changing the colors was completely un-American. What happens when the Game of Capitalism does the same?

Easy. The world implodes.

Just like Ng's Percussion

(Wiki Wiki!)

Throughout the history of YAB, the slacker news desk has oft relied on the good folks at Wikipedia for fact-checking, research, and all-around encyclopedically-sound information. Is this a sound practice? We don’t know. After all, Wikipedia is a miltilingual Web-based free content encyclopedia, written collaboratively by volunteers. (By the way, we got that official-sounding definition by looking up the word “Wikipedia” on…Wikipedia. Genius.)

So far it has not led us awry in the reporting of the funny and the bringing of the news. (Strike that. Reverse it.) Hell, someone out there chose to add Oscar Sunday to the list of tributes on Wiki’s Lazy Sunday page. Now anyone can add information but there is clearly an editor lurking in the wings that translates random people’s cyberbabble into succinct and informative encyclopedia entries.

I would be terrible at that job.

But I got a joke e-mail today that caught my curiosity and I therefore hit the Wiki for some background. It read as follows:

“Larry LaPrise, the man that wrote "The Hokey Pokey" died peacefully at the age of 93 today. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin. They put his left leg in. And then the trouble started.”

Two things jump out at me when I read something like this. One: puns were God’s invention to teach comedians humility. Two: there’s no way this is a new joke. If a joke based on current events hits your inbox, be cautious. The factual information behind the funny cannot be accepted as fully true. Poor Larry is no exception. While this may have got a nice cube-ville chuckle, the dude has been dead since 1996.

When investigating such a crime against comedy, Snopes.com is always a decent place to start. E-mails scams to urban legends, this site catalogs and separates the funny and frightening from the fake. But in the case of this joke, the well ran dry and to confirm my suspicion, I went to Wikipedia.

(By the way, I’m not the guy who replies to all in order to shoot down a good-natured attempt to spread office humor – I just like to know these things for personal edification.)

According to Wikipedia, my hypothesis was correct – he’s still dead. And there hasn’t been a resurrection followed by a subsequent death in the last few days in order for the joke to be relevant again.

But I did learn something else interesting about the crazy fad song that apparently is what it’s all about.

Not only did Larry LaPrise is credited with penning this lyrical classic, so are his writing partners Charles Macak and Tafit Baker. They were granted the copyright in 1950.

Yes, it took three whole people to write the Hokey Pokey. Wow.

Sports Lance Can Do Other than Jousting

This week, the New York Daily News reported that 7-time winner of the Tour de France (that’s French for the Tour of France) Lance Armstrong has agreed to participate in the New York Marathon this November. When YABNews first got a hold of this, we thought that America had finally found a way to pull even with our Cold War rival Kenya in the running game.

But then we found out Lance not planning to use his bike.

So maybe he’s not a contender to win the thing, considering drafting in such a race only results in stepping on other people’s heels. That’s okay. Armstrong has done remarkable things for cancer research with his LiveStrong charity, as well as popularizing yellow bracelets as a fashion statement. Lance, if you’re reading, stop it. You have a marathon to train for.

Jim Brown. Bo Jackson. Deion Sanders. Michael Jordan? And now Lance Armstrong.

Two sport athletes are in rare air these days. Franchises are hesitant to allow their investment properties to play elsewhere in the off-season, only to roll their collective ankles when pulling down a tough offensive rebound. I can understand this completely. But just because huge salaries and non-participatory clauses exist in contracts doesn’t mean that YAB cannot dream. And since YAB is really just Condon, who has no problem with sleeping, there’s plenty of opportunity for YAB dreams.

Here is a list of other universally-known athletes and where the might find their second calling in another sport…

Tiger Woods – Ice Hockey – Look, Happy Gilmore didn’t seem to have a problem with going from the ice to the green, so why can’t the world’s greatest golfer do the reverse. He’d be a defenseman with a killer drive from the point, wear Nike gear from head-to-toe, and we’ll even let Buick get a free ad on the dasher boards. We’ll also place him on the Atlanta Thrashers so he can get a round in at Augusta every now and then.

Shaquille O’Neal – Rodeo - Aside from his oddly-funny sense of humor, Shaq’s best attribute is his size. Standing at 7’1” and 325 pounds, I would pay to see a bull just try to get the Diesel off its back. He could completely redefine the sport. Barry Bonds could have been an option here, but they don’t make cowboy hats for Size 34 heads. And in addition, this is a better option than Kazaam 2: Back to the Minors.

David Beckham – Cricket – Look, he’s done everything there is to do in soccer (you know, other than win the World Cup) He’s more recognizable than the Queen in England, and it’s time that he give some love to the other popular sport in the United Kingdom. I don’t understand a damn thing about cricket, but we could start calling his wife “Wicked Googly Spice.”

Brett Favre – Tennis – Seems to have that whole back-and-forth thing down pat. And I would love to see a Lambeau leap into the first row of Wimbledon.

Terrell Owens – Baseball – Oh, wait nevermind. There’s no crying in baseball.

Throw 'em the Heater

It’s well-documented on YAB that I’m not averse to falling asleep in low places. Or high places. Or any places. Face it; I’m the Narco Milicic of the National Bedtime Association. Don’t believe me? Check here. Or here. Or even here.

No less well-documented is my love of movies as a hobby. There’s the DVD collection, and the movie posters in my apartment. There’s the movie trivia, and the Oscar Party. And even down there to the right (it’s ok, you can scroll) is a list of the last five flicks I saw, courtesy of the Film Critic. (By the way, the Wedding Date was just ‘on’ when I was getting ready for the day in Williamsburg. And since I couldn’t find Sports Center, well, I watched it. And to re-capture some masculinity I went out into the hotel lobby and hung some drywall and downed some bourbon.)

Today is where the well-documented COLLIDE.

Sleeping through movies.

The esteemed scholar of Slackerology, Chris Nordberg, once said that if you ever wanted Condon to fall asleep, all you had to do was put in a movie. That's true – on a couch. But going to a movie theater is a completely different atmosphere. The seats are more up-right, there’s popcorn to be eaten, and I’m not supporter of paying $9.50 for my naps.

Over at the aforementioned Film Critic, I have given 0-5 star ratings to 476 movies. They range from my all-time favorites (Mystic River, Almost Famous, L.A. Confidential) to complete wastes of film (Baby Geniuses, Surf Ninjas, Snake Eyes). There are movies that I’ve rated that no one else has rated (Very Long Engagement, anyone?) and there are movies that many have rated and I’ve failed to do so. One such example?

Michael Mann’s 1995 thriller “Heat.”

Heat is the first movie ever to feature Pacino and Deniro in the same scene. It’s in the IMDB Top 250. It was filmed without ever using a soundstage. In addition to the two Italian Stallions, it also features Kilmer, Voight, Sizemore, Ashley Judd, Natalie Portman and Bubba from Forrest Gump. None of this meant anything to me when I went with Joe Brescia and Tim Fischer in 1995 to see it in theater. I just went to see a cool-looking movie. So why haven’t I rated it?

The three of us often went to movies back then. There was one time where we decided to go see the Keanu Reeves flick “Hard Rain.” But when we got there, we saw that D3: The Mighty Ducks had just opened. Talk about a no-brainer decision. And if nothing else, it was totally worth switching plans to watch Joe walk up to the cute girl selling tickets and try and tell her he wanted to see the duck hockey movie while trying to flirt simultaneously. Like Charlie Conway on a breakaway.

But back to Heat. All three of us had finished a tough track meet earlier in the day, and for some reason thought we could handle a 10pm showing of a three hour movie. Sure enough, I made it through the first hour-forty, no problem. But after that, it’s anybody’s guess. Through the diner scene and the standoff near the airfield, all three of us were sound asleep in the third row of a sparsely populated movie theater. Of course, these were short-backed movie chairs, so it was only a matter of time until I readjusted and woke up –

- to the shot of a Boeing 747 flying right at the camera.

I’ve never been so scared in my life.

The Grad School Analogy

I’ve finally found the perfect analogy for grad school. Grad School is like taking a flight. (and hopefully not Oceanic Flight 815) Here’s why.

When you decide to go to grad school, it’s like planning an exotic vacation. The possibilities are endless when you decide that you have money and time and ultimately will be rewarded by a better standard of living when it is all said and done. The warm, sandy beaches of the Bahamas? Yeah, that’s you sitting in your new post-graduate career collecting a larger paycheck. That guys who the resort provide to get you margaritas at will? Those are you minions, you newly minted manager! Order another round, just for the hell of it. The only way the margarita guy can decline is if he gets on a grad school plane to a new career himself. Huh-HA!

So part of the fun in booking a vacation is arranging the travel plans. There are many modes of transportation, from flying to the dreaded road trip. Flying is a lot more expensive, but it’s quicker, and something new. This is grad school. You pay for the knowledge and the subsequent degree, and then enjoy the vacation sooner. Climbing the corporate ladder with experience as your bargaining chip? That’s the car road trip. Costs less, takes much longer, and requires you to do the navigating. The only navigating with Airship Grad School is finding your way to the rental car place when you get out of the airport.

(The rental car, by the way, is the job search process for your next position.)

There are many flying options available, as there are also many grad schools from which to choose. Some have more prestige associated with the name (Wharton, Harvard, Delta, United). Others have cost as their selling point (Strayer, Independence). It’s good to find the Southwest of the bunch – good value, nice sounding, and in a convenient metro-accessible terminal. Hello, GW.

You get to spend all summer telling people how excited you are that come August, you’ll be flying your way to a better life. The euphoria lasts through check-in and baggage check. Of course, you had no idea that this airplane requires you to buy seatbelts from the airport bookstore, and at that point, has a monopoly on these mandated flight requisite items.Had you know, you would have bought your seatbelts on eBay of Half.com.

That’s ok, you’re still feeling fine and excited to be in a vehicle that’s not your gas-guzzling car. Now the first semester of class is equivalent to the flight’s takeoff from the airport. No matter how busy you are, you are excited to see how it all begins. Looking out the window as the landing gear leaves the runway, you don’t mind being back in the habit of reading textbooks and writing papers. Everyone around you is doing the same thing. And there aren’t any babies crying…yet.

Once up in the air, you’re on your own to keep yourself excited. There may be an in-flight movie that you’ve wanted to see for months, but your current job doesn’t give you time to run to Blockbuster. This rivals that tremendous Human Dynamics prof you had that made time fly by with his delivery and presentation. And getting back that first ‘A’ from a paper you worked all night on instead of focusing on the fun being had at WM Homecoming ’04? That’s the refreshment cart for you. You’ve got an A so far in this class! Have some pretzels and a Sierra Mist!

The captain comes over the loudspeaker. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but due to some turbulence, the seatbelts you bought in the airport are no longer relevant. We are charging your credit card for a new one, and will do that two more times during your flight. I hate textbooks.

As you get into the meat of the flight, time starts to take its toll. The in-flight video has switched over to some guy droning on about making wicker chairs. Similarly, you’re trying to keep your head from banging the desk in Business Strategy. And the A’s are harder to come by, too. You check the pockets of the chair in front of you to see if someone from a prior flight left their pretzels. It’s not that you couldn’t work your absolute hardest to get up and ask the flight attendant for more. The flight has just worn you down.

Then the baby starts to cry. Welcome to a third semester of incompetent group work.

And just when you have totally abandoned the thought that flying is “so not cool,” the plane comes down below the clouds. The destination is in sight. Granted there’s a lot more hassle at the very end awaiting you – papers, finals, that guy who insists on being reclined ‘til the bitter end – but the flight is over.

Just don’t forget to show at graduation – your diploma will be arriving at Baggage Terminal 6.

Grande Skim Decaf Business Ideas

No wonder they’re number one.

On my way to work, I pass 4 Starbucks’ in 8 miles. If I were in the city, I’m sure the ratio would be significantly higher. But then again, I’d also be driving my automobile in so much gridlock, I may actually need to take up drinking coffee to deal with the stress, so that may not be such a bad idea. That’s a good business practice for Starbucks, and it may be why they employ such side-by-side franchising opportunities. I honestly can’t say. After all, I’m not a weird looking mermaid with fish hands.

How the hell would I type these things with fish hands?

Anyways, Starbucks has many good business practices that have been well documented for MBA students to study time and time again until they feel like dumping a hot venti macchiato on their heads. There’s the benefits for employees. Then there is the standardization of offerings. And don’t forget the culture and ambience all Starbucks across the country have tried to create. And as my wife would point in, it’s also pretty good coffee.

(Assuming the fish hands thing doesn’t freak you out.)

But when I passed ‘bucks number 3 of 4 today on the way to work, I realized the true magic in the business model. In all non-coffee related tasks of running a business, Starbucks is ingeniously resourceful.

There I was, waiting at a stop light with the Starbucks on my left. One of the employees was standing outside, in front of the large double doors that faces Chain Bridge Road. She was cleaning the large glass portal to the caffeinated kingdom. The Windex in her left hand was sprayed on with forceful accuracy. The towel in her right hand – wait, a minute – that’s no towel – it’s a – a – coffee filter.

She was cleaning the door with a damn coffee filter.

Who needs paper towels, anyway? Not Starbucks. They just use items they’ve got lying around to do secondary functions. That’s both inventive and cost efficient. It got me thinking (at least until I passed the fourth Starbucks on the route). What other resourceful business practices does Starbucks have?

- Who needs a locksmith? Employees are issued coffee stirrers to pick the lock anytime they need to open or close the store on their shift.
- No coasters? There’s got to be boxes of unsold CDs in the back? Barbara Streisand Duets? Anyone?
- In case of flooding or malfunction of the dishwasher, you can stuck the bags of pre-packaged beans on their sides to create a temporary dam.
- What, no stapler? Just place a staple in the nozzle of the espresso machine. That thing packs so much pressure that not only will it go through the paper, it can be used as a crude crime deterrent.
- Pouring coffee in an unmotivated employees lap will motivate them to get up and move far better than any unneeded raise in compensation.

Dessert the Cause, People

Today is the VP in my office’s 61st birthday. Drat.

It’s not that I’m against the VP getting older, that’s cool with me. Actually, he’d probably be disappointed if time was suspended at his age, as his projected timeframe of retiring in a few years would get put on hold while his body wouldn’t be getting any younger. And everyone is entitled to celebrate their ability to continue to exist at least one day per year, and I would want no part in withholding his. After all, there’s little chance for promotion when you start messing with the space-time continuum. Look what happened to Marty McFly in BttF II. He got fired by the bassist from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And I’m not against some generous soul in the office slaving over a lukewarm stove the night before to present the Birthdayed One with a fitting cake tribute, either. I’m all for cake. It’s the perfect dessert that can’t come in “the Big Bowl O’” form. And since dessert rarely falls in mid-afternoon, halfway between lunch and dinner, it makes a good snack that can propel office morale through the end of the day. Yes, cake is good.

So what causes my abhorrence to our elder statesman adding another candle to his annual cake? Easy – it’s the singing.

I don’t know why the office workers in today’s economy punish themselves so. Somehow, it has become customary for the rest of the employee populous, upon gathering in the break room for that free sliver of frosting goodness, to belt out a harrowing version of Happy Birthday. No matter whose birthday it is, they get serenaded by an underachieving, overly flat rendition. And no one really wants to sing it in the first place, in my opinion. But at the same time, the first time that a boycott takes place, the guest of honor at this water cooler shindig will take it personally, and no matter the ingredients, the cake will taste like awkwardness.

So here we are – stuck in a vicious cycle where employees will be singing Happy Birthday roughly until the end of time. Granted it hasn’t happened yet today. But I signed the card that’s passed around the office in the unlabeled, non-descript looking folder, and I saw our patron saint of cake walk by with some cylindrical and sugar-coated. It’s only a matter of time.

Am I being unreasonable in my aversion to office birthday celebrations? No, and I’ve got just cause. You see, every time it’s time to belt out another rendition of Happy Birthday, someone says, “Ok, who wants to start?” (Granted, no one wants to start. This is Corporate Real Estate, not American Idol.) When nobody volunteers, one of the others will remember from some point in my past that I can carry a tune (that One Accord CD in my work stack of discs is a dead freakin’ giveaway.), and all of a sudden, the focus of the cake-awaiting public is squarely on me. And so every time, the phrase “Happy Bir-“ is a Chris Condon solo.

I’ve started to list it as a “job responsibility” on my annual reviews.

This is pretty much a dead end, with little hope of escape. I’ve kept myself entertained by starting the tune of in different accents every now and then, but that just triggers strange looks from others. Looks like I’ve got no choice but to start recruiting members of the 3 Tenors for our vacant facility manager positions.

Hey Domingo, the power’s out. Go fix it. I’ll hold you cake. CHOMP.

Hot Chicks and El Perro Fumando

While in college, I was extremely fortunate that my mother opted to keep some of the Easter festivities in practice despite the fact that I was 300 miles away and buried in research papers. No, she didn’t hire campus police to hide Easter eggs in the academic halls of William and Mary. But she did prepare a confectionary-fest of an Easter basket, whose candy and sweets were of great help when a sugar rush was needed to read more on Prague Spring or operations management. I retroactively thank you, Mom.

Coincidentally, so do my three roommates.

Most chocolate wouldn’t last long, but there was one Easter basket staple that was immediately determined it would be much for fun to play with our food than eat it.

Marshmallow Peeps.

I don’t know who came up with the idea to wax some crystallized sugar to a mound of marshmallow goo and attempt to shape it into springtime animals. In my opinion, the bunnies look like bunnies, but the chicks? Not so much. More like small replications of Jabba the Peep. Nonetheless, rather than digesting these little guys, we decided it would be much more fun to help Dave (who was the bio major of the group) and do some experiments. Which is just a fancy way of saying…

…Put ‘em in the microwave and see what happens.

Now anybody can put ONE peep in a microwave. But it takes the minds of four guys to line the up in three rows of 5 in full military formation to see if it takes more than an Army of One to stand the heat. The microwave attacked, and sure enough, the courage of these young Jabbas melted. Literally.

Actually, as they expanded, they kind of congealed into one massive yellow ball of goo. While incredibly intrigued, we didn’t want to see it convert into one massive yellow ball of fire, so we aborted mission and moved on.

But we didn’t forget.

The real victim in this was not an Easter icon at all. Even though we knew very well the wrath that the microwave could invoke, we converted into a dog house at some point when the stuffed Taco Bell dog was being bad. It was a South of the Border promotion back in 99 or so, where you cold get a stuffed Chihuahua for 2 bucks and if you squeezed its stomach, it would utter the most famous four words in Mexican food:

Yo quiero Taco Bell.

Now I can’t remember the circumstances surrounding this, but at some point our science experiment took an evil turn as we opted to flash-fry Fuego (it wasn’t his name then, but it became shortly thereafter.) Little happened to his appearance in that four second trial, but when the door was open, the smell said it all. We learned that putting a talking stuffed dog in a microwave was a good way to fry its voice box.

And Fuego learned how to fly, as he (and his unpleasant odor) was launched out the slider of our third-story window.

Let’s just be thankful there weren’t fifteen of him, too.

Best Company Ever, Chapter 9

Interviews are not for the faint of heart.

Part of my job as the Deputy Controller for Facilities is to support the Controller in all personnel matters. These tasks are limited but do occur from time to time. Since we’ve never really fired anyone, I’ve never had the misfortune of being involved in that. (Although the pirates in HR don’t show much sensitivity in that arena either – always mumbling something about “walking a plank.” Eh, to each their own.)

Performance reviews are another personnel issue which I don’t have to dabble in other than writing my own. An increasingly popular HR practice is the 360 degree review, by which you are appraised by people above, below, and laterally. But the Best Company Ever realizes that for the economy of tomorrow, a cutting edge firm can’t stop there. We will invoke the 720 degree performance review, where an employee’s computer, ID badge, spouse, pet, and Ig will be added to the review process. One time around the horn may get you an accurate depiction of a person’s abilities. Two times around will get them so confused that they won’t know what to think. And an employee on his toes is:

1) ready for anything and
2) taller than Joe Brescia.

But that’s not the BCE Best Practice this Chief Awesome Office has come today to impart. Today we discuss interviews of candidates for new and positions. Any good manager will tell you that the best teacher is experience. Any good teacher will tell you that the capital of Liberia is Monrovia. But while that may neither be here nor there (nor in Monrovia), I know that my experience interviewing people for my current company will come in handy when I need to hire the workforce that will post record profits, and likely, save the world.

Some interviewers turn up the heat. BCE turns it down.

This morning, I led a potential Finance employee to our small conference room near the kitchen for the informal second part to our interviewing process. Now despite the airplane turbine above my cube that is our air conditioning system, we have a comfortable working temperature in this office. If I had to guess, it’s probably 72 in here. (And partly cloudy.) But for some reason, this one conference room has been uberchilled so cold that the mail room penguins might take their breaks here (if they weren’t marching all over the damn place.)

As I begin my round of questioning, I don’t even remotely notice that this room has got to be 60 degrees at best. Maybe it’s because I’m in here so rarely that it doesn’t affect me. And it’s not like the interviewee even said anything – a true professional. Hell, I didn’t even notice the temperature until her teeth actually chattered.

Reasons why a sub-zero interview suite is a must for the Best Company Ever:

1) Interviewees will be to the point. For fear of frostbite, they will only prevent timely and relevant qualification information.
2) Nervous people sweat as a natural reaction. The glacial temperature will put them at ease by preventing this.
3) Instead of offering a cup of coffee to the interviewee, you can make your company seem like a fun place to work by whipping up a sno-cone from inside the file cabinet.
4) Only the strong work at BCE. The weak get pneumonia at their interview and get their application rejected.

Drinking My Religion

You better like Sports Center, or your brain will deteriorate.

Our morning routine in the apartment is pretty standardized these days. Sometime between 6 and 6:30, Katie rolls out of bed and hits the shower. Sometime after that I fall out of bed as the thought of two snooze alarms going off simultaneously on opposite sides of the bed is enough to make you jump with little chance of sticking the landing. After that, I stumble out to make the coffee and my breakfast, and while doing so, I find the remote and turn on the TV. And thanks to Mama’s Family and infomercials, the only way to not start the day feeling dumb is by tuning to ESPN and watching highlights of games you don’t care about (Grizzlies-Pacers, anyone?)

On my way to the Worldwide Leader’s channel, I stopped briefly on Comedy Central. Known for its satiric and witty news shows, its solid stand-up, and enough MadTV to make one consider leaving the comedy biz, it’s at least worth a channel stop while going around the dial. Well, regularly scheduled programming doesn’t start on weekdays until 8, so CC fills the air space with some of those aforementioned infomercials. Grand.

There are five main varieties of infomercials in America today.

1) Get Skinny! -- all exercise equipment, crash diets and fitness videos
2) Get Rich! – The dude from CHiPS teaches how to refinance your way to millions!
3) Get Stuff! – The latest kitchen gizmo, lawn gadget, or
4) Get Naked! – Girls Gone Wild. Or at least Girls Gone Trashy for a cheap t-shirt
5) Get Jesus! – Which is what we are covering today…

Yes, at 6:30 this morning, Comedy Central had gone the route of Door #5 and was broadcasting an evangelism infomercial. Look, I am totally cool with evangelism. By definition, it means “zealous preaching and advocacy for the Gospel.” That’s cool – everyone is allowed to spread their faith, and in the Christian forum, encouraged to do so. But evangelism has taken on a different meeting in today’s society, kind of like how “momentarily” does not mean “in a moment” – I digress – and this new definition has changed thanks to doofuses (doofi?) like the one on Comedy Central this morning.

Televangelists are as helpful to Jesus’ teaching as an accordion on a fishing trip.

This morning’s con-artist goes by the name of Reverend Peter Popoff. His California-based ministries are actually pretty well knownaccording to his website, as he is simulcast on over 100 radio stations in addition to his morning informercial. He looks like a normal enough guy – if your definition of normal is “Cyborg from Planet Robot.”

Domo arigato…

The infomercial itself has the standard visuals you expect from such programming. Robot-guy pulls people out of the crowd, asks about their affliction, asks for Christ to heal them, pushes them backwards, and Voila! We have healing! But Peter Popoff is only one man, and cannot go around the world pushing everybody backwards via the forehead. This man is not a miracle worker! He can’t fly like Darren Daulton!

Here’s the contingency plan…wait for it….

MIRACLE SPRING WATER!! Of course! All you have to do is order a bottle from his website and your problems will go away. On the order form, it does ask you what category of water you need (I figure it’s like Gatorade flavors.) The choices are Healing, Spiritual, Financial, Salvation, Deliverance, Loved One, Relationship, and Praise Report.

And I’ve been drinking out of the water cooler, like a chump.

Kicking a Dead Horse

“For those looking to impress on a date this evening, just remember – it’s a “dog eat Dog world,” not a “doggy dog world.” For Dan Rydell, I’m Casey McCall. Good night.
- Sports Night

There are more animal clichés in this world than you can shake a stick at. (Which by the way, while not animal-sourced, is dumber than most clichés in the animal kingdom. Two reasons: clichés are not something tangible that you can place on a chair for this ceremonial stick shaking. Second, you totally underestimate my abilities to furiously wave a long rod at a bunch of words.) And while I am no policeman of the English language, I’m not going to let sleeping dogs lie and bring an important semantic issue for your consideration. First, I give you backdrop.

This morning, a member of my department decided to be super-generous and buy a dozen donuts for the rest of the team, just for the hell of it. We’ll call her Jesse’s Girl. So Jesse’s Girl is going from desk to desk, handing out donuts, in hopes of raising group morale. Other members of the team were delighted – Der Kommisar has a glazed, and the Karma Chameleon has Boston crème. But when she got to the one we call Mr. Roboto, things took a turn for the weird.

(You know, besides the fact that everyone has Hits of the 80’s as first names.)

Mr. Roboto saw the selection was limited, as all three donusts left were jelly-infused. He made some stupid comment like “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t like jelly.” That was pretty harsh, I’ll admit. This is exactly the reason that the ire in the eyes of Jesse’s Girl flickered when she caustically retorted,

“Way to kick a gift horse in the mouth.”

I totally understand where she’s coming from. She tried to do something nice, and all she got was sarcasm. She has a right to be annoyed, and that outburst is justified. Except for one small thing.

It’s supposed to be “Don’t LOOK a gift horse in the mouth.”

Yes, she botched the animal cliché. Now I’ve never quite understood the cliché in question, but the general principle behind it is sound. Those who question the prospect of receiving something for nothing don’t deserve to receive it in the first place. That’s fine. But you have to stick the landing and get the cliché right. Otherwise you might as well be deaf as a bat, crazy as a bee, and waiting until the cows get drunk.

But on second thought…

Wouldn’t kicking a gift horse in the mouth be a WAY BETTER cliché? I mean the looking said horse in the mouth is a little vague, and no one knows for sure why you would look any horse in the mouth. But kicking – YES – she may be onto something! Kicking is a far more vivid and far more violent action, which the horse, its donor, and the pack of donuts on its back would all have searing disapproval for. So you know what? We’re going to keep it.

Let’s start a movement here, people. No longer will we chastise those who feel that staring at equine is justified. Now, we will only chastise those who feel compelled to lift their legs 3 feet in the air to have their collective foot strike the face of such beautiful animals, who happen to be bringing gifts.

Don’t KICK a gift horse in the mouth. YEAH.

Trouble Dutch

As the Phillies begin the year with a dreadful 1-5 homestand, where a lack of focus in the field and pop at the plate leave the Fightin’s with much to be desired, we look back at what has gone wrong with the team. No, not over the last 6 games. But since the last time they made the playoffs.

Has it really been 12 years?

There are only 7 other teams with such a streak going. The Devil Rays haven’t been around for that entire span, and the Nationals spent much of that decade-plus in an ownership nightmare. It is a well known fact that Pittsburgh, Kansas City, and Detroit are terrible, and no one seems to lose sleep on them. The Brewers had to deal with switching leagues, and the Blue Jays have little excuse – except that they beat the Phillies in the ’93 World Series.

Now blame whomever you like, but YABSports remains optimistic. Rather than dwelling on the woes of “so-close” and “just-missed”, we look back at that ’93 club in a little round of Where Are They Now? You may ask what has caused some a nostalgic look at the Gashouse Gang. Well, if any of you caught this morning’s Sports Center, you’d know why.

Darren Daulton is a LUNATIC.

This team had its share of personalities. Lenny Dykstra was known to chew enough tobacco to employ everyone in North Carolina. John Kruk’s brushback against Randy Johnson in the All-Star Game makes the all-time Top 5 Midsummer Classic moments. (Rose vs. Fosse, being the best.) Mickey Morandini was a cartoon character. Jim Eisenreich had to fight off Touret’s Syndrome and Pete Incaviglia for his right field job. Kevin Stocker wasn’t old enough to drink. Danny Jackson drank too much. Kim Batiste’s real first name was Kimothy. Oh, and they had Mitch Williams. Enough said.

But Dutch tops them all.

The catcher of the 93’ NLCS champs has had an interesting retirement, to say the least. He caught on with the Florida Marlins in 1997, just in time to capture a World Series ring. It was during that season that Daulton had his first out-of-body experience. After hitting a game-winning single down the third base line in Wrigley, Daulton left the field and the stadium in complete tears, telling the world that it wasn’t him who hit the ball – somebody else did by using his body.

YAB offers two explanations – 1) You were playing the Cubs, who were 69-94 that year. I could have hit a base knock off of Kevin Tapani. 2) Baseball ghosts do exist, but are pretty much sequestered to cornfields in Iowa.

On ESPN, he spoke very nonchalantly about the idea of metaphysics, that extra sense some people can learn to possess in order to bend the normal rules of physics. I took two years of high school physics and anytime I bended a rule I ended up with more homework. Yet Daulton has managed to avoid homework to participate in daily tasks of his including “skipping time” and “astral motion.”

In other words, time travel and flying.

Maybe had he come across these metaphysical powers a little sooner, the Phillies could have made another playoff run in the mid-nineties. Sounds like more stolen bases and less passed balls to me. Nonetheless, it looks like Phillies fans will have to agonize over the team for only 6 more seasons. When 2012 rolls around, the worries will be over. World Series?!?

That’s when Daulton has predicted the world will end.

When It Trains, It Pours

As I sit on a rainy Friday afternoon in training, I thought that writing the Daily Blog would truly be impressive, as it would be a lot harder to punch out the funny on those keys when in such a setting. To honor such a courageous occasion, I’ll use my surroundings as the topic du jour.

That’s “topic of the day” for those reading in the States. Ethnocentrists, sheesh.

No matter the company, the topic, the location, or the day, all corporate training classes are completely the same. Here’s a breakdown.

THE FOOD – I have never walked into the doors of a training room and momentarily mistook it for a movie shoot. Two reasons - no one finds a corporate training room as an interesting setting for advancing the plot – not even Office Space went there. And two, the catering spread on a movie shoot is eleventy billion times better than what you find on the back table. Somewhere in LA, an extra who has shown up to play “Uninteresting Guy #4” is scarfing down French pastries and shrimp scampi while those who are driving our economy are picking at thrice-passed over jelly donuts, and lukewarm bottled OJ.

Now, some places may have had better offerings when they set up for the day, but those in my boat never see that food. I have never shown up early for a training session, as I do not plan to sit in training any longer that I have to. To the early go the spoils, but I’m willing to forgo.

THE CLASS – Part of a standard training involves the instructor insisting that we go around the room to identify your position in the company so that they “know the capabilities in reference to the material coming in.” That’s a lie. They just want to know who’s the most important 2 or 3 people in the room, so that they can teach towards their needs and ignore mindless questions from the entry-level staffers. Not a bad idea, except there’s a problem here.

The class knows why it’s happening, too.

So as we go around the room declaring our names and job titles, it becomes less and less truthful as the class is fully announced. Take this class for example. Here’s a sampling of the roll call:

Student #1 = Elisha in Project Control
Student #2 = Ron in Super Secret Project Control
Student #5 = Terry with Corporate Money Making
Student #8 = Julia, Sr. Vice President of Marketing
Student #11 = Roger, United States Attorney General
Student #14 = Bjorn, the king of Sweden
Student #20 = Peter, the reincarnated Apostle

As you can see, it gets out of hand pretty quickly. And one of those folks in the middle leads me to the final training class staple.

THE STUBBORN ROCK – There is always one person who is there completely against his will, and has decided to make the next seven hours a platform for explaining his belief on how stupid the new system (being taught) is and how the only way to do business is the old system that is going away. Here’s a simple analogy.

The company has decided that toasters are no longer the best way to toast bread. It’s not that standard toasters don’t work, they just prefer going forward with the toaster oven, which has more features. Everyone, for the most part is cool with the change – the bread still gets toasted. But the Stubborn Rock tried to demonstrate how the toaster oven can’t toast bread by trying to jam bread in the top of the toaster oven, leaving him with crumbled, smushed, non-toasted bread.

Some people don’t change, and those people always are in your training class.

You're Watching Sorkin Night, on CPC

Over the weekend, I opted against your regularly scheduled television programming for selections from the best TV on DVD box set I own, the short-lived but brilliant Sports Night. Aaron Sorkin, whose writing I have featured before here on YAB, is back in the writing room (do houses still have those?) penning his next show for NBC, “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.” It’s got a similar premise to Sports Night, only now we’re going behind the scenes at an SNL-esque sketch comedy show. Whatever the case, Matthew Perry is on board, and as he has been with every Sorkin script, I assume so too will be Joshua Malina very soon.

But back to my point.

Yes, I watched a lot of Sorkin in the past 72 hours. Why is this good? It gives me the intensity and inspiration needed from its stellar scripting to pursue my current writing goals – which of course is narrowing the backdating gap. It also allows me to enjoy comedy in the workplace, seeing the humor in things often relegated to the mundane column. Of course – there is a flipside. Why is this bad?

You start to talk in Sorkinese.

Sorkinese, not to be confused with this stupid little dog, is the term that dialogue from this Syracuse grad’s is often called. It is characterized by the following four features:

• Rapid fire back-and-forth conversation
• Repeated rephrasing and questioning of statements made between characters
• Weaving multiple conversations into one multi-person verbal confusion
• Writing credit belongs to Aaron Sorkin
  

Just look at the man’s CV: A Few Good Men, The American President, Sports Night, and the West Wing. Of COURSE no one really talks like these people.Except Condon after he watches too much Sports Night.Coming into work on Monday morning, you find that the world suddenly is speaking a lot slower. These conversations do not exist in real life, although your brain thinks they should. And then the brain tells the mouth that they should, and then the mouth tells the world that they should, and then

The world thinks you’ve had too much caffeine.

Take this example when I was walking to fill my water bottle and a co-work named Erin walked out of the kitchen as I entered:

Erin: Hey – Hope you’re not planning to use the copier.

Chris: Does it dispense water?

Erin: No, it’s broken – why did you ask – nevermind.

If this was Sorkin-scripted (as my mind pictured it going – it would have gone something like this):

Erin: Hey – Hope you’re not planning to use the copier.

Chris: Does it dispense water?

Erin: The copier?

Chris: Yes, does it dispense water?

Erin: No, it dispenses mangled paper.

Chris: Mangled paper?

Erin: Yes, the copier is broken. It dispenses mangled paper.

Chris: I don’t need any mangled paper. I need water.

Erin: Then you should try the water fountain.

Chris: The water fountain dispenses water?

Erin: Well, it sure as hell doesn’t dispense mangled paper.

Chris: If it did, then it would be broken.

Erin: If it dispensed normal paper, it would be broken.

Chris: Regardless of if the paper is mangled or not, the water fountain would be broken if it dispensed paper.

Erin: I think I need a drink.

Chris: You should try the water fountain. I’m headed there now.

Identifiving the Guys

Earlier in the week, the Washington Post did a very nice write-up on Five Guys Famous Burgers and Fries, the DC-based burger joint that has quickly expanded throughout the region and to parts unknown (read: Nord Carolina.) Now located in 12 states (It’s in Mt. Ephraim for the Jersey folk), the simple menu and great taste has shown that when you have a quality product, the sky is the limit. (Or in this case, southernmost Five Guys West Palm Beach is.)

Being a DC Metrophile, I have been known to dine at a Five Guys every now and then – having frequented the Manassas, Arlington, and Tyson’s locales at least once. For those who haven’t, it’s a pretty simple formula. They create a high quality burger with as few or as many condiments as you would like. Then you order a cup of fries that are fresh cut from potatoes straight from Idaho. Get a fountain drink that offers Stewart’s root beer as a selection.

Then bask in the glorious greasiness that is your meal.

Two of my classes this spring revolve around the idea of entrepreneurship. One is called New Venture Initiation, and the other is, well, Entrepreneurship. I don’t really have any post-graduate plans to start my own business, or even pester venture capitalists, but there may be some relevancy to other business pursuits; I am thusly enrolled. But I have learned a lot about entrepreneurs, and what it takes to have a start-up venture succeed. And while you may have all the good ideas in the world, the number one thing you need in order to not totally botch your entry to the market is just two words:

Competent. Leadership.

It is leadership that would allow a 20 year-old company to turn a small quintet of locations in Northern Virginia into an East Coast operation that now boasts 87 locations. That doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t happen by luck, either. Whoever is calling the shots is one shrewd and clever businessman. Or businessmen? After all, there isn’t just one CEO of Five Guys – if there were, it would be called One Guy. There are Five Guys in charge of Five Guys, and as a YABNews exclusive, we let you know just which Five Guys they are.

Guy #1 – MAYOR McCHEESE – Turns out McDonaldland has term limits when it comes to their local government, which is what explains why you haven’t seen this big bad burgerhead in any commercial with Ronald in the last ten years or so. Figuring he did all there was to do in politics, he has used his industry experience to help propel this venture.

Guy #2 – JOE GIBBS - The local tie to the DC region, he is the reason that the Nation’s Capital’s Suburbs were chosen as the test market. After winning some Super Bowls, he decides to diversify his portfolio – NASCAR and cheeseburgers. Brilliance.

Guy #3 – BRUCE WILLIS – Calls Idaho his home, which is why the fresh-cut fries always hail from the Gem State. Also brings that no-nonsense approach to managing employees. Hey Bruce, don’t go barefoot though in the stores. Not wise.

Guy #4 – JUGHEAD JONES -- Batting cleanup, we have Archie’s pal who never quite had the money to buy his own burger. He figured if he went into the burger business, he’s 1) have money for burgers and 2) have burgers without needing money. Doesn’t hurt that he’s Mayor McCheese’s nephew.

Guy #5 – KUMAR PATEL – When Joe Gibbs approached the young Indian med student, he initially wanted both Patel and his pal Harold to buy in to the crazy idea. Too bad ‘Roldy was home studying – he missed out big time. EXTREME!

Phoning It Down, Part II

When I left you all on that literary cliff, say 40 minutes ago, I realized it was something YAB had never done before. In the past, we probably would have just typed out the whole verbose story, all 1,248 words of it. But we’re not against flashbacks – hell, we churned one out in only our fifth post. However, since it has only been about 40 minutes, that would have been a redundant exercise in redundancy. (Heh.)

Back to our story.

First off, I’ve been informed by a loyal reader that a good word for my Roof and Savior would have been “awning.” That makes my phone in much better shape. Phew. Now the awning IS, strangely enough, accessible. By going down one full flight of stairs – half wall between the 2nd and 3rd floors, there is a half wall and a large opening to overlook the parking lot.

Why there wasn’t a half wall on the next floor up is completely baffling. Would have saved me all this trouble.

By sticking your hand out of this opening, you can touch the awning, and like that, the phone is within arm’s reach. But only if you are Shaquille O’Neal. Which I am not.

This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ever been out climbing on a roof. I nearly gave my parents a heart attack when I did it an Ocean City when I was like 10. I’ve been on the roof of at least 4 different academic and dormitory buildings at William and Mary. And I once watched Lou Jester climb up the side of our high school to retrieve a bouncy ball. Needless to say, I have roofing experience.

Nor would this be the first time I’ve got something stuck in the gutter. You know what is exactly the diameter of a standard rain gutter? A tennis ball. How do I know this? I must have lodged 30 of them in our Robin Hood Drive home during my childhood. You see, we used to play this game where you stand two yards away, toss up the tennis ball and hit it with an aluminum bat. Over our garage was a home run.

Turns out I had warning track power.

And thirdly, I think in the history of YAB, I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not against swinging wildly from the sides of buildings. The objective just needs to be important enough. In the post, “A Cake Named Goo,” it was to break into my own apartment. And now, it was a cell phone in a gutter. I can’t just leave it there!

It could get hit by a tennis ball!

Waiting for the bare minimum of passing neighbors to be within view, it was time to go. Jumping the half wall, I found myself perched on the crest of the awning, like a gargoyle who just wants it to be the weekend aleadry. Slowly descending the incline (if I said it was a 82 degree angle, would you believe me?), I reached the phone with more ease than expected and scurried back up the roof. The whole mission took about 7 seconds. I should sign up for Special Forces.

Gathering all of my belongings, I victoriously broke through my front door to claim the weekend. Flopping down in the brown chair, I didn’t quite land with full comfort. Something jabbed my left side. Reaching into my pocket, I found proof that I am a complete idiot.

There was the Macy’s gift card all along.

Phoning It Down, Part I

The way I see it, the weekend does not officially begin until you’ve crossed through the first doorway outside of one’s place of work. For most, it will be opening the door to their residence. For those with a hard week, it may be the swinging doors of their preferred Happy Hour haunt. For theory-killers, it may be a door-less environment, like the local park or the beach. But nit-picking aside, the weekend does not begin until you go through that next doorway.

And I was so close.

Friday was a peaceful one at work. Because of an amalgamation of events, our normally fill-to-capacity office was only flying at half-staff. Or 7 out of 40. That’s more accurate. This allowed me to leave at a timely 4:30, and drive home slightly before rush hour on a sunny day in the low 60’s. This is how all weekends should begin. Except for that one small point that the weekend had yet to begun, as I had yet to cross through that crucial prerequisite of a door.

My car door doesn’t count.

Making it home by 5:10 is a welcome change from being at class until 10 o’clock plus. I have time to relax, refresh, and maybe even catch Around the Horn for the first time in 9, maybe 12 months. I leave my car parked over by the state trooper’s cruiser (there’s an overwhelming feeling of safety when you park your car next to the trooper.) (Shouldn’t he be a Commonwealth trooper? Nevermind.)

I grabbed the mail before the ascent to the top of Mt. Apartment. I grabbed the mail so I could open it, giving me something to do during my Kilimanjaro-esque climb. The first envelope I opened – free stuff! Part of registering at Macy’s, apparently, included a Registry Closeout Gift from the store, where they send you a gift card that is a percentage of money spent by friends and family to celebrate your marriage, while a national department store chain cashes in on something as blessed as your nuptials.

Ah, the Holy Sacrament of Commerce.

But on the way up the stairs, I had a bit of a problem shuffling all of my hands’ contents. The mail, my keys, the cell phone, my bag, and hell, I even think I had some shoes I was bringing in from the car with me. Despite the copious matter of all of these items, I suddenly got the feeling that I had managed to drop the gift card one or two flights back.

Scrambling to juggle everything to verify this premonition, I started to shuffle my armload to search for the card. By this point, I was on the 3 and a half point of 4 floors – only 6 steps from me walking in the door and declaring it the weekend. Conversely, I was easily 40 feet above the ground. Of course, this isn’t what I was thinking when I accidentally dropped my keys, and the fell to my feet.

Or when I dropped my phone, and it bounced off the landing through the opening in the railing.

Hustling two steps to my right, I watched as my phone sailed downward and bounced – yes, bounced – off the mini-roof that sits overtop the entrance to the first floor breeze way. This roof serves one purpose: to make residents feel dry 42 inches earlier than they previously would have if it ceases to exist.

Make that two purposes.

Even though the roof prevented my phone from an untimely demise, this wasn’t over yet. The cell phone, after two miraculous bounces, began to slide down the incline of the roof. I couldn’t have felt more helpless. This was just drawing out the inevitable, and by the inevitable I mean the 42 individual pieces my phone would soon be in.Hold on, Moto.

Rather than descending towards doom, my phone stopped. In the gutter. My cell phone is in the gutter.

To be continued…

Call it a Hat Trick

Now that Oscar Sunday has been out on the internet for three full weeks, and has been watched an amazing 5,019 times, downloaded another 27, and even caught the attention of one of the writers at Ain’t It Cool News, it’s time to see what we’ve all learned from this little lesson in video parody.

Editing is hard.

Not so much the process, I guess I have to say. I gave myself a crash course on some software, and the end product turned out okay. They key to good editing is even better storyboarding. Fortunately, Spud (who has watched even more movies than me) had the knack for this, and while filming, we laid out much of the final product. It’s also good to not complete restrain yourself so rigid that the editor gets no room for creativity; had that been the case, little stuff – like the subliminal urinal shot – would be on the cutting room floor. However, no matter how much of a neophyte of an expert one is with the editing business, no one makes a perfect movie. Don’t believe me?

Many of the DVDs that have found a home in my collection can be pulled out and popped in to highlight a crucial and often hilarious movie editing mistake. Maybe it’s that the filmmakers are so caught up in their grand opus that they don’t catch those silly oversights. Or maybe it’s just that they know we’ll be talking about their movie for years to come, even if it’s a terrible flick. Regardless, here is a highlighted sample of my film collection, and the movie mistakes that are certainly worth slowing down and taking a second look. In ascending order of excellence:

PIRATES of the CARIBBEAN – When Jack Sparrow is getting his crew together in the middle of the movie, and utters the line, “On deck you scalabrous dogs,” more than just the crew is ready to sail. To the left of Sparrow’s head, in the corner, is just crew member in shades and a cowboy hat just staring vacantly out to sea. Shortly thereafter, he was surely fired. And by fired, I mean he walked the plank.

GLADIATOR – One of the most remarkable scenes in the flick comes when the gladiators are first challenged in the arena, to the tune of arrow-slinging, spear-chucking, Carthaginian chariots. Maximus leads the slaves into military protection formation, figuring their shelter of shields can hold up until the chariots’ horsepower runs out. Lucky for them, the chariots don’t wait that long, as one-by-one, they collide and flip over. When the second one tips and sails into the wall, check out the gas powered cylinder in the back of the cart. They could have gone all day.

STAR WARS – The ultimate movie mistake. While Luke and company are stuck in the garbage compactor, their only hope (no, not Obi-Wan) is the two droids hidden in a command room elsewhere in the Death Star. A set of Stormtroopers march in with their expressionless helmets leading the way. Now the door opens from floor to ceiling, and much to the chagrin of the Stormtrooper on the right, it doesn’t quite go all the way. There’s a reason the Imperial Army had a height cut-off – that one on the right bangs his head on the door something fierce.

OSCAR SUNDAY – Yes, even rookie editors don’t learn. When Spud and I went for a final day of shooting at Potomac Yards, we met over a lunch break. Since I don’t normally wear jeans and a ski coat to work, I had to change clothes for filming. One thing I forgot? The omnipresent green Eagles cap I had worn in every other scene. No time to retreat for props, I hit up Sports Authority for a cheap 4 dollar replacement. Close, but not a replica.

Which is why when I question the abilities of the security guards, and subsequently broke in the back, my hat has gone from green to blue.

Oops.

The Cock of the Balk

Forget Jimmy Rollins’ hitting streak. We’ve got a whole new reason to get excited for this year’s Fightin’ Phils.

For professional sports franchises, selling tickets to their games is the lifeblood that allows rosters of grown men to play games for a living, for millions of dollars. Sure, there are sponsorships, TV contracts, and ridiculous memorabilia sales, but putting fans in the seats is what makes the sports world go ‘round. The most lucrative type of sale is the season ticket – whereby a fan agrees to pay for a ticket to every game in advance, regardless of other obligations, weather, and if the boring Kansas City Royals are in town. Generally speaking, season ticket holders are creatures of habit. Renew now, find a way to pay later.

The Philadelphia Phillies, in their 3-years young Citizens Bank Park, go that extra mile to convince those still trying to decide whether another year in Section 208 is worth that second mortgage on your home. What is the magic sales pitch? A DVD! (Right now, Chris Smith is salivating on his keyboard.) It’s a marketing-glitz, optimism-fused, look at this year’s team’s prospects, predicting World Series championship moments – which you’ll miss if you don’t renew. Effective? Maybe. But only if this promotion is managed well.

Philly’s own Channel 6 (shout-out to Jasen’s dreamgal, Cecily Tynan) is reporting that one Phillies Phence-sitter was a little shocked when he popped the 2006 Fightins’ DVD into his DVD player. Did he see Chase Utley turning a double play? Ryan Howard launching a moonshot into the right field seats? David Bell icing his chronically injured back?

NO! He saw Spanish cockfighting!

As lore would have it, the company the Phillies contracted with accidentally forgot to change the tapes when switching from one job to another. A few fans around the Delaware Valley are a little confused to see the sport of fighting roosters, which is banned in 48 states and DC playing instead. For the record, the two legal states are New Mexico and Louisiana. Neither have baseball teams.

This was clearly a mistake, but it does beg the question: does the fierceness of a team’s nickname serve any function in prognosticating and predicting? From our count, there are eight MLB ballclubs whose nicknames have their home in the animal kingdom. (We actually have no idea what a ‘Phillie’ is.) If we put each of those eight mascots up against an angry Gamecock (as featured on the Phillies’ 2006 promo DVD), can we predict who will win this year’s World Series? We say yes.

Let’s start with the easy comparisons: Birds. In one corner you’ve got a gamecock, probably hepped up on enough BALCO substances that Barry Bonds might rethink that retirement option. In the other corner you’ve got a Cardinal, and Oriole, and a Blue Jay. Not exactly Murderer’s Row. Maybe the NFL has the right idea. Falcons, Eagles, Seahawks – those are fowl with fangs. Not these three cuckoos.

Then you’ve got two water-logged entries from Florida. Putting up a much better fight, the Tampa Bay Devil Ray can sting this rooster (hereafter known as “Cock of the Balk”), but lack of mobility out of water will make this a short battle. And while the Florida Marlin has that wicked sword for a nose, they are disqualified. A team starting 5 rookies in the field is simply too young to cockfight.

And no matter how big that kitty can roar, we’ve said it once and we’ll say it again. The Detroit Tigers suck.

That leaves the Chicago Cubs. I think a bear can take the Cock of the Balk, assuming Steve Bartman is not in attendance. So mark YAB’s words, 2004 was the Red Sox. 2005 was the White Sox. And now, after much too long a drought, the Cubs win the Pennant.

Because a little cockfighting birdie told me.

Leaving the Barn Door Open

How do they keep finding me?

Ok, a few minutes ago, Erik dropped off my daily mail from the morning delivery. In my job, I can’t say I receive the prime cuts of the mail run. No interesting packages, no ridiculously cool deals for free stuff (HR gets all those), not even super-important memos that will impact corporate policy. No, my mail is pretty much composed of invoices to pay, cost reports to analyze, vendor letters to laugh at, and billing statements to discard immediately. (Vendors looking for money that I owe them not. Waste of paper.)

But today, Erik had to laugh when he handed me my stack, For tucked behind the envelopes and cost reports, I had something new to not only analyze, but on the spot come up with a valid answer for my receipt:

A Pottery Barn catalog.

Speechless, I flipped over the magazine to reveal the address. Sure enough, there’s my full name, my business address, complete with 4-part mail stop number. This was no mistake. I grinned sheepishly as he walked away cackling. Somehow, the Barn was onto me.

But how did they find me?

Granted, we registered for our wedding at the Barn, but I can’t imagine they traced my work address from the home address of my wife’s parent’s house. This is not the NSA – it’s a mall store that specializes in candles, glassware, home décor, and stupid fake grass. And I don’t recall having any gifts for friends shipped to my office, which I often do to avoid leasing office headaches. (Although it may be possible – I’ve been to a lot of weddings in the last year.) And Lord knows I don’t have a whole lot of Pottery just lying around my desk. So there’s no magnetic homing beacon they could be using. Face it, I have no idea why I just got the Spring Collection catalog in my morning mail run.

Wait a minute, this has potential. Unlike stupid magazines that you have to dig through 17 pages of ads to find the table of contents, the Pottery Barn catalog prints them prominently right there on the back cover. And sure enough, pages 38-51 of this very magazine feature items titled “Good Ideas for Small Spaces.”

If my office isn’t “Small Spaces,” I don’t know what is.

Why hasn’t Pottery Barn thought of this before? America must spend millions upon millions each year buying home furnishings. And there are companies out there who furnish to the executive crowd, to outfit their luxurious offices. But what the workforce lives in these days are cubicles, and the People of Cubeville deserve to work in comfort and style if they so choose. So why not send catalogs to offices everywhere to unveil Cube-Décor (or Cubecor for short). I guess I’ve been selected to be part of a test market. Sweet!

First thing I would do is put up one of the Barn’s massive clocks. I could slowly pull myself away from the digital reliance in the bottom right corner of this computer screen and save my eyesight for years to come. Then I would get this picture frame hook. There are too many days that I sit in traffic because I’ve buried my car keys under paper, so this would alleviate that. Then I would hang some ridiculous chandelier from the ceiling, to appear more ominous. There’s nothing scarier to a construction manager than an ominous looking dude who is back lit by candlesthat controls his money. And because I can, I’m replacing my office chair.

I’ve never been in Pottery Barn without sitting in it for at least 15 seconds. I have witnesses.

Burger King Faces the Music

YABNews has been quick to monitor the shifty dealings of the one known as the Burger King in the past. Rob Harford over at Dante’s Fourth Level was the one that brought this shifty character’s operation to the forefront almost a full year ago, and this zany monarch keeps finding ways to make news. With the NFL looking to crack down on next year’s touchdown celebrations, this will no doubt tick off the fleet-footed crowned one, as he looks to continue to push his burgers by burning the secondary and leaping into the stands. What a year it has been for the Burger King.

But I ask you this, what has accounted for his rise in fame?

For years, he was silent and no one knew what he looked like. Kids could identify the goofy red-haired clown, as his mug was plastered in every McDonald’s from Medford, NJ to Medford, OR. Wendy found a way to get her face to be part of her chain’s corporate logo, and most middle school students might actually think Colonel Sanders was an officer in the Civil War. But little was known of the Burger King. Sure, he had a Kids Club. And he was cool about distributing cheap replicas of his regal crown. But through the nineties, no one had a clue what he looked like. (And to be honest, his actual appearance is as freaky as Rob has described so well.)

The chain did well, financially-speaking, throughout the last decade due to its new sandwich creations, including its international chicken sandwiches, rodeo cheeseburgers, and introducing a breakfast menu. And all of this was possible, without the help of the reclusive leader of the kingdom of grease. Was the throne vacant all these years? Has this guy we see everywhere shown up to usurp the throne? Might he have been promoted from a lower post, say maybe … PRINCE?

The Burger King is a modern-day Prince John, and I have proof.

YABNews is reporting of a Palmdale, CA man who recently went through the drive-thru, and the King’s tax collectors nearly bankrupted him. He ordered 4 burgers – two Whopper Juniors and two Rodeo Cheeseburgers – and the “drive-thru attendant” rang him up to the tune of $4,334.33. That’s nearly $1,100 per burger, and last time I checked, the Whopper Jr. was the latest addition to the Burger King Everyday Value Menu. Some value. He could have bought a 43” plasma for that kind of cash.

No wonder the monarchy is alive and well.

His Majesty’s Damage Control Guild tried to pass it off that the $4.33 total cost was entered in twice accidentally, but we’re not buying it. This is just the new administration trying to pull a fast one on the peasants of Palmdale, California. This man almost defaulted on a mortgage payment because of this “accidental error.” (Why he was ordering 4 burgers with no mention of anyone else in the car remains a mystery. Maybe he was striving for a Friar Tuck physique.)

So, ultimately, that’s our theory on the crazy Burger King. The King wasn’t reclusive for years – the throne was empty! (The previous ruler must have had too much of his own food and had a heart attack.) And this guy, paired with the Sherriff of Drivethruham, has managed to usurp the throne, and launch a high-stakes publicity tour to win over the people he screwed over to get to the top.

Now THAT’s good investigative reporting.

It's a Super Model

Like death and taxes and UConn in the Final Four, looking for an apartment has become an annual event, and so -

Ok, scratch that part about UConn. Go George Mason.

- and so we hit the streets with our floor plans, our measuring tapes, our hopes and our dreams in order to find where the Condons will call home next. It’s not the living practically on top of Wegman’s has been a bad thing, and other than our neighbors, the Pindrops, we’ve really enjoyed living in a relatively new building with high ceilings and great sets for Oscar Sunday. But as Mark and Roger so eloquently put it – how we gonna pay next year’s RENT?

As per most standard lease agreements, the leasing office reserves the right to increase or decrease rent at the time of renewal. And while we may have this place through the end of June, we got served. With a renewal letter. Of Impending Doom.

The only time I’ve ever stayed in the same place for two consecutive years was at Random Run, and the dreaded renewal letter was practically a joke. Nervously removing it from its ominous envelope, I could hardly believe my eyes – when they raised the rent 14 dollars. Why even bother? The funnier thing is that with a roommate, that makes it 7 dollars for my residential troubles. Man, I guess I’ll really have to cut back on my spending to soften the impact of this massive hike. Like go to Taco Bell one less time each month. Sheesh.

I wish this letter was remotely that funny.

Since our leasing office has dialed into raising the rent $130/month, and I haven’t won the lottery in the past, eh, eleventy billion years, it looks like it’s time to hitch up the wagon and move 1.4 miles down the road. (We haven’t picked a place yet, but there’s 37 apartment complexes within that radius, so I’m sure we’ll find something.)

Going in to check out a new suburban apartment complex is the same no matter where you go. You walk in to a ridiculous club house that houses the leasing office. Clubhouses could quite possibly be the largest waste of real estate there is. It’s big, it’s spacious, and other than potential residents mulling about, it’s COMPLETELY VACANT. They put things in these clubhouses like full kitchens and big televisions, but in my four years of apartment living, I’ve never thought to myself: “Hey, let me call up some friends and meet them down at the clubhouse to watch the game. Maybe I’ll cook up some hot dogs on that stove over there that may or may not be plugged in. And at the most crucial down of the game, I could field questions from strangers about how often I use the pool, or is the visitor parking ample?” We might as well convert these clubhouses into covered parking garages.

With monkey valets.

And from our latest round of apartment tours, I’ve decided one thing for certain. No matter the availability, or the floorplan, or the amenities, or the monkey valets, I would like to live in the model.

Think about – you don’t have to worry about moving your old stuff, because it already furnished. Granted, it often is in the décor of West Africa or Cajun New Orleans, but hey, I can deal. In addition, the model is always very close to the front of the complex, so you have easy access in and out. The newest features are always in the model first (think appliances), and they have it professionally cleaned. During the day, leasing agents may bring people through to see the place, but that’s okay – I’m at work. Oh, and one other key point: no one pays rent on the model. Free.