Free-dom of the Press

It looks like I have finally beat the system. (Side joke here: In Russia, you don’t beat system. System beats you! Hey-oh!)

As documented in a post from earlier this spring, we here at YAB are not against the way of the freebie, the hand-out, or the special offer. If unspecified Company ABC wants to offer me a free trial of anything in hopes of enticing me to further my purchasing relationship with their firm, I’ll take them up on it, only to cancel slightly before the trial’s deadline. (By the way, Company ABC is a stupid name for a business, you guys really should have tried harder, hypothetically speaking.)

However, the key to any free trial is the cancellation of said trial before the crafty accounts processing can change the “free” part to “boatload of cash.” My most recent endeavor into sticking it to the man occurred back in April. The reason? I wanted to read NFL draft insider columns to get a better idea of who the Eagles were thinking about picking with the 14th pick. The mark?

ESPN.com

Though I hate to admit it, this is an extremely clever way for TV news channels to make some quick cash. Reserve a certain number of columnists for an “exclusive” section of your website, and con data-hungry schmoes into paying $9.95 a month to yes, (here comes the fun part,) READ. They find stuff out they probably would have found out 24 hours from now, but hey, they’re the first in Cubeville to know, and they think it’s money well spent. Hey, for two weeks and for free, I can be a schmoe.

The way this particular trial worked was that you sign up and cancel at any time before the two weeks are up, and you have no further obligations. Sign up on a monthly or yearly basis, it doesn’t matter really, as long as you remember to cancel. So I signed up for a year at 60 bucks, and this even included a year’s subscription to ESPN: The Magazine. And even if you cancel before you owe, you’ll get to keep the first issue FREE. (Yeah, because there are so many other companies that make you return it. I’ve never understood that selling point.)

However, in all the things that come with “taking your grad school finals,” sure enough, I forgot to cancel before the deadline, and before I could say Dikembe Mutombo, I had a $60 bill to pay on the old credit card.

Not to be done in, I frantically called ESPN to cancel my subscription. I was hoping one of the Sports Center anchors, or at the least, Baseball Tonight’s John Kruk would be manning the phones. Anyone but Dick Vitale. Not surprisingly, they’ve got other employees to handle people like me. I canceled the Insider subscription and got a credit for the same amount back to the credit card, nullifying the mistake. They didn’t even charge me for the 3 days of the year I had used. (yes, that would be 49 cents. Twenty-four more and I might be able to buy a candy bar.)

So no, I no longer have any access to exclusive, premium content to ESPN.com. I’m not on the cutting edge of sports news as it happens. I have gone back to reading the athletic press of the masses. All in all, ESPN.com had me right where they wanted me, and now I have nothing.

So can someone please explain why I’ve gotten ESPN The Magazine for free the last four months?

Hope You Get a Lot of Bugs

For you American readers that enjoy some sort of income regulated by the IRS and the Department of Labor, by now you are no stranger to taxation. Yep, the government, both federal and local, have been taking some of your hard-earned cash in order to provide services and features of daily living that make much more sense to pay all at once on behalf at all. Just imagine if you had to construct, build, and bankroll a personal road to get you and only you to work. Sure traffic would be better, but since you had to make said road out-of-pocket, methinks you had to put up your car as part of the payment. Yeah, enjoy walking to work on your personal road, Skippy.

See? Taxes can be exchanged for goods and services – stuff you can’t be bothered with providing on your own dime. Aside from the aforementioned interstate transit system, your taxes pay for people to do jobs that you can’t do yourself. You have a fire department that prevents your house from becoming a smore-fest, even though you were too dumb to take that roll of paper towels off the stove. You have a police department that apprehends criminals for travesties against your sense of security. You have animal control, you know, for those wild coyotes that prevent you from parking in your driveway. And now we’d like add a fourth notable service that Fairfax County, Virginia provides at no extra charge (read: no new taxes):

MOSQUITO CONTROL.

How do I know Fairfax has a Mosquito Control Patrol Unit? Because I followed it to work today. Yes, they have their own vehicle. A non-descript, white pickup truck with a yellow flasher light, the county seal and a big sign across the back proclaiming MOSQUITO CONTROL.

First off, Fairfax County is far from the swamps of Florida. The mosquitos around here? Not a big deal. But just to be safe, the county had commissioned a 4x4 vehicle, manned with 2 employees, to roam the streets of Vienna to make sure that we prevent a mosquito outbreak before it turns into Outbreak or Jurassic Park.

However, the flatbed of said pickup was empty, which made me wonder what exactly these two fine young gents are able to do to eradicate the out-of-control flying bug epidemic that I couldn’t do on my own? After all, if I had a mosquito problem (anything short of West Nile), couldn’t I take care of it and pay less taxes? Hell, the depreciation on a sweet ride such as the Chevrolet Colorado must be setting the county back tens every uh, year. Do these guys have superhuman swatting ability that make them worth what they’re paid. Can they look at a fly and have it drop to the earth out of sheer intimidation? What makes them so worthy of our tax dollars.

Ah, they’re multi-talented.

On Rte. 123 in the morning, I basically move from stop light to stop light for 6 long miles with little more than the radio to keep me awake. Nothing exciting happens in the northbound lane. Hell, I’ve never even seen an accident. But the southbound lane? That’s where the party is.

This morning, an ambulance and two fire trucks, horns and sirens a-blazin’, screamed their way past my car in the opposite direction. Where they were headed, I can’t be sure. But I do know this.

The mosquito control truck U-turned and followed.

Who knew insects are capable of arson?

Sharp Pointy Teeth

As is often the case on a Friday afternoon, here’s a post about something on my desk. And no, it’s not my head. (We already covered that, remember?)

(Note: it’s now Monday. I know that. Since when have I been calendarically accurate?)

When a new employee starts at my company, we have some specific things for them to do, pretty much to kill time until we have time to actually need to getting around to training them. They have eleventy billion usernames and passwords to set up, do the tour du office to put names with faces. Unfortunately, that’s only about 40 minutes of work, and there’s still more than 7 hours of time to fill. Rather than send them home with free money and rethinking their job acceptance, we do what is the ultimate time-killer.

The office supply catalog.

Yes, deep within the pages of said catalog a new employee is responsible for outfitting themselves with the tools and utensils they’ll need in order to, in the words of the contemporary Buddhist scholar, Bachman Turner Overdrive, “take care of business.” (Yes, every day.) Now for many supply regulars, there’s a wide array of what you can order. And just remember, the color Post-It notes and the type of white-out you purchase will be noticed, and co-workers will base their entire opinion of you on these purchases. (this can be amended if you newbie ever opens your mouth. Really, we won’t bite.)

With a lot of things you have the freedom to choose what will make you most productive. Simple choices (blue pen or black pen) can be made without little thinking. More difficult, ethical ones (will they notice if I order the chrome-handled scissors?) could take all day. But in order to save time, most offices have some office supply stock in reserve to get you rockin’ right away, not to mention cut down on the tough decisions you have to make on your first day at a new job.

Take the staple remover. Please.

Why are we insistent that all new employees have a staple remover on their desks? After all, it’s not like in their first day they’ve found an incredible amount of documents that need unbinding? But other than paper clips and rubber bands, staple removers run a close third in omnipresence in the office workplace. So what, right? Just another thing to take up space? Nay, my friends.

A staple remover is the fiercest-looking office supply EVER.

I mean, just look at the thing. If you saw a staple remover for the first time, there’s no way you think to yourself, “Man, that’s got to be used to remove staples!” No, you think instead, “Damn, I could take someone’s cigar tip/finger/ear off with that thing.” It’s got sharp, pointy teeth and hails from China. (Go ahead, look at yours. It’s probably from China.) It’s also worth noting that a staple remover is damn near indestructible. Good to know that China will be my go-to country for staple removers and walls. Expert craftsmanship.

I guess it could be worse. You could have this on your desk.

Your Presence is Requested

I would have written a post yesterday, but I had to check my calendar.

Now I don’t know anyone who actually carries a calendar / datebook / planner / intern with them these days, and who can blame them? Those things are HEAVY. If you’re Joe Brescia, you probably have some gadget that will alert you of upcoming appointments intravenously. But other than that bizarre option (which I may or may not have just made up,) the majority of America must rely on their computers to figure out where they have to be, when, and why they have to be there with whom.

But this is how life in the 21st century. Convenience is king. (Sorry, buddy.) And just like Guster’s sound, the computer datebook has evolved. The three levels are as follows.

1) In the Beginning – In the beginning, when computers were little more than word processors and Oregon Trail mainframes, there was little date-keeping such machines could provide. Unless your Friday night poker game could 1) be sketched using the pencil tool on some primitive paint program or 2) die from cholera while fording the river, we probably weren’t ready to abandon the wallet-sized notepad calendar we carried just yet. A calendar could be little more than a Word Perfect document with a list of places to do and things to see. (Strike that. Reverse it.) And nothing says “I’m going to be on time for my 2 o’clock like waiting for a dot matrix printer to print out an itinerary. And yes, it’s impolite to tear off the line feed in front of others.

2) In the Middle – In the middle, Microsoft got their programmers in gear and found a way to harness the power of the Internet, the ease of an electronic graphical calendar, and found a program that could capture “off-gold” in its dazzling area of Microsoft Office product icons. Yes, Outlook was upon the world, and this pleased us. Being able to have a calendar that would link to one’s e-mail was helpful, as transcribing RSVP details had grown tiresome by the mid-nineties (much like playing the Oregon Trail) and we had little patience. A computer, by means of Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V, put millions of scriveners out of business. (Ok, there were like 12 left, but it still was a sad day.

3) In the End – Contrary to the views on Linkin Park, it does in fact matter. Outlook has gone through many improvements and upgrades, but for one who is planning an event, how can they be sure that all potential invitees also believe in the Microsoft product? Well good news, skeptics, there is and has been a web-friendly alternative for years, and it has no doubt been caught in the mainstream for quite some time. Yes, friends, if you want to plan something and want to know for sure who’s coming and who’s not, the only answer is…EVITE.

It’s not like we’re writing this post today because we just discovered this wonderful tool. We’re not behind the times like that. If you still believe we did, stay tuned for tomorrow’s entry titled “Oh my God! I’ve just discovered mp3s!!” Nay, we write on Evite because while responding to an invitation for this weekend earlier this morning, just for fun, I checked to see how many time my e-mail address has turned up in the hands of an excited Eviter. And sure enough, I was aghast at the number.

141.

Yes, in the last three years, 141 people have decided my company was worth having, or at the least, forgot to delete my email address from their guestbook. (Ok, slight mod on that fact – 5 of them were from me, so I guess that doesn’t count.) How is this possible? I definitely haven’t attended 141 events. I don’t even know who 12 of the Eviters are.

However, I predict that Evite will only be a passing fad. At some point in the future, we as a society will advance to the next wave of technology for event planning. You ready for me to blow your mind?

The telephone. FWOOM.

Centimentality

Ok, I guess we should get back to work, eh? That’ll cost you.

But how much it will cost is still to be determined. YAB has prided itself on being a not-for-profit daily divertainment website. While other news rivals of ours, such as CNN and FoxNews, offer higher-quality, “insideresque” information for a nice and neat monthly subscription, we choose to give the public what they want.

Swag. Free non-tangible, literary swag.

However, if we did charge you (which we would never imagine of doing – ain’t no way I’m claiming YAB as a income tax source), we wouldn’t try and make the amount due any sort of nice rounded number. Why? Easy.

To spite Rep. Jim Kolbe.

Not since “6 Dimes” have we tackled currency reform with such a spirited vengeance (we blame the caffeine, naturally.) You see, Congressman James Kolbe, from Arizona’s 8th District, has had a long and storied lawmaking career, having won 12 consecutive terms. However Kolbe, now 64, has decided to call it a career, opting not to run for re-election come November. Granted, there’s not a whole lot to go back to in the 8th District, nor many challengers to take his place, but YABNews Polling HQ has informed us that in such a hotbed, a rattlesnake or coyote or cactus or something will step up in the name of civic duty.

However, this blog is not about what Kolbe is up to, but rather what he’s currently adopted as his swansong on the debate floor of Congress. After a failed attempt in 2002, Kolbe is back to tackle America’s worst enemy. No, not terrorism, inflation, or accidentally turned-on microphones –

The penny.

Well, first off, that’s a tricky subject. The United States Mint, (which tastes terrible, surprisingly,) has never in their history referred to the small copper coin at the bottom of the currency totem pole as a penny. Rather, it is officially called a “cent.” I blame the schools for perpetuating this lie. (Although it should be noted that “That’ll cost a pretty cent,” “Take a Cent, Leave a Cent,” and “Cent Lane” just don’t have the same ring.) Regardless of what 1/100th of a dollar is called, Jim Kolbe doesn’t care. He just wants it gone.

His current bill seeks to eliminate the penny from our daily currency, by removing it from all cash transactions. Any transaction payable in cash would now have to end in 5 or 0, in order to more heavily rely on the dime, nickel, quarter, or dollar. Non-cash transactions can cost whatever the store wants, since by credit card you are simply transferring numbers around in Bankland, and no actual coin or paper changes hand. He cites the rocketing cost of zinc as just cause to remove this expense from the Federal Budget.

But the penny is a mainstay of our American heritage, is it not? How many times have you tried to buy a shopping cart of goods, most likely apple pie, baseball cards, fireworks, maybe a flag or two, when you’ve gotten to the cashier (named Khruschev) and found out you’re a penny short? Now do you do the un-American thing and return one of your purchases? NO!! You look around the floor, your pockets, everywhere, to find that last penny! They’re everywhere, and when you need one you can find one.

If Jim Kolbe has his way, you’ll no longer be 1 cent short, you’ll be 5 cents short. And while locating 5 emergency pennies is damn near impossible, it’s even worse to consider that you may have to find a nickel. No one drops a nickel. Which means you’re screwed. Thanks a lot, Jim Kolbe. You’re ruining America.

(Note: if it’s zinc we’re low on, I hear oysters are an excellent source.)

Post 500: Boom Goes the Dynamite

Rather than doing a quiz to mark a centennial of funny as in milestones past (that is SOOO February 2006), YAB has decided to relive most of its greatest moments by conquering one of Lyric Intensive’s two Ultimate Parodies. In doing this project, we realized that if nothing else, YAB has proven that comedy is everywhere. Just allow yourself to laugh at life.

Care to look back on the first 500? All referenced material is linked to its source below. Enjoy. Oh, and if you want to hear the original, go to this website and click “View This Title.” And don’t blame us for the silly flash montage.

We Didn’t Start the Funny
Music by Billy Joel
Words by Chris Condon

Harry Potter, Diamond Play, Nightpaver, CIA
Yodalympic, Vanuatu, On the Radio
Sanka Coffie, Fondue Rookie, Fusion Razor, Girl Scout Cookie
Economic, Pizzanomic, Fire in Monroe

Fuego Dog, Doc Brown, Fishing Lake, Funkytown
Bracco, The Crowe and I, and the Crazy Calling Guy
Oscar Sunday, Sliced Bread, Condon’s a Big Head
Motorola, Categories, Dr.Pepper, Good Bye

We didn’t start the funny,
It was always burning, since the world’s been turning.
We didn’t start the funny,
No, we didn’t light it, but we try to write it.

Go to Class and Hasselhoff, 81 is Miroslav,
San Diego, Make an Eggo, Joe as John Locke
Gym Zone, Office Phone, Karaoke, Tail Bone
S-N-L-Cast, Turning Back the Clock

Coinstars, Shaun Dean, Boston’s Got a Winning Team
Warren Buffet, Brawny Man, Elevator, Candyland
Car-ma, Cheetah Pet, Indiana, Cabinet
Suckerpunch, Fancy Lunch, Never Coached a Louis!

(chorus)

Streak of Luck, Moving Truck, Have a Donut, Mighty Duck
Spud’s back, Registry, First Running Diary
Thomason, Carny Saul, Presidential Baseball
Toastmaster, Sorkinese, Look! One Thousand DVDs!

Fedrigotti, Hedberg, Web Monkey, Mafia
Holy Pup, BALCO, Oscar picks from Neo
U2, Jason Lee, Boxes off the Balcony
Charlie Grodin, Waldo, Getting Mocked at Kinkos

(chorus)

M&M, Star Wars, Burning in the Bookstore
Penguin, Break-In, Independent Pullman
Anthem for America, Making Fun of Canada
un-Risk, AP, Pottery, Lottery
Grad School, Swimming Pool, There’s no Dana, only Zuul
LFO, Lyrics Blow, Blogging without T or O!

(chorus)

Salsa Sharks, Office Sins, Nordberg phones it in again
Page-Up, Hic-cup, Maddengate, World Cup
Rocky, Hockey, Pudding Pop, Senior Crowd at IHOP
DC gets a little snow, Horrors in New Mexico
Ninja Lawyer, Reilly died, Raffy cheated, Nurs’ry Rhyme
Stupid Sheep, Leg’s Asleep, Ig, Styx, Frisbee Leap
Pirates Workin’ in HR, Writing since 2004
Rock and Roll and Cola Wars, I can’t take it anymore!

(chorus) (outro)

Happy 500th, YAB.

No Extinguisher in Sight

Always known for having its finger on the Pulse of Relevancy, Monrovia Top Five this weekend is debating Top 80’s songs. I haven’t contributed my list yet, mainly because in such a diverse decade, it’s damn near impossible to pin down a quintet that can effectively speak on behalf of that decade. What I’ll probably end up doing is pick a UN Security Council-style group to serve as representatives of all the genres. Rock, New Wave, Hair Band, Pop, and a Wild Card entry.

This is the Wild Card entry.

Everyone has one musical artist that they grew up listening to. You have no, I repeat, NO say in who this artist turns out to be. Your parents make that call. After all, they sit in the front seat of the car near the radio, and well, they’re bigger than you. Your first musical tastes largely will be dictated for you. At some point, you may veer off to a course of your own, but for the most part it will always be a part of you. Two examples:

Spud Mellor (Simon and Garfunkel)
Joe Brescia (Savage Garden)

Anyways, my first concert was that of the songwriter from Long Island, and in the younger days of YAB, we even banged out a parody driving back and forth between Homecoming and class in Alexandria. And that wasn’t even the first time – I stole The Entertainer from him as well for Mookiepalooza. Needless to say, he’s been an influence. So why not a Billy Joel song as my 80’s wildcard?

We Didn’t Start the Fire is a strange, strange four minutes and fifty seconds of pop music. The music track is a weird combination of electric guitar, synthesized keyboard, a driving drum kit, and some crazy person on the sound effect rig. (like the Psycho sound?) It’s not every day that a talented songwriter thinks to himself, “Man, wouldn’t it be cool if I took 122 things from my lifetime and strung them together in a chronological, rapid-fire world history Cliffs Notes? Yeah, and I’ll film a weird video where I get get insanely angry at a kitchen table and flip it in a fit of rage. Yeah! Where’s my Encyclopedia Britannica?”

Now this song spans the years 1952-1989. That’s 37 years of history. Granted, 64-89 are summed up in a quaint, 8 line stanza at the end (perhaps Joel got tired and phoned it in), but some of the things that made it in are simply hilarious.

And yet still, doesn’t the JFK line still come off a little harsh? Sure, it doesn’t match Bono’s “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of youuuuuuuuu” from the Band-Aid song. But it’s close.

Bet you can guess what’s coming at 1pm.

Day Trading

Ok, expect this to be a big day. As promised this past Monday, you’ve been witnessing the Week of Blog. 11 posts in 5 days, with the final one marking the 500th time YAB has tried to bring you the funny. Assuming everything works, expect the big 5-0-0 at its regularly scheduled time of 1pm. And like Kasey Kasem, we’re back to the countdown.

In what was one of the most boring days in sports, ESPN pressed on with their hour-long Sports Center yesterday knowing the task at hand. Fill an hour of sports news programming with the only game on the docket being the mighty WNBA All-Star game. I know what you are thinking, and yes, the WNBA somehow is still around. I think that in 2008 whichever political party includes “Abolishing the WNBA” as part of their official election platform will win the White House. Nevermind Bush’s current track record or the Democrats not having a clear-cut candidate. You ban the WNBA, and you get my vote.

You see, with the NFL, NBA, and NHL in the off-season, and the baseball All-Star Game occurring the day before, it’s a rest/travel day on the diamond, thereby giving sports fans a reason to panic. You could see the fear in Sports Center anchors Neil Everett and Scott Van Pelt’s eyes. “We’re going to cover a WNBA game BEFORE the first commercial break, and then what?” While I didn’t stick around to see how it all played out. (Rumor has it they did the Budweiser Hot Seat with the cast of The Little Man. I will now set myself on fire.)

But I can probably guess what went on Sports Center that day: off-season trades.

YAB rarely (never) discusses NBA matters, but when Allen Iverson, Jacques’ freshman roommate at Georgetown* and scoring machine for the Philadelphia 76ers comes up in trade talks, it at least warrants a mention. When the NBA makes a trade, they do not mess around. Of all the major pro leagues, this is the one most likely to craft deals involving multiple teams and enough players that by the end, half your roster has been changed. When it’s over, it’s a fresh start.

Why can’t this work in Corporate America???

It’s a way to get rid of people who you’d like to fire and bring in new people without have to go through the pesky HR recruiting process. What’s that? Your department isn’t going to make its year-end projections or sales goals? Start talking with other department heads in your company and see if you can swap sales guys and an accountant to be named later. Just like the NBA, salaries are always the tricky part of swapping players, I mean employees. (Actually, we will henceforth use the term emplayees. And I’ll thank Word’s Spell Check to stop auto-changing that a into and o.) Maybe your costs are running high thanks to tenured, bloated salaries. Trade away a veteran for a couple of entry-level rookies. Sure, you’ll have to promote everybody so that your job still gets done, but promotions make people happy – it’s like getting new uniforms, right?

So while Allen Iverson may or may not be Boston bound for a shooting guard, a small forward and a 2007 first-round draft pick, just think about this method next time you’ve got to reprimand an underperforming network support specialist. Send him to the Cleveland office with an intern and a case of Starbucks, and maybe you’ll get that sorely-needed robot in return.

*Yeah, we can’t back this up. Just seeing if you’re paying attention.

Punch-Trunk Love

Last night, I decided that it was time.

Granted, I had been avoiding this for months, er, years. Most often it was a case of not being close enough to a dumpster or not living on a floor equal to the parking lot. Sure, laziness may have prevailed, but that was not so much because of a lack of energy or interest, but rather the sheer fact that anything else on the planet was more fun than said chore. But on a quiet night at home where Katie had already called shotgun on the remote control (read: Project Runway marathon), I knew what had to be done.

Actually, what had to be done was the replacement of a tail light. There’s no way I’m paying some mechanic 35 bucks to replace a $3 part that I could buy at the store and install myself. But we’re getting off-topic here. In addition to replacing said light, I did something far more impressive.

I cleaned out the trunk of my car.

No, no, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m just waxing overdramatic on something that shouldn’t need to be done in the first place. After all, it’s a trunk, not the inner crevices of the car’s hubcap. It should probably be clean in the first place. Ok, idealists, you can live in your dream world. Just remember to call me when World Peace breaks out and free money falls from the sky.

(checks window for falling dollars) (nope, nothing.)

For the last two years, I’ve made a living out of living out of my car. When grad school still sucked the life out of the back-half of my day, a halftime costume change was often required. That required changes-on-the-go, and therefore, produced an oft-cluttered back seat. The backseat, because of said mobile closet status, quickly became less and less an option for “people to sit.” Like an 18-wheeler, my Accord became a 2-passenger vehicle in a hurry.

But when in a pinch, I could magically find 2-3 more seats with the moving of everything into the backseat into the trunk. The clothes would come inside regularly, but anything else that was dismissed to the depths of my trunk, was lost forever. Or at least until last night.

You see, for those of you who drive SUVs, your trunk is visible to all, and must be kept with the same detailed cleanliness of the rest of the car. And for those of you who built enormous, dramastically loud sub-woofers for the back of your SAABs, there’s simply no room for anything else. And a small sect of you actually use it as additional storage, for lesser-used items like your rollerblades or golf clubs. You probably access your trunk way more often than I ever have. This is why such a task turned from minimal to monstrous over the course of the last year.

Here are the Strangest 3 Things to be Excised from my Trunk last night:

3. A stack of mail from around September 2004. Since I pay my bills online, and hadn’t quite figured out how to stop the paper bills from coming, I had a nice, unopened cable invoice and an invitation to join the GW Fencing Club. Um, I guess I declined.

2. Various CD jewel cases. Since the world of CD sleeve books is upon us, the plastic cases often end up in the back seat, and shortly thereafter, the trunk. Funniest one I found: 2Gether. Want a copy, Smith?

1. My former computer, Cameron. Yes, the tower desktop that preceded the laptop Attica moved out of Random Run, but never made it up four flights of stairs to old apartment. And as I bid it farewell last night, it won’t make it to our new place, either. RIP, Cameron.

Vanuatu Down By the River

Hey there, friend. I know how you feel. Your body and mind are ready to check out for the week, yet when you look at the calendar, you’re dismayed to see it’s only Thursday. YAB understands. Your boss came down on you a little too hard, and it wasn’t fair for God to make it rain right after you washed your car. And when you were walking to the parking lot last light, some crazy Frenchman head-butted you in the sternum. And you really like your sternum. You’ve said at parties it’s your best feature. Yeah, man, we think you have a nice sternum, too.

Look, it’s way easier to be depressed than happy, but it’s time to face the facts. A lot of this stuff just isn’t your fault! That’s right – it’s not what you’ve done to deserve this, it’s where you’ve gone to deserve this – the United States of America.

In another instance of “Think-Tank Gets Bored and Makes Up Crazy Ranking,” the British based New Economics Foundation has compiled a Happy Planet Index. When YABNews first saw this, we thought Earth would win by a landslide. After all, Mercury is too hot, Pluto is too cold, and Uranus has low self-esteem for having an unfortunate name. Earth: We’re Number 1.

But when I told the YABNews team that they had to do more research than reading headlines and opening paragraphs, they found out that said Index does not rank planets, but rather all of the nation-states on our planet in descending order of happiness. And sure enough, your home country and mine, the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, ranked 152. (Apparently freedom and bravery may translate into independence, but not glee.) Our life expectancy and life satisfaction are decent, but some silly metric that calculates how much land we need to produce sustenance? We’re nearly last.

However, this ranking doesn’t take into account certain things. Why isn’t Italy higher? They just won the World Cup! And would I be able to enjoy the summer blockbuster season if I moved up just one country on the list? You think they’ve got Capt. Jack Sparrow in…Lithuania?!?

Ok, people, let’s not get crazy…yet. If this Happy Planet Index makes you sad, thereby forcing your hand to relocate, why not go all the way to number 1? Leave behind the sad bastard village of America Town for greener grass…in Vanuatu.

No, I didn’t just make that up.

Vanuatu really exists. Hell, they are ranked 161st in the FIFA Rankings (I couldn’t play for them, either. Not happy enough.) In the Truman Show, Jim Carrey was convinced by television producers that Seahaven was so perfect that he’d never leave, yet Truman longed to go to Fiji. Guess what, Burbank – Vanuatu is just west of Fiji and WAY happier. And better at soccer.

How could you be sad when singing a national anthem like this?

Off-the-Chain Quotient

You’ve probably never been chained to your desk. There’s a few reasons for this. First, it would prove very difficult to attend meetings, go out for lunch, or make copies if you were unable to physically detach. Second, using chains to affix your staff members to furniture is MEAN. MEAN, I say! Don’t make me come up there swinging the 8th Amendment at you…

Of course, since the majority of YAB’s readership 1) are kind, courteous people and 2) have no staff to considering said fastening, we know that we are preaching to the choir. Also, you’ve all got a sense of humor, and where’s the comedy in using a chain? There are far funnier methods to handcuff one to their surroundings, and most of them involve space-age elastic.

But you must remember, office workers in the 21st century, well, work in a 21st century office. We are in a wireless age now, people. Internet connections wherever you want! Checking voice mail – on the go! Copiers and printers, dancing in rhythm and tandem, filling the hallways –

Ok. We admit, that was an exaggeration. That office only occurs in Beauty and the Beast.

Is it possible for the phrase “chained to one’s desk” to become wireless? After all, the negation of any connecting apparatus between Person A and Point B would obliterate the need for a chain in the cliché, wouldn’t it? Technically, you’re right. But in the 21st century, we have ways to allow for virtual desk-chaining.

The Conference Call.

Sure, you could dial into a conference call on your cell, thereby freeing yourself to cavort around the office. But my guess is that you don’t have a business-paid cell phone, and I doubt the conference call is in your network. Also, no one likes a cavorter. Yes, the conference call lets you wander slightly farther than a chain would allow, as the measurement is no longer “number of links” but instead a lesser-known ruler, “ear shot.” From a listening standpoint, as long as you can still hear the speakerphone droning on back at your desk, you’re still “on the call.” But God forbid you actually have to contribute. When a question is posed your way and you are halfway across the office, your response will start off quiet (despite the fact that you are yelling) and will get progressively louder like an fire truck on the highway (and yes, you failed to factor in volume reduction as you got closer to the phone.)

So you’re still yelling.

On conference calls, and especially tele-training sessions, 87% of the participating group would much rather be doing other things that paying attention. In fact 84% of those people are doing other things. Yes, the power of the mute button prevents all from hearing you banging your head on your desk or typing this blog post. Yeah, you could go big and take care of something out of your chair, but that’s when risk starts to set in.

That’s why we have math. To calculate said risk. In the first mathematical YABquation since the Backtrack Scale. The Off-the-Chain Quotient reveals the number of steps away from your desk you may take on a conference call, based on the number of people on the call. It reads as follows:

2(S/2^p), where S is the number of steps you’re considering, and p is the number of people on the call.

If the solution to the equation is less than 1, GO FOR IT! The amount of time you have to talk decreases exponentially as the people increase, due to a greater likelihood of 1)rambling and 2)tangernts. (By the way, it’s 2S because you probably didn’t think to count the steps it would take you to return to your desk – damn we think of everything.)

EXAMPLE: I’m on a call right now, but I need to go get something off the printer. The printer is 7 steps away. Including myself, there’s 4 people on the call. Let’s crunch the math AND – the answer is .875. That’s less than 1.

Looks like I’m printer-bound.

Drinking from the World Cup

This morning, the governing body of all things soccer (football), FIFA, announced their latest rankings of all the national teams in the world. It is no doubt a heady task to try and list from best-to-worst the ability and level of talent each squad that plays for their national colors. How does one come up with a system? No doubt they’ve learned that letting human voters has a tendency to ruin, uh, objectivity. And since robots don’t like soccer, they leave it up to complex mathematical formulas. Remember, soccer is fun, so you don’t have to worry about understanding said complex mathematical formulas.

But there have been some cracks.

Prior to the World Cup, it appeared that math, always a pain in man’s side, had failed us again. Sure, the numbers worked, but the results seemed a tad skewed. For example, the American team was ranked 5th. Yes, of the 204 national teams in the world, the rankings said only 4 could beat us. And those 4 did NOT include Italy, France, England, or Germany. Clearly, math needed some revision.

With the new rankings, the U.S. has slid to a more accurate 16th. More emphasis has been placed on World Cup performance (Italy skyrockets to #2) and less emphasis has been placed on beating the crap out of wusspants Aruba. (No offense our Aruban readership, we hear you have lovely…uh...beaches?) However, with any new ranking comes new debate. You’re probably thinking I’m going to blog about whether or not Brazil should remain number 1 in the world, while Italy, who holds the Jules Rimet trophy, plays second fiddle, right? Nope! There’s a bigger question at hand.

What national teams can Condon play for?

While most attention in the FIFA ranking is given to the top of the list, I often scroll way the hell down to see who’s keeping it real in the soccer basement. There are 205 teams on this list, and surely, many of them do not have the homegrown talent to make the World Cup or be in the Top 32. There are tiny republics all over the world, that in order to look cool to their UN brethren, that actually have national teams, perhaps of the best soccer players on their island / archiepelago / micro-territory. Sure, they get obliterated 11-0 in every World Cup qualifier they’ve ever played, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is…can Chris Condon play for them?

It’s not like I’m a soccer neophyte. I grew up playing soccer. I played three years in high school. I dominated the Sunday morning soccer league. When I got to college, I anchored a defense that rarely gave up shots (our keeper was too busy talking smack to be bothered with shots). Hell, in indoor, I scored three goals in our lone championship final. Long story short: I don’t suck.

But I am older than I was then, and I don’t have a ball on my foot as often. Regardless, do I have the skills to play for the worst FIFA has to offer? Let’s take a look shall, we?

FIFA Rankings July 2006 (from bottom to top)
204. Montserrat: According to CIA World Factbook, this tiny island SE of Puerto Rico is 3/5 the size of Washington, DC. That’s a good frame of reference. Am I one of the best 18 soccer players in 3/5 of DC? Eh, maybe. But consider this: since 1995, 2/3 of Montserrat was devastated by volcanoes. Among more pressing needs (finding new shelter), do you think they’ve had time to play much soccer? Hell, no. I CAN PLAY FOR MONTSERRAT.

203. American Samoa: Every Samoan I’ve ever seen is a fat guy. And if anything the only American Samoan athletes to make it to the mainland are NFL players (Junior Seau, Kimo von Oelhoffen). And as the world can tell you, American football is not International Football. I CAN PLAY FOR AMERICAN SAMOA.

202. Guam: Another American territory, Guam has long-been a source of comedy for YAB. In 7th grade, Justin Morea and I wrote a letter to Robert Underwood, the U.S. Ambassador to Guam, asking for more information on his Guam. Anyways, while their women’s team in 75th in the world, the men suck. I went to their website, and it’s not even fully-developed. The same can be said for their set pieces. I CAN PLAY FOR GUAM.

201. Aruba: I’d like to say yes here as well, as they no doubt need defensive help (their last match was an 8-1 whipping from… Suriname?) But I may have offended them with that wusspants crack. I’d probably get cut in training camp out of principle.

I am Jack's Revisionist History

Don’t mess with Taylor Durden, no matter how silly his knickers look.

202 years ago to his day, the most important story ever to take place in Weehauken, New Jersey occurred. (No, not the federal granting of first NYC-NJ ferry service - that was 1752. And completely uninteresting. Hold on, I’m getting sleepy just think-)

(shakes head vigorously) Not only was July 11, 1804 the most important Weehauken historical event, it was also damn exciting. After all, it’s not exactly every day when the Vice President of the United States shoots a guy. (go ahead, insert your own Cheney joke here. We’ll wait.)

The Alexander Hamilton-Aaron Burr duel set the tone for political combat that would totally justify the Charles Sumner caning of 1852 and the 1996 squishing of Byron Dorgan, the junior senator from South Dakota who accidentally sat in Ted Kennedy’s chair. But aside from cross-congressional in-fighting, the Hamilton v. Burr duel set the tone for a much more important societal institution.

Fight Club.

Expertly documented in the 1999 non-fiction feature of the same name by David Fincher, the underground society of the everyday man releasing aggression via “clocking thy brother,” Fight Club has become a cult-favorite and one of my favorite movies of all-time. Edward Norton, after watching his life self-destruct, meets another wayward soul in Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden. At the end of a night discussing collective American commercial policies, the meeting ends…in a duel.

”I want you to shoot me as hard as you can.”

Yes, this is the cinematic recording of the founding of Fight Club. However, YAB’s crack research team has revealed that the Weehauken duel of 1804 between two staunch political patriots serves as the actual introduction of such a society. We admit that the Fincher version remains more popular for two reasons.

First, video cameras were not around in 1804, preventing anyone from immortalizing the actual account between Burr’s pistol and A-Ham’s stomach. And since the Big Apple lay just across the river via a ferry ride, no one got so bored that they decided to etch the scene into granite or a metal plate or a-Sketch. And second, the first rule of Fight Club, even in 1804, was you DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB.

Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden? Try Aaron Burr’s Tyler Durden.

Yes, Burr was everything that Hamilton wanted to be. He was American-born (Hamilton was raised St. Nevis), held federal office (VP), was earlier in the alphabet, and was even the answer to a hard-to-say trivia question centuries later. Face it, Alexander Hamilton was, as they say in 1804, a big honkin’ dufus. Burr spent his time debating much cooler cats, like George Clinton.

For Hamilton, the idea was simple. It was time to run with the hip-kids, and Burr was his meal ticket. Why not start an underground society that would advocate brotherhood, freedom, and haymakers? There was just one problem. He died in the first fight.

The First Amendment of Fight Club was ratified in 1805: There are no guns in Fight Club.

The Beer Man Cometh

During normal business hours, any customer at any moment could walk into any retail or restaurant establishment and expect efficient and professional service. And in order to maintain a successful business the shopkeeper of that establishment must be ready to put his best foot forward to provide the customer service that will get this phantom shopper to make a repeat visit. Customers can’t be bothered with “behind the scenes” stuff. It’s for the shopkeeper to figure out how to make the magic happen. Shelves must be stealthily restocked. Storefronts must be magically kept clean. And new inventory must be delivered with covert precision, so not to disturb the customer.

They get spooked easily, you know.

But since every store on the planet can’t be run by the wizards at Walt Disney (no doubt the pioneers in behind the scenes magic, not to mention getting elephants wasted,) everyday shopkeepers must find a way to make it happen seamlessly. Enter the early morning supply delivery.

Every morning as I drive up through downtown Vienna (or is it down through uptown?), I see at least thirty different supply delivery trucks in the parking lots of strip malls, saving the day in the name of commerce. Most of them make complete sense. These long, sleek 18-wheelers wait patiently to be unloaded, allowing McDonald’s to have hamburger meat, Safeway to sell loaves of bread, and even California Tanning to have, um, pillows for the tanning beds? (Never quite understood why tanning salons use such a big freakin’ truck.)

But who can forget the beer man? The jewel of the supply truck fleet, yesterday I saw a beautiful black Budweiser truck in front of the Chain Bridge Plaza set of shops, gleaming in the sun. As impressive as it is on the outside, inside lay rack upon rack of ice-packed bottles of Budweiser products. (Coors Light seems to have abandoned delivery trucks for other methods)

However, this isn’t that easy of an equation. For the record, the four shops in the Chain Bridge Plaza are as follows:

1) Duron Paints
2) Creative Edges Framing and Prints
3) Rosemary’s Floral Shop
4) Subway

So…which one of these stores require beer?

DURON PAINTS? Look, I know that beer is known to come in many different colors from Mich-Ultra to Guinness, but are any of them hues you want on your walls? In addition, the coolest part about a paint store is the color mixer that shakes up and dispenses beautiful concoctions of color and texture. Wouldn’t this apparatus be better suited for martinis, not beer?

CREATIVE EDGES? I really have no idea why a store that professionally frames your pictures would require or sell alcohol, but I’ll take this opportunity to rant on said establishments. Why is framing so damn expensive? It’s not like I’m asking them to go out back and cut down a tree of my choice to put some wood edging around my map of St. Lucia. Their frames require a few measurements and a swift swipe with the circular saw. Ok, there’s the glass, too. But how is that more than $350? Ridiculous. I’m ticked – no beer for them.

FLORAL SHOP? One place beer is definitely not needed is at a florist’s. You pay money to them because of convenience and the fact they have talent you do not. You don’t need them drunk. Face it, it’s Valentine’s Day, and you can’t afford giving your wife a far-from-sober bouquet that contains roses, lilies, a pair of scissors, an old glove, and pages from the Washington Post.

SUBWAY? Drink Fresh.

Running Zack, Blogging Chris

This morning, my alarm went off at 6:07 AM. I promptly pummeled it with a right cross.

This not only stopped its screeching of a Pussycat Dolls song, but also managed to disable the snooze bar. There’s a couple things worth noting here. First, I firmly believe that alarm clocks should not be set to rounded times, like 6:00 or even 6:10. The fact that you look up and see 6:07, and try and figure out why you set it for such an odd time gets the brain going and by the time you remember, “Right, it’s because I’m a complete weirdo,” you are awake enough that snoozing is not as attractive. Second, this line of logic didn’t work this morning because I didn’t even recognize the glowing-green digits on my clock – the Pussycat Dolls put me into a blind rage, apparently. Crappy music has that effect on Condon.

But this did allow me to have a vivid dream for once. Waking up unprovoked some 90 minutes later (and late, for that matter), I jumped out of bed and was in the shower in a matter of mere seconds. And as I stood there contemplating the display of blinding speed I just produced, my mind cleared and thought back to the dream I knocked myself awake from. (However, zoning out at such a time does have one main drawback. It’s called “shampoo in the eyes.”)

I dreamt that I was in charge of writing not a book, but an audiobook. Apparently there was no need to bring ink and paper into this. The topic was to be a satirical look at our 50 United States. Now I know on a recent road trip I had listened to the audiobook version of the Daily Show’s America the Book, and as real life often influenced REM life, I’m sure there’s a connection. But the task of writing an audiobook quickly expanded in my dream into a screenplay, whereby friends were counting on me to finish their parts so they would know their lines in time for filming. How they got roles in my film without belong to SAG, beats me. At some point in this dream, I think I was in charge of costumes, too, but I can’t really remember. The shampoo really stung my eyes.

While details are soapy, the one thing I know is that whatever I was writing turned to gold in the eyes of friends and critics in the dream. That’s pretty remarkable since I don’t think I have enough satiric comedy to lampoon Oregon – which was the first chapter. (???) I don’t question my ability to make little sense in dreams – I once dreamt that I was canoeing through my hometown with Matt Weng, because he had told me that there was a global shortage of vinyl siding, and all new houses were being built using toast. (I know what you’re thinking and 1) the roads were flooded, enabling the canoeing, and 2) I’ve never taken drugs, despite the aforementioned dream’s inclination to make you think so.)

However, like Martin Luther King Jr., Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez, Zack Morris, and hundreds of others who have seen their future while asleep, I have taken this as a sign. You see, YAB is a mere 10 posts from the big 5-0-0. And in order to commemorate such an occasion, YAB is going all-out this week. Expect the following two things by week’s end.

1 – A 29 percent decrease in backdating! That’s right. By bringing the funny 11 times this week instead of the usual 5, we’ll hit 500 just 15 off the pace of 1 every weekday since inception. This morning we were at 21. Make that 20 now. Two-a-days, coming your way.

2 – Scheduled to drop at 1pm this Friday, the most impressive blog post you’ll ever see. Number 500 is not to be taken lightly.

Better set your alarms. (may we suggest 12:57?)

Holishax

Growing up in Southern New Jersey, preparing for the holidays was just as exciting as actually celebrating them. Unless your forest was boxed up and in the attic, you would drive to a local tree farm and cut down the pine that would stand in your living room come Christmas. If it was Halloween you were gearing up for, you head to the local farm and catch a hayride out to the pumpkin patch. Need some roses for Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day? Go to the florist – rumor has it they have some. Dummy. Had we been ethnocentric about the whole thing, we’d just assume this is how they roll in all other parts of the United States.

Yeah, that would be incorrect. Shocker.

In Northern Virginia, the holidays come to you! It really doesn’t matter which of the above holidays you’re talking about, but celebrating your favorite feast / celebration / excuse-for-dressing-silly couldn’t be easier!

People, we live in a time of convenience. Time is money. (This is proved by the transitive property, of course. Since Time is a magazine, and Money is a magazine, you know the rest.) (Of course this means Time is also Oprah – hmm, it appears mathematics have failed me again.) Anyways, with so little time around the holidays, who has time to get that tree / pumpkin / bouquet / groundhog? Not the people of Northern Virginia, I assure you.

Enter the Parking Lot Holiday Depot.

Something I’ve noticed since coming to this area that in the last week before a holiday, ample parking at commercial strip malls disappear in the name of last-minute commerce. Stand-alone holiday shacks, or holishax, appear out of thin air to provide those with little time to decorate.

Christmas trees right next to my bank? Yep!
Pumpkins out in front of Starbucks? Sure!
A dozen roses for $3? What a deal!
Fireworks at Buy 1 Get One prices? Wait a minute.

Sure, the overall idea of holishax kind of ruins some of the holiday spirit for me, and I’m guessing, others who grew up with direct access to the source. Every Christmas we love to sit around the fire and talk about how we used to go get the tree from the tree farm, and point out how someone dropped the cell phone in the snow. Luckily, we were able to return to the scene to find it slightly frozen. You know what happens when you drop a cell phone in a parking lot?

Motoroad kill.

And while we’re at it, let’s go back to the fireworks example? Something just doesn’t sit right about many, many flammable mini-missiles just a few feet away from a buzzing highway full of vehicles that burn fuel for a living. A gas leak and a spark just seems too possible. Or at least more possible than the World Cup Golden Ball winner coming unglued in the waning moments of the final.

I assume that the existence of holishax must generate enough of a return for them to keep returning to my area parking lots every year. But just wait until Wal-mart unveils a Super Holishax that stays open year-round and sells all holiday swag at once.

Parking will be first come, first serve.

The Renaissance Tool

In one of her maiden posts, Lacey Smith went on the record as saying “David Hasselhoff is a Tool.” Yeah, she capitalized Tool. She clearly means business. As most of you may know, the ‘hoff has found his way into your homes this summer as one of the judges on “America’s Got Talent.” It is of the opinion of this blog that in fact, America does not.

But the ‘hoff has teamed up with Regis nonetheless, and his mug has now found a way into your home, assuming you don’t have a cool Baywatch action figure on your mantle, or God forbid, one of DH’s pre-Knight Rider press photos (click at your own risk.) And while he may be trying a little too hard to be taken seriously, and as Lacey points out, may not know talent unless it hit him in his enormous head, David has put together a tremendous Waldo-like existence in recent months, and it’s worth chronicling here on YAB. David Hasselhoff isn’t just a Tool.

He’s a Renaissance Tool.

What has our main man been doing since Baywatch? Not much, really. Mostly making albums for his crazed German fan base, who are still waiting for him to remake the “I’ll Be Ready” theme song from his days as a lifeguard…

…which reminds me. Here’s a brief foray into Impossible Theater. I want you to hum the theme song to Airwolf. Got it? Ok, now do the same with the theme from Knight Rider. Great job! Alright, now do Airwolf again. Not so easy, eh? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do. Okay, now back to the ‘hoff.

His TV appearances have been sparse as the century turned, and other than a self-mocking cameo in the Spongebob movie, we’ve barely seen him. And don’t think he’s been at home raising his son Hobie, either. This man has gone underground, just waiting for the right time to take American pop culture by storm.

~POP~

In 2006, our Renaissance Tool has been busy. In the last 4 months alone, the ‘hoff has appeared not once, not twice, but four times on YAB’s radar screen. And that doesn’t even count www.dropitlikeitshoff.com.

1. America’s Got Talent – yeah, we already covered this. Put a check in the TV Box.
2. Click – Why do I feel like I’ve seen this movie already? In the most over-advertised movie since Nacho Libre, Sandler’s movie looks pretty funny, and with Beckensale and Walken on board, that’s a cast worth seeing. But yes, in those ever-present commercials, guess who is playing Sandler’s boss…Movie box – CHECK.
3. NBA Finals – Remember how I mentioned that the ‘hoff is HUGE in Germany? The man had so much influence when the Berlin Wall fell that current Mavericks forward Dirk Nowitzki sings “Looking for Freedom” to himself on the foul line – a ‘DH classic. It’s no Peter Cetera, but it’ll do. Sports? CHECK.
4. American Idol – Yeah, Taylor Hicks singing can be moving, but this moving? Wow, the ‘hoff can do it all. (Note: he cried, but I couldn’t find evidence at posting time.)

Sacre Bleu!

I can’t believe what I am about to type.

With the 2006 FIFA World Cup wrapping up this weekend, now is a good time to review our final match and let the Royal Leadership-I mean, that is- the Loyal Readership know who YAB would be pulling for in Berlin three days from now. You’ll be surprised as we are. Trust me.

When 32 teams arrived in Germany some 28 days and 62 matches ago, our allegiance was clear. The United States was bringing a team loaded with depth and determination, and despite a Group of Death designation, I was part of Uncle Sam’s Army. The Americans lost to the Czechs, tied the Italians, lost to mighty Ghana.

Yes, mighty Ghana.

At the end of the group stage, 16 of the 32 teams advanced, and from Group E, it would be Italy and mighty Ghana. At this point, rooting for the U.S. to win it all even though they had been eliminated seemed like a foolish thing to do, so I scoured the new bracket to find a horse to back. So I based by decision on playing style and confidence and decided to pick a global power. Not a global superpower (i.e. Brazil or Argentina), but a team with a strong chance. Like Russell Crowe in Gladiator, I went Spaniard.

First round result: France 3, Spain 1.

Ok, so much for that. At that point, I looked at the field of 8. I could care less about who wins Italy v. Ukraine, since one dives more than Greg Louganis, and the other by definition is “weak.” Germany and Argentina would be a good match, but I’m not yet ready to root for the home team, otherwise analysts everywhere will put too much emphasis on that card (which is why S.Korea made it to the semis in ’02) France will be surrendering to ubermighty Brazil at any minute (I had to add the uber- prefix since they downed mighty Ghana.) Oh, but what about England? I have an England jersey from ’02, and while largely unimpressive in the group stage, I can totally relate to them. And hanging around Nordberg for the past few days, I feel like I know everything about the Three Lions squad. Alright, we’re in business. Gooooooo England!

Second round result: Portugal 1, England 0.

In penalty kicks, no less. Now while this blog could turn into why penalty kicks are not the way to end a game of soccer, let’s keep rolling and pick a team to root for in the Final Four. At this point, it’s ok to break some rules I made last paragraph. Since Italy and Portugal play a style that makes figure skaters seem Under Armour-tough, and France is well, France, looks like I’m now in the corner of the Germans. Who can blame me? They’re efficient, stoic, and the home of adidas.

Semifinal result: Italy 2, Germany 0.

Damn it. With Les Bleus finally getting rid of Cristiano Ronaldo (read: CRONALDO) and the other flying Portuguese Brothers, your 2006 World Cup Final will be held between Italy and France.

This game sounds like it will be as tough as getting a ticket to Euro-Disney.

But I plan to watch the biggest soccer game of the next four years this Sunday. And I’ll need a team to root for. Italy has been impressive, but they have too many players who give soccer a bad name. France, on the other hand, have some tremendous players like Thierry Henry and Patrick Vieira who rival the Brazillians in the technical category of “eye-poppingness” and “dropjaw.” And their captain with the coolest name of the tournament (sorry, Fred), Zindine Zidanne, would go out like Elway with a second World Cup trophy in his trophy case. Yes, I’m rooting for (gasp) FRANCE. Forget the ridiculous accents. Never mind the fact that the French surrender when a taxicab backfires. Who cares if they’re so French they sit at expensive outdoor cafes and smoke berets? I can’t believe their soccer team is actually saving face for not being dive artists like so many other squads. Allez, Les Bleus!!!

(That said, YAB would like to congratulate Italy in winning the World Cup.)

The Fifth of July

As Americans, we have associated many things with our Independence Day, the 4th of July. You’ve got the backdoor barbeques and poolside picnics. Then there’s the downtown parades that invoke a patriotic savvy as well as a contempt for parade route detours. There are fireworks that light up the night sky, and premature fireworks that have little effect on a mid-afternoon sky. Baseball is the game of the day, and nobody works. Nobody. It’s our own little nationalistic Sabbath. But why?

When you grow up outside Philadelphia, you tend to receive a jaded view of the American history towards independence, freedom, and liberty. The events surrounding our break away from England that took place in the City of Brotherly Love take impressive prominence in the history textbooks of schools in the Philly region. I can’t assume that this is unique – surely those in Massachusetts study the Boston Massacre and Tea Party more that is proportionally feasible, and I think those in Delaware probably studied when the British got new Redcoats with tax-free shopping in Dover.

As a Phillyphile, the 4th of July means a lot.

After all, it was downtown where the Declaration of Independence was signed, shortly after the clock struck 11 pm on the night of the 4th. Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, and friends capped off a long night of debate and wearing silly pants by signing the most famous document ever to be declared. Truly, for each member of Congress, this date not only would mean future days off (assuming once the federal government was erected they would grant this.), but mark the highpoint in their political careers.

So what do you do for an encore?

Seriously, you’ve just taken part in the creation of a document that proclaims that you don’t need England anymore. Where do you go from here? Certainly, in due time, there will be governmental positions to fill (assuming you make some with a Constitution of sorts). But what about tomorrow? What about the 5th of July?

It’s like the rush of winning the Super Bowl. One day, you’ve played the game of your lives that will permanently etch your name in the history books. You can relive those moments over and over in your head, but when you wake up the next morning, there’s no more football to be played. That all happened yesterday. You’ve got time to kill until the first mini-camp. And all you have is memories of how awesome you were yesterday.

That’s the dilemma the signers of the Declaration of Independence faced when they put down their quills just before midnight. With the exception of maybe a bar tab, there will be no more signing for quite sometime. And if there is, it will seem largely inferior to the signing you did on the 4th. So what does a separatist patriot do for an encore?

Well, the night was still young, and like the Super Bowl, you don’t go to sleep right after you take off your uniform. Our guess is that Congress probably got wasted. After all, this was a cause for celebration! Certainly a saloon or ale house in downtown Philly is still open with a pint with George Wythe’s name on it, right?

Well, there’s your answer. After a long night of comparing quill sizes, streaking Eakin’s Oval (where "streakin" came from), and accidentally driving one’s carriage drunk into Independence Hall (now you know where that Liberty Bell crack came from.) The Declaration of Independence was read aloud for the first time not on the 5th of July, but the 8th of July.

In the words of John Adams, “that’s a wicked hang-ovah…”