Where the Grass is Green

In the final installment of “Condon Changes Apartments To Get Good Blog Fodder,” we’ve got to close up and put some finishing remarks on the Great Truck Rental of ’06.

(Sometimes, capitalizing makes things seem more important than they are.)

On Saturday, the actual move went strikingly well. The whole relocation took about 3 hours, and other than the spirits of my old apartment complex, nothing was broken. Condon’s Eleven moved with the precision of a finely-tuned machine. (By the way, I thought about casting my moving team as Ocean’s Eleven, but decided against it for word count purposes. For those who came, feel free to claim your character on a first-come, first-serve basis in the comments.)

In the middle of the move, we were working in shifts, loading and unloading the elevator, unpacking as quickly as we were placing boxes in the empty new space. It should be noted that I was totally planning on entertaining my move team with clever and comical box labels, but when the time came to be funny, I totally choked. Chris can’t be funny when he stays up all night packing. I labeled one box “Breakables.” I wanted to add some variant of an Ivan Drago joke next to the label, but I just couldn’t find the punchline. Sorry, guys.

But the beginning and the end of the move was not nearly as hectic. It was just Chris Condon, a man who drives a Honda Accord for a living, living large at the wheel of a big, big truck. I’m a trucker. Where’s my hat?

When I got in the 17’ U-Haul for the first time, I did what I could to savor the moment. I checked my rearview mirror, pretended to not be surprised when there was no rearview mirror to adjust, bounced in the seat a few times, and rolled out of the parking lot like I had to get a double shipment of barley to Omaha by sundown. And then I cranked the tunes.

Song on the Radio: Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield.

What? How the hell was Hot 99.5 the last station listened to in my rig? That’s not trucker music. That’s a cruel joke. God, I better kill the volume before my trucker friends think I don’t belong in such a fine, fine, industrial-sized vehicle. Yeah, I had my windows up, but for those who have been on the road for years, they don’t need to hear the girl-pop on the radio to know you’ve got girl-pop on the radio. They can smell fear.

Taking a deep breath, I flipped the channels to find real trucker music. Without a doubt, the number one trucker music genre is country. Plenty of Southern-fried guitar tunes in the vein of Skynyrd to get you on the road. Some Garth Brooks could go a long way right now. Hell, I’d even deal with some Tim McGraw.

Greater DC has three country stations that I can get on the radio. The artists on those three stations at the time of ignition? Martina McBride, Carrie Underwood, Trisha Yearwood. A chill went up my spine. I’m getting rammed off the road any second, aren’t I?

In a last-ditch effort, I prayed that DC101, the area’s only rock station, could salvage this trip (otherwise, I’m sure I was going to be forced by mandate to put up curtains and flower vases in the cab of my rig). I hit “SEEK” and crossed my fingers. After a pause, the sweetest, manliest, guitar intro hit my ears like a ton of bricks. Manly, manly bricks.

"Paradise City", by Guns ‘n Roses.

YAB now decrees Paradise City to be the Official Truck Driving Song of the Summer of 2006. Godspeed, Axl.

(And don’t think for a second that when I turned the truck back in I didn’t put the radio tuner back to Hot 99.5. I don’t want to be the only one with a complex.)

Talkin' Some Pack

Part of the fun of moving is…wait…there is no fun in moving. Let’s start over.

One of the things that humorous with relocating everything you own .9 miles from where it currently resides (that is, everything except that dry cleaning you forgot to pick up), is no doubt that packing process. The sheer idea that each possession not deemed “furniture” can fit in the confines of a brown rectangular box for easy shipping and handling is just silly. Unlike pool cues, hockey sticks do not fold into easy travel cases.

But while packing may seem daunting to some, I kind of enjoy it. It’s like a big puzzle. Everything has a rightful place in some box, and it’s your job to make sure it gets there. However, shape and spatial relationships are just part of the equation. While you may have that box that would make a great transitory resting place for your wedding portrait, socks, and the blender, this just doesn’t make sense. Part of getting to enjoy the move is enjoying the new place as soon as possible. With box combinations like those, you could be unpacking until October.

The main rule of thumb (other than “Don’t Tape Your Thumbs to the Boxes”) is to pack non-essential belongings first, and leave the day-to-day crucials to the end. Last week, I thought I was doing that. It was Wednesday and approximately 96 hours until the truck comes to pick up our stuff. I figured it was time to further breakdown the kitchen.

You know how something cool will happen the very moment you look away?

Same premise. With only two nights left in this kitchen and a near-certainty one of them will be grabbing food on the go, I decided cookware was next for the boxing match. I wasn’t totally calling the game – I left exactly one pot and one plan for use over the next two days. Bakeware, Pyrex, all of it, the rest was box-bound.

As for dinner that night, I knew there was piece of frozen salmon I could defrost and cook and that would tide me over for the night. Granted, I had never made salmon before, but Katie had, and as she was over on the couch, I could just ask her what I would need. At the time of questioning, I was guessing that the method of cooking would be 60/40, pan instead of pot.

“You need to use one of the square Pyrex glass dishes.”

Oh. Of course, I had deemed it non-essential and packed it about 6 minutes prior. Drat.

Now one coincidental timing mixup does not warrant a blog. But when it happens twice more that evening, we at YAB believe it does. 48 minutes later, I went scrounging through boxes for the basil and citrus I wanted to use. An hour-twelve after that, I needed the long-packed Tupperware to store the leftovers.

Sigh.

Now when it comes to packing, you use what you have. Since I don’t keep an abundant supply of packing peanuts or bubble wrap on hand, I would no doubt need something else to wrap the glasses in when it was time that they, too, would be packed. Now our neighbor across the hallway has been on vacation or a business trip or anywhere but his apartment for a good week. His daily newspapers, on the other hand, have not.

Which is why I started collecting them as packing material.The problem was, later that night, I had used up all of my stash. “That’s ok,” I thought, “there were 3 more papers outside when I came home from work.” So I gladly walked out the front door only to find–

The papers had vanished. Neighbor was now home.

Do I have a right to be mad at him for not letting me take his hard-earned periodicals?

Filmin' It Old School, Part 2

Director of the El Mariachi trilogy, Robert Rodriguez often provides some of the best supplemental material on his DVDs. On Once Upon a Time in Mexico, he provides a “Ten Minute Cooking School” featurette that enlightens viewing on how to make the pork entrée Johnny Depp kills for in the flick. It’s high comedy. But he also shows how to make movies on a shoestring budget with the other segment, titled “Ten Minute Film School.” Big budgets for special effects? A thing of the past.

We hear ya, aR-Rod. We hear ya.

In the screenplay for Mafia: The Movie, the main advancement of plot occurred as the cast shrank, as citizens and mafia members alike were offed with each passing night or trial-by-day. Witty. Fast-paced dialogue could amend for no cash for day scenes, but at night, well, that’s when the action happens. So consider this your 2 Minute Film School on how to do special effects and little money and even less cinematic integrity. Two examples to follow.

The High-Flying Hangar: In the game of Mafia, there is a player who has the ability to save one and only one person during each night. In our circle, he/she was the ArchAngel; but this role is known to have other names. For the purposes of the script and our lack of wings, our ArchAngel was transformed into a different alias: a superhero. Don’t ask me why, but the superhero Hangarman, a cunning justice-defender with a penchant for thwarting evil doers and Mommie Dearest, was born.

However, for an ArchAngel to save someone in the game requires a whole scene of action in a movie, and so, we decidedly to play on one of my famous foibles for such a setting. The idea was simple; the Mafia decides to kill my character during the night. Their plan? Throw a Frisbee towards a lamppost, and watch as I Air Jordan my way to an untimely death. But Hangarman was to catch said Mafia in their plans, preventing the disc and myself from making an untimely date at 1 Lamppost Lane. Shooting the scene should have been easy. Frisbee comes from the left, I come from the right, and a Flying Hangar of Truth comes out of nowhere to knock the disc to the ground and give me time to realize how close I was to death.

What? That’s TOTALLY realistic. I hear Superman Returns is using a similar sequence.

One problem: you ever try and hit an airborne Frisbee with a flying hangar? Harder than it seems. In fact, it’s harder than hitting a baseball, kicking a field goal, and draining a half-court shot all at the same time. This is why hangars aren’t a part of Ultimate.

Considering we only needed a split-second shot of a spinning wire hangar knocking the plastic disc from the sky, we improvised. We hung the disc from a longer piece of clear scotch tape, made sure the one holding said apparatus was out of the shot, and then drilled it with our hangar. We had to use Scotch tape because there are no blue-screen backdrops in the high school parking lot. In post-production, this shot looked awesome. It should be an inspiration to all.

The 2-Part Dummyshot: Later on in the script, it calls for one of the final citizens – Joe Brescia (still being played by Fidel Blogstro), to be pushed out a second story window by the Mafia and fall to his death. Now, neither Joe nor Rob were up for “doing their own stunts,” so we improvised once again. Enter the stunt double.

The stunt double was no more than a Syracuse University sweatshirt and pair of jeans stuffed with many other sweatshirts and pairs of jeans. Our stunt dummy lacked a head, and we joked I’d add one later in editing (which I had no idea how to do, but it appeased the masses.) At this point in the shooting schedule, Stunt Dummy was prepping for his second death, having played the role of “James” as he got hit by a car. (The dummy and the car survived.)

Framing such a shot in a clever way can make up for some budgetary shortcomings (like our actor lacking a head.) The plan, once again, was simple. We’d shoot “Joe” standing at the end of a long 2nd-story hallway, have him turn around suddenly, and then BANG, cut to an outside shot of the dummy falling to his death.

I guess we should have actually attached the torso to the legs. The dummy split in two on the way down.

Darth Maul Style.

Filmin' it Old School

The Past just put the Present in Representin’.

It’s Friday, and judging from rush hour traffic and the dearth of occupied parking spots in the garage this morning, I now recognize that it’s officially summer. Vacations aplenty, blog readers and non-readers alike will forgo reading Friday updates since it still seems impractical to rock the laptop at the beach or while camping, and I understand that. Readership will decrease slightly on Fridays, but that doesn’t mean the funny will cease.

Comedy doesn’t take summer vacations.

For those strong enough to be here today (or just waited to long to ask for time off), YAB would like to announce the impressive turning that is happening for those who once called Medford, New Jersey their home. Down and to the right (go ahead and scroll, we’ll wait) is a section of blogs titled “Old School.” None of them feature Vaughn, Wilson, or Ferrell, but instead are the collective musings of the Writer’s Guild of my old high school Shawnee. It’s the funny, as brought to you by the Shawnee Group.

Why do I mention this now, though? Those links have been there for years. It’s simple. I don’t know if they even realize it, but the Shawnee Group is enjoying a Mini-Renaissance. Including YAB, there are 9 blogs that must have an SHS diploma hanging up in their editor’s office. This includes Lacey Smith’s new entrant into the fray, the cleverly-titled “I’ll Blog You.” Now within the last week, of these 9, there have been new posts on 7 of them. In fact, in that frame, there’s been 29 new posts courtesy of the Renegade Blog Squad.

30, if you count this one.

I encourage you to check out the Old School when you get the time. Lacey’s giving a day-to-day account of life as a teacher who is enjoying being off for the summer. Smith does a fine job of reviewing every tv show and flick he’s watched that day (I’m waiting for when this expands to anything he sees on a flat screen – like the drive-thru window at McDonald’s or the touchscreen at Wawa.) Harford has always been a partner in crime of bringing the funny, and it seems that Toms and Kristen Cole have even found their keyboards. Oh, and Joe Brescia likes to count, but not in a Sesame Street sort of way.

In keeping with this theme, today we’ll recount a story from the Old School.

During the summer of 2000 (cue the creepy Conan O’Brien melody), Aaron Boblitt and I set out to make our first feature-length flick. The idea was simple. Turn Mafia, the card game, into a real-life horror-pscychothriller flick. We patched together a decent script, cast our friends as well, our friends (except the part of Joe Brescia was played by Rob Harford, and I think we had a stand in for Smith’s future wife.), and had the whole summer to work with. After borrowing a few handhelds, we set out one weekend at the end of July to film a masterpiece. We had talent, time, and a peculiar idea to make our narrator (Kristen Cole) carry around a rifle and do things like sit on a roof and in a car trunk. (That’s indie.) But despite having all of these things, we lacked a typical film element.

A budget.

Character deaths has to be filmed delicately using tricks of shadows, lighting, and mirrors, to make up for the complete lack of blood and well, death. Filming Locations had to be our homes or free locales that wouldn’t draw interest from the police. (I’m still shocked we didn’t get picked up for the “high-speed car chase” around Ironstone Village.) And I don’t think we asked anyone to be in our movie. We told them they were going to be in our movie.

Good thing none of them belonged to SAG at 19.

Coming this afternoon: Behind the Special Effects of Mafia: The Movie.

Pants Pants Revolution

Since the Nordblog’s two contributors are traveling away in Germany right now and have deprived those in the States of round-the-clock World Cup coverage, YAB has had to rely on other means to keep track of the action. There’s the ever popular GameCasts that ESPN and www.FifaWorldCup.com have provided, and those do a decent job of giving you up-to-the-minute action on a two minute delay.

Yeah, you read that right.

For first-hand accounts, I’ve had to resort to reading other columnists. The best one I’ve found is Michael Davies, a Brit who has been blogging daily for ESPN’s Page 2. His recaps of games attended are clever, and if you like soccer, he’s worth checking out. There’s just one warning I need to prescribe if anyone takes my advice.

He speaks British.

I know, I know, they call it English there, and with just cause. After all, the tongue we speak originated in Davies’ homeland, and therefore, the language deserves to keep the name. When it comes to our brand of Germanic-speak, they were talking the talk first, and if anything, we should start calling our language American and they could keep English. But you know what? We may have gotten to the playground later, but we’re bigger than England, and if we want to play in the sandbox, we can push whomever we like out, even if that other kid has a permanent seat on the UN Security Council.

Because of clichés, figures of speech, and idioms that don’t translate well over water, America’s brand of English and the Brits’ brand of English have diverged over the years, and Michael Davies’, a clever Brit himself, is a perfect example. Hell, there’s two different titles to the first Harry Potter book. Where we figured that young Potter was seeking the Sorcerer’s Stone, in England, he sought the Philosopher’s Stone. These two words mean different things in each land.

In the U.S., a philosopher is a professional thinker, who must teach to eat.
In England, a sorcerer is a hooker.*

See? Imagine the shock that British kids would have had to suffer as a means of diverging tongues. The reason we write on such an alarming development is that Davies posted a column yesterday recapping England’s 2-2 draw with those chefs to the north, Sweden. Rather than using a thumbs-up, thumbs-down, or even a star system (or God forbid, that stupid 3 X’s that Regis’ new show employs), he used a system of “PANTS.” Confused? Here’s an entry from the British “Dictionary of Slang.”

Noun/Adj. Nonsense, rubbish, bad. From the standard British English of pants, meaning underwear; also a variation on 'knickers'. E.g."The first half was pants but I stayed until the end and it was actually a great film."

Ohhh…so pants are bad...who knew?

I don’t think that Tony Blair and Company are insisting that the people of the world should live their lives bottom-less, but this curious measure of slang does deserve some cross-Atlantic application. You can limit this investigation to how Hollywood views the topic.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants – What you thought was a coming-of-age girl power friends flick actually was about a road trip where all things went wrong. You thought you’d avoid this movie before? Consider this; the real storyline is a 20 minute sequence where the girls watch the gas gauge go to empty, and the camera stays focused on it the entire time.

Worldwide Pants, Inc. – Yes, this is David Letterman’s production company. Yes, it sponsors Danica Patrick’s racing team. Yes, it describes Paul Shaffer as a sidekick.

SpongeBob SquarePants – Insert your own joke here.

* We can’t confirm this. We’ve never been to England. But then again, “hooker” may mean something else over there too and we may be right. Eh, screw it.

Blockhead Economy

The economy is a tricky thing. Just when things seem to be going well for a country, interest rates can shift and the market can plummet. On the other hand, just when you start contemplating selling your ears to science (with Paris Hilton on the radio, anything’s possible.), those stocks are bound to rise. Rise and Fall. Supply and Demand. Ebert and Roeper. It’s a thumbs up, thumbs down kind of life.

When times get tough for people, they do what they have to make ends meet. Grocery budgets may get slimmer. Vacations, less luxurious. There are completely feasible ways to cut back without selling the farm. (Econ Fast Fact: In fact, since only 1.7% of Americans are farmers, it seems that just about everyone has sold their farms. Isn’t it time for a new cliché?)

This country hasn’t seen a major economic tragedy since the Great Depression. It was an era that far surpassed any other era in terms of poverty, lack of supply, and inflation. (That’s why history books talk about it and not the Above Average Depression of ’78.) People live on, and with little consequence.

Wish the same could be said for Lego people.

A story tumbled down on Wall Street that Danish-based Lego Group, those ingenious people responsible for expanding the construction skills not to mention imagination of the young millions around the globe, are planning to slice 1,200 jobs from their corporate staffing levels within the next year. The U.S. manufacturing plant will be a thing of the past, pink slipping 300, and another 900 across the pond in Denmark will be on the streets in the next few years. There are rumors of new plants in Eastern Europe and Mexico, but that could be years?

Can you imagine how many Legos it would take to build a brand new manufacturing plant?

Anyway, this is no doubt a blow to small-town Legoland. YAB lays out the consequences of such a move.

First off, consider the people of Legoland. Haven’t they suffered enough?? They can only bend at the waist, they lack elbows and knees, and don’t even think about twisting one’s torso to see what’s going on to the left or to the right. They’re a complete test market for Hair Club for Men, and even when they do have hair, it’s helmet hair. How do these guys ever get dates?

Legochicks must dig spaceships and race cars.

So what happens when these guys get laid off and start defaulting on payments on the aforementioned “hot rides?” Well, they could always look for other work to supplement the family income. But Legoland isn’t in Jersey, so there’s no need for fuel jockeys at the gas station, the marina is going to be a ghost town once the First Bank of Legoland starts repossessing boats, and last time I checked, castle work only results in being paid in plots of land, and honestly, have you seen what personal property tax rates are at these days? No thank you.

With other employment looking scarce, Legoland takes a dagger of a hit. Anarchy and chaos move in to town, and Lord knows those little guys aren’t prepared for the changes. Buildings can be taken down as fast as they went up, and makeshift shacks are often put in their place. These shacks should be condemned. The wall material is 9 different colors, castle windows are used as stop gaps for building material shortages, and Lego people end up sleeping on the floor, as their beds now help build the front walk. In a final act of desperation, have been known to drive their cars straight into walls and planes have simply fallen out of the sky. This is how construction towns live and die in the 21st century.

If only a superhero could save the day…

Hey, We're in Delaware

The leisure time activity of travel can allow you to see some of the greatest sight’s this planet has to offer. In the last 5 years, I have been privileged enough to view the Paris skyline, many an ancient German castle, the mountain peaks of a New England winter, the cavernous ravines of New Mexico, the sunsets of St. Lucia, and the upper deck of RFK Stadium – ok, scratch that last one.) These are the high points of my travels of late. And it’s a good thing, too. Because this weekend I had to visit the low point of humanity once more, and all the good memories in the world are needed to vanquish this one.

Yes, the I-95 Rest Stop.

If I had to choose one in particular to crown the Low Point of Humanity, it would be the Delaware House. Even though one stays on this section through The First State a mere 23 miles, it seems that everybody feels the need to make sure their dinner plans go sales tax-free. Now this is not an honor one can simply skate into, and the Delaware House has managed to make me want to cry upon its mere mention. This blog is designed to be educational. Therefore, we’ll explain why Interstate rest stops might as well be the Gateways to Hell.

Cleanliness – I’m not saying that rest stops such as Chesapeake, Maryland, Delaware and the rest are the filthiest places I’ve ever been. (see RFK Stadium visit, above). But there’s just something about rest stops that make you want to wear protective ER scrubs upon entering. The sheer foot traffic completely blows the janitorial staffing levels out of orbit. It’s your standard “Hole in the Rowboat” scenario. No matter how many times you try and shovel water out of the boat, it’ll keep sinking. Especially considering this boat is open 24 hours, and the one thing it could use is a good hundred gallons of water.

Dining – Yes, each rest stop seems to manage to nail down a fast food staple, a la McDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s. And Starbucks has entered the fray. However, after that, who knows what franchise will find its way onto your off-ramp menu. The basic requirements is thus: pick franchises that are rather rare but maintain an above-average level of appeal to hungry travelers. That way, your sheer novelty and their sheer hunger will totally warrant prices than are 140% higher than what they would be had Mr. Mini-Van picked a random exit and scavenged for drive-thru restaurants. Between here and home, I could dine via rest stop at the following: Bob’s Big Boy, Cinnabon, Roy Rogers, Sbarro, TCBY, Popeye’s, Nathan’s Hot Dog, Hot Dog City, Hot Dog Construction Company, and PretzelMania.

I don’t know which is weirder: the abundance of hot dog stands or a place called PretzelMania.

Rest Stop Staples – No matter the stop, count on the following truths to be upheld. The bathrooms will be cavernous and spacious, but paper towels are nowhere to be found. You can memorialize your trip by ruining a penny by investing two quarters. The best gifts a gift shop will ever have is a t-shirt that does nothing more than identify the state in which you have stopped. (Who needs sports teams when you’ve got state pride?) The most interesting thing in the joint will be the giant map of the interstate that is oddly riveting, and only helps to depress you as to how much farther you have to go. Babies will cry, as if the rest stop sends off a signal that scares children that minute they enter. Parking will be convenient, if by convenient we mean nowhere near the entrance and stuck between two over-stuffed RVs.

If you can, avoid at all costs.

That is, unless you’re a PretzelManiac.

Brand Drop it Like It's Not

The most-viewed story on news giant CNN today currently is an interesting article about the rise and fall of the bubbly champagne Cristal. The drink, seemingly omnipresent in hip-hop over the last five years, may be at an end for popularity. Because those who produce Cristal, a French company that’s been around since 1776 (no word yet if they provided the celebratory toasting flutes for the American Revolution), recently said some things in the press concerning their popularity on the hip-hop circuit. Way to go, Frenchie. You pissed off Jay-Z.

Jay-Z (Sean Carter to some, Hova to others) has retired from the rap game. Aside from the occasional brilliant collaboration with Linkin Park, Jay-Z has earned his cred and now sits atop the industry as the CEO of Def Jam records at age 37. This is the equivalent of if Derek Jeter plays a few more years and then is immediately hired to be in charge of the Yankees. Yeah, when it came to his craft, Jay-Z was that good.

And now he calls the shots.

Jay-Z has called for a industry-wide boycott of Cristal, since their business isn’t welcome with the Louis Roederer champagne house. This means many things. He will no longer be carrying the drink that is in every MTV Cribs fridge in any of his club/lounge establishments. He is encouraging rappers to not mention it in songs. And most importantly, with Cristal removed from lyrics, people will stop confusing it with me.

You see friends, this is the exact reason you should strive to be famous and powerful in today’s world. If you have that level of fame in your particular field, people will listen to you. Imagine that I put more effort into blogging and bringing the funny, maybe even on an hourly basis. My readership would grow, and people who have never even met me would talk at the office’s water cooler saying things like:

Guy 1: Hey did you read what Condon said today about Tone Loc songs?
Guy 2: You’re a Tone Loc song.
Guy 1: Damn, you’ve got me there.

If I reached that level, I could pull off silly boycotts, and by the power of the e-press, I could affect consumer buying habits. Much more so than my recent underground campaign to avoid “Nacho Libre.” Trust me. It’s going to suck.

Anyways…

So how will we know if the hip-hop community will take Jay’s words to heart? Will his staffers sit by the radio and mark on a piece of paper every time a new song drops Cristal in the verse? Shouldn’t there be a middling marketing research firm that could do this and people would pay them for such a ridiculous assignment.

Of course there is! (Marketing majors know more than barbeques and Hawaiian shirts, Dilbert.)

Agenda Inc. is a firm responsible for tracking brand advertisements in popular music. For the past 4 years, they have released an annual list of the most oft-mentioned brands in music today. Cristal ranks 8th this year, behind rival Hennessey as well as luxury car leaders Mercedes, Bentley, Cadillac, and Rolls Royce, who nearly control the Top 5 (Nike is ranked #2.) I can understand many of these brands as items of material value and interest to those with cash trying to show it through their music. But looking a little farther down the list, there are some brands that I just don’t get. You tell me, which is weirder?

16th: Jell-O – 17 mentions
49th: Bisquick – 7 mentions
55th: Froot-Loops – 4 mentions

You Gotta Keep'em Corrugated

When you are a professional athlete, the league for which you play does its best to make money through merchandising, using your likeness on anything they can think of that might be attractive to fans, collectors, and man-crush stalkers. Most of it is common sense: jerseys, player cards, photos, autographs – these things will sell to those mildly interested. But as SportsCenter has been running during C-breaks (that’s TV speak for commercials), the latest craze that will soon replace Bobbleheads is….

Life-size cardboard cutouts.

Yeah, cardboard cutouts have been around forever, but are gaining popularity in the homes of sports fans. Hell, my sister’s future place of employment even seems to be getting in on the act, auctioning them off to good students. Cutouts have an increasing role in society. The stand guard behind ESPN2’s Mike and Mike in the Morning. They take the jobs of perfectly good CGI extras in stadium and audience scenes in movies. And they add a little spice to those who work in cardboard box companies, giving them another product line. After a while, “box” kind of sucks.

If you have friends that are cardboard cutouts, well, then, I’m sorry. They’re not very talkative, and their personality is pretty two-dimensional. They can’t sit down to watch a movie, and they wear the same damn clothes no matter the occasion. However, even though cardboard cutouts do not make very good friends, that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be extremely cool to have. The comedic purposes alone would be worth it.

This is what I want for Christmas.

Now I’m not in the business of “accumulating stuff.” Having to move next week has taught me that. But after pondering this for a few minutes this morning, I’m just imagining the fun I could have with a few specifically selected and placed cardboard cutouts. The reason I have this in mind is because my office building has a cardboard rabbit infestation. Our annual company picnic is held at Six Flags, and as a flagship for all things Warner Brothers, it is being promoted to employees with 5-foot standup versions of Bugs Bunny. He’s smiling in every one. Doesn’t he know that you’re not supposed to have fun at work?

Without further ado, here are my Top 3 Cardboard Cutout Wish List Members.

1 – Clubber Lang. Yes, this one actually exists. Now the Legacy of Mr. T should not be reduced to has poppy catchphrases and gruff diction. The man’s appearance spoke volumes. Angry and ready to box, this guy could be a hit. Just place him in an elevator, front and center, and anytime someone tries to get into the peoplemover too quickly, he’ll pity them.

2 – Those freaky sisters from the Shining. Please tell me you’ve seen them. When Danny is cruising the Hotel Crazy on his Big Wheel, one hard left turn was all it took before he was introduced to the creepiest hallucination in the flick. Could you imagine having these at your disposal? Placing them at the end of long hallways in your apartment complex or office? (It beats trying to get the elevator to fill with blood, doesn’t it?)

3 – Albert Pujols in a William and Mary jersey – If the opposing pitcher saw him waiting on the on deck circle, maybe I could finally get some good pitches to hit. Who would you rather throw strikes to – Chris Condon who SWINGS AT EVERYTHING, or the best player in baseball?

The Truck Stops Here

Ah, the joys of moving.

(Ok, you have two options to correct the above intro in order to reduce its inherent sarcasm. You could 1) replace the word “joys” with something slightly more acerbic, like “pains,” “agonies,” or “suckerpunches.” Your other option is 2) replace moving with something more enjoyable, like “ice cream,” “David Fincher movies,” or the oft-wished for, “not moving.” Anyways…)

One of the first steps in the master habitation relocation transportation program is to find by which means you intend to transport all your worldly belongings from Point A to Point B, even if Point B is only .9 miles away from Point A. Sure, you’ve got options. Walking less than a mile is good for the legs and the heart, but could prove quite difficult with that entertainment center on your back with arms counterbalancing a food processor with a subwoofer. Your car could be another option, assuming your couch and other living room furniture maintain a maximum size, that being less than or equal to, well, the back seat of your car.

(If that were actually the case, I’d decorate my living room with car backseats. For people who can’t sit still during a gripping World Cup match, you could always invoke the seat belt rule.)

But ultimately, despite your interest in keeping moving costs to the pizza and beer you give friends to help you, you’re going to have to rent a moving truck.

Picking the right-sized truck is definitely harder than it sounds. How often in your day-to-day apartment living do you case the joint and calculate how many cubic meters of stuff you have? That’s the main metric you use to decide how big the truck should be. Now while depth and height may increase incrementally, the most important dimension is length. Rule Number One: Get a truck longer than your longest possession. In our case, that will be our couch. Look, I’ve broken Rule Number One once before and it was a harrowing experience. Senior year Spud and I bought a couch from a thrift store that would serve as a centerpiece to our dorm room (the couch, not the thrift store.) However, the only means we had to transport the Best Couch Ever was Dave’s dad’s SUV, on loan for a few days. Rule Number One would have shaken its head at us, as we drove from the store to the dorm with the couch sticking out the back. Don’t worry, they said – we’ll weigh it down to prevent it from falling out the back.

All I know is that lying on a couch has never been more terrifying.

Rule Number Two: Cautious is Good, but Conservative is Crazy – The easiest thing to do is just to get the biggest truck Budget or U-Haul has, and then you can certainly fit all your stuff, right? NO. (Damn, caps lock is effective. Got your attention now.) Having a 26’ truck may seem the right vehicle for the job, but remember this – you’ve got to drive it. And driving a moving truck is nothing like your sensible sedan for the following four reasons.

1 – Gas mileage. Not only will you probably be paying a per mile charge to the rental company, you’ve got to pay for gas. And if you just look at the truck funny, it’ll burn through three gallons without every turning on the ignition.
2 – Handling – You know those idiots who try and ride tricycles on the ice during intermission of hockey games. I’d like to introduce you to your 20’ tricycle. Happy steering.
3 – Comfort – The interior of a rental cab is very different from your car as well. Gone is the CD changer, the multi-speed air conditioning, and the power windows. Instead, enjoy the AM radio, the crank window that requires so much torque you might as well be winding a submarine hatch closed, and plenty of bags from Arby’s and Taco Bell at your feet.
4 – Reaction - You make a quick turn in your car, and your briefcase from work falls over in the back seat. You make a quick turn in the truck, and you’ve got a brand new 2-in-1 TV/Toaster Oven combo unit.

Occupational Trainwrecks

Let’s make this a multi-post Monday, ok? I’m feeling inspired.

Every now and then, U.S. Department of Labor, as well as other interested publication, often put together lists of the world’s best and worst occupations. These come out on a periodic basis, most often annual or in line with the Census every ten years. The best jobs are often computed as a product of compensation, hours, low-risk, demand, and number of free office supplies one is able to tuck within their coat. The worst are often low-paying, high-hazard, little flexibility, and contain a strong chance that the office supplies you stole attack you in your sleep. Like Beauty and the Beast, but with less musical numbers and more sucker punches by doom.

We’re not here to question Disney today.

However, these lists are so infrequent that someone curiously looking at the job classifieds would have only outdated information on which to base their next potential assignment. Yeah, internet marketing manager sounded like a damn good job 10 years ago, but now you might as well be a cat herder for that same firm. Norm MacDonald used to joke that the worst job for ten years running was “Assistant Crackwhore,” and while that holds merit, I’m not going to put it in YAB’s new feature:

The Three Worst Jobs in the World This Week.
(not subject to be featured weekly)

Central Defender, Paraguayan Men’s National Soccer Team
This position is chiefly held by team captain Carlos Gamarra. For the most part, Carlos’ job seems pretty plush. At 35 years old, Gamarra gets to lead the most popular team in the most popular sport in his country, wears tons of free stuff provided by Puma, gets to use his size to intimidate other employees of rival companies, and gets a free trip to Germany this year for the World Cup. Everything was great. However, a 1-0 loss to England on Saturday morning may dampen his spirits. Furthermore, the fact that the only goal, a David Beckham free kick, went into the net only after it touched the head of Gamarra. That’s an own goal, in soccer-speak. That’s trouble for Gamarra.

You see, in the ’94 Cup, a man named Andres Escobar committed a similar error against the USA. A few days after the tourney ended, he was shot and killed in a bar back in Colombia. Now Gamarra’s was far less pivotal, but it was enough to make the old TTWJITWTW.

Movie Critic, United States Media Publication
Dude, I’m sorry for these guys and gals. Normally, I dismiss their petty views, nitpicky movie viewing habits, and off-the-mark analyses of movies I like. With the exception of Roger Ebert and a few others, these people are just fighting for headline space. Well, now it is time for payback. With Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties, and Nacho Libre coming out this week, movie critics everywhere will be crying themselves to sleep. Serves you right, Stephen Hunter of the Washington Post.

Publicist to the Stars
The one we have in mind is none other than Elliot Mintz. Mr. Mintz is in the news again trying to deflect the public’s ire against socialite/worst person ever Paris Hilton. Hilton hit a car in a parking and ran, failing to leave any contact information. This is factual; the lot had a video camera that has it well-documented. Nonetheless, Mintz had to release the following statement: Did she commit a crime? No. She was swarmed by paparazzi .The intensity of the lights, flashbulbs, momentarily disoriented her. She backed up, there was a minor fender-bender. No injuries. Paris is a very responsible and a very good driver, she takes her driving seriously. This was unfortunate and it will be handled appropriately."

It should be noted that Mintz is also the publicist for David Crosby (who recently was revealed to be the father of Melissa Etheridge’s kid, Janet Jones (Wayne Gretzky’s wife who is currently embroiled in the sports betting ring known as Tocchetgate), and Don Johnson (who could release a new album at any moment, thereby killing us all.

We're Not Swans...or Are We?

No, I’ve never been on TV. But I know people who have.

Sophomore year of college, my jaw dropped when I saw a certain friend’s former flame as one of the many eligible ladies who wanted to marry a multi-millionaire. Putting someone you know in the real world into the TV world changes everything. Better lighting, better make-up, all the better to mock around a tv and make fun at Brescia’s expense. (Joe, only kidding, at least you didn’t meet her at a family reunion.) For the record, Miss Gibson did not advance to the main part of the show, but it did give her just enough screen time to warrant her own IMDB page. And with one credit to her name, she now matches my page.

Yeah, I know Harrison. I introduced him to Calista, another Shawnee alumnus.

Anyway, this wasn’t the only time I recognized people on TV. I have a very faint recollection of my parents being interviewed for the local news as part of one of those product safety stories involving automobiles. You know, the ones where the reporter shoves the microphone into the car window as the potential interviewee is just about to pull into traffic and asks them their thoughts on something lacking any controversy whatsoever. I think I was 12 at the time, so the following dialogue may lacks fact-checking:

Field Reporter: Sir, do you think that seat belts are a good thing for cars to have?
John Condon: Um, is that even a question?
Field Reporter: Yes, it is. Keep in mind I’m new here. And all this I’m saying to you now, it will get edited out in time for broadcast. Thanks. So could you answer the question about seat belts?
John Condon: Did you know that I had never coached a Louis?

Yeah, my memory’s a bit fuzzy.

Well, since everyone else I know is either of the opinion that reality TV is, and I quote, “dopey,” or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time (like when Toms was in the last row of that group shot at the NBA photo shoot), I’ve been unable to recognize anyone else personally on the television. That is, until last night.Don’t ask my why I found “So You Think You Can Dance?” on Fox to be intriguing. I really have no intention of watching on a weekly basis, and on top of that, I don’t think I can dance. But nonetheless, while flipping channels last night, the roulette wheel landed on Fox, and I’m watching amateur after amateur pop, lock, and pop-lock their way to airtime.

The audition show of any series like this has been made famous by American Idol. Show a bunch of crappy dancers with a couple good ones mixed in so people can get interested and laugh their head off, and feel that they’re so much better that they end up auditioning next summer. Dude, if you really want to know who’s advancing, just pay attention to which ones get a video biography that takes the viewer to their hometown to meet their family. It’s a dead giveaway.

Like Musa Cooper.

What’s so special about Musa Cooper? Two things, and I’ll list them in ascending order of importance. First off, the guy can dance. He’s a break dancer from Burlington, NJ, aged 28, and is quite good at his craft. He’ll probably advance to the final 20 contestants, which will be nice for the Philly news channels, so they’ll have a personal story to cover rather than interview my dad about seat belts.

Secondly, and more importantly, I’ve met Musa Cooper. And not only have I met him, I’ve hurdled against him.Yep, Cooper was part of our archrival Lenape’s hurdle relay squad back in the day. If I recall correctly, he was a fast kid with little form. But he was better than me. I think he ran the 400 as well, but I didn’t. Running all the way around the track was for suckers.

Rob? Weng? James? Do you remember?

Moral of the Story: Your dancing skills is directly proportional to your hurdling ability.

Just What the Doctor Ordered

Continuing our spontaneous study in numerology, today we try and determine the latest digital mystery flooding the airwaves. Why all of a sudden are we as a society obsessed with the meaning of numbers? Has there always been more to our counting system that we just hadn’t explored? After seeing the Colbert Report’s study of 6-6-6, there’s a lot that can be made of a one and a two and a three and a four. Who is to blame for this fascination?

Um…Lost? We’re looking in your general direction.

While watching SportsCenter, it appears that the Cadbury-Schweppes Bottling Company are at it again. They recently re-branded their #2 product, 7-Up, by changing the formula to only include natural flavors. Now I’m not exactly sure which group of avid drinkers were lobbying for such a change, but what’s done is done. I market tested the new flavor recently on my flight out to New Mexico. To paraphrase my Film Critic review of “Something Like You”:

I drank this on a plane. I hoped it would crash.

Yes, Cadbury-Schweppes (the ginger ale people who force bunny rabbits to lay eggs for Easter – savages) led off their grand re-brand with a ground ball back to the pitcher. This won’t have the disastrous effects of say, New Coke, but that’s because since Orlando Jones left the campaign trail, no one cares about 7-Up. I used too. But natural flavors are not what I want in a citrus soda. I want natural taste. (And maybe more Orlando Jones.)

Next at bat: Dr. Pepper.

This morning, I saw the good Doctor’s new ad campaign. They’ve decided to push the trade secret that Dr.Pepper contains 23 flavors. Yep, in that 12 oz. can, there’s 1 score plus 3 flavors in there. Talk about packing them in there. That’s only .52 oz. per flavor. (We’re assuming that you can drink these flavors one-by-one: there’s a blending process involved. Come on, what did you expect? This man has a PhD!)

23 flavors? Really? The numerology of 23 makes one think that they picked that number of flavors because of its particular power and reverence in society. Famous athletes from Jordan to Beckham to Lebron have worn it. Yes, it shows up in Lost. Earth rotates on a 23 degree angle. Julius Caesar was stabbed 23 times. Psalm 23 is on of the most famous scripture passages outside the Gospels. Princess Leia is held in detention block AA-23. I was 23 three years ago. This is significant because I am human, which I might add has 23 pairs of chromosomes. (Note: And like David Beckham, I play soccer.) (Freaky, I know.)

So it’s a powerful number, no one denies this. Dr. Pepper, is it possible that your soda has 23 different ingredients, much less flavors? There’s only one way to find out. YAB will gladly drink a Dr. Pepper live on the blog, and list below the flavors we taste. It’s like wine tasting, but I’ve never had a varietal that claims to practice medicine before. Here goes:

Pop. Gulp. Ahhhhhhhh.

1. Caramel.
2. Corn Syrup.
3. Vanilla
4. High Fructose Corn Syrup
5. Phosphoric Delight
6. Sarsaparilla
7. Low Fructose Corn Syrup
8. Zest
9. Un-Natural Flavors (take that, 7Up!)
10. Scrumtrilescence
11. Candy Corn Syrup
12. Medical School Loans
13. Schnozzberries
14. Butterscotch
15. Mild Cherry (not wild, mind you. We have morals.)
16. Popcorn Syrup
17. Burning
18. Pepsi (dude, we were short on ingredients)
19. Essence of Cute Puppy
20. Crunk Juice
21. Children of the Corn Syrup
22. Happiness
23. Peace

Cats and Dogs Living Together

"This calls for wisdom: let him who has understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six hundred and sixty-six."
- Revelations 13:18

Could this really be it?

Looking at my calendar, and also from the incessant advertising for the unneeded remake of The Omen, today’s date is June 6, 2006, or more apocalyptically, 6-6-06. The media has made much of the fact that the world could end today as the number of the antichrist has surfaced in everyone’s Microsoft Outlook. Never mind it has already done 19 times, every hundred years or so since the birth of Christ. That 20th time’s a charm for Satan, we hear.

First off, if today was supposed to be the rapture, way more things would have gone wrong up to this point. The shower would have only been cold water. Katie would have passed on her morning coffee. While looking in the mirror, my comb would have disintegrated to dust, landing in my hair and forcing me to take another shower, not any warmer than the first. My commute would have been tied up because of something totally unexpected like “I-66 is bumper to bumper due to fire-breathing Ford Mustangs.” The heavy-duty stapler would successfully bind documents without jamming up. My chair would have been replaced by a burning stack of embers. You know, real biblical stuff.

(I do realize that I-66 is one sixer away from being the road to the end of days. I had no idea Hell would have an HOV lane for car pooling sinners.)

Today is not the Apocalypse. Here’s why.

Aside from the aforementioned signs of doom, I believe there to be many other telltale signs that would make this blog be the last thing you ever read before judgment day. The apocalypse, when the time comes, will most definitely fall on a Monday. Everybody hates Mondays. It gives everyone one last Sunday to worship and beg forgiveness at church (the day it pulls in the big crowds.) Also, the last thing we need on the last day of earth is for people to panic. People are so caught up with struggling to get out of bed on a Monday that they’ll be too tired to freak out. Also, it gives God one last weekend viewing period to see if you’ve been heaven-worthy.

(So careful when you use His name in vain when your favorite football team comes up short on Sunday.)

Secondly, the number 666 will play a significant role in warning people that the end is near. The lottery will no doubt come up sixes. Poker games will be won on three-of-a-kinds that add up to 18. That ticket you get for ramming the car in front of you while trying to avoid the Mustang del Fuego will be for $666. You will be fed up with your wireless carrier and switch to Verizon, who will promptly offer you the phone number 666-6666. The signs will be everywhere.

Finally, if there’s going to be any non-Monday this month that will be the apocalypse, it’s going to be June 16. I’m sure 6-16-06 isn’t that far off the track – what are a few days in the realm of all existence? Forget The Omen; look at the movies coming out on my predicted date: Nacho Libre, Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, and – AND – a Garfield sequel. I thought God had a sense of humor.

Some days back dating can be annoying. And some days it can help you avoid the day or reckoning. I’ve got three more weeks to live!

AP-propo

This is not a Best Company Ever post. I repeat: this is not a Best Company Ever post. In order for it to be a BCE corporate tip, I would have to have a solution for the problem at hand. A business practice that few have ever dared think of, and even fewer who have implemented it. My only idea to amend this is to employ robots. However, U.S. Labor law isn’t fond of robot replacement just yet, and since they lack emotional circuits, how in the world are they going to benefit from all these new Successories prints I have bought on eBay to motivate the gang?

(Note: I have this up in my cube at work. It explains a lot, I think.)

The gang in question today is all those fine folks in Accounts Payable. AP, for short, is anything but Advanced Placement, which may have been the abbreviation for your courses in high school. There’s a subtle difference between the two. In one of them, you have a memorandum of understanding that everyone in the room is relatively intelligent, and expanding the mind in order to grasp the abstract. In the other, you have a memorandum of understanding that running with scissors is bad, and no matter what Ross in Payroll tells you, you don’t have to stick your head on the copier to get paid.

Yoo-hoo – anybody home?

Like my pirates, I think this is one of those departments whose rep can transcend all businesses in all industries. AP is my own personal hell. It’s not the job function they perform – the payment of vendors and subcontractors for product received or service rendered – but rather the manner in which said job function is (or isn’t) carried out. First, let me walk you the process of paying a vendor, while keeping the boredom quotient below 4.0 (since payables are not exactly riveting, subliminal buzzwords may or may not be inserted into the explanation to grab your attention.)

When an invoice comes in to AP, (COOKIES!) the AP processor takes it and reviews it for (PUPPIES!) accuracy. This is a 14-step process (FREE MONEY!), which can take a processor anywhere from 4 minutes to 4 months. (VACATION!) The ok to pay is given and Corporate Treasury cuts the check. (PONIES?) See how easy that was?

You still there?

But the problem isn’t the process. It’s the staff.

An AP processor is theoretically your friend. Friends are known to do many charitable and nice things for each other. There’s reciprocity and generosity in a friendship. However, AP is the friend who takes advantage of such qualities and makes you pay.Believe me, I’ve paid.

No, AP is the friend who asks to borrow your car to run a few errands, and doesn’t come back til next Wednesday. When he does get back, he lets you know that the gas is running a little low, your ride could use an oil change, and the front headlight is out (never mind the reason is that he knocked out the headlight by means of tree). So he brings back the car to get this work done, which you calmly explain that the gas tank actually is already full, the oil gauge is right and that he’s just looking at it wrong, and the headlight is his fault so he should have to fix it. Your friend then proceeds to slam the car’s door, prompting it to fall off its hinges, put his fingers in his ears, sing “LALALALALALALALA” over and over while running around the car with a terrified look on his face, supplemented with glee.

Yeah, robots sound damn good.

Dire Straits School of Business

And you thought our economy was inefficient.

Yesterday, America Online reported a 90-minute server outage in which all e-mail traffic was halted. This was a crushing blow for all those foolish enough to still surf the internet with the training wheels on. AOL is an excellent tool for beginners on the information superhighway; but at some point, it’s time to move on to the big boy bike, no? Maybe this was God’s way of telling people stupidity has a price.When the 90 minute glitch was resolved, the system sprung back to life, blasting an estimated 45 million emails into cyberspace. An independent study (read: Condon with a dartboard) showed that 4% were business-related, 12% were family correspondence, 22% was junk-spam, and the other 62% were economic proposition document e-mail from…Nigeria.

Viagra and refinancing aside, one of the most common e-mails in your inbox right now is the age-old scam e-mail from this African nation. The rouse is simple. A wealthy Nigerian businessman, government official or doctor e-mails you with a simple and humble request for assistance. You see, there are these funds. They are ‘trapped’ deep in the bureaucracy of Nigerian politics. A former corrupt regime stockpiled cash in fake ministries, and the new and decent regime has decided to release this funding into the economy to teach them a lesson. However, Nigerians don’t like money for reasons the e-mail fails to provide, and needs your help. Now as I said, the current regime is “decent,” and they would like to stay that way. Checks from the bank in their name for this loose cash would look “indecent.” That’s where you come in. (Assuming you don’t share a name with a high-ranking Nigerian official)

And you thought “import/export” sounded sketchy.

Hoax-killer Snopes.com goes on to say that this has been a highly successful ploy for scam artists, as millions of dollars in “expedition costs” have been paid by stupid Americans to grease the wheels of such a lucrative investment. (AOL users, no doubt.)

But what if this WAS how Nigerian economics worked?

Yeah, just think about it. This e-mail promises large sums of money to a partner who is willing accept cash and the write a check of their own back to the one who promised, as a sign of thanks. Sure, we know there’s no way that would work in the States, but I’ve never been to Nigeria, and neither have you, so who are we to say that this isn’t possible and true? It would be an economy built on a rock-hard level of trust. Everyone trusts everyone else, or else. If an economy is built on trust, then how could it possibly fail?

Let’s say you’re getting ready to watch a soccer match between Nigeria and Togo. Your buddies come over and after twenty minutes, decide they are very hungry. No problem, you’ll order them a pizza. The pizza guy comes, and you hand him $320 dollars. He hands you the pizza. And you trust that 2 hours from now, the pizza guy will come back and hand you back $305 dollars. Does it make perfect sense? It does in Nigeria. That’s trust for you.

I wonder if in the business district of Abuja, there’s a Wall Street-esque floor where frenzied transaction action takes place. In the States, it’s a simple deal despite all the chaos. Investor contacts broker with intent to buy or sell. Broker buys or sells shares in company. Simple. But if this were Nigerianomics, it would be way different. A buyer would give cash to his broker on the market floor. The broker would then load the cash into one of those guns they shoot t-shirts or hot dogs out of at sporting events. He’d then fired it out the window of the exchange, where the companies in which they invest collects the money as it floats down to the city street. They then walk in the door of the exchange and hand the broker a percentage of that money.

The investor then e-mails an American about an abundance of t-shirts and hot dogs from the former corrupt regime.

The Return of Flannelman

If slander is defaming one’s name out loud, and libel is defaming one’s name in print, then what do you call defaming one’s name via marketing-inspired reality show?

I call it my life.

Last spring, Kelly Liggett and Peter Kunkel opened my eyes to the scary fact that through a re-imaging ad campaign, I have magically become a dead ringer for the Brawny Man. Or more likely, he has become a dead ringer for me. Now there are some differences, of course. I don’t always stand with my hands on my hips, and I left the Flannel Revolution somewhere in the grunge rock explosion of the 1990s. But for the most part, I’ll accept the likeliness. (especially since the ladies love us both.)

Now since this new campaign’s inception, we’ve been able to co-exist peacefully. Occasionally we’d cross paths in the paper product aisle of my local supermarket, but he always kept on smiling and I always kept on buying. A series of commercials came out shortly thereafter with an actor portraying Brawny Man, and he looked nothing like the guy, (and by virtue of the transitive property, nothing like me, either.) But I let it slide – after all, I was in grad school and I had larger evils to fight (Nightpaver, for one.) But now, the ad wizards have gone too far.

I give you Brawny Academy.

Since the site hasn’t fully launched yet, I’ll fill you in on some of the details. The blokes at Brawny have provided an avenue for frazzled housewives to enforce corrective domestic measures on layabout husbands. A new reality show (podcast or network, I don’t know) called Brawny Academy is being released to show actual husbands doing actual things that wives would like them to do, and the Brawny Man is at the helm to make sure they do it.

No, not me. The imposter-looking guy.

As we view the trailer, the hapless husband brigade are trained in the following:

• Hatchet Throwing
• Pig Wrangling
• Female Obstacle Course (complete with plowing through a Brawny wall)
• Tricycle Jousting
• Ballroom Dancing
  

And for no reason whatsoever, they burn a recliner. Bunch of savages.

Now I can’t say I’m an expert in the aforementioned fields that my lookalike has deemed crucial to proficiency in general husbandry. I’ve never seen a need to throw a hatchet at a target, but I’ve got an outside-in cutter with the Frisbee that can hit a target as tiny as Christina Toms. And I’ve no need for pigs – our apartment complex has a crushing pet rent fee that I’ve never been willing to fork out for a dog, much less swine.

Obstacle courses are no match for me – hell, I’m obs-tacular. And every time I visit the supermarket I would just die for the chance to run full speed through a wall of paper towels. As for the other feats of husbandry, I really don’t see how they apply to every day life. Where’s the “Time to Make the Coffee” challenge? What about the “Get the Oil Changed” competition? The Mighty Balcony Box Toss?

Nowhere to be seen.

Pride and Go Seek

The spotlight is a fickle flame.

Every day, new movies, tv shows, and music singles are released in effort to launch Hollywood’s next young face into mega stardom. It works out well for both parties. The studio gets to be the one who fondly gets looked back upon when VH-1 does their requisite “Before They Were Famous” special a premature 2 years from now. And the young face gets to become an old face, but making lots and lots of money in the process.

For music, look no further than American Idol. Last week Taylor Hicks won the big show, and will soon release his first single that will no doubt take the airwaves by storm. (Am I sarcastic? No-ooooh-oh!) Two years from now, we’ll you back on Taylor Hicks and mistake him for ESPN’s Pedro Gomez. You’ve gotta have staying power in this business, or two years from now your going to start defaulting on mansion payments, the police will put a boot on the landing gear of your private jet, and you’ll have to wait in line at Wegman’s like everyone else. (You didn’t know that famous people hover through line? Yeah, it’s one of the perks.)

Once the America popular eye passes you by, though, glamour is reduced to a magazine that your gravity-laden self can flip through while at that supermarket checkout. Some of the former famous take it in stride. Others can’t handle the lack of heat, and end up working in a kitchen. And then there’s that group of folks who remain shell-shocked, trying to pick up the pieces and figure out where it all went south.

Case in point: Waldo.

This guy is the perfect rags-to-riches stardom story. In his early twenties, with a newly-minted liberal arts degree from Brown, Waldo struggled to find a job in the early 90’s recession. All of his friends told him that computers or business would be the future, but he insisted on the comfort of poring over 19th century transcendentalist thinkers like Thoreau and Emerson.

Since Monster.com was still a decade away and peering the NY Times job ads only left Waldo dismayed and covered in printers’ ink, the man decided to get away from it all. He packed up his hiking backpack, donned his trusty wire-rimmed glasses and wool cap (Big Apple winters are COLD) and set out to see the world. (Little known fact: Waldo actually was planning to wear his kick-ass bomber jacket that his brother Iceman gave him as a graduation gift, but while lamenting the plight of the divine soul in Central Park a large dog chewed it to shreds. Needing warm clothing, he settled for the ugly candy-cane sweater his aunt gave him. This would become his trademark.)

For no real reason, this rookie world traveler with a mysterious funding source was able to travel the globe, seeing far off lands and meeting unique groups of people – really tremendous for an unemployed guy with a massive NYC monthly rent charge. He could be found at the beach, on the slopes, chilling with red dwarves, underwater, in the airport, at the fairground – you name it, that guy was there. And like Jim Carrey in the Truman Show, EVERYBODY wanted to see him. Hell, this phenomenon steamrolled to a point where Waldo would hike to a place where the tourists would dress similar to Waldo, but not exactly.

To date, I can’t explain the infatuation the world had with his one guy. Sure, you had to admire his zeal for life and his ability to blend in with local culture. I’m surprised the paparazzi never got a close-up – it was always large two-page panoramics, and that’s it. This man was a legend.

But where is he now?

It’s been 13 years since the height of one man’s captivating hold over the world’s eye. And like I said earlier, the spotlight is indeed fickle. For Waldo, the world traveler, is now hawking Xerox machines.

Coming to a Kinko’s near you: Taylor Hicks.

Lackadaisical Dialing

We’ve covered what I would do if I had control of the morning drive-time radio. When I was a kid driving to high school, I got angry when all I could find on the FM dial was talk. Hell, as recently posted, it caused me make some minor improvements to the Volvo’s “system.” But now I’m in less of a need to hear music and more of a need to hear comedy…or sports. Or perhaps comedic sports. (But not that terrible show in the Ballston mall. That one’s as funny as a monkey with a cold.)

So switching between Elliot on DC101, the Junkies on WJFK, and ESPNRadio’s Mike and Mike in the Morning, I’ve done a fair job of enjoying my commute and preventing myself from going postal on rush-hour traffic. While my allegiance lies with the Junkies, if there’s a commercial, I’ll flip stations. Which is why I end up on Elliot every now and then.

The nice thing about DC101 is they have a far bigger promotions budget that the other two. Well, I suppose ESPN’s is larger than either of them, but when it comes to giveaways, their syndicated nature makes it a national audience. Chances of winning go from 1 in 100,000 to, let’s say 1 in Eleventy Billion. No matter, if I won a plasma TV now from them I’d just have to move it in four weeks. Stupid moving.

Like I said, Elliot has some pretty impressive things to give away to his local DC market. The big things come and go (boats, beach houses); but it’s a certainty that at some instant on my commute, the mad cackler with give away some tickets. And I, armed with a cell phone and plenty of time on my hands, occasionally call in for tickets.

Don’t misunderstand me – I’m not a crazy dialer where the local radio station is at the top of my speed dial, beating out wives, voicemails, and emergency response agencies (I don’t know why wives was plural. It means nothing.) Nor do I wait in my car for a contest to come up and wait for its conclusion long after I’ve pulled into my office parking spot. I take a more laid-back approach. If I’m in the car and the tickets seem appealing, I’ll call. If the winner hasn’t been announced when I get to work, I abort the cause. I don’t necessarily want the tickets; I’d just like to add some interest to my commute.

Such a mentality can explain why I’ve never won tickets from DC101.

Crazy people win tickets. People who can sit by their radio and with pinpoint precision dial at the perfect instant to attend something without having to offer any monetary compensation. I once won tickets to the Y100 (rip) Feztival in 2000. But they were giving away tickets every hour on the hour and I worked in an office that got decent FM reception. (By office, I mean the basement, some three stories below the surface of the earth at the Hendu Group. But hey, that’s where I first found Guster.)

So why was this morning any different?

In terms of the end result, it isn’t any different. I’m at work, and I have no new ticketed events to add to my Outlook Calendar. But I was on hold for ten minutes as a potential selection for tix to an acoustic Foo Fighters show in DC later in June. After getting through on the first try, I was told to wait and they would pick a winner at random. So I did. And when Random’s name wasn’t Chris Condon ten minutes later, the phone clicked and the improbable dream was over.

Eh, that’s okay. I had to turn into my parking spot.

New Mexi-DON'T!

This is the last of the four-part series chronicling my vacation with the roommates to New Mexico. Of course, with no roommates left, it’s just me here. As always, I may be blogging with my computer in the desert or I may have predicted the events beforehand. You’ll be the judge, and we’ll see you soon.

They say no man is an island, but at this point, I have to disagree with them. This vacation just didn’t seem to play out as we had all planned – especially Nordberg. I am writing this on a PDA made entirely of turquoise – I bought it from an old Indian woman in the Santa Fe Village earlier in the week. Okay, it doesn’t have Bluetooth, but it does have a border made entirely of wolf teeth. I think that when I get back to my job, this thing sure as hell will command some respect in the boardroom.

Anytime you can merge pie charts with the harkening of evil spirits, it makes for a good meeting.

I’m now sitting in the plaza square of Santa Fe with not a whole lot to do, now that my three partners in crime are a tad incommunicado. I can’t even check into the hotel, considering Nordberg was the one who booked it. Not that I’d be able to unpack once I got to the room, as most of my stuff remains in the SUV with coyotes, who last time I heard were on their way to Mexico. (This PDA has GPS. And plenty of other acronyms, including CD-ROM, FAQs, NATO, and the man from U.N.C.L.E.) Hmm…I wonder if the city planners will care if I just pitch the tent right here in the town square. If I provide enough marshmallows, then just maybe…

Now that I’ve been to New Mexico, I can leave you all with a final ranking of all states that are Version 2.0 of their predecessors. Yes, the United States, in their infinite yet mildly unoriginal wisdom, named four states with the “New” prefix. Apparently, the high British estates of York, Hampshire, Jersey, and Mexico were cool enough to warrant a sequel. (Ok, two things – I know that Mexico isn’t from the English. It’s from the inglés. Second, not all sequels are merited. For further research, please see the following trainwreck. This means you, James Maugham.)

By the way, I hate Top 4 Lists. So we’ll throw a ringer in to round out the pentaverate.

5. Newfoundland – We hear it’s in Canada. We’ve also never met anyone from there. Therefore, it must be a made-up land that can only be reached by walking through a wardrobe. A wardrobe filled with hockey jerseys and mukluks.

4. New Hampshire – The most famous citizen, the Old Man of the Mountain, left town in 2003. Why would I go back? Maine has better skiing, Vermont has better ice cream, Massachusetts has better sports, Rhode Island has better Arsenaults, and Connecticut has better insurance. Hmm.

3. New Mexico – New Mexico prevented one friend from getting on the plane, threw another in jail, and killed a third. You’re lucky to take the bronze. Big points for the blue corn tortillas, though.

2. New York – Even though the women on the New York state flag are more attractive then those on the Garden State, the Empire State comes up short in this completely non-biased ranking. I blame Isiah Thomas.

1. New Jersey – They’ve picked local rockers Bon Jovi to play their new song “Who Says You Can’t Go Home” as the official tourist song of NJ. Way better choice than homegrown Frank Sinatra “New York, New York.”

New Mexi-COULDN'T!

This is the third of the four-part series chronicling my vacation with the roommates to New Mexico. I may be live-blogging, bouncing a wireless signal off some errant cactus in the desert, or maybe I tried to predict how the trip will transpire ahead of time. Certain parties may or may not be fighting Master Tetsu, and they may or may not be spending time in a New Mexico prison. Fact or fiction, that’s for you to decide.

This is not my first time camping. I’ve pitched a tent in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. I’ve started campfires in the state parks of Delaware. I’ve been flooded from my campsite along the shores of New Jersey. I’ve roasted a marshmallow or two on the western lakes of Virginia. I almost crashed a pontoon boat on the last excursion the roommates took into the wilderness – in West Virginia.

Camping in New Mexico is completely different.

First off, shade is about as abundant as leftovers at a fat camp reception. This presents two problems. First, days grow long and hot without sunscreen or trees. Between Nordberg and me, we have one pair of sunglasses (mine were shattered in that ninja fight – was that really only two days ago?) that we platoon in order to save our eyes from the sun. Secondly, nights in New Mexico are COLD. El Vado Lake State Park is up in the mountains. During the day the temperature averages a balmy 75 degrees, but at night it plunges down to 33. Without trees, there’s little to burn. We went through pages of Dave’s Spanish book last night, and Nordberg’s getting awfully nervous as I eye that big book of maps he keeps under his seat in the Blazer.

(And yes, before Dave’s untimely incarceration, he let us know that El Vado is Spanish for “the Vado.” I told you he knew his stuff.)

Nordberg, in his infinite wisdom, did the grocery shopping while waiting for us to arrive on our expected flights, and therefore planned for 4 mouths and not 2. Having food was not a problem. That is, until the coyotes came.

Previously, I was under the impression that coyotes were limited to the Phoenix area. This was not the case, as after one night in the New Mexico desert we realized we were not alone. While camping in any of the five aforementioned states had I encountered a coyote – maybe a slightly agitated squirrel, but nothing more fierce. When one is forced to deal with such an animal (or a pack of 7, as it were), one must know his limitations and what is valuable in life. A wife back in Virginia? Valuable. A prime job opportunity in Charlotte for the Nord? Valuable. Meaningless grocery purchases? Coyotes, it’s all yours.

The two of us waited in silence as these beasts ravaged the cooler for any meat they could find. There’s always more food in this world, and just yesterday I had convinced myself I could kill a jackrabbit if my life depended on it. But transportation? That’ a limited commodity. This became apparent when one coyote (the ugly one) started to rifle through Nordberg’s pack.

And found the car keys.

I don’t know which was more surprising. Watching a band of coyotes carjack Chris Nordberg with all the cunning spirit of Ocean’s Eleven, or watch Chris Nordberg stand in the way of the car with all the cunning spirit of a pancake. It was a game of chicken that was never meant to be. Mr. And Mrs. Nordberg, if you’re reading this, please be satisfied that I gave your son a proper tribute before laying him to rest. I wouldn’t have expected coyotes to know how to put a car into gear, either.

And then there was one.

New Mexi-CAN'T!

This is the second of the four-part series chronicling my vacation with the roommates to New Mexico. I may be live-blogging, bouncing a wireless signal off some errant cactus in the desert, or maybe I tried to predict how the trip will transpire ahead of time. Fact or fiction, that’s for you to decide.

Greetings from New Mexico! We’re here in lovely Albuquerque, where we’ve yet to find two people who actually know how to correctly spell their hometown. I’ve decided that after many years of knowing Nordberg and Mattias that God should have given man some sort of internal Spell Check. Since the future will be rife with robots that will have this feature as part of their standard Microsoft operating system, isn’t only fair if we plan to stand a chance. (Forgive my bleak outlook on the future of mankind – I sat next to a crying baby on the plane and since then I’ve been a tad cynical.) (Also, that would probably rule out a sequel for Akeelah and the Bee. Sorry, Morpheus.)

The culture of the Southwest no doubt is influenced by its proximity to Mexico. Most signs are in both English and Spanish, and Dave has been extremely helpful with the translation. For those of you who don’t know, Mr. Reif is an expert when it comes to the various languages of the world. When I met him, he already was fluent in French, and was semi-proficient in conversational jive. Freshman year of college, for no other reason than 17 credits were not enough knowledge for the Dave, he tried to teach himself Spanish.

From a book.

Nevermind the fact that his roommate had taken four years of the tongue in high school. Nevermind that across the hall from him was a guy who speaks it regularly when conversing with his parents. Nevermind that William and Mary had a stellar department. No, he guy had a “Learn Spanish in 15 Minutes a Day” workbook, and he was insistent this was the way to go.

Without Dave, we would have had no idea that restaurant El Dorado was just Spanish for “The Dorado.” He’s often very helpful in basic locations – he knew right away that the sign reading “Banco” was the bank. (Nevermind how Nordberg’s ears perk up when there’s fresh legal tender nearby.) If you’re hanging with Dave and it seems that he is repetitive in his Spanish, please forgive him. Not fully grasping the “repetition” method of learning a foreign language, he just assumes that the Spanish do things in threes. (Citing the Three Amigos and “Ole Ole Ole!” he may have a point.)

However, when we met a nice police officer on the street (Dave: Hombre del Coppo) we told him how I accidentally dropped my wallet in the Rio Grande, we thought he was going to be of a great help. Unfortunately, Dave felt the need to show off his growing confidence in la lengua of the locals and spouted off something that the kind law enforcement representative did not appreciate. Loosely translated, the booking officer would tell us that Dave said “Your mother is a bandicoot, and there is mayhem in the discotheque.”

I’m not sure why this was so offensive, but then again, I’m not the Spanish ace that Dave is. Although I suspect that the police officer was one of those robots I mentioned earlier. We press on, leaving Dave to fend for himself in the Albuquerque City Correctional Jail.

And then there were two.