Incendiary Network Security

Being part of a large corporation, I understand that a firm must take initiatives in order to protect its own interests and investments. For example, with employees in the tens of thousands and locations all over the world, a firm in the information and consulting business relies on a vast IT infrastructure that must both protect information and also prevent external threats from doing damage to it. I understand this; for the amount of money it takes to network all your employees via the information superhighway, just think of the number of DVDs Chris Smith could buy.

Hell, he may even reach Wing Commander on his list.

Nah…

The main thing my current network prevents me from doing is get to e-mail resources on the web. Yahoo and GMail are off-limits. I’m able to set up forwarding accounts to my actual e-mail for some, but others are off-limits until I get home, for fear that some employee somewhere will destroy the servers with a misguided forwarded virus. And now that I’m graduated, I may have to come up with something new, since I have no idea how long the GW address will be mine. (However, the $80 cap and gown I now have forever. At least I can be Harry Potter anytime I want.)

Since bouncers are hard to replicate into an electronic form to decide what information gets in and out of a network, techies had to invent something else to man the velvet rope.

Enter the firewall.

Is there any computing term out there scarier than the word ‘firewall?” Never mind its function, the name itself should send shivers into the spine of any potential hacker, evildoer, or inept administrative assistant. It’s a wall constructed entirely of a single natural element.

FIRE.

Somewhere in your system, probably in a rarely-entered server room in the basement, the main computers are blocked by a ten-foot high monolith of flame and heat. NOW do you want to invade encrypted cyberspace? I didn’t think so.

I don’t know who came up with protecting computer networks with such an incendiary measure. However, I do know that the sheer mention of a firewall is enough to keep me away from trying to hack a system. How would one find a way to defeat a firewall. Fire is not a solid property. You could (with a running start) probably run through a firewall. But consider this – you won’t get through unscathed, probably leaving you with some nasty burns that will make you think twice before you do it again. Additionally, the bigger the company, the more likely their firewall is an opaque shield of flame. What happens if you successfully run through, only to find that the server rack is inches behind the firewall? You’ll knock yourself unconscious with the collision, and probably end up falling backwards into the wall, which I don’t need to remind you, is composed entirely of FIRE.

In the real world, we have firefighters to combat fire. You can’t rely on the same public service in the digital world. They use water to douse the flames. And as anyone who has spilled water on their keyboard unexpectedly at work can attest, computers and H20 do not mix.

This is why I’m scared of firewalls.

Sleeping Through Class

As I await the final grades of my education career to roll in, I can’t help but wonder what effect they will have on my future and where I’m headed. With two grades in the books and two classes left to hear from, I am well aware that combined they may be able to sway my final GPA .02 at most. That’s like pumping a little extra gas once the pump has kicked back, thinking it will stave off running out on I-66. Unless your extra pumping to get your bill to an even number, this is a waste, trust me.

For the most part, grad school has not been able to permeate what I dream about at night. I leave my textbooks and papers at the door when I doze off, including when I actually fall asleep in the binding of my books – no osmosis happening here. (It should be noted that in undergrad, I tried this method many times. You can count the number of times by the number of bright yellow highlighter stains on my bedspread. Never fall asleep with an uncapped writing utensil in hand.)

And yet, now that I’m done with class, I’m dreaming of grad school.

Sort of.

The other night, I actually had a dream about checking my grades on the computer to see how I would finish up the semester. In dreamworld, reality is never as expected. Rather than seeing a non-descript generic database printout with everything in Courier font, each class’ grade was presented in a PowerPoint presentation with a certificate. It listed the class, the semester, and the grade, but with fancy type and pomp and circumstance and all the extra fixin’s that can happen in a dream. Since I took four classes, the presentation had four slides. Entrepreneurship, New Venture Initiation, Applied Organization Leadership, one by one, ticked off with pleasing final grades. Job well done, Sleepy Chris.

But as I turned to the last slide, that feeling of self-worth and accomplishment melted like Barry Bonds in the spotlight as I saw my final grade.

I got a C. In Gym.

First off, underperforming in a class you didn’t even know you were taking may be just cause for such levels of underachievement. If you don’t know you have the class, how can you be expected to ace tests and assignments to this point ceased to exist in your collective day planner? Maybe I should have asked for an extension to complete the coursework. Why didn’t I do that? Oh, right. I don’t even know who my professor was in Gym. Who would I ask.

Hold on a sec. Breathe.

Even if I didn’t know when class was held, I should have done better than a C. This is Gym class we’re talking about! I totally ruled in Gym back in the day. I survived full-contact line dancing with Chris Smith! I ran an extra lap in the mile run in order to chase Boblitt around the track! I could hit the back wall of the gym in kickball! I almost picked a fight with Dave Miller in softball and lived to tell about it! How the hell did I get a C? Why didn’t I take advantage of extra credit? How hard could it have been? Sit and Reach farther?

This is why I don’t dream about school much. Happy Graduation Day, GW.

Flag, Yo.

Over at Monrovia Top Five, the Andersen Group, not too far a cry from the McLaughlin Group, debate on a weekly basis the top five items of a given category. Everyone submits their lists and justifications, and Jasen reserves the right to come up with inventive nicknames and lay down the WRONG!!! at any given tine. This week’s topic has been national flags, and it appears that Bhutan is an unexpected frontrunner.

Everyone loves the Thunder Dragon.

And while the history and detail, not to mention ethnocentrism, should land the Stars and Stripes in the Top Five for the week, we here at YAB are proud of Betsy Ross and her efforts to weave together a symbol of liberty. While the stars have increased over the years, she laid the groundwork for easily one of the five-best banners.
As for those who follow in her footsteps – it appears that they’ve tripped.

Nordblog’s Mike Nordberg decided to extend the debate briefly to state flags. These are the flags reserved to fly over your local town hall, police station, and side of that state trooper car that just pulled you over. Some do well to reflect the heritage and history of their statehood, others managed to design something that is actually attractive. But after reviewing the fifty flags of the United States, it appears that most states are no better off than picking the winner of a 3rd-grade drawing contest.

(Sidenote: In 3rd grade, I actually had to design a flag for Flag Day in some contest sponsored by a local bank. Mine ruled. I freehandedly traced the United States out of the World Book Encyclopedia – it was awesome. And yet somehow, I only got third place. First place – savings bond! Second place – smaller savings bond. Third place? Your flag hangs in a bank! Yeah, just put mine NEAR some money, I didn’t actually want any. Ok, I’m done.)

The following are the 5 worst flags in the United States of America.

OHIO – I have no patience to those who screw with geometry. Had to be different, did ya, Buckeye State? Methinks that somebody ran out of fabric two hours before they had to turn it in, and tried to float this as “art.” I know a slack job when I see one.

ILLINOIS – According to the webpage, this one was actually a contest winner in 1912. The winner got $25 bucks. The state of Illinois got a flag with a bald eagle that if it were real, would have a wingspan of a Boeing 747.

COLORADO – I loved Pac-Man! I’m so glad he gets to live on over the State Capital building in Denver! For the record, the state animal is Frogger and the state insect is Centipede.

LOUISIANA – Look, I’m all for using a state symbol, like Louisiana’s Eastern Brown Pelican on an official symbol like a flag. But when that pelican has a demonic, hungry look in her eyes and there are innocent, defenseless baby pelicans in the picture, I draw the line.

MINNESOTA – Ah, they went with the old state seal as the selling point. What’s that across the top – L’etoile du Nord? Yeah, yeah, the North Star is great, people, but there should be a rule that no French should be part of any state flag. (Not to mention that I can’t figure if that guy in the seal is farming or golfing.)

Truth! Beauty! Freedom! BANJO INFUSION!

YABNews was first on the scene the last time an Academy Award winning actress from Cold Mountain married a country music musician. So in another round of Deja-Vu, we are astounded to report that somehow this has happened…again.

While Kenny Chesney and Renee eat something Zellweger have ridden the sexy tractor to Splitsville, that doesn’t mean that the world of Hollywood stars can’t mix with steel guitars. Nicole Kidman has dropped word that she is now engaged to fellow Australian Keith Urban. Kidman has made a career of grabbing the Oscar-nom roles, while putting out a likeable, light comedy for the summer popcorn crowd. Urban has made his career by writing and playing upbeat country tunes with banjo infusion.

(Wow. Banjo Infusion. I don’t really know what it means, but it sounds like it should be cool. Imagine being in a boring sales meeting with boring pie charts and boring graphs, and then someone suggests that what this meeting need is BANJO INFUSION. You’re excited, and you don’t know why, right? That’s the power of words. Ok, back to YABNews.)

Aussie-roots aside, this engagement did not happen as Nicole and Keith explain it to be. Much like when Kenny Chesney auditioned for a part in Jerry Maguire (only to lose out to Nicole’s ex Tom Cruise), it appears that a busted audition and a long-lost script from 2001 explains where Urban and Kidman met. In the tradition of YABNews making up stuff that you can’t prove, we provide an excerpt of an early draft script of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge. This fateful script recalls the two lovebirds first meeting – in the elephant dressing room of Kidman’s Satine.

Satine: This is a wonderful place for a poetry reading, don’t you think? Hmmm…poetic enough for you?
Christian: Yes…is this where the blacktop ends?
Satine: A little supper? Maybe some champagne?
Christian: Oh, I don’t know, my songs are poetry but they’re not about drinking – leave that to Chesney or Toby Keith. Anyway, I’ll pass, I’d rather just, umm, get it done and over with.
Satine: Oh... very well... then why don't you come down here and let's get it over and done with?
Christian: Ok, if you’re ready for some smokin’ BANJO INFUSION?
Satine: I just felt a chill. Wow, there’s something about that phrase.
Christian: I know. It really just means I’ll be playing a banjo but –
Satine: Hey, whatever you want to call it. You’re the poet.Christian: I’m a singer. Who wouldn’t want to be me?Satine: Oh…big boy!
Christian: I think you have the wrong idea about this.
Satine: But Christian, do you not want me?Christian: Lady, it’s Keith. My name is Keith.
Satine: Dude, is that an…Australian accent I detect?
Christian: Yes. Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but mine is a koala. His name is KOALA INFUSION.
Satine: (singing) It's a little bit funny, this f-feeling in-inside. I'm not one of those who can-who can easily hide.
Keith/Christian: And Days Go By! I can feel 'em flying, Like a hand out the window in the wind the cars go by, it's all we've been given so you better start livin' right now, 'cause days go by.

Fondues and Don'ts

Before I get into today’s festivities, it should be noted from yesterday’s comments. I, too, remember those words from Lamar Alexander, and it was a good speech. That guy outperformed his street cred. And jz, I noticed your sister’s name in the program and wondered if that was her – since the home was “Fredericksburg, VA.” – and it turns out I was right. Congrats to “wz.”

But speaking of festivities, the graduation fun doesn’t end with a two-face sunburn and an extreme longing for water. Later on that evening, the fam, the grad, the wife, and the blogger had a nice dinner at the restaurant of the grad’s choice. It should be noted that the grad eats at Panera Bread about 39.2 times per week. I’m not kidding. You would think that she works there. And that could come in handy if you ran out of cream cheese – she could just go into the backroom for you.

So fully expecting a tough decision of whether to go with soup or salad to complete my Pick Two, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that Panera Bread (an anagram for “ER Panda Bear) was not on the menu. Instead, we headed north to Ballston to diner at the one-stop gooified dinner shop – The Melting Pot.

Now the title makes sense, doesn’t it?

For those who haven’t, going to the Melting Pot is a completely different dining experience that any other restaurant. Two reasons – fondue is a cuisine that requires you to do the majority of the food preparation, and also they give you long pointy sticks with which to maneuver. If you can melt it, it can be a course at a fondue place. Granted, most eateries of this variety stick with the cheese, wine, and chocolate families of fondue, but why not customer-suggested items? Caramel? Peanut Butter? Frosting? Why not?

Do be sure to pay attention to what the waiter tells you at the outset. Fondue rookies can find themselves in a pretty precarious place if they don’t know what’s going on. Fondue Pointy Sticks could get mixed up, the bottom of the fondue pot could be littered with bread wreckage that slid off said sticks, and you can get so flustered trying to remember which cheese is which that you end up trying to cook that piece of apple in your water glass. It’s hectic, I know, but it’s worth it.

Also, from personal experience, there’s a minor element of dining karma at play here. The waiter has to go to such lengths to make sure everyone knows what’s going on and that the fondue dipping selections are expertly mixed and prepared that the back-end of the service might skew awry. Eating such a hot meal requires several refills of the old water glass (assuming it’s apple-free).
And in cramped quarters, such a protocol may prove quite difficult. That’s the only way I can explain getting hit by about 6 ice cubes down my back mid-shrimp-poke. And when a water glass came crashing down on the table due to dining karma, I just figured it was because the busboy wanted everyone in on the action. Maybe we were to celebrate the new graduate by dumping icy water on her head after a job well done, just like on the football field sidelines…

…except fondue dinners take more time than a football game.

If I were in charge of the Melting Pot, (the Best Company Ever is looking to diversify, after all), I think I would add an element of surprise to a fondue feast. Now you see, a dessert tray comes with many offerings to dip in goo, but no item tasted better than the small square of pound cake. Unfortunately, there’s only two cubes to go around. And since everyone’s been practicing with the sharp pointy sticks for the last three hours, there should be a civilized way to decide who gets to dine on the pound cake.

My vote is for fondue fencing.

Graduation Do's and Don't's

This past Saturday I had the pleasant experience of watching my little sister graduate from the University of Mary Washington. For those doing the math at home, she’s three years my junior, which meant she probably should have graduated this time last year. Apparently, she did – I was busy taking a econ final of my own that morning and missed the Fredericksburg heat. But because I missed it, she stuck it out for one more year in a Masters in Elementary Ed program so that I could see her in all the pomp and circumstance.

(Or apparently to further her career. Eh, same difference.)

Whatever the reason, I realized that a graduation ceremony is the one place where it’s cool to have a surname that begins with the letter ‘Z’. All your life you stand at the back of the line, waiting for everyone else to be acknowledged. Sure, you’ll be recognized or called upon soon, but by the time they get to you, who cares? Well, at a graduation more than your family and friends care. Why? You are the last person to received a diploma, and this marks two major accomplishments.

First, you finished your rigorous coursework with enough proficiency to warrant this degree. Second, the audience of thousands are that much closer to getting out of the hot, hot sun and to their lunch location of choice. When your name is called, you would think you just tied Babe Ruth’s all-time HR total. (Or so I’ve heard. No one’s done that in a while, I hear.) It’s good to be last. So good in fact that I will take this opportunity to congratulation Cynthia D, Zuyek on her remarkable stroll to the podium. You’ve earned it, Cyndi. You’ve earned it.

Another deal breaker for a successful graduation ceremony is of course, the weather. There are two extremes Mother Nature can take on such an occasion, and neither is welcomed by the frenetic and worried event planners. Too much sun can result in a hot day. And while commencement exercises are lengthy, they are not long enough to allow the sun to complete its entire daily path across the sky. If you see me this week and the right side of my face seems a shade or two redder than the left, now you know why. Of course, too little sun brings on rain, and that brings the event planner to tears.

Yeah, you try and get 538 SHS seniors and family into the gym without hyperventilating. (you, not the people in the gym)

Now Mary Washington opted to both 1) read every graduate’s name aloud with little chance of pristine pronunciation and 2) use a recording of Pomp and Circumstance rather than kill poor young musicians with 47 repeats of the coda. I was once one of those poor young musicians, out on the football field waiting for the parade of graduates to walk by. Tim Morea, if you’re out there, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Graduation speakers are often the most memorable part of your big day (other than trying to find that stupid hat you foolishly launched in the air.) Looking back at William and Mary, I can’t help but feel a tad shafted:

2006: Bishop Desmond Tutu
2005: Retiring President Timothy J. Sullivan
2004: Jon Stewart
2003: Her Majesty Queen Noor of Jordan

2002: Lamar Alexander??

65 Cents for Your Dignity?

Some guys have all the suck.

Check this scenario. It’s a Friday at your place of work. The inbox has shrunk, the dress is casual, and most people at this point are just counting down until Happy Hour comes around. Now you’ve been busy with a mid-day meeting to prepare for, so somehow lunch was forgotten, and the cafeteria is officially closed for business. (Let’s be honest though, we both know they phone it in on Fridays. Grilled cheese for everybody!) And while fasting until some 5 o’clock chips and salsa magically appear at your local watering hole of choice seems viable, you’re going to need a snack.

With no other hope, you turn to the vending machine.

Now YAB has warned you before about these food distribution mechanisms. The 7 Simple Rules of Vending Machines smacked a big old “BUYER BEWARE” on the smudge-covered glass panels of your local foodbox. However, Hunger can be mean. If spare change and intestinal fortitude allows, sometimes you just have to take your chances. That said, I proceeded up to the sixth floor for a nice nutritious bag of Sun Chips.

Or not.

You can never underestimate a vending machine. It’s not just a lifeless box; it has a mind of its own. Without independent thought, it would never be able to orchestrate some of the devious ploys that comprise the 7 Rules. One would think that anyone with a college degree should come to the fight able to outsmart the vending machine. As I found out this afternoon as I turned the corner into the machine’s alcove that just might not be true.

Enter Lunchbox. (Names have been changed not so much to protect the innocent, but rather because I have no idea what they really are.)

Lunchbox looks a little upset. I don’t even have to look to realize what has happened here. Lunchbox put in some money. He made his selection. The machine responds by rolling the selected coil forward. The snack then proceeds to pull a cliffhanger – the crucial point at which the vending machine no longer claims responsibility for delivery and the item has suspending animation altogether. Now Lunchbox is out 65 cents, and that candy bar just doesn’t have the legs to make its final freefall. What now, Lunchbox?

Apparently, the answer it Rage.

Despite the fact I was 20 feet away and that other people were passing through the hallways, Lunchbox performed a showcase of brute force rarely seen outside of those old World’s Strongest Man competitions. Standing to the vending machine’s side, he rocked the thing with reckless abandon, doing anything and everything to get that Kit Kat to give in and drop. He didn’t care that I was watching. He didn’t care that the coffee pots on the adjacent counter were rattling to a near point of shattering. All he cared about was getting his money’s worth.

After 3 minutes and complete upper body exhaustion, the Kit Kat gave in and made Lunchbox a very happy man. He was happy. I got curious.

How good does a snack have to be to warrant such behavior? 65 cents doesn’t go far these days, but neither does a vending machine snack. How good would that dangling snack have to be to force you, the reader, to go to such extremes? For me, I look at it mathematically. The value of the snack must be 3 times the price I paid into the machine. Otherwise, I’ll walk away and save fact. For 65 cents, that amounts to about 2 bucks.

So unless that vending machine’s packing a Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese, looks like I’m out.

He Dreams the Champagne Dream

Despite the long-running roots of The Real World and the astounding staying power of perennial hit Survivor, at this point in the history of reality television the crown must be placed upon the ratings juggernaut American Idol. Now it its fifth season, the Fox hit smacks down Nielsen and his coveted ratings with a strong 1-2 punch. If nothing else, at least it helped launch follow-up House to stardom. (which features the kid who played Neil in Dead Poets Society. Didn’t he commit suicide in that movie to avoid his father’s wishes of become a doctor? Did something go terribly wrong here?)

But back to American Idol. I’ll admit, I’ve caught my share of episodes, or at lease small portions and performances. I’ll only watch when they are down to 10 or less contestants. Those early auditions where people are terrible? No thanks. If I wanted to witness a trainwreck, I’d scare Sara at work and see what goes awry.

Here’s my quick-hit Idol thoughts on a slow news Friday:

• What Simon says, goes. Nevermind the overly caustic judge who flanks Paula Abdul, I’m talking about the whole thing. According to production lists, American Idol is based on a creation of Simon Cowell, Simon Fuller, and Simon Jones. Three Simons, working together without any input from other people not names Simon. Doesn’t this seem odd? I understand that Simon is a popular British name, but such a collaboration is just the product of a childhood directions game gone horribly wrong. I suppose if the game was Condon Says, I’d have a massive ego, too. (It should also be noted that Simon Lythgoe is one of the show’s three directors.) If nepotism is showing favoritism to family, what is this? Nomenism?
  
• There have been four winners to date, and only really one has had a superstar career to date. Kelly Clarkson has been a tremendous story, but what has happened to Ruben Studdard? Since his solo career has struggled, why not pro football? I would love to see the ESPN guys slip his name on-air to Mel Kiper Jr., and see if the Draft Mahatma can come up with some tape or analysis. Fantasia Barrino, while having a voice resembling nails on a boardwalk, has reportedly agreed to star in a Lifetime Original Movie about her life. No word on whether the ballet-dancing hippos and gators or the marching broomsticks have signed on. Finally, Carrie Underwood is riding shotgun, since asking Jesus to take the wheel. There’s a joke here, I just can’t put my finger on it.
  
• Whoever wins Season 5, we now know it won’t be Chris Daughtry. Considered the favorite to win the competition, he was ousted in what morning radio jocks are calling a complete shock. I didn’t see his last performance, but I’ve seen prior ones and Daughtry has a strong rock voice that doesn’t have too much promise as a solo artist, but could totally lead a band to airplay.But what if that band leads him?
  
  According to AP, the multi-platinumed Fuel has offered Daughtry their vacant lead singer position, considering Brett Scallions left three months ago. This is WAY better than winning American Idol. Signing with a proven band who has retained their songwriting abilities (the guitarist writes for them, not Scallions), Daughtry will have a much longer career, and avoid having to star as himself in a SpikeTV Original Movie. This is like getting cut from your high school baseball team, only to get a call from the Yankees, who are looking to fill left field due to last night’s injury, and they want you.
  
  Sometimes it’s good to be a Chris and not a Simon.

Skate Blades and Surgical Knives

For the 2005-2006 Philadelphia Flyers, the name of the game was injuries. Losing players for an astounding 461 man-games (third all-time), players could not stay healthy enough to put up a consistent, concentrated effort. However, they managed to make the playoffs with a majority of their regulars in the lineup (save captain Primeau and D-man Kim Johnsson) However, lack of scoring and abundance of bodily damages forced the Flyers out early, losing their opening round series to the streaking Buffalo Sabres 4-2.

But Chris, what’s funny about that?

Among other things, the post-season calls for many members of a professional sports organization to try and stretch their day-to-day operations to span the long, boring gap until the puck drops again. Coaches start reviewing tape of went wrong. Mascots begin off-season cross-training, walking around amusement parks and scaring children. And Official Team Webmasters start searching for something, anything, new to post for devoted fans that happen to stop by after that final horn has sounded.

For the Flyers, who were expected to contend for the Stanley Cup this year, their webmaster had to scramble for new content, figuring he was on easy street for at least a few more weeks. But with no additional playoff series in the Orange and Black’s near future, he had to go to his old stand-by – interviewing the team’s trainer, Jim McCrossin.

All I can say is wow.

According to McCrossin, 14 Flyers are preparing in the next two weeks to go under the knife for some post-season surgery. Yes, a whole baker’s dozen plus one. Reading this laundry list of players, it would have been more efficient for the trainer to report which players are not getting surgery. “Jeff Carter is doing just cool – he’s going to go play some golf now.” But no, we’re treated to the casualty list of a season gone wrong.

This is where things get strange.

Now everyone knows that super-center Peter Forsberg will be shelved for a double-foot surgery that will put him out of commission until next January. And Primeau, despite the concussion, is going to get that broken nose of his fixed. Sami Kapanen’s got some shoulder work to get done, and Hatcher and Stevenson have some knee issues. And now that you mention it Donald Brasher and Branko Radiovojevic have some outstanding on their shoulders, too. (Thanks to Branko, SpellCheck just commited suicide. Again.) So that takes care one-half of the 14. But the other 7? Here’s a sampling from the article.

“Michal Handzus had successful surgery on Friday to repair his left rotator cuff and torn LABRUM. Eric Desjardins will have surgery to repair a torn LABRUM in his left hip. Both Mike Rathje and Robert Esche will see Dr. Byrd and have surgery performed at that time to repair LABRUMS in their right hips. "Antero Niittymaki, we found that he does have an extensive tear in his superior and anterior LABRUM in his right hip. Both Denis Gauthier and Brian Savage will be having surgery to repair torn posterior LABRUMS both in their right shoulders.”

Oh. My. God. What the hell is a labrum?!?

Forget the Sabres, the Devils, the Rangers, all of ‘em. The Flyers’ number one opponent this year was clearly the Labrum. 7 key contributors (including both goalies) need work to repair something I’ve never even heard of. Is Jim McCrossin making things up? Some phantom appendage / muscle / tendon / soulpiece affected this many players? It’s nowhere to be found on WebMd.

Hold up – Medicinenet.com has it. According to them, a labrum is a ring of fibrocartilage around the joint of a bone. That clears things up. Thanks, guys.Ok, for the 2006-2007 Flyers to be competitive, Bobby Clarke needs to make some changes. Pick a number 1 netminder? No. Get another speedy winger? Nay. Force Desjardins into retirement? Uh uh.

Ban labrums from the locker room. Those things are bad news.

An Extreme Longing for Cake

Many of you work in office settings. And in these office settings, there is most likely a communal kitchen or break room. (For those who do not have a break room, your management is working you too hard. Conduct an office chair grand prix up and down the corridor as a release, and if anyone asks, tell them I said it was okay.)

For those who do understand the break room phenomenon, you are probably aware that every now and then, a mystery plate of free food shows up on the counter, with little explanation or fanfare. It could be a plate of donuts or bagels. Perhaps some opened but largely full bottles of soda. The occasional sandwich or cookie tray may find its way to the break room. However, in most of these instances, you can guarantee that as quickly as they may have found their ways in, co-workers will find ways to help them find their ways right back out.

Scavengers of the office, unite.

This food exists in much the same way the coffee machine or water cooler do. Even though the suppliers of the two are different, the notion is that such snackable offerings will boost employee morale. Normally left over from staff meetings, it’s not a bad way to tide oneself over. However, all the aforementioned break room items are commonplace selection with which you and your comrades know exactly what to do. What happens, we ask, when it is not a tray of leftovers sitting there taunting you, but rather something bigger?
Say a whole cake, perhaps?

Office Counter Cake (OCC, for short) is a much more delicate situation for the vultures in the office break room. A successful swipe must take into consideration the following factors:

LABOR INTENSIVE SNACK – When there’s a tray of donuts, you can grab one without ever breaking stride. It’s largely a swoop motion, and if you’ve been blessed with the gift of stealth, you can grab one without anyone else doing a double take. OCC is WAY different. Grabbing a piece of bonus cake requires many things. You need a plate or napkin to carry your stash away. You need a knife to carve up the thing. Sure, you could use your hand, but that just slows down the getaway. This takes so much time you might as well put your name in for a table and order a drink from the bar. For the record, there’s no bar in our break room.

SUPPORTING THE CAUSE – Nobody makes a cake for the hell of it. Those who like to bake often find the need to create in the kitchen, and I’m cool with that. They’ll relieve this need by whipping up some brownies or cookies or even a batch of muffins? But cake? No one makes a cake because they feel like it. You need an occasion for a cake. And you DEFINITELY need a reason if you’re bringing that cake to work.

If you decide to get out all the implements required for an OCC heist, realize your supporting more than the “I’m hungry, damn it” efforts. That cake is left out there for a reason. If you partake, you are silently advocating whatever reason that cake was created for. Suddenly, by silent consent (it’s impolite to talk with food in your mouth) you are congratulating Ruthie on her promotion, wishing Jake a happy birthday, or whatever the event may be. Before you take the cake, read the frosting, will ya? Otherwise, you may be eating a “Barry Bonds for President” or “Let’s Kick Some Puppies!” cake. Not good, sir.

Lockedown, 1997

“Tabula Rasa baby!!!!”
- Joe Brescia, commenting on “Lockedown, 1776.”

YAB would be remissed if it did not retell the reasons that it knows the in-depth teachings of British philosopher John Locke. And since no normal person should show such enthusiasm for a 250 year-old human nature theory as Mr. Daytona has above, it also warrants mentioning that Joe Brescia has a whole lot to do with it.

Long before Lost was the supernatural show to end all supernatural shows, the FOX network was running on fumes of its first bona fide dramatic hit in the X-Files. I wasn’t a regular fan of the show, but apparent for some reason back in 1997 I was extra-psyched about its late-October season premiere. However, if I was to watch it, I had a pesky World Cultures assignment I had to knock out of the park beforehand. Was it one of those “this should take you six weeks to compile and present your research” types? Oh yeah. Had I started it? Oh no…

Paired with the only guy to lose his voice playing soccer, Joe Brescia, we had been assigned the task of preparing a fifteen minute presentation on a famous philosopher. We drew Mr. Locke. Now while others did charts, graphs, and the rare graphical chart, we decided it was time to put out best talents to work in the name of education, not to mention my dad’s video camera that was roughly 13 years old. Education: It’s Cutting Edge.

You think Oscar Sunday looked complicated? Check out these special effects.

First things first. We had to write a script for this thing. The premise was simple. Two high school kids are trying to watch a hockey game, but know they have to get this John Locke project done. They turn on the TV, and after awhile, a certain ancient smart guy comes on-screen and imparts his knowledge. Everybody learns, the two slackers get an A, and everybody’s happy.

In order to pull off such a stunt, you need John Locke. Or at the very least, Joe Brescia wearing one of my dad’s blazers, enough Kleenex to have that frilly thing pass as a cravat, and baby powder in the hair to give Go-Go-Joey a distinguished look. And just to make sure you know he’s from the UK, we’ll have him munch on an English muffin and drink tea. (Of course, we did not anticipate doing multiple takes of John Locke drinking tea and eating the English muffin, and since this had to be a one-take pony, the final cut had Mr. Locke picking up the English muffin only to find a large bite missing. Call that our continuity error.)

The script was written so that the Joe and I would be sitting in the classroom talking with Locke on the TV. In order to make this impressive, we decided not to have Locke join the conversation until 90 seconds in. He was scripted to tap on the glass of the TV to get our attention. But since we didn’t have a Joe-sized pane of glass handy, this effect was reduced to Chris tapping 2 drinking glasses together near the camcorder while Joe fake-knocked.

I swear, this took 12 takes.

Other gimmicks to provide the illusion that this conversation was live included Locke throwing a copy of George Orwell’s 1984 off-camera, only to have the book itself fly across the classroom. The was achieved by planting a classmate (codename: DIXON!) hiding behind the giant world map stand just below the tv. (In hindsight, everybody saw Dixon go behind the map, and then forgot about him. What attention spans we have.) Also, Locke “handed” a set of Cliffs Notes to me. On camera, I had crawled just below the shot to raise my hand into view, grab the book, and go back down. At the same time, real Chris walked over to the tv and put his hand up behind it, where the Notes had been taped to the back. Genius.

There’s a saying that insists a magician should never reveal his secrets. Yeah, well he shouldn’t spend a week in a saltwater bubble either.

Postscript: I would LOVE to put this video on YouTube for you all to see, but a certain someone whose name ends in “–oe Brescia” might have taped over it for the ’98 Nagano Olympic USA vs. Canada game.

A New Food Chain

My wife is a science teacher. All day long, she fields questions from inquisitive young minds concerning different types of clouds, the parts of an insect, the difference between a cell wall and a cell membrane, and why germination is not the means by which a Berliner becomes a citizen. Fourth grade science clearly spans many topics over the course of a year, but it just occurred to me that no matter how many times you are forced to memorize all the invertebrate phyla, there is one group of creatures that students always forget. But that’s not fair, really. They always forget this last group because they were never taught it. We’re talking about the lost phyla of…

Gummi Animals.

I can understand why those skilled in nomenclature have avoided such a grey area in the world of the living. How does one classify these animals? They definitely lack a backbone, placing them squarely on the side of the animal invertebrates. However, they certainly resemble many creatures in the standard animal kingdom. On top of that, they often lack many qualities one would associate with either branch of the animal kingdom, so they could certainly be protests or amoeba. Not that I’ve ever seen them replicate by cellular division, but hey, I’m no gummi scientist.

No wonder I’m in the business world.

However, if I were to do a research paper on the classification and taxonomy of these weird, weird animals, I’d contact the folks at Haribo. No doubt, they know their stuff. As the pre-eminent leading source on amorphous goo organisms, Haribo has probably raked in their share of Nobel Prizes (which, rumor has it, are actually awarded in Sweden.) Now while most people are accustomed to the fierce and ferocious gummi bear, Haribo would have you know that evolution has also produced others, including worms, frogs, and sharks.

Before we delve into life more scientific, let’s state something for the record. In the early 1990s, the Walt Disney Company did their best to animate one of these largely lifeless species in their cartoon The Gummi Bears. It is of the opinion of YAB that this was a crappy cartoon. There were too many characters that didn’t really do anything interesting. While the fact it only lasted one season should be proof enough, I place the Gummi Bears a distant 6th, behind (in order) Duck Tales, Rescue Rangers, Darkwing Duck, Tale Spin, and the short-lived Marsupilami. And I’m pretty sure it was about drug use. Ok, back to the research.

Just like any other living member of God’s creation, there’s a circle of life in the gummi world. Granted, it’s nothing to have Elton John write a soundtrack about, but it’s pretty impressive nonetheless. A gummi worm, just like in real-life, is the lowest rung on the gummi food chain. While considerably larger in size than the rest of the gummi brethren, somehow lack of burrowing ability (and a functioning brain) leads to its demise. The gummi worm is often swallowed by the gummi frog. Two reasons for this, really. A frog must rely on weaker pry for food. 2 – There’s no way Haribo could successfully market a gummi fly.

Because gummi frogs are water-based creatures and inherently stupid, gummi sharks make short work of them. This is impressive, since these sharks cannot rely on the same razor sharp teeth as say, Jaws. This leaves us with the king of all things gooified.

The Gummi Bear can answer the age-old question, “Who would win in a fight – a shark or a bear?” If this was war, their numbers would be too much to overcome for the shark, who picks on frogs for a living. Yes, this is why the Gummi Bear reigns supreme. There are perks to being at the top of the food chain.

Assuming you exclude the fact that real people eat ALL gummi animals. Bunch of savages.

Choosy Moms Choose Dads

Yes, we know. The next holiday on the calendar comes this Sunday, where mothers around the world will get there due (even Samuel L. Jackson, who we hear is one tough mother.) (This is also assuming this reader base does not celebrate this Thursday’s Thai holiday of Visakhabuja.)

(I think Spellcheck just committed suicide.)

So it would be nice to consider which of the following new mothers are best-fitted to care for their newborn. We’ve got Katie Holmes, Jackie Titone, and Lisa Ann Russell. What do you mean you’ve only heard of one of them? They’re all one-halves of Hollywood power couples? Ok, maybe that wouldn’t be the most interesting of blogs, considering you don’t know these people and the one that you do recently thanked you for smoking. That’s a dangerous mix.So even though their celebratory occasion does not fall until June 18, we feel that this would be text well spent if we forecast the abilities of the three new Hollywood fathers. Yes, Virginia, it’s true. In the last month, Hollywood welcomed these three megastars to the fatherly fold.

TOM CRUISE!
ADAM SANDLER!
MARK-PAUL GOSSELAAR!

What a trio of new daddies we have here, no? So here’s the scenario. Ten years down the road, your next-door neighbor – the one who always borrows your lawn tools and doesn’t give them back – mysteriously disappears – something about the circus? – I don’t know. But he’s left behind his wife and two young children. You’d offer to help, but the wife has an eye on your new lawnmower, and you just can’t afford to lose anymore gardening implements. You call Hollywood for help, and the three aforementioned names are tossed in the ring. Who do you choose?

Application #1
Name: Tom Cruise Mapother IV (for legal proceedings such as this, we gotta use the whole name. Sorry, T-C.)
Age: 43
Current Position: Training new recruits for the IMF. That’s Impossible Mission Force, not International Monetary Fund. But hey, how cool would that be if these two were one and the same? All sorts of cool banker gadgets. Take those pens that are chained to the counter, for example. They could extend to be a super-strength wire you could rappel down the side of the building. What was I talking about again?
Work Experience: Talk about an eerie situation. Cruise already did this once, back in 1996. Granted, Renee Zellweger agreed to leave her cushy sports agency job to follow him and his fish, and that kid was so damn cute, but he did play pinch-hit father to a T. Just don’t let him crash on the couch. He may break it.

Application #2
Name: Adam Sandler
Age: 39
Current Position: According to IMDB on his new summer movie “Click”, Sandler is currently a workaholic architect who has fun running his life with a universal remote. This could come in handy – considering he’ll never miss a kid’s soccer game because he’s at home – looking for the remote.Work Experience: Actually played a loving, normal father in Spanglish. But his real C.V. occurred in Big Daddy. Unconventional methods, sure, but he got the job done. You must subscribe to a daily newspaper – he’s going to need those for clean-up detail. And he knows Jon Stewart. That’s a plus.

Application #3
Name: Mark-Paul Gosselaar
Age: 32
Current Position: Unemployed. He served as special media advisor to President Mackenzie Allen on ABC’s Commander in Chief, which recently got the axe. And as we all know, to the victor goes the spoils, which means somebody’s out of a job. Would be available immediately.Work Experience: In a very special Home Ec episode of Saved by the Bell, Mark-Paul was paired in marriage with Kelly Kapowski, and actually had two children (which somehow were both Screech Powers.) An exemplary husband he may not have made, but with a caring heart (ref: Christmas in the Mall episode), he should be just fine to take care of yo’ kids.

Who do you choose? Who DO you choose?

Professional Killers and Killer Systems

Over the weekend, I got an opportunity to wake up early on a Saturday morning and peacefully kick back and watch a movie. For reasons unknown, I selected The Road to Perdition, quite possibly the most under-rated movie in Tom Hanks’ portfolio. At Oscar time it came and went with little fanfare – just 1 win for the much-deserved cinematographer Conrad Hall – but that doesn’t take away from this beautiful film.

Fresh off a three-post Friday, I sat there on the couch looking for something, anything, to sneak in a weekend bonus post to lessen the backdating gap some more. But a movie about death, crime, and Daniel Craig whining offers little opportunity to bring the funny. As Tom Hanks drives his son far, far away from the only home he’s known, knowing well they’d never return to it, the serious look on Hanks’ face and the lack of conversation highlights just how serious this movie is. These two are on a 6 hour car ride to Chicago, and both father and son are just staring intently forward into fields of Illinois winter. How can I be funny when they’re so damn grim(m)?

Then it hit me.

Road to Perdition was set at the height of Al Capone’s power, setting the scene in about 1924. The Galvin Manufacturing Company didn’t invent the car radio until 1930. No wonder no one’s having fun in Tom Hanks’ car – they’ve got no tunes. Nevermind that the two remaining members of the Sullivan family are clearly grieving in a state of muted shock; the real reason no fun is being had is they’ve got nothing to rock out to.

This is why a car radio is important.

Car audio systems have come a long way since the one the Galvin boys came up with in 1930 (which would mark the founding of Motorola, by the way.) Most people are cool with the factory-installed models. However, back in the summer of 1997, something inside me decided that the old factory wasn’t up to snuff in the sweetest ride a high school kid could have – a 1990 Volvo tank – yes, the Garden State Warrior.

The creative team behind my makeshift supercomputer named Cameron, teamed up to install brand new speakers and a CD-deck into the tank. When it came to employing the services of Justin Morea, Chris Smith, and Aaron Boblitt, it really doesn’t take much when one is meddling with electronics.

For those who are considering running new speakers and radio into their vehicle, please consider the following:

1. If you’ve got friends who ARE willing to meddle with electronics, take every opportunity. Provide pizza, soda, whatever. It’s going to be cheaper than letting Best Buy do it.
2. If you do take it to Best Buy, Karen Yelito can vouch that they have a tendency to steal things from your car – especially bobblehead turtles.
3. I made that last part up. Best Buy is a good company. And Karen is gullible.
4. Have a contingency plan ready when your mom pulls into the driveway and sees that the passenger door of her previous car has been dismantled completely and is lying in the grass. Trust me on this one.

Lockedown, 1776

Part of the paper I penned yesterday on DoD Business Transformation somehow ended up referencing the written word of our 3rd President of the United States, W&M alumnus Thomas Jefferson. Yeah, for a paper that centered on the Pentagon’s business practices, maybe I was waxing a tad poetic, citing one our Country’s fathers. But hey, I figure it’s a much more professional way of kicking off a research paper than typing “You’re an Intro.”

The sentence in question referred specifically to his unalienable rights – Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Yes, because of the Declaration of Independence, those three ideals will be forever linked, even more so than Pavarotti, Domingo, and the Other Guy. But what most US History high school teachers fail to mention is that Thomas Jefferson altered those three previously held ideas of a certain John Locke, who is now stuck in that bloody hatch typing in 4 8 15 16 23 42 every 108 min- oops. I meant a certain John Locke, who penned not one, but Two Treatises on Government.

(ba-dum-ching)

Contained within were Locke’s three natural rights: Life, Liberty, and Estate (aka the Pursuit of Property) Sound familiar? Now Jefferson was clearly a fan of Locke, agreeing with his ideas of social contract and tabula rasa, as he chose these rights to serve as the basis for American freedom. But he’s also no dummy, since history books do not look kindly upon copycats (Mad TV), he decided that he needed to trade out one of the three to make an Englishman’s ideas his own. Besides, the W&M Honor Council would have given him the boot for plagiarism.

(Although in colonial times, they may have actually given him a real boot.)

So picture this scenario. It’s June of 1776, and T-Jay is tired. He’s been at this thing since June 12, and now it’s almost the 27th, when Franklin, Adams, and Sherman are going to want to do a read-thru. Jefferson has been busy and unfocused. And it’s incredibly hot. He’s played enough garbage can basketball with rough drafts to try out for the 76ers (you know, when basketball gets invented and the Sixers form some 164 years later.) He loves the natural rights of John Locke, and is excited he came up with the word “unalienable.” But something’s gotta change.

It’s really that last one in the triad that he’s not set with. Property is nice, sure, and it’s cool that people should be able to freely acquire real estate without impediment. But this man was a visionary, and sees that the housing market in the colony of Virginia will be ridiculous come 2006, and his idea for a chief judicial court, Supreme in fact, shouldn’t have to deal with Virginians claiming high condo prices are not in line with what America was founded upon. Yep, the third one’s gotta go.

Out with property, and in with happiness. Is that a fair trade, I ask you? Did we need to put this in the Declaration of Independence, for fear that future democratic regimes might try and revoke the ability for its citizenry to be…happy? Don’t get me wrong – the flowery language is a nice touch for a document that may be one of the 10 most important pieces of literature in history. (that part about Prudence dictating the actions of Government – classy touch. Who is Prudence?) I just think that if you were going to replace property with a third unalienable right, you had a chance to make a truly great statement. What about Justice? Peace? Miniaturized American Flags for All?

Now fortunately for all future Americans, Jefferson was now a total “wait-to-the-last-minute” type. Otherwise, you know we would have ended up with a third unalienable right that was whatever popped into his head at the time of transcription. It would have sucked to live in a country that supports life, liberty, and the pursuit of some Fritos.

Every Heath You Take

I have a common first name. Many other people have include one of by best friends from each of the Shawnee Group and Monrovia circles of friends. This is in no way an admission that I would like a different first name. Alliteration rules, and I’m a big fan of having more syllables in the first name than the last name. Sorry, Tim Biakabutuka.

But if I had to change my name, why not Heath?

I wouldn’t change my name to Heath because it sounds cool. It would be all for the glory. The glory of potentially being one of the “Top Three Most Famous People Named Heath Ever.” Ah, gotta love the old TTMFPNHE rankings…

The way I see it, the gold and silver are pretty locked up for the time being.

The gold goes to actor Heath Ledger. The 26-year old Australian thespian has been in the business since 13, but broke through in the surprisingly decent teen flick, 10 Things I Hate About You. He followed up with period pieces The Patriot and Mattias Caro’s favorite movie of all-time, A Knight’s Tale. Supported Monster’s Ball, led the Four Feathers, and did a few more roles to show of his accent. But getting an Academy Award nomination for Brokeback Mountain established him as the new King of Heaths. And he can be considered the Normal Guy who fathered the chicld of a Dawson’s Creek gal. Just look who he had to compete with for that one…

Settling for a long servitude in second place was the previous favorite Heath – the Heath Bar. Yes, that toffee candy has taken the silver do to a complete lack of competition. The Heath Bar has put together a pretty nice resume. To its name, it has a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor, a rival in the Skor bar, gone on record as the preferred candy bar of Elvis Presley, not to mention my wife. I mean, we should have seen this coming – it’s the only candy bar I can think of that actually has the word “eat” in its name.

I currently award the bronze medal to Zimbabwean cricketer Heath Streak. If for no other reason but to see the words “Zimbabwean cricketer” typed out on the screen. High Comedy.

Oh yeah, one other reason – to stick it to Heath Shuler.Heath Shuler is doing his best to rank on the TTMFPHNE, but I contend that he is more infamous than famous. A University of Tennessee QB from 90-93, he become the Washington Redskins’ biggest first-round draft flop in history. After five seasons, three with Washington and two more with the Saints and Raiders, Shuler retired to North Carolina to become active in politics, seeking a seat in Congress. Largely, unsuccessful before…

Heath is that much closer to coming back to Washington.

Redskins fans at www.stopshuler.com realize how bad this would be for a team that has seemed to turn the corner. Just his mere presence might send diehard fans into a worried frenzy, slamming their heads into concrete walls, a la Gus Frerotte. Now surely, a Congressional seat may merit Shuler that coveted third place on the Heathlist. Say it ain’t so.

No disrespect to the Zimbabwean cricketer, but wouldn’t I make an excellent 3rd place Heath?

Screw Going to Disney World.

When the topic river runs dry, it’s much easier to skip two consecutive days of blogging in the name of finishing grad school. However, when you don’t have the time to blog, that’s when all the good, flesh-out comedic ideas start flowing. And as much as you’d really like to stop doing break-even analyses and Lexis-Nexis fact trolling* to please the public, you resort to writing down funny ideas on a Post-it. And hoping you remember to bring it to work to start hammering away at the backlog to end of backlogs.

Let’s get it started, shall we?

Today’s first post comes courtesy of my father. Upon speaking with him not twenty minutes ago, I confirmed the fact that I have officially finished all my graded requirements of this semester, and barring a grading meltdown in which one of my professors starts assigning random keyboard symbols for grades, I shall graduate, for I am done with my MBA. (To be honest, I would find it hilarious if I got a &- on my business plan. Though I really deserved an @.) Yep, all 20 courses are in the books. And the books are in a box. And the box is in a closet. And the closet has been closed. Forever.

Or until we have to move at the end of June.

Now I talk to the talented “Mr. C” once a day, except when he phones it in and goes golfing “on business.” (Nordberg just fainted at such a thought.) He hears in my voice when I’m tired of grad school, and has a pretty good grip on how much work it took in less than 2 years. No doubt, the completion of my final paper yesterday came as welcome news to the Condon the Elder. He wanted nothing more to offer a few words of congratulatory encouragement to mark such an occasion. After carefully deciding on what phrase to proclaim on this momentous occasion, he paused, thought, and offered,

"Have a donut!"

(At this point, I’m almost sure this guy should be Nordberg’s father.) But then I thought a bit more as to what a custom this would be, if any moment of victory, joy, and accomplishment were marked with the consumption of a solitary glorious breakfast pastry such as the donut. Would that be so bad? Take the world of athletics, for example. Championship-winning athletes have spent months of training and competing where their bodies in the best shape possible. (Unless you’re name is Daly, John.) Don’t you think that after winning the big games they’d want nothing more than to chomp into a nice Boston crème? (Especially with the recent rash of Massachusetts-based winners?)

What about Nobel Prize winners? You know what they get for their life’s work? A trip to Norway to pick up a lousy medal and 1.3 million dollars. Well, that’s about how much a trip to Norway costs, and you’ve got overdue books at the research library, no doubt, so kiss the money goodbye. And last time I checked, the Norse people don’t have a breakfast delicacy to call their own – so why not a donut? The English? Muffins. The Belgians? Waffles. The French? Toast. The Swiss? Rolls. The Turkish? Delight. The Russians? Vodka Crullers. The Danish? Eh, Danish. What you got, Norway? Viking Pies?

Thanks, Dad. I’ll have that donut.

*- Fact trolling in Lexis Nexis, or any other academic journal database for that matter, does not harm trolls in any way. YAB is not pro-troll, but we can’t harm them in the name of some stupid paper on defense transformation, can we? Plus, trolls haven’t done anything to make this paper more difficult to write, and since gnomes are the beloved people of the short-person world (i.e. Tomsland), haven’t they suffered enough.**

**- How did I just turn into a troll apologist? I’m getting soft in my old age.

From a Parallel Dimension

For those who learn to drive in the city, the concept of parallel parking comes as second nature as making a pretzel and hot dog from the corner street vendor your dinner. If you would like to have a vehicle as well as call a urbanized metropolis home, and you’re totally not cool with spending $160 per month to park the car in a garage, parallel parking is the only option. As one of those skills where repetition and practice makes perfect, the more you do it, the better you become.

Another parallel parking haven is the Jersey shore. Because of the lack of driveways in most shoretown hot spots, if you want to get some rays on the beach, you, too will have to become wise in the ways of jamming a vehicle between a Hummer and a hard place. Needless to say as a Jersey native, I can boast a sense of pride in my parallel parking abilities. The Jersey shore is the whammy wild card equalizer in this scenario. It gives suburban white kids from Jersey street cred compared to the city guys, since they can ace parking on said street. That’s right – I’m representin’ the OC.

(The town, not the crappy show. The only thing on Fox I watch is House– that dude is HARSH!)

So you’ve got cityfolk and shorefolk who have got the parallel parking thing down. Unfortunately, very few of said folk are students at George Washington University, located in the heart of Washington, DC. As a nightly commuter into the city, I wish I could say the parking on campus was “ample.” I also wish I could say that these college kids had parallel parking skills that were “not laughable.”

So bad…

Now, earlier I proclaimed perfect parallel parking requires practice (and perhaps a peck of pickled peppers, but I digress.) My first official time occurred at my driver’s test in the far off land of Winslow, New Jersey some 8+ years ago. Now, I’ll admit, I had an unfair advantage, as I tested in the old white Volvo tank that was my first car. That thing was technologically superior to all other vehicles at the time (well, at least the ones with door handles that didn’t break off in your hand.) It could turn on a dime, pick it up, and then cash it in for two quarters and a nickel. Yeah, Swedes know how to manage their money.

Just look at Nordberg.

Anyways, having the easiest parallel car of life as a training vehicle paved my way towards smooth parking long ago. The state of parallel parking today is a travesty. Cars too far from the curb, too close, slanted in, slanted out, on the bumper of the cars nearby – it’s just a mess.

But nothing compares to what I witnessed downtown on my way to class yesterday.

A woman in her thirties, clearly in a hurry, clearly had no patience for traffic. I first heard her when she was about four cars up on my right. She laid into her horn like a tugboat in a thick fog. She had her ire set on the car in front of her, using each staccato blast of her horn as a warning that she’s going to flip out at any second. The light has been green for the last fifteen seconds, and the cars in the two lanes to her left were moving by without any hindrance. To be honest, I think I’d be pretty pissed too, if I were in her position, going nowhere in the far right lane.

That is, if I wasn’t waiting for a parked car to move.

Bring the Tip. Leave a Funny.

The art of tipping is one of those issues out there in the world that everyone has an opinion on. It’s like economics, religions, politics, and geometry. I’ve never worked a job in which I might receive a tip (passer-bys don’t show you love for painting warehouses as a teen), so I hope that some of you with ‘tipped’ experience will chime in on this very important issue. Just imagine if you needed to tip your blogger. Comments that are 15-20% the length of the post?

You would all hate me on days I do running diaries.

Like I said above, tipping is an art, insomuch as it cannot and is not a science. Despite that cool feature on your cell phone or reference card in your wallet, there’s no exact way to know exactly how much to tip. Most people have adopted percentage ranges that they aim for, using a sliding scale on the quality of service received. That’s the art in it. The tipping method of compensation continues to thrive because it adds a performance-based measure to how much the employee brings home at the end of the day. Waiters, barbers, luggage handlers, delivery dudes, movers, cabbies, and many others use this as motivation.

Clearly, we need to apply the tip system to filmmakers. RV? Really, guys? That’s the best you could do?

Anyways, today’s blog is not to discuss who deserves a tip, or how much each of our readers drop on the table on their way out, but rather with a specific case study that I was part of yesterday. All suggestion and comments are more than welcome.

Yesterday afternoon, I met jolly old Slacker Claus himself, Chris Nordberg, for lunch just north of Richmond. Katie accompanied me down I-95, as we decided this was the best way to transfer camping equipment to his car for a post-graduate trip later this May. (The airlines frown on carrying tanks of propane and metal tent spikes in your carry-on, you see.) Arriving in Ashland, we hit up the local Chili’s for a nice relaxing lunch (and welcome break from final projects). Herein lies the question…

What do you tip when your waitress just frightens the hell out of you?

Our waitress was a nice woman, probably late twenties, with a hint of a southern accent, and a name that for the life of me, I can’t remember. Ok, then. We’ll call her Crazelda. (Plus, this is a helpful blogger’s trick if one of your subjects decides to get their ‘Google’ on.) So Crazelda had enough enthusiasm to blow up the balloons in the Macy’s Parade. Katie had the convenient detour to the ladies’ room upon on arrival that allowed her to avoid the following introduction.

“Hi there! Welcome to Chili’s!!! Can I start you off with something to drink? Do you like strawberry lemonade? On a hot day, that stuff is just to die for! It’s really sweet, but not too sweet, you know? Now we serve Pepsi products, if that’s alight! (Nordberg orders Mt.Dew here) Ok, that’s a great choice on your part! And you sir? (I order root beer) That’s wonderful news! You know I was just thinking the other day that the kids these days just don’t love root beer anymore. I don’t know why that is. That’s super exciting!

What just happened here?

Needless to say, this level of service was maintained completely throughout the meal. At one point, Crazelda rushed to her table to say, “Suffrin’ succotash, aren’t ya?” The problem was that this was clearly a question. And none of us quite knew how to respond.

So bring the art of tipping back into this – how would you handle such a situation?

Big Top Travel

“I fell to the ground and heard a voice say to me, 'Saul! Saul! Why do you persecute me?” – Acts, Ch. 22:7

Ok, maybe it’s not persecution, but it’s at least general annoyance. A few weeks ago, I was exploring possible destinations for Katie and me as a post-grad school vacation. The options were numerous, and even though I still have much to do the semester, I used valuable writing time to leave no stone unturned for our future excursion. And having heard a co-worker’s story of their recent Caribbean cruise, I figured I might as well explore the possibility of stretching my sea legs rather than jamming them into my ribcage on a Boeing 757.

I’ve done the cruise thing before, and it was a pleasurable experience. Over spring break senior year, I joined 9 Monrovians on a jaunt through Key West, Cozumel, and enough free bread at dinner to create our own raft. Therefore, I threw “taking a cruise” onto the list of destinations. I even surfed the Carnival Cruise Lines webpage for possible itineraries, boat information, and date options. It seemed like a worthy choice, but I wasn’t ready to book on the spot, so I filled out a contact information form, and went on my way – back to monitoring my fantasy baseball pitchers.

This is where we meet Saul.

Saul Hernandez is a travel representative for Carnival Cruise Lines. His job is to make money for Carnival Cruise Lines by convincing those who left the webpage without booking a trip into coming back and charging their credit cards on that initial instinct. Carnival Cruise Lines has assigned Saul to be my personal travel representative. Saul makes sure that I haven’t forgotten about the Carnival. In other words –

I’m being stalked by a Carny.

In the wide world of amusement parks, the term “carny” is used to depict those who work under the big top. It’s not a favorable term, but then again, neither are their sales methods. Somehow, if you by chance end up at a carnival, you’ll end up dropping way more money that you planned to, and a carny’s goading is often the source of such financial fallout. And whether you’re a carny for Big Top Carnival or Carnival Cruise Lines, you’re probably annoying as all hell.

Let’s take two examples of carnies to make our point. First you have Josephus, the sketchy guy who tends the “Drill a milk bottle pyramid with a Softball” racket at the fair. Second you have Saul Hernandez, Chris Condon’s personal travel representative.

Josephus waives an overstuffed cute panda bear in your face, insisting that he can be yours if you can knock down the bottles with this here softball. Saul sends you an e-mail about a 1-Day ONLY Super Cruise Savers that can be yours if you book in the next 12 minutes.

After missing the milk bottles on a fluke toss, Josephus tells you that you can have two more throws for only 1 dollar – half price! Saul sends you another email the next day – and it strangely mirrors the 1-Day ONLY deal from the prior day.Seeing that you feel sheepish for missing the milk bottles (made out of concrete, you’re convinced), Josephus allows you three more throws for 2 bucks, AND you get to lean over the counter. Saul ramps up efforts by calling you on your cell phone, leaving messages since you don’t answer your phone during class.

40 bucks later, Josephus has sold you a 3 dollar panda bear, which will tear on the exit gate on your way to the car. 6 e-mails, 5 missed phone calls, and 3 voice mails later, you expose Saul Hernandez from Carnival Cruise Lines for the annoying sneak that he is.

A Carny.