Open and Shut Case

In fact, this whole courtroom’s out of order.

On the first floor of my office building, you will find very few actual offices. While the other 13 floors may be filled with tightly-packed cubicles and in many cases, more people than there are windows, the first floor is a presentation floor. Even though aesthetics do not make or break contract wins and losses, it’s a nice touch to give a professional appearance with sharp architecture, exciting award cases, and clean, striking graphics.

Having a plasma in the lobby helps, too.

However, even with a slick lobby and killer cafeteria, not everything can run perfectly all of the time. It would be nice for everything to constantly be in order. But I guess, every now and then, it’s okay for something to be out of order.

In this case, it wasn’t something you’d expect. Out of Order is normally a phrase reserved for machines with many intricate working parts, which at any time could go haywire, ceasing future operation at the risk of endangering those who intend to use it. Take elevators, for example. If I saw an elevator with an Out of Order sign pasted to it, I wouldn’t think twice about coming up with another way to change floors. There’s too much risk involved for defiance of the sign. Am I to pry open the elevator doors? Hell, no.

You see? That’s the power the phrase “Out of Order” has. You believe it without question. On the Scale of Authority, it’s not quite “Beware of Dog” (never will you enter such a place and remain completely unaware of potential ferocious canine) but definitely ahead of “No Right on Red.” (since you no doubt contemplate flipping the blinker on and gunning it around the corner if no one’s around.) (We know these things about you. Scary, huh?)

But what happens when “Out of Order” is misapplied? Like on a DOOR?

Can a door be out of order? I mean, I understand that a door made up of simple machines that provide work on the user’s behalf in order to make entering and exiting through a hole in the wall easier. Without these machine components (hinges, for example) every time we left, we’d have to pick the door up, pull it out of the frame, pass through the opening and then replace the door. Seems rather cave-like, no?

There’s a glass double door downstairs near the cafeteria that leads to an patio where you can eat your lunch outside. Can’t say I’ve ever actually done that, since most lunches are eaten desk-side, but I understand how it works. 1) Acquire Lunch. 2) Go through Door. 3)Eat Lunch Outside. Simple, really.However, this door’s out of order, and I have no idea why. After a careful inspection of the door, the following things were clearly not wrong with said door:

- The door sat comfortably in its closed position, not forced or jammed in.
- The handle is in full working order.
- The door is not currently slanted in any direction.None of the glass is cracked or broken.
- Being a glass door, I can see that there aren’t fire or bears on the other side of door.

The following things were wrong with said door:

- There is an erroneous “Out of Order” sign affixed to the door.

The World Can Breathe Now

Well it’s about time.

I think it’s important to be the champion of your surname in something. You need to strive to have some sort of distinguishable trait in which you far outperform all others that share your last name. Take me for example – I’m prepared to claim that I am the best blogging Condon on the Internet. There’s not much competition, from what I’ve seen, and assuming Academy Award winning screenwriter doesn’t turn his focus from movies to daily ramblings via the Internet, I think I’m safe in this regard. Why should one strive for such an achievement? Easy. So people can distinguish you at cocktail parties in Heaven.

Why do you think Steve the Baptist took up archery? It’s not like John could claim that medal at the next Pearly Gates Ice Cream Social. (Note – you may decide as to whether you believe Steve the Baptist to be a real but unappreciated person in Biblical history, or rather YAB just made him up. That’s your choice. But who do you think taught Cupid to have such deadly aim? How many babies do you know that can hit a wayward lover from 50 yds on the run right out of the womb? Thought so.)

Everyone needs a familial superlative. Even those who are probably going to hell.

Take the Lawrences. Please.

In Hell, Martin Lawrence SHOULD hold the title for “Worst Lawrence in Showbiz.” Period. Hands down. So many stupid movies. Hell, I’ve even bequeathed him with his own theory. His C.V. is long and storied in stupid films. And yet, Martin’s going to have to find his own superlative. He’s, shockingly, not the Worst Lawrence in Showbiz. That title belongs to none other than VICKI Lawrence.

What has Vicki done to outsuck the career of Martin Lawrence? It really doesn’t matter that she had a singing career, or was a featured player on the Carol Burnett Show. It doesn’t matter that she had some stellar appearances on Carson or that she hosted Win, Lose, or Draw. The fact remains in that she was behind the worst television show in the history of television.

Mama’s Family.

I don’t know who at NBC thought that it was a good idea to greenlight a show based on a whiny, cranky old woman and her house of Southern rejects, but I’m sure that they’ll be joining Martin and Vicki in Hell. NBC came to its senses after two seasons in 1985, throwing Mama’s Family off the Schedule Train. But some other minion of Satan at CBS convinced them to churn out 5 more seasons in syndication, thereby putting together a complete collection of 130 episodes. Horrible, horrible episodes.

And even though they strived for funny television programming, TBS insisted on showing Mama’s Family from 6-7am on weekday mornings – precisely the time that American is waking up, getting ready to go to work, and looking for something to watch other than news while they shave. This almost, on many occasions, forced me to start a letter writing campaigns that would have rivaled my “Strangers with Candy” pen-o-rama of 1997. I can’t make it through 35 seconds of this show without dying a little on the inside.

YAB is proud to report that as of September 5, the 6am morning weekday block of TBS programming now consists of The Cosby Show and The Drew Carey Show.

There IS a God. And I’m going to have to remember to buy him a round at my first Heaven cocktail party.

May Lightning Strike This Post

It’s raining right now in Northern Virginia, which is merely a sign of things to come. By nightfall, Tropical Depression Ernesto will have descended upon the region, largely decimated of all his strength, bringing with him enough rain to fill a paper cup and strong winds that will shake even the boldest…stop sign…slightly.

Yeah, while it is a blessing to not live anywhere that really receives the extremes of Mother Nature’s wrath, sometimes it’s nice to see the fireworks the meteorological matron is capable of. Snow rarely tops a foot in a storm, the rain may flood out some minor bridges and lowlands every now and then, but the strongest Hurricanes to visit Washington is when Carolina skates against the Capitals. When violent weather happens so rarely in this region, you kind of want to see what a storm is capable of.

We here at YAB mean no disrespect to those who have seen Mother Nature from the front row. However, in this area of the country, when gale-force mayhem occurs so infrequently, losing power is kind of, well, cool. Not because the loss of a basic utility is fun, but just because in DC, it’s kind of harmless. And like when it snows, a loss in power is comical in that my fellow Beltwayans (not to be confused with the Scary Movie Bros.) freak out in high comedy. When H-cane Isabelle rolled up I-95 in September 2004, it had dwindled to hair dryer speed winds, and rather than having to board up windows, Spud and I tried to see how far we could get through a game of Madden without the power blocking our proverbial field goal.

You see? DC weather = harmless.

However, today we type not to mock Mother Nature, but rather to investigate her. After all, she’s the moodiest dame I know. Everyone instantly attributes all things precipitation to the lady, and no one’s actually met her. Have you? Yeah, thought not.

There’s so many questions we need to ask her. So Mother Nature, if you’re reading, feel free to post your answers in form of the comments. (I don’t know if you have a Blogger account, so if there’s an anonymous comment, we’ll just assume that’s you. K, Ma?)

1. Okay, so your official title, Ms. Nature, is “Mother.” While it may be a nickname, we are inclined to believe that you have it because you have children. Who are they? Why haven’t we heard of them? Did they take of the family business? That makes sense to me if they did. After all, if you don’t mind me questioning a woman’s age, you’ve been around since, well, the dawn of time. You’re probably tired. Why not put your son Nick in charge of dry spells, or maybe little Joey at the helm of monsoons? (Note: In hindsight, Nick Nature sounds like a professional wrestler. As a result, Joey’s probably the favored son.) However, Ma would have to be pretty disappointed if her kids decided to go outside the family business. Mother Nature? Her son’s an accountant in Wichita? Never!
2. Much like a pimp, isn't it getting hard out there for a working single mother? Surely, we’ve never heard of a Father Nature. Did she have to raise those kids on her own, while monitoring and implementing our global weather system? Either Father Nature’s a terrible father and far from the family breadwinner, or Mother Nature kept her maiden name when she married into another family? Perhaps her beau is Father Time?
3. Is watching the Weather Channel the complete ego trip we think it is?
   
   

YAB's The More You Know

I was listening to an interesting conversation on the radio this morning, and in the interest of you all not living in the DC area or being in my car on the way to work, I thought it would be of great public service if YAB provided you with this public safety information. Hopefully, hilarity will ensue.

The Junkies got into it this morning about drinking and driving. It should be noted that none of the quartet were advocating said practice; simply, they were merely exploring the various penalties and limits such an offense can take, and giving their listeners a forum to call in with funny “I got arrested” stories. It should be noted here that no one on the YAB staff has ever been arrested, although there was one night my junior year where the police tried very, very hard to make that happen.

Serving as a designated driver, I was driving a few friends back from an off-campus party. I was stone-cold sober, while my passengers were less so. However, thanks to a busted headlight, that gave the campus authorities good reason to pull me over. I won’t try and transcribe the dialogue that took place between myself and Officer Jerkpants, as the conversation lasted a good twenty minutes. But I will try and relay the logic via this made-up vignette:

Officer: Well, Mr. T, do you have any advice for the kids out there watching?
Mr. T: I sure do, FOOL! Drink your milk! Stay in school! Don’t do drugs! Get 8 hours of sleep!!!
Officer: So let me get this straight. You want them to get 8 hours of drugs, don’t do sleep, drink your school, AND stay in milk???
Mr. T: That’s a load of Jibber-Jabber, FOOL!
Officer: Excuse me?

Basically, the officer tried to pull the “Repeat the story as if it were Opposite Day, and see if Drunky McGee agrees with me.” Sharp as a Stephen Colbert one-liner, I wasn’t going to be beaten that night. (With or without copious gold jewelry around my neck.)

Anyway, that was a tangent of Harfordian proportions. Here are some facts about drinking and driving that you all should know. You can thank us later.

• DWI and DUI actually mean the same thing. Based on the jurisdiction in which you're getting hammered and then laying the hammer down, it’s just what they call the law there. With other crimes, it’s much easier because of homogeneity. Murder is murder in all 50 states, not murder in some and mwrder in others. Also, in case you were wondering, DAI is the airport code for Darjeeling Airport in India, DOI is the United States Department of the Interior, DPI is dots per inch, and DMI is the Dirginia Military Institute.
• The blood alcohol content that qualifies you to be legally intoxicated is .08%. (Although, we think it should be called illegally intoxicated, no?) This percentage varies globally, however. There are zero, and I mean zero, tolerance BAC levels in nations such as Croatia, Kuwait, Panama, Malawi, and Utah. However, according to Wikipedia, your best chance of being smashed and still allowed to operating a multi-ton motor vehicle is in Sweden. You’ve got all the way up to .1% before you need to come up with excuses why that lamppost decided to attack your Volvo.
• As the Junkies were debating this morning, any vehicle, motorized or not, can get you a DUI. Just because your not behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, and instead, say behind the handlebars of a ten-speed, you are not off the hook. Cycling while intoxicated can vary from state to state, but there is an increasing sentiment that it should be a crime, because bikes can travel at high speeds and run into vehicles and people, endangering the innocent. But riddle me this: what if a drunk decides to go for a run – at TOP SPEED? Certainly, they can be considered a high-speed threat? With decision skills impaired, no one can quite explain the behavior?
  

We ask you this – should there be a law for Sprinting While Intoxicated?

All the Right Moves

The only thing bigger would have been Steinbrenner hiring Costner.

As some of you may have read, Paramount Studios recently decided to end its working partnership with Hollywood’s favorite crazy person, Tom Cruise, and sent him out on the heels of a scathing blaze of remarks by Viacom (who owns Paramount) CEO Sumner Redstone. Did Redstone cut him loose with just cause? Sure. Does that mean Tom Cruise – the Tom Cruise – is down for the count. Hell, no.

As of yesterday, Mr. Cruise is no longer a free agent. And who do we know in this area that loves to spend money on free agents? Yep. You guessed it.

The 2006 NFL preseason hasn’t started off in the way the Washington Redskins has hoped. Running back Clinton Portis has been sidelined with a shoulder injury, and the maroon and gold of DC has struggled in their schedule thus far. Their owner, Daniel Snyder, has never been known to sit tight and let things run its course. Well you guessed it. Forget Randle-El – Washington’s biggest free agent of the offseason? Tom Cruise.

With his latest venture, a film production company named “First and Goal,” Snyder has signed one of Hollywood’s most bankable stars. At a production cost of $3 million/year, Cruise should keep the ‘skins within the salary cap (albeit barely), as he’ll make slightly more than Renaldo Wynn and slightly less than the injured Portis. Compared to Paramount, Snyder hasn’t shown him the money, but much like Terrell Owens contract with Dallas, he has to prove him way back up to the big bucks (and besides Snyder’s taking a $7mil cap hit on LaVar Arrington in ’06.)

The First and Goal name is indeed an interesting name for a production company. However, the Redskins red zone percentage was 53% in 2004 (not sure about ’05). Doesn’t this give Snyder’s movies a hit-or-miss low bar of expectations? Eh, I guess that puts him in line with Disney.

Anyways, with the Redskins offense sputtering and Cruise new arrival, we thought it would be helpful for Mr. Snyder (a loyal reader, no doubt) if we tweaked the depth chart and played Tom Cruise…at every offensive position.

Quarterback - The leader on the field. Would help if he were the best player on the field. And if Snyder plans to send out a team of Tom Cruises, we better have at the helm his character from his best flick, no? Welcome, Lt. Daniel Kaffee. (A Few Good Men)

Running Back - Ethan Hunt (Mission Impossible Series) – While the third film in series may have actually been the best one (thank you, J.J. Abrams), we have to wonder this. Are these movies just Tom Cruise going on his daily run with a $160 million dollar budget surrounding him? Most gratuitous running since Baywatch.

Fullback - Charlie Babbitt (Rain Man) – Being a fullback is a thankless position, as you have only done your job well if another (the RB) shines. Cruise’s performance in Rain Man was understated and brilliant, and blocks for Dustin Hoffman to the Best Picture’s end.

Offensive Line - Let’s see, can I find 5 Cruise flicks that were slow and clunky (but still may have been decent)? Sure I can! I nominate Brian Flanagan (Cocktail), Ethan Hunt: The Sequel (MI:2), Cole Trickle (Days of Thunder), Ray Ferrier (War of the Worlds), and Bill Harford (Eyes Wide Shut). Mission accomplished.

Tight End – The tight end position has dual roles. He needs to know how to block and how to receive. Why not pick a movie that Tom Cruise also pulled double duty? How about the T.C. produced Last Samurai, Nathan Algren?

Wide Receivers - Thanks to T.O., Chad, and Keyshawn, receivers need to be brash, bold personalities who don’t adhere to rules. In this two wideout set, Coach Gibbs will have to find a way to wrangle loose cannons Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (Top Gun) and Vincent Lauria (Color of Money.)

Shortest receivers EVER.

On Your Feet...

You better sit down for this one.

As part of my great office relocation proclamation, I forgot to mention that said move entitled me to a change in furniture. Gone are the days of having my desk affixed to my walls, and here to stay is the era of an actual desk, independent of the space in which it is confined. And since my office chair had gotten so beat up, I was offered a pick of any other office chair in the spare conference room on the 3rd floor.

Granted, they are all the same model as my current one, but they look shinier. I’ll take it.

But this begs the question, “If you could have any chair in the world, what chair would it be?” You see, chairs are no longer meaningless pieces of furniture, strewn about in a larger collection, destined to be overlooked in favor of the almighty Couch. My HS Physics teacher, Mr. Gasior, even tried to coin the term “chair” to refer to something that is cool or awesome. Granted, Gasior was a weird guy, but that won’t prevent YAB from presenting our all-inclusive list of…

Top Ten Chairs
(in ascending order of greatness, of course)

10. Beach Chair – Yes, this one wasn’t exactly designed for comfort, but that’s not what ekes the Beach Chair onto the list. If you are sitting in a Beach Chair, there’s a damn good chance you’re on vacation. And if you’re on vacation, it doesn’t matter that you can’t reach your desk from the Beach Chair. Yeah, they’re garishly designed and completely useless in any other setting, but without it, you can expect a 63% increase of sand in thy shorts.

9. Director’s Chair – You’re not going to find this one at an Ergonomic Convention either, but then again, if you’re attending an Ergonomic Convention – Congratulations – you have front-row seats to something I just made up. More seriously, the director’s chair indicates that you’re in charge of some sort of artistic production – whether it be film or theater. And no worries about having to invoke Shotgun or the 5 Minute Rule for this seat – that baby’s got your name tattooed on it, eliminating all confusion.

8. Season Tickets – When you purchase season tickets to your favorite sports team, what you actually doing is reserving the same chair for every game for the entire season. It doesn’t really matter if you’ve reserved a spot o’ bench (a la University of Michigan) or a plush box suite seat (a la the Wachovia Center), you’ve got the whole thing just to yourself – even if you plan to only use the edge of it.

7. Executive Chair – What I was really hoping to find in that conference room on 3. Yes, that tall-back, extra-plush, jet-black, leather chair that your boss sits in checks in here at number 7. In order to attain such a luxurious seat, you’ve probably had to work your way up the corporate ladder. And climbing a ladder isn’t as fun as your remember it being when you were 12. They’re better be a chair that’s comfortable when you get to the top.

6. Wheelchair – It serves as an incredible tool for those who are no longer able to walk, and on its medicinal accomplishments, it would make our list. Nothing really funny to say here, out of fear of disrespect. So to fill, we’ll just point out Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time” is 224 pages. The magazine Time averages 82. Hmm.

5. First Class – After being on 4 different round-trip flights since March, it’s no secret that a person of my height would rather slam their head in the door of the overhead compartment than opt for a non-exit row seat in Coach. And no matter how ramped up you’ve gotten for the in-flight peanuts or getting to watch King Kong on the TVs, you’re decimated to sadness when you board the plane and see spread-out, all-leather first-class seats to your left. Before you turn right to transportation hell. (Upside: at least there’s no snakes.)

4. Adirondack Chair – The complete opposite of a middle seat in coach. High-back, nicely reclines, and outdoorsy without feeling like a stupid lawn chair. However, as I learned when purchasing two from Bed, Bath, and Beyond three years ago, they do NOT easily fit into the back of a Honda Accord. (This led to a sheepish returning of the chairs which I’d rather not re-live.)

3. Recliner – Might be the most comfortable chair on the list. I believe that every household should contain a recliner – leather if possible. Not only will the stresses of the working grind melt away as you place your head on its softness, it can also serve as a fun gameboard. The spring-loaded footrest can serve as an excellent catapult, you know.

2. Throne – If you have this, you probably rule.

1. Massage Chair – Does anyone actually buy merchandise from Brookstone, or are the free massages from their display room chairs the only reason people come in those stores? Don’t get me wrong; there’s probably a thriving market for a all-in-one laser alarm clock-golf ball locator-meat thermometer, but if you sit down in one of these and grab the remote – you’ll know why they get the gold.

BONUS – Worst Chair Ever for the 18th consecutive year: Electric.

Where's Ashton Kutcher?

Am I getting Punk’d?

In the earlier hours of an office work day, inter-employee communication is scarce. It’s the few precious hours before the West Coast wakes up and starts making phone calls here, whereupon any semblance of a plan for the day goes right out the window. Everyone here on the East Coast silently shares this opinion, and as a result, chooses to keep office banter to a minimum. Fine by me, really – I’ve got nothing of real value to say until I write today’s blog post.

Save the Funny for the Readers. That’s what I occasionally say.

As I scrambled to prepare for a 9:30 conference call this morning (no, not to the West Coast), I was moving briskly between my office and the printer, with no real intention of making small talk or big promises. As I rounded Admin Corner – the section of the office just outside the big officers that command a direct support employee each, I noticed that two of our Admin were clearing space on the corner hutch.

This is great news.

If there is space being cleared on the corner hutch, that means only one thing: free eats. Most often it occurs after lunch, when an executive moves the leftovers of a catered lunch meeting to the hutch, whereby it’s open season for those surplus sandwiches and cookies. But being nowhere near lunchtime, it had to be a rare occurrence where some employee (likely one of the execs) has decided to bestow grace upon his co-workers with enough bagels or donuts to feed the whole office. Gotta love those days. Saves me a trip downstairs and I don’t even have to pick one up off the floor.

Or it could always be the third option.

Social office culture dictates that when someone has a birthday, the office chef goes home the night before and makes them a cake. It’s a really sweet gesture, unless that person is on vacation, whereby someone from Admin Corner gets sent out of the office to pick one up from the nearest supermarket. This must have been one such instance, as while one cleared the hutch, the other patiently held a circular, nicely decorated cake enveloped in one of those clear plastic lids. Then the Cake Holder began the following dialogue with a clearly stunned Chris Condon:

CH: Hey, if you’re hungry we got an ice cream cake for you.
CC: Oh yeah?
CH: Yeah. It’s for your birthday.
CC: (pause) What?

Ok, here’s the problem here. The cake looks delicious. Sweets are always good on a Casual Friday. It was really nice of them to think of me on my very special day. Except, of course –

It’s not my very special day. It’s not my birthday.

CH: We heard it was your birthday. Happy birthday!
CC: Wow. Thanks. But, um, it’s not my birthday.
CH: It’s not?
CC: Nope. Not until the end of September. Do you think the cake can wait.
CH: It’s an ice cream cake.
CC: Right.

Door Slamma Jamma

Hey, remember this post from March 2005, where I extolled on my history of moving from cubicle to cubicle in my office setting? Of course you don’t. Cubicle Talk doesn’t exactly shout “Blockbuster Post Alert” to anyone. Especially if you’re at work and have your speakers turned down.

But nonetheless, it’s happened again. And this time, it’s permanent. The walls, that is.

Condon has an office.

That’s right. After three and a half years of being able to peer over my cubicular shelter to the outside world, my workspace is now officially bound by a window wall and three others constructed of plaster, drywall, and paint. I’ve even got a door that opens and closes, officially signifying when I am available and unavailable to talk. And just in case I’ve opted to keep that door shut, I have a glass floor-to-ceiling window pane that lets me people watch from within my new 11’ by 10’ square of privacy.

Yeah, life is pretty good.

But moving into an actual office isn’t all cheesecake and Gatorade, as you may believe. No, the moving from Cube 2374 all the way to Office 2376 has an equal share of Pros and Cons. And it here on YAB that were share them with you.

PRO: I am now about 10 meters closer to the kitchen, and therefore, the water fountain. Considering I refill my 1 Liter Nalgene bottle up about 6 times a day, this could save valuable, eh, minute in my day. (Apologies for two uses of the metric system in that Pro. I haven’t gone Frenchy on you all.)
CON: I am now about 10 meters farther away from the bathroom, which is an inevitable yang to the ying of downing 6 bottles of water. From this point on, conference calls will need to be better planned to compensate for the increase in distance.

PRO: I have walls now, which can hold lovely framing of whatever I please. After all, The old cube walls I had, while cloth, struggled to hold up even the lightest page of contacts or my 12-month calendar. And maybe I’ll even find a place for that boxed-up diploma, no?
CON: I have no problem putting a nail in my walls at home to hang a killer framed movie poster of The Sting, and yet, I feel guilty knocking a thumbtack into the wall at the office. Oh well, I guess I’ll never know any phone numbers or what day it is. I’ll guesstimate. TGIF.

PRO: You can’t see my legs now. In cube life, your back is either to your cube opening, or the desk behind which you sit does not have a front to it, exposing your lower half to the world. Which probably rules out those Bermuda shorts you’d love to wear at the office. And your Rollerblades, too. (NOTE: Rollerblades should only be used for sprints to the mail desk and the printer. Otherwise, your co-workers will wonder how you’ve suddenly become 6’8”.
CON: It’s just too damn tempting to pull a Constanza underneath this desk. In fact, I’ll be right back…

PRO: This office, since the walls remain largely barren, has a killer echo when I talk. Sure, it makes me sound more important, as my voice carries a greater gravitas and tone with it, but the real fun is in saying things that sound cool with an echo. Example: Standing up in my office and proclaiming: “I demand a cheese sandwich. NOW!”
CON: Forgetting to close the door before one demands a cheese sandwich.
PRO AGAIN: Unless, that is, some intern actual buckles like a belt and gets you that cheese sandwich.

Can't Even Leave the Water Running

In track and field news, it appears that steroids has gotten the best of yet another promising American athlete. Yes, the issue that has left other pro sports crestfallen has robbed track of yet another hero. As long as we can remember, Rob Harfor- … wait a minute …

Ok, who told the fact checkers that they could have a vacation?

As long as we can remember, Justin Gatlin (much better) has had his eyes on the prize of being considered the World’s Fastest Man. Running the sprint of all sprints, the 100 meters, he was running it in under 10 seconds by his sophomore year at Tennessee. And this coming from a guy who spent his formative high school years as a high hurdler (See Rob? You could have been a contender.) He has a medal of each color from the 2004 Athens Olympics, including gold in the 100m, and now holds the current world record, dashing it in 9.77 seconds.

Well, he held the current world record, anyways.

Gatlin’s record has been wiped clean, as he has been found guilty of doping. Nothing he has ever achieved in the world of track and field (not even when he pulled freshman hurdle duty) counts any longer. Because not only has the past been ruined for him, so has his future – the USADA has banned him for the next 8 years.

Justin Gatlin can’t run for the next eight years.

Just think about that. The obvious is well, obvious. You’re not going to see Gatlin in a Scott Lightfoot speedsuit or burning around the track oval anytime soon. But that’s the least of his problems. An independent Track and Field agency has banned him from running. Period.

If he even thinks about move his legs at any velocity or frequency greater than “walk,” he’s breaking the rules. Next time Mr. Gatlin steps outside his door to see the bus pulling away, he either has to skip to the bus or find another way to get to work. There will be no running after public transportation in his future. God, what happens if it’s raining out? He better have an umbrella; no running for cover will be tolerated. Being chased by a robber, Justin? Learn to stand and fight – for the next eight years.

Also, it should be noted that Gatlin has made a living by using his body. He’s prided himself on being in the best of shape. Guess what? Your training regimen is going to have to change. If you set that treadmill above 4 miles per hour, enjoy that pre-programmed electric shock the USADA has installed. Better say hello to your new friend, Nordictrack. Enjoy.

In terms of a new career, we’ll admit, the future for the 24 year-old Gatlin is wide open. As long as he doesn’t seek civic duty – even if he were old enough to hold an elected position, running for office is strictly prohibited. And get used to working the Man as well – running your own business is right out. Enjoy being a middle manager there, bud. And if you do choose to play for your company’s slowpitch softball team and your Olympic-toned arms crush the ball over the fence, enjoy a nice Home Walk. And be humble about it, too – running your mouth to the ump won’t only not change the call, it may add years to your ban.

And for God’s sake, if someone calls to ask if your refrigerator’s running, it’s not a prank call. It’s the USADA, checking up on you.

You can hide, but you can't run.

Train Wreck

You know those hypothetical “What If” questions that are thrown about at parties or on long car trips? I’m a big fan of ‘em. And no matter what, it seems that Dream Jobs always come up. And for some reason, I shun every other interest I have in this world and answer with the same response every time.

Singer/Songwriter.

And then, immediately after proclaiming said profession, I explain myself. I actually do not want to be a singer/songwriter, as the slim chances of fame, the life on the road, and the life of playing late-night concerts and making small talk with Regis and Kelly doesn’t excite me in the least. Turns out, I just want to have the talent to write songs. And that means I’ve totally botched the question in the process of this revelation.

However, as my parody past has indicated, I can do the lyrics half of songwriting. That comes pretty easy. It’s the musical chord progressions that I have not the talent for. Regardless, the parody background, in my opinion, gives me the authority to write this scathing review you see below.

A while back, we here at YAB tore through the worst lyrical song of all time, LFO’s Summer Girls. And it’s nice to see that the folks at the Phoenix backed us up on it, naming it the second worst song lyric of all time (Yes, the whole song.) Well, now it’s time to add our own #2 to the list. Welcome to the club, Drops of Jupiter.

Yes, some will say it is beautiful poetry (Toms?) and others will say Train’s Pat Monahan wrote as a tribute to his recently deceased mother. Well, I’m sorry Pat. No disrespect, but this song is the equivalent of the horridly ugly drawing you did as a kid that you wanted your parents to put on the fridge, but they cleverly found a way to overlap the calendar on top of it to obscure it from view.

Here are Train’s Top Ten “I want to break a guitar over the songwriter’s head” Worst Lyrics Ever.

1. She checks out Mozart while she does Tae-Bo. Reminds me that there’s time to grow. – Ok, if I recall from Billy Blank incessant infomercials, Tae-Bo was an kickboxing-aerobics program set to music. And more than likely, it had to be music with a dance beat. Which means one thing – whoever he’s talking about SUCKED at Tae-Bo.

2. She acts like summer and walks like rain . Reminds me that there’s time to change. -- Forget that Classical Kickboxing (see No. 1) reminds him that there’s time to grow. I can poetically appreciate acting like a season, sure, but walking like rain? What does that mean? And how would it remind me that it’s not too late to alter my life’s decisions?

3. She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey. – Oh, so you can act like summer, but only if you take the time to listen like its preceding season. God, I hope he’s referring to a person named June. Otherwise I’m going to have to blog like January to make him and everyone else depressed.

4. And that heaven is overrated – It’s not an awful lyric, but since he throws it in to finish a stanza, it’s not good, either. Besides, I always thought he sad “Van Halen is overrated.” Which in that case I tend to agree with him.

5. Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land. - This is where some proofreading might’ve helped, Train. He was so afraid to fly that what he did in response was to take a course of action that caused him to fly for the rest of eternity. Yep, that seems to check out.

6. And head back to the Milky Way (3x) – Oh, so whoever this Tae-Bo rookie is, she’s an alien. That makes me feel better. Humans wouldn’t have to head back; we’re already here.

7. Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken – LFO lyric influence alert. LFO lyric influence alert. LFO lyric influence alert. Random does not a song make.

8. Can you imagine no first dance, freeze-dried romance, five-hour phone conversation – Ok, let’s see grammarholics, the noun in this sentence is the phone conversation. On a separate piece of paper please tell me how the following words modify the phone conversation: first dance, freeze-dried romance. Go.

9. Did Venus blow your mind? – Either Train was trying to gauge the she-alien’s interest in tennis or threw in more intergalactic buzzwords to appease the extra-terrestrial. Which in that case, Venus probably didn’t blow her mind.

10. The best soy latte you ever had…and me. – Yes, and I hear Chinese food made him sick.

The Haley Double

Just another story of a Hollywood kid with too much money? You be the judge.

When the story first broke that Haley Joel Osment had been in a car accident last month, YAB longed to cover the story for you all. However, it was in the midst of the “Holy Hell, was this We Didn’t Start the Fire project a trainwreck of an idea or What??” phase at YAB, and the days passed with little mention of H.J.O. Had we covered it the next week, that would have made Thirdhand News. And everybody knows that people don’t have three hands. Chuck Norris might, though.

But now we have reason to further explore the crimes and misdemeanors of everyone’s favorite Secondhand Lion (sorry, Robert Duvall.) As CNN has reported in the past, it is true that Osment slammed into a mailbox and flipped over at about 1am in his 1995 Saturn while driving home alone. There are so many interesting questions concerning the actual incident – here are a few…

1. How does an Oscar nominated actor so early in his career drive a 1995 Saturn? I could understand if this was a story about a one-shot kid wonder (Jonathan Lipnicki, for example) But come on? A ’95 Saturn? Unless you’re wheeling around in it because it was the first Saturn ever and therefore “vintage,” surely you can afford something sweeter. Malcom in the Middle is tooling around in a Porsche, good God.
2. What do they make mailboxes out of in California that causes enormous machines (cough, Saturn) to strike them and end up upside-down in shattered? Is it that the construction of the mailbox is a composite blend of concrete, titanium, and kryptonite? Or does this particular resident order anvils and free weights from Amazon.com for a living? When I was 7 I ran into a mailbox while riding my bicycle, using my face as a point of impact. Thank God I wasn’t pedaling on the West Coast. I could be dead by now.
3. Osment is all of as sudden 18 years old. How did that happen? I mean, geez, I know Van der Beek was like 47 during Dawson’s Creek, and that Hollywood in general has a way with screwing with people’s ages, but Forrest Gump’s kid is ready to go to college? (Does that make him a legacy at the University of Alabama?)
   

Anyways, as the article states, it is now being revealed that young HaJo was under the influence of alcohol and had a small amount of marijuana in his vehicle at the time of the wreck. (Granted after flipping in a Saturn, it’s a wonder he was able to keep said influence in his stomach.) So yes, add young Master Osment to the group of troubled teen stars. He’s made some poor choices (not even considering the Country Bears) and now he’s going to learn. But after all, doesn’t alcohol consumption, pot possession, and reckless endangerment seem like trifling problems compared to the other monkey on his back we’re all forgetting?

He sees dead people.

Yeah, that’d force me to do crazy things like drink underage, too.

Not crazy enough to drive a Saturn, but close.

You See Me Rollin'

How did softball get to be so hard?

My history with Softball, or “Baseball Lite,” has never been fully documented. Until this year, I had never donned a jersey, swung a straight-barreled bat with a real game on the line, or even caught a softball in the eye. (A baseball, on the other hand, tried to become one with my skull one fateful day when I was 12. I stayed the night at the Morea’s that night, and when I woke up, I looked like Sloth from the Goonies. Rocky Road?)

Softball was one of those Everyman sports, which required little skill in its day and therefore became a prime contender for Gym Class. Even if you were terrible at hitting a baseball, this ball was bigger and came slower. Yes, for the rest of this blog keep in mind we are speaking of slow-pitch softball. Fast-pitch softball can have its day in the sun some other time, and regardless, is a death wish for any third baseman. Their field needs to be bigger. But with Gym class softball, the rules were easy. And since this was high school, your gym class could be divided into three groups:

1 – The third that feel that Gym Class is their place to exhibit their athletic greatness to the world.
2 – The third that went to have fun, just glad that this class did not require a lab notebook or a graphing calculator.
3 – The third that were just trying to not be sweaty the rest of the day.

However, these groups do not always play well together. For there was 1 day when Dave Miller, a prototype Class 1, slapped a single into centerfield, while Chris Condon, a Class 2, held the bag at first. When Miller tried to round 1st to stretch his hit, taking the path of most resistance (me), he went sailing and got his glasses knocked off. He then challenged me to a fight.

I clocked him with my graphing calculator.

No, no I didn’t. But I remember that day with great reverence, that if I were never to play softball again, I went out on a high note. And I didn’t get sweaty before Physics. (Sorry, Class 3 tendency there.)

8 years later, I found myself representing my alma mater in the 10th Annual Capital Alumni Network Softball Tournament somewhere in Maryland. Near NASA (and you thought we done covering the space beat), 61 alumni teams from universities from Boston College to Stanford geared up for a double-elimination tournament to determine once and for all which of our nation’s college’s produces, um, the best educated softball players? Turns out the answer is Colgate.

But what became of William and Mary, the team whose jersey I wore while patrolling the dirt around shortstop? Well, in the 61 team, we ended up finishing 5th. Yes, 5th. The most fun about this type of tournament is looking at the bracket after, and watching as small schools (like WM, Colgate, Tufts) knock off NCAA superpowers. Before falling to Michigan, we managed to eliminate Alabama, Michigan State, Penn State, Notre Dame, and Villanova. Not bad at all. And for the record, the worst team in all of CAN? University of Delaware. Smitty, if you move down here, you’ll instantly become their best player.

My highlight? There was this one field that had a PA system. As players on either side stepped to the plate, they got their name announced and some intro music. Of course, not knowing the gut from VA Tech on the mike, you couldn’t request it (although I would have used the opening to Machinehead by Bush.) Now playing shortstop wasn’t exactly a stand-up role for me. As you might have guessed, there was much diving involved. This made it completely apropos when the PA guy chose the chorus from:

Chamillionaire – Ridin’ Dirty…nice.

And had I dropped a ball at short, this is what I would’ve done.

What? No Krypton?

This is what happens when NASA takes their eye off the ball.

No, this is not merely a re-worded, scrambled version of yesterday’s post. Apparently, because nothing remotely interesting is going on in the terrestrial arena lately, the YABNews Desk has had their view focused on space. And while they thought it to be funny to turn in a blank piece of paper for a story about “space,” I made them re-write it and report on some actual happenings in the world that lies outside our own.

Yes, while NASA rummaged around in a warehouse looking for missing boxes, nearly 2,500 astronomers from 75 nations met in Prague in order to consider a proposal that would expand out solar system from 9 to 12 planets.

Before we even get started on the planet thing, can we consider another number, namely the fact that they’ve gathered 2,500 astronomers?!? Yes, apparently our planet holds two and a half thousand people who are professional stargazers (paparazzi excluded). Now William and Mary allowed you to take Astronomy as a course, sure. But do you know why people took Astronomy? Not because of a vested interest in studying orbits and moons, I assure. Instead, it was probably for one of two reasons.

1. Physics, Biology, and Chemistry scared the hell out of you. But you still has a science requirement to fill.
2. The class was held at night, and you weren’t a fan of getting up before, let’s say, 3 in the afternoon.
   

Anyways, all of these non-morning people have gathered to define what exactly makes a planet. (Hollywood, we’ve been told, does not count.) And with the definition they are putting forward, it would include 3 more heavenly bodies that fit the bill deserving of the name “Planet.” And from what we can tell, each one is more dubious than the next.

The first planet up for admission is “2003 UB313.” Yes, that’s the name of a planet. Yes, astronomers have no sense of creativity. Imagine if I went around naming things by the date I found them coupled with whatever letters and numbers Sesame Street was brought to you by that day. We know it doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue, and so does its founder, Michael Brown. Therefore, he’s suggested an alternate name for the kiddies in school. Xena. Yes, at the very end of our solar system would be a Warrior Planet.

Second in line for admission is Charon, which is Pluto’s largest moon. Now for years, some rogue astronomers have long argued that Pluto doesn’t deserve to be a planet, and therefore, should be stricken from the record (My Very Elderly Mother Just Served Us Nine…end of sentence.) And yet, despite the fact that Pluto is smaller than our own moon, we want to now induct one of Pluto’s moon to the fray? That’s like saying the Boston batboy is actually a member of the Red Sox, and while we’re at it, so is his kid sister.

Finally, we have Ceres to consider. Rather than being tacked on the end, our might Astronomer Guild identifies Ceres as a potential planet. Lying between Mars and Jupiter, to this point Ceres has been known as a large asteroid. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. Prior to 1800, Ceres was known as a planet and was then demoted. Wow, that’s a real vote of confidence right there (though I doubt there were 2,500 astronomers back then). Who is for teaching schoolchildren about a planet that was already fired from being a planet once?

Anyone?

Houston, We Blame the Interns

37 years later, the memory starts to go.

Filing is indeed an arduous task, and even the biggest geniuses on the planet are prone to an organizational mistake every now and then. Well that’s a good thing considering NASA – the biggest geniuses on the planet – have apparently done a poor job of keeping inventory.

For those who belong to a large corporation, you may have to go through an annual inventory project. This is a grueling task by which everyone drops everything for a week long game of Hide-and-Go-Seek, as employees scramble to locate all expensive items that the company holds on their books as “assets.” But here’s why this game isn’t fun. You never get to switch sides. Would YOU want to play Hide-and-Seek when you only get to seek? Why can’t we take turns? Just once I’d like to lease filing cabinet to try and find where I’m hiding instead of the other way around. What am I talking about again?

Right, NASA.

Well, they can put a man on the moon but they cannot put a location sticker on a box. It turns out, as reported by CNN, that over 700 storage boxes related to the famous Apollo missions have gone missing. And who are we to blame for such a gross misuse of brainpower. Aliens? Cosmonauts? Nay. Just some careless games of Inventory Hide-and-Seek. I can totally understand how this happened, though. The folks at NASA spend their days at work surrounded by billion-dollar toys, from space simulators to zero-gravity chambers to that big red button that everyone’s afraid to push. I wouldn’t want to play with 30-year old boxes, either.

However, the biggest problem with the missing boxes is that in one of them is the original magnetic tape recording of Neil Armstrong’s landing on the moon. Yes, the grainy, raspy recording of a man in white bouncing around on foreign gray matter has gone missing. So why is this such a big deal, you may ask?

Time takes a toll on the memory.

And as you will remember, the famous first words of our first moon man were extolled as follows, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” And with video and audio documentation, those words should live on without a problem. But what happens when we misplace those treasured source documents? What if the Internet wasn’t around to preserve notable quotables? What would we rely on for historical preservation?

What will come of Armstrong’s misplaced declaration? Sure, we’ve got it right now, but what about in the future? Some encyclopedic scribe might sneeze and pen “That’s one small step for man, one giant jump for mankind.” And then some kid reading it might transcribe “That’s a small step for man, and one big jump for mankind.” While the quote may be flawed, he may get a good grade on his essay and be asked to read it in some public assembly. What if he slips and utters, “That man is steppin’, and man, he can kinda jump, too.” Someone at that assembly tries to recall this at the dinner table by proclaiming, “The man is stoppin’, so hurry up and jump. And pass the rolls.”

Kids 50 years from now will remember Neil Armstrong as the man who famously declared, “Stop that man, he’s eaten all the rolls.”

Man, we gotta find those boxes.

Fresh Horses

It started with such an innocent comment.

"Those horses look so thirsty.”

As we walked the streets of Charleston, so many things reminded Katie and me of our college days in Williamsburg. It was the open-air walking, the omnipresent rustic signs memorializing events that had taken place on the ground below the signpost some 300 years ago, the peaceful gardens and parks away from the beaten path. Oh yeah, and the horses. It was the horses.

When you go to college at William and Mary, you learn quickly that Town-Gown relations aren’t exactly the same as any other university arena. The college, and its requisite bars, eateries, and collegiate paraphernalia shops are there, as well as the numerous other institutes of commerce by which the locals can make a quick buck off of freshmen with money to burn. However, studying within walking distance of a national historic village will have you walking past others in peculiar clothing choices. (No, not Rush Week sorority sisters, either – colonial re-enactors.) And with the cooper, the minuteman, and the blacksmith comes living with horses.

Yes, horses.

Both Charleston and Williamsburg have their own budding equine populations. And while they’d like to be roaming free and able to choose their own career paths, most horses in both locales remained tethered to one industry in particular: the carriaging industry. Yeah, I just made up the word “carriaging.” But now that I’ve used it twice, coupled with the fact I called people who give tours to tourists at the expense of horses an “industry,” I think it’s okay. Wikipedia? I want an article about this, stat.

Yes, as a carriage horse, your job sucks. You pull people and a giant motorless vehicle around all day in all types of weather, searing heat and driving rain included. Behind you, a tour guide is telling your passengers about everything you see on the route, and you’re not even allowed to chime in with pleasing vignettes or even repartee. And because your tour company hates you, they probably tied your beautiful tail into stupid little bows. God, you would kill for some arms to take out those damn things.

Katie is no doubt a horse sympathizer. As we walked by these mighty people movers, you could tell they would kill for a drink of water. (But figurative language aside, we don’t need horses killing in the streets of Charleston. Leave that to the heat.) She spent parts of her childhood taking riding lessons, probably not to the extent of Toms, but enough that she knows that these show ponies have better things to do. And as we drove by free horses, (those who roamed plantation pastures, not those that cost nothing), I saw a hint of electric possibility in her eyes.

Now that I am back in DC, I can assure you folks that I didn’t turn over any night to find Katie’s place in bed vacated in the name of some mass equine liberation operation (ELO). Thank God. After all this is South Carolina we were talking about.

Last thing we need is for the horses to secede from the Union.

We Are Not Alone

As you may have noticed, it’s been a little quiet here in the YAB Offices this past week. The lights have remained low, and the air-conditioned had been reduced to a break-even temperature of 78 degrees. That way, you’re not turning off the icy reprieve and at the same time not paying exorbitant utility bills for chilled air you’re not planning to use.

You see, as I am prone to do on an annual basis, it’s vacation time for Chris Condon. Last year, you, as a loyal readership, saw it coming. After all, weddings are oft followed by periods of rest and relaxation in the form of “honeymoons.” Granted, no one actually knows this glorious word’s etymology – and lacking access to Wikipedia here in the Charleston, South Carolina’s airport, you’re going to have to look it up yourself. (That is, unless etymology has something to do with insects, which would conclude I have no business publishing this blog using the English language. Let’s pray for the best.)

Yes, you read me right. We are writing to you from Charleston, South Carolina. A city that had front row seats to the opening act of the Civil War. A city that has enough palmetto trees that it totally makes up for the fact that they are nowhere to be found in the entire remainder of the United States. A city with 3.2 restaurants per Charlestonian – and yet, table service remains rather speedy. A city so nice they named it twice – and put that second name somewhere in West Virginia.

(Which begs the following – if Charleston, a relatively uninteresting name for a city can be repeated, why don’t we retread our cooler names? All in favor of renaming Frankfurt as Albuquerque, Kentucky, say AYE!)

(No? What about one of the 2 Newarks?)

Anyways, as we sit here waiting an outgoing flight, I can certainly recommend Charleston as a vacation destination. Nay, we did not encounter any Nordbergs fixing submarines during our retreat (or any Nordbergs not fixing submarines for that matter.) But that doesn’t mean we were strangers in a strange place, either.

For a man to marry a woman, one of the many gifts he bestows upon his bride is the right to his surname. While the ring may be shinier and cause her girlfriends more rounds of shrieks of glee, it is the last name that will have a longer last memory. After all, rings are kept in public record and on tax returns. So no matter what, if a married man is on a vacation, he’ll have at least one other of his kin in accompaniment.

In South Carolina, perhaps more.

As we learned on a ghost tour Wednesday night, it was the Irish settlers (not setters, as Spell-Check insisted) that made their way down the coast centuries ago to name this Carolinian peninsula after King Charles (wouldn’t Chazztown been just as honorable?) That’s right, the Irish. You thought they all ended up in Boston, didn’t ya? Nope, the South apparently started its own little colony of Emerald Isle residents. Fitzpatricks, McDonalds, O’Maras, Keanes, Gallaghers, Finnigans, and that’s right, Condons.

Besides having a drink at local pub Tommy Condon’s, we saw the family name practically everywhere. Silver nameplates of Condons who have moved on to be tax accountants and attorneys. Condons who have opened their own bridal shoppes. Condons who long to rename important American cities.

Oh wait. That’s me.

Sooner or Later

Prior to gainful, full-time employment that commenced in 2002, my only source of income during the year outside of holidays would be the cash I earned via Summer Job Avenue. Yes, rather than having fun during the weekday in any summer vacation ranging from 1993-2001, I was working for the Man. (Granted, the Man looks kinda like me, is about my height, but lacks a neck.) Nepotism aside, I managed to not get fired for nine consecutive summers. It warrants mentioning that Major League Pitcher Mike Morgan had seven different employers, to bring his total to a staggering 13 over his career. My guess is he probably forgot to turn in his ID lanyard in on more than one occasion.

I think it’s a good rule of thumb that any kid should do at least one hard summer of manual labor. It has many benefits. It’s way better exercise than any gym can offer. It’s actually you job to get dirty. (They try to catch you ridin’ dirty.) But above all, one gains an appreciation of the hard work required to do a blue collar job, even if he accidentally drops a paint bucket and covers his own collar in oil-based black satin paint.

Yeah, a summer of painting the interiors of warehouses from off-gray to off-white may not be the most glamorous thing, but when it comes to the NCAA, it’s at least legal. In my early years, I worked to save up and buy things like new wheels for my hockey skates and complete sets of Topps baseball cards. However, we’re thinking that former Oklahoma University quarterback Rhett Bomar had slightly bigger things in mind.

It’s no secret that in college football players are treated like royalty. They get preferential treatment when it came to academic class selection, and hell, they even get their likenesses into video games without having to manually create their own. Freshmen year, Dave saw the underbelly of this scheme when he accidentally entered the football line in the cafeteria and had steak and lobster for dinner. Granted, it was dining hall surf ‘n turf, but surf ‘n turf nonetheless. And due to my penchant of looking the size of a football player, I was often given extra helpings of mashed potatoes after a big win.

Hey, I obliged. There’s no NCAA violation concerning extra food given to players not actually playing football, right??

Yeah, Rhett Bomar had a job, too. According to reports, he worked this summer working at a car dealership. (Eh, it’s not blue collar, but that’s ok.) He worked about 5 hours a week, and over the course of the fall, that netted him 18 THOUSAND DOLLARS.

Now I doubt a dude majoring in “undecided” can make $18k in commissions in one fall – he can’t even figure out what he wants to do when he grows up. But, WOW, what a great job that would be. You have the option of either working 5 hours on Monday and then enjoying a six day weekend, or if ye prefer, come in at 4pm every day and be able to check out when someone says “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere.”

But what about the other angle on this story which the major networks are failing to cover? $18k is no doubt a lot of money to pay a college kid to work 5 hours a week for a few months. But what does this do to the compensation structure for auto dealers? Does this mean that cars are super expensive in Oklahoma in order for their employees, Heisman candidates or not, to command such high pay? Or is that this car dealership is so successful that they have the cash to pay their employees these rates, and they really aren’t as worried about make great deals and profit margins?

Can I get a Hummer for, say, 30 bucks?

World Wide Wed

Yes, my friends, the Internet is a wonderful place. It has made so many thing in my life easier. Without the Internet, I’d be completely unable to know the weather without turning my chair towards the window, know if I have any money without having to actually look in my wallet, exchange said money for goods and services without having to actually go to places of commerce, and of course, bring you the funny. But as we are no doubt coming up on my 1-year wedding anniversary, another brilliant feature of the Internet will now be investigated, and unless my mood shifts unexplainably sour, will be praised.

The wedding website.

Any schmo with a keyboard and fingers can get a website these days, and for any purpose. (Ok, that was narrow-minded of me. I guess you could use your head to type as well. Watch this. – yu76hhyt67goobok – see? Easy street.) Some people their corner of the Interweb to blog, while others attempts to sell their wares. But sometimes, when a guy and a gal love each other very much, they decided that their lives are to become one – and so will their websites.

The wedding website can be an extremely helpful tool in allowing friends and relatives know information about your upcoming special day. Katie and I employed the use of one of the pre-made versions at www.weddingchannel.com back in the day. Hell, it’s actually still active. It’s one-stop resource for all things vendor, registry, directions, and the ever-popular “How We Met.” (Of course, it doesn’t please the court (read: Katie) that Wedding Channel also managed to blow my cover that in September I have to head up to Massachusetts to marry Sara Wells on the 16th.) (Or that when we attended Robbie’s wedding last June and I slipped out to use the restroom, I was actually in California marrying Julie Perata.)

God, I hope Sara and Julie Google their names to find this. That would be hilarious.

Our website was pretty basic, and loaded up (by means of the Wedding Channel) with all sorts of advertisements for stuff that I may or may not endorse. Where was my creative input? I had no idea I could have had sponsors. Why not Gatorade? Every wedding needs a good thirst quencher, and while tradition is nice, champagne doesn’t even have the electrolytes needed for a night of crazy dancing. And I have to think if EA Sports had gotten a banner ad or something I could have gotten hooked with some freebies here and there. (Note: a wedding website is for the both of you, so let the wife pick her sponsors, too. It’s only fair, considering she probably did all the hard work in setting up the website in the first place.) There will come very few times in one’s life that they will be sponsored, so I think that this would have been a brilliant opportunity. I’m not saying I wanted to have a tuxedo vest with a Best Buy advertisement on the back, but the wedding website? Yeah, that could have worked.

Since then, Jacques and Elizabeth had wowed the crowds with a beautifully constructed website courtesy of their West Coast brother. And now, as I have found out recently, my friends Justin and Kristen have also entered the World Wide Wed.

The link is here.

This website, my friends is on the cutting edge of wedding guest interactivity! Guestbooks! Photo Albums! But most importantly, America, you can help the happy young couple make the toughest of tough decisions – where to honeymoon!!! Yes, with four stellar options if you click on the “Vote Now” Wedding Poll, you can decide where the Doctor formerly known as Cube and his lovely bride-to-be will spend their vacation.

(Now here’s the fun part. I know that Italy and Napa and Alaska sound really, REALLY, nice, but I think as the Readership YAB, we need to show them, as our wedding gift, how to make the Internet’s voice heard. So please go to the website and vote for Medford’s favorite neighboring suburb, Marlton. Let’s rock the vote, people, and let’s not tell Justin and Kristen what’s causing Marlton to become the feel-good vacation spot of the year! I’ll stop typing now so you can go DO IT.)

Note: Justin and Kristin, if you’re reading this, I’m clearly cooked. In return I promise not to tell the story at the wedding where one of you beat me with a broom when I was 11 and I promise not to “Inform” the DJ of the other's favorite CD from 6th grade.

Kickin' It Olfactory

I’m not a big fan of the sense of smell. It’s nothing against our Creator, really; just for every great smell out there there’s something else tenfold that makes me want to avoid using my nose at all costs. I understand that smell serves as an excellent wingman to its neighbor, taste, but I’d almost go on the record as saying I’d rather live a life without smell if it were at all possible.Yeah. Almost.

You see, the five senses form an incredible unit that allow you, as a living being, the ability to take in and understand, judge and anticipate your environmental surroundings. You know what, I smell a casting coming on…hold on…

YAB’s Spontaneous Casting of the 5 Senses as if They Were the Members of Captain Planet’s Crew:

Taste – Wheeler – The wise-cracker has to be the mouth. Duh.
Sight – Linka – The crazy Russian chick was in charge of the wind, much like Storm from the X-Men. And as Storm taught us, it’s all in the eyes. (Of course, Storm also taught us, Catwoman is a terrible film idea. Anywho…)
Touch – Kwame – it’s touching that Kwame was able to find work after the good Captain’s crusade faced cancellation. He was re-born as a member of the Burger King Kids Club. Didn’t even have time to change socks.
Hearing – Gi – What’s that I hear? Requisite Asian stereotype inclusion character? Yes!!!
Smell – Ma-ti – Like I said, a complete waste. Heart? Really? Your power is…heart? (Note, there are no pictures on the internet of Ma-ti. Heartless technology is to blame.)

So, like I said, I would just about be ready to ban the sacred sense of smell, if not for two overwhelmingly excellent scents that managed to keep the nose with a stay of execution. These smells cannot be found in the laboratories of some ritzy perfume laboratory, nor can they be found in the most lush of botanical gardens. So for all those who have been attempting to make a lucrative living by harnessing the power of smell, you’ve overlooked it all. The best two scents on the entire planet are as follows:

1) Cherry-flavored ChapStick – Seriously, why the heck hasn’t Yankee Candle harnessed this smell yet? You cannot, repeat, CANNOT look cool putting on ChapStick, guys. So if you must, you might as well pick one which has the aroma of the gods attached.

2) Cinnabon – Yes, one of the two best smells on Earth has been relegated to eternal servitude in your local mall or interstate rest stop. How is this possible? The ambient aroma of a fresh-baked Cinnabon should be bottled and sold to the highest bidder. Instead, it finds itself competing for airspace against Nathan’s damn hot dogs, and whatever the hell that shifty gyro place next to The Gap is grilling up. For further information on the most delightful of pastries, educate yourself here.

There are Some Who Call Me Tim

Been to the Philadelphia Eagles training camp yet? NO?!?!?!?? What? – watching a bunch of guys not play football, but rather, PRACTICE football in 95 degree heat at Lehigh University doesn’t sound like a productive use of time? After all, in 32 different athletic complexes around the country for the coming month this exact attraction will draw thousands away from their computers and offices in hopes of seeing their favorite team’s depth chart form in front of their very eyes! (No doubt, these are the people that actually pay to be a part of ESPN.com Insider. Suckers.)

Ok, well since you aren’t reading this from Bethlehem, PA, let me break the biggest news story of the summer. Forget TO, we’ve gotten bigger fish to fry. (Does this overused and misplace cliché make Terrell Owens a fish? If so, what kind? Discuss.)

Left Offensive Tackle Tra Thomas is in the press conference liner notes for two reasons. First, he’s coming off a tough season-ending injury and hoping to regain his Pro Bowl form. Sure, whatever. Secondly, he’s asking the press and the team to no longer be called “Tra.” He now prefers to go by his real first name, William. World, meet William Thomas. (Insert muted party horn sound here.) (God, this is why it would be nice to have a sound and graphics dept. at YAB.)

Athletes change how their names are to be said all the time. Hockey players switch up pronunciations of French-Canadian surname. Basketball players have been known to change their name entirely to reflect ancestral heritage – anyone remember Chris Jackson? Lew Alcindor? But in baseball, the best example of name changing occurred with a light-hitting, base-stealing Montreal Expo by the name of Tim Raines.

Tim Raines had a 23 year Major League career, spanning 4 different decades and finding him in 5 different jerseys. His overall numbers are impressive – a .294 lifetime batting average, 808 career stolen bases, and 113 triples among his most impressive numbers. But no matter what he did, Raines felt that he wouldn’t get there by using the name Tim. He publicly decried his own name, decided it wimpy and declared that others should call him by something more intimidating. (Nevermind the other field players on the Expos included a Vance, a Herm, an Andres, and yes, another Tim in Tim Wallach. Poor guy – he cried himself to sleep at night.)

Call me Rock.

Yes, Tim Raines decided it would be better if people referred to him as Rock Raines. (Sure, this had a curious overtone related to the fact he admitted to smoking crack before games in order to get pumped, but hey, how much cooler is Rock than Tim?!?) But here’s the thing with nicknames.

1) You need to be worthy of the nickname. When Raines’ average hovered in the .220 area, do you feel like a Rock? Superman gets to be Superman because he doesn’t have off-seasons. He’s Super, all the time. If a pitcher knows you’re an easy out, either you aren’t worthy of “Rock” or the pitcher’s name is Paper.

2) You have to commit to the nickname. After that above crappy season of statistics, isn’t curious how his baseball card the next year would revert to calling him Tim again? But after a strong campaign the next season, he woul revert to Rock and Topps and Upper Deck would take note. You don’t see Spud going by Dan when he’s not feeling funny, do you?

Baiting the Bid

Last fall, I met somebody who was born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. She was my age, and therefore I expected her tastes in the various realms of pop culture to be similar, at least on a generational level. Sure, you always run across someone in your dorm who can’t get enough of the Doors, Hendrix or Cream, and there’s that girl down the hall who refuses to acknowledge things like the Police breaking up or Motown group replacing members who have died, gone to jail, or as a Supreme, mistook the moniker for a calling to the lead the human race. But all in all, people are entitled to their own music tastes. Some people will follow the Dave Matthews Band across the country, while others want nothing to do with a “Jimi Thing.”

One thing I like to do when I meet new people is kind of get a feel of what they like in the worlds of sports, movies, and music. These three can say a lot about a person. It’s a Nick Hornby premise – what’s important is not what you are like, but rather what you like. While I may not wholeheartedly agree with that, it gets my point across. But there’s got to be a clever way to find out these pop culture preferences without coming across like an eHarmony questionnaire.

You bait the bid.

By baiting the bid, you throw out a predicted well-liked topic (David Fincher flicks, the latest Gnarls Barkley single, the Houston Astros) by either allowing the topic to enter the environment where you and this new person are interacting. Maybe you encounter a ball game on TV, where that person can pick a side without provocation. Perhaps you name-drop an actor, and see which movies come to mind for him/her first (those are probably their favorites-Morgan Freeman is good for this.)

But with music? You’ve got the trump card.

Volunteering to drive from Point A to Point B with Persons X, Y, and Z is essentially inviting those people into your element. It’s not so much about the car you drive (unless you are one of those people who look to impress by means of the car you drive – I drove a Volvo tank for 6 years), but rather the environment you set inside the car. What you have sitting on the back seat, what you have hanging from the rear-view, and what your pre-set radio stations are can give that person an idea of what you like. (fyi: my answers in HS would have included a Frisbee on the seat and my trusty Wildcat Relay angle-ometer.)

But what CD you have ready to go in the deck can force a reaction from a new person.

With this new person being from Boston, I thought I would get on her good side by throwing in a Guster album, as they were founded at Tufts and have that “slightly-below-the-mainstream” feel. For a Bostonian, though, this could have been right in their mainstream wheelhouse. A band from home who few listen to, that would make them comfortable, right?

Evidently, she wasn’t a fan. (And thusly, dead to me.)

What did this prove? Just because you are from a certain part of the country doesn’t mean you automatically must claim allegiance to your area’s exports. This may hold true on a international basis, but not interstate. Certainly, all the residents of San Diego don’t dig Blink 182, and no matter how many times they play it, Denver-ites may not be a fan of The Fray. But then again, shouldn’t I have seen this coming? My five favorite bands hail from Boston, Gainesville, Buffalo, Richmond, and, gasp, Canada.

And between Springsteen, Sinatra, and Bon Jovi, I own a total of one album.

Works for sports, but not for music.