Igniting the Flyer

Let’s say I challenge you to a game of skill. It doesn’t really matter what game it is, what matters are the parameters in which this hypothetical is framed. Okay, fine. Let’s say we’re standing across the street from my old house engaged in a battle of fish skipping. The goal? To skip a fish directly at a target floating in the middle of the lake before the little guy regains his senses and swims away in a dizzying fury. Now you and I, we have even chances at winning this game of skill. Past experience? We have mirrored fish skipping careers. The target? An equal distance from both you and me. The fish? Equally sized and stupid. It’s a fair fight.

But what if we alter the rules of the game?

Let’s say I have to continue skipping the fish by throwing them across the lake at the target, while you get to shoot them out of one of those cannons they use at sporting events to launch t-shirts. Suddenly, there’s a damn good chance you will be crowned Grand Master Fishskip, right? After all, I can’t compete with your Gillshark Cannon 3000. It cuts down on wind resistance and gives you much better accuracy – a clearer shot at the goal. It’s agreed then – having an advantage in a game of skill should allow you to hit the floating target many more times than my old school arm method. What are your odds?

Better than 9 for 97, right?

9 for 97, or a tremendous 9.2 per cent is the current conversion ratio for the Philadelphia Flyers when on the power play. For those unfamiliar with the term, a power play occurs when a player on the opposing team is charged with a penalty and required to leave the ice for 2 minutes. During this time, that player’s team has to play with only 5 players, while the opposing team still plays at a full-strength 6. With one more player, the opposing team’s ability to score a goal should increase dramatically above their usual chances. In essence, by committing a penalty, that player just handed the other team a fish cannon.

So why can’t the Flyers convert on the power play? They’ve got talented marksmen in Peter Forsberg and Simon Gagne. Their team is more agile with players like Sami Kapanen at the point. And the crowd is always into cheering for a heightened chance to score a goal. So what is it that makes the Orange and Black go numb when the arena’s announcer cries,

“The Flyers are going on the PEC-OOOOOOO POWER PLAY!!!”

Oh, wait just one minute.

PECO, a smaller division of Exelon Energy, is Pennsylvania’s largest utility and gas distribution provider as well as the official sponsor of the Flyers’ power play. In sports these days, everything has aA sponsor attached to it – ask the folks at Citifield. The marketing connection for Peco makes sense – as a power company, sponsoring a power play will automatically link your brand in the hockey fan’s mind with their favorite team. As for the Flyers, it makes a heck of a lot more sense than going on the Pennsylvania Dutch Power Play.

Back to our fish skipping analogy, let’s say that I’ve done something wrong that allows you to use the Fish Cannon for the next two minutes – I don’t know, maybe I dropped a fish or something. Over the loudspeaker, you hear that you’re going on a Power Play sponsored by a company that distributes gas and electrical current for a living. Are you more pumped now because of it? I don’t think so. You see what’s going on here? Even though Peco is a lot of fun to say, it just doesn’t get the Flyers pumped any more. Our suggestion?“

The Flyers are going on the WaWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa POWER PLAY!!!”

Free hoagies to anyone who can light the lamp.

Combo Party Disco Dancing!

Living in an apartment building is an opportunity to study people without actually having to go through the arduous process of meeting and conversing with them. Since you share with them many a common area (hallways, parking areas, mailrooms), you try to ascertain what type of people they are without seeing the inside of their abodes, asking them about their families, and what they do for living. Much can be construed from apartment building habits, a brief sampling of which follows:

Diagonally parked in a parking spot? This neighbor is always late for something.
No welcome mat outside the door? This neighbor uses his apartment as a place to hang between lengthy business trips.
Solicitation flyers jammed between the doorknob and frame? You live next to a vacant apartment.
Large chunk of plaster missing over the apartment’s doorway? Your neighbor is Shaquille O’Neal.

See? A lot can be gleaned from not only careful inspection, but also analysis. I just wish such a method would have worked for what I witnessed in the complex’s corridors. Instead, we’re left with a collective “Huh?”

Enter the Combos.

For those unfamiliar with the term, Combos are that oft-overlooked convenience store snack that wrap a cylindrical tube of hardened dough (or pretzel) around a tasty filling, most often in the cheese family. In addition, they’re delicious. Probably not in any sort of magical context, but nonetheless, easily make the grade as a road trip snackable.

However, in a car or on a picnic/tailgate are the only instances in which I have seen Combos consumed. I don’t quite know what makes them so good away from home – maybe it’s the fact that there has never been a bag of Combos that have been 100 eaten; surely 1 of the 47 individual pieces gets dropped on the floor, and no one likes to vacuum up smashed Combo. I don’t even know if they’re sold at the supermarket.

And yet…

And yet upon getting in the elevator yesterday morning to head down to my car, one thing became clear. Not only had a Combo-lover decided to bring this snack home with him/her, something happened that prevented such a final destination. For as I stood there in my descending elevator, I could survey my surroundings. Strewn all over the floor, yep.

19 Combos.

Who drops 19 Combos? I can understand 1 or 2 that got away, but 19? I counted them twice (we have a slow-moving elevator), and 17 of them remain in-tact with two crushed by the back corner. So it is clear that one of two things happened in this elevator last night:

1) Someone threw a Combo Party. In reality, there were upwards of 500 Combos in the elevator at one point, making these remaining 19 far less important. After all, someone just ate an elevator full of Combos.

2) Someone threw a Combo Fight. Maybe a lovers’ quarrel, or else a couple of belligerently drunk roomies. Once the words failed these two rivals, the snack food started to fly. That, and whipping each other with Twizzlers was leaving marks.

I have weird neighbors.

Ode to a Sandwich Artist

While producing an inferior sandwich to Wawa in every regard, you have to give the good folks at Subway some style points in the marketing business. Rather than sticking to mundane job titles, they refer to their shift employees as “sandwich artists.” We feel that the title, sandwich artist, does make the job seem more exciting, and less homicidal than Taco Bell’s/KFC’s hiring of “customer maniacs.”

I guess even psychos deserve employment.

But back to the issue at hand. While Subway might have the right idea but the poor execution of making a quality hoagie on a roll, it is true. Sandwich making IS an art, and there is only one Picasso in this particular medium. Her name?

Wendy Sandwich.

Now some would believe Wendy Sandwich to be a myth, a legend that sandwich lovers pass down to their children and their children’s children. Quite possibly it’s because her surname over time has become “Sandwich,” and such a coincidence is the stuff fables and ill-fated Oliver Stone movies are made of. In truth, her last name was not Sandwich – it’s just that in our freshman year at William and Mary, we never learned it. But that in no way detracts from her ability to craft and create the best lunch ever – a 12 inch ham and cheese loaded on a hoagie roll, made with all the wisdom and genius a sandwich artist can dedicate.

The mere idea of trying to expound on the technique and majesty that Wendy devoted – with the grace of royalty, the precision of a scientist, and the reflexes of a ninja – would be impossible. It would read like a poorly conceived J. Evans Pritchard tome on the subject. Instead, let’s demonstrate the complete opposite of expert sandwich creation.

Yesterday, the following dialogue occurred between Chris Condon, a hungry employee, and Amnesia McSpacebrain, the deli counter attendant in our cafeteria.

AM: What would you like?
CC: I’l have a turkey and cheddar with mayo on rye.(AM grabs two slices of rye bread)
AM: Lettuce or tomato?
CC: Tomato, please.
(AM applies tomato to bread, skipping over the application of any condiments step.)
AM: Would you like cheese on this?
CC: Um, yes? (having already mentioned it)
AM: What kind?
CC: I think cheddar sounds good.
AM: Ham or turkey?
CC: (still confused) Why, is the ham good today?
AM: It’s the same.
CC: Ok, then I’ll stick with turkey.
AM: (takes turn looking confused, then adds turkey to sandwich) Would you like a pickle with this?
CC: No, but could I get some mayonnaise?
(AM then realizes gaffe, and spreads mayo on the outside of sandwich. AM then realizes second gaffe, and applies mayonnaise to the interior side of the bread. AM then realizes she’s standing there with a double-sided piece of mayo bread, and the sandwich has gone to hell.)

Wherever she is now, Wendy Sandwich is shaking her head in disgust. Very quietly.

But Why Did You Burn the Rum?

Geez, in our second 2-A-Day in a row, it just seems that news is breaking everywhere. Fortunately for society, YAB has enough duct tape to fix it all.

As Kevin Federline stepped down yesterday from the role of “Mr. Britney Spears,” today a new resignation has replaced him on the news ticker, thereby relegated him to obscurity after less than than 24 hours. Everyone, at this point, is reporting that Donald Rumsfeld is stepping away from the Cabinet and leaving his post as the Secretary of Defense.

(NB – They prefer to be called Administrative Assistants of Defense, mind you.)

Now while this wouldn’t be a bad time to suggest to President Bush our plan to fill the cabinet with Muppets, we understand that things are a bit crazy the day after a national midterm election and that trying to widen the doorway for new HSA Chief Snuffleupagus to get to work is probably low on the priority list. So instead, in the vein of replacing Britney’s hubby, we’ve decided to submit a list of Donalds that should be considering in the search for a new SoD. After all, picking a arbitrary career solely on the back of whatever first name your parents happened to give you can only happen in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Besides, it gives Condon hope that one day he can discover America, be Superman, or just catch touchdowns.

The following is our nominated list of Donalds to become the next Secretary of Defense.

Candidate: Donald Trump
Credentials: Has ability to serve as leader of large organizations – Trump Co. employs more than 80,000 people. Has a large annual budget that he knows how to handle. Darrell Hammond already has a decent impression of him. Has immovable politician hair.
Pitfall: May have difficulty switching catchphrase from “You’re Fired” to “Fire!”

Candidate: Donald Duck
Credentials: Will let the President make the final call by wearing the pants. Guessing from sailor’s hat and shirt, has storied military career. Has three sons he can appoint as Secretaries of the Army, Navy, and Air Force. Ducks are often regarded as “Mighty.”
Pitfall: Very bad temper. Terrible speech impediment could confuse Press Corps.

Candidate: Donald Cheadle
Credentials: Has seen and dealt with first-hand Oscar-winning racism, the only candidate that has addressed and helped during the Rwandan genocide, has a history with munitions (although mostly casino-related targets), can make the Super Bowl seem incredibly cool in a mere 30 seconds.
Pitfall: Hates the name Donald. Call him Don, please.

Candidate: Jo-Dan
Credentials: As I understand it, is a Japanese term for “I will now punch you in the face.” Terrorists hate being punched in the face.
Pitfall: Is less a person and more an abstract idea. Abstract ideas tend to evade questioning.

Candidate: Donald Quixote
Credentials: Sees the big picture, among other things. Can alert the joint chiefs of staff when the terrorists disguise themselves as windmills. Can help the President get the Latino vote.
Pitfall: Mentally insane in every regard.

Candidate: Donald King
Credentials: Has spent entire career putting together large deals that involve violence. Worked with Mike Tyson and lived to tell the tale. Main catchphrase, “Only in America!” patriotic in all regards. Can make up words and get away with it.
Pitfall: His politician hair is anything but immovable.

We Must Elect This House

Ok, we have to admit, we weren’t as excited about this year’s election as we were in 2004. In 2004, we covered the night’s results with a live blog, as well as unearthing the official application for admission to the Electoral College. If we were to ever put together a Top Ten Posts, these two are no doubt in the running. Do yourself a political favor and click thru.

So what’s different about Election Day 2006? First off, there’s isn’t a race to determine the leader of the free world for the next four years. In ’04, we had Bush and Kerry, and like the day where my co-worker tried use my electric sharpener to sharpen pencils when the power was out, the jokes can write themselves. That makes this round in the electoral ring the midterm elections. That’s right, MID-TERM. I know you’re shuddering just recalling the term from your high school days.

The only thing worse would be the 2006 Congressional AP Test Elections.

So, it’s the morning after, and the YABNews desk is a little hungover. We spent last night doing shots of punditry with CNN and FoxNews (they can hold their liquor.) And somehow we got a press pass to get on the attendee list for not one but TWO political parties. So as we stare groggily at the computer, we're taking stock of what will become the 110th Congress of the United States.

Well, we can’t exactly look at the Senate yet, since it looks like Virginia and Montana got so hammered that they left the bar without picking up their tabs, thereby leaving their credit cards behind. And who knows what got charged to their respective tabs once they left – so it looks like it’ll be a while before they can sit down with the bartender and re-count the evening.

But what become of the House of Representatives during last night’s festivities? After all, it’s the only organization that forces every single employee to beg for their job every two years. Some have gotten very good at it – Wisconsin’s Dave Obey won last night for the 19th consecutive time, making him the only Congressman who was in office when put a man on the moon. Upon his death, the good people of Wisconsin will replace him with Dave Obot – the representative android that Obey has been tinkering with in the Capitol basement for the last 37 years.

Last night, the Democrats took over control of the House of Representatives, picking up 28 seats with 13 races to still be determined. Those serious about reporting politics will attribute this win to the Republicans getting mired in the shadow of President Bush and his policies in Iraq. Across the country, Republican incumbents fell to their Democratic challengers in record speed. Hell, even former Redskins QB Heath Shuler got elected in North Carolina, much to the GOP’s dismay. (Rumor has it Jacquez Green will be his Chief of Staff.)

As the night progessed, not a single incumbent Democrat was in danger of losing their seats in Congress. Not only did this help the landslide, it made it clear that this election may have been less about the candidates and more about changing things up in Washington. But then, at about 10 last night, the harrowing news for the Dems came in. They might lose.

Not the election per se, but rather one incumbent Congressman in the great state of Georgia may manage to go upstream and ride against the tide of Democratic victory. This race is still to be determined as of this morning. This leaves experts everywhere confused – how can you possibly lose an election in which you can’t lose? YABNews investigates – now.

In District 3, the former mayor of Macon, Jim Marshall, went down to Mac Collins. This “Mac Collins” must be some candidate, considering he’s actually challenging for a new Republican seat, and at the same time, trying to take down James Marshall, whose political career includes a 7-year mayoral term and single-handedly fighting off a group of terrorists in order to regain control of Air Force one back in 1997.

So it looks like the Dems are in control. That is, at least until North Carolina benches Shuler for Rep. Danny Wuerffel.

I'm Country! (With a Touch of Silk)

On Election Day, yes the Day that will determine the next 2+ years of government, the entire House, a third of the Senate, and 36 Governor seats are up for grabs. The day could be spent predicting electoral winners, debating the issues, and playing Pin the Tail on the Pundit. And yet, THIS is breaking news.

Britney Spears has filed for divorce.

That’s right, above all the election madness and chaos, CNN.com is reporting that the teen pop star has filed for divorce from husband Kevin Federline, citing irreconcilable differences. K-Fed, who YABNews could not reach for comment, remains quiet mainly because he is unable to operate a telephone. Besides, his album, which dropped last week, sold about 12 copies. We’re guessing Britney wasn’t one of those shoppers.

From this point, Federline, now the unwed father of two sets of two kids, will likely shrink into obscurity, get his Ferrari impounded, get laughed out of the music scene, and be an absolute Lock for Surreal Life 13. But what of Ms. Spears? A mother of two, no doubt itching to return to the music business, will need a man by her side to get through these troubled times. And since we have NO idea what she saw in K-Fed, we’re going to arbitrarily assumed she dug the first name. That said, he is our ranking of the 7 Most Compatible Kevins for Britney Spears (in ascending order of match):

7) K-Mac = Kevin McHale – McHale, a former power forward and Hall of Famer from the Boston Celtics, is currently making some cash as an executive with the Minnesota Timberwolves. At 49 years old, K-Mac spends his days working hard in Minnesota, whose climate can often stray from the temperature of Southern California. Our guess, since he has the more stable gig, Spears won’t be willing to relocate. (That’s sad when your job is less stable than someone working in sports.)

6) K-Gar = Kevin Garnett - Garnett is the marquee player for, strangely, the Minnesota Timberwolves. This could be incredibly awkward for the pair, considering Spears has already gone on a date or two with Garnett’s boss – one Kevin McHale. Standing at 6’11”, he stands a good 19 inches taller than her – my guess is that she’s not going to go for the Big Ticket.

5) K-Bac = Kevin Bacon - Alright it’s time for some Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, no? Ok, let’s see. Kevin Bacon was in Hollow Man with Elisabeth Shue. Shue was in Back to the Future with Christopher Lloyd. Lloyd was (gasp) in Baby Geniuses with Kim Cattrall, who inexplicably was in Crossroads with Britney Spears. And we’re now all dumber for knowing that.

4) K-Neal = Kevin Nealon – How can she not love the Mr. Weekend Update subliminal commentary? She would be good for his career toxic and use K-Fed’s old Ferrari to drive him. Crazy In return, Kevin Nealon can introduce her to all his old SNL castmates. out of work And then help her greenlight The Ladies Man Part Deux. trainwreck

3) K-Nold = Kevin Arnold – Oh, Kevin Arnold. You’re now unmarried in your thirties, and Winnie Cooper has never EVER looked back since leaving after high school to study art in Europe. It’s time to re-enter the dating pool, buddy. Let’s just hope big brother Wayne doesn’t pick on you for hitting on a girl from the Mickey Mouse Club.

2) K-Space = Kevin Spacey – The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was marrying Britney Spears, locking her in a castle somewhere, and never having to read about her in the tabloids again.

1) K-Culk – Kevin McAllister – It’s getting near the holiday season, which means only one thing. Poor Kevin will end up spending Christmas alone, thanks to his unbelievably negligent mother and father. Oops, the McAllisters did it again. And it should be Britney Spears who can relate more than anyone when it comes to this.

YAWN.

Now if YAB were a video-blog, where you could witness cool things such as “Condon typing today’s post” and “Condon throwing things at the camera when Blogger decides to replace today’s post with a 404 Error,” then that aforementioned “Yawn” may have triggered you to yawn, too. But instead, the power of the Yawn in literary form only is limited; after all, you can’t possibly think that everything you write will be followed blindly and treated as fact, right?

(Excuse us, Mr. King, we’re looking in your direction.)

But seriously, the minute we opened up Microsoft Word today and put our digits on the keyboard, a yawn ensued. Now we’re not quite sure why, either. We’ve been getting plenty of sleep in comfortable beds, and I’m pretty sure there was a conference call yesterday we snoozed through as well. I did get up earlier than usual this morning, hoping to make said adjustment a productive habit, but Yawn? Really? What purpose do you serve?

After doing some research (ok, we Wiki’ed it), it turns out that Yawning is a mystery to even the science world. Some think we have it as a reflex that regulates our body temperature. Others would prefer to regard yawning as a measure to increase oxygen levels in the blood. There’s even a group that just calls it the body’s way of involuntary stretching. Funny – I don’t recall being a “Sit and Yawn” champion in high school gym. (High school English class, on the other hand…)

Wiki goes on to report that certain breeds of penguins (which I’ve heard have knees) use yawning as part of their mating ritual. This clearly does and cannot translate over to the human species. Otherwise, there’d be a lot more “Where did you newlyweds meet?” questions that would be answered with “oh, we met at a screening of Russian Ark.” Maybe if that flick had had some yawning penguins in it…

But the biggest mystery of all concerning the mysticism of Yawning is the contagiousness such an internal reflex can have on those in close proximity. It doesn’t matter if you see someone yawn and tell yourself you can hold off – Yawning is an unstoppable force, and there’s no containing the urge. The instance you stop paying attention to that inner desire, the yawn shall conquer and win. It’s a copycat syndrome. Fortunately, yawning does not pose any major ill-effects, despite the fact there’s a superstitious belief that the Greeks thought a yawn was one’s soul trying to escape. (Remember, the Greeks made this the mascot of the ’04 Olympiad. I wouldn’t put much stock in their teachings. Sorry, So-Crates.)

Well, since no one seems to be able to put a definitive reason on this issue, YAB might as well take a stab at it. And our explanation? Let’s get biblical, people.

(This explanation assumes that the human race was created by God. In addition, it also assumes that God has a tremendous sense of humor. This is a good thing, as we’d prefer to continue bringing you the funny without worrying if there’s a smiting in our not-to-distant future.)

As it was God who created the human race, it is God who has the ability to change and alter that physiological make-up of our genetics. It’s also good to know that God is on the good shoulder – otherwise, we could all end up with a third arm coming out of the top of our heads just because the Man Upstairs stubbed his toe getting out of bed.) Anyways, despite God being a highly skilled craftsmen, He often seeks out opportunity for a good joke – and is willing to alter mankind in the process.

Now what of God’s son? In His latter years, His following grew on account of his teachings and inane ability to whip up a miracle at the most opportune moment. He was no doubt a man that put his followers in complete awe, and because of His abilities, those who sought his wisdom no doubt emulated His ways.

Now one day, Jesus was ready to pack it in, perhaps sit by the camp fire with the Apostles, after a long day of healing and preaching. Walking through the sands of Israel with a pair of sandals and Pharisees blocking your way can be exhausting. No doubt after their nightly feast (by which He no doubt had Peter and John get some roasting sticks while he turned one marshmallow into a hundred for s’mores), Jesus yawned – for the first time in recorded existence. Assuming it was a sign of piety, His followers followed suit.

Looking down on His Son, the Shepherd, and His friends’ sheep-like obedience, it was then when God decided alter genetics to make His Creation susceptible to contagious yawning. Why? Because God brings the funny. The End.

Dead Coach Walking

Warning: Coaching can be hazardous to your health.

Being a head coach for a big-name football program, whether professional or collegiate, is not nearly as easy as it should be. If you prove to have some talent at the coordinator level, there’s a good chance that at some point a bigger program will give you your dream shot by handing you the big clipboard and tell you that you’re the guy in charge from now on. Depending on which level you coach on, this can lead to remarkable career for the next 2-40 years. (You know, just like working on Law and Order.)

On the pro level, all it takes is getting into the coaching rotation before you’ve got solid money coming to you for at least the next 10-15 years. You’ve proven your worth on the staff of some successful team, and an order looking to shake things up hires you to be the main man. After 1 promising and 2 below-mediocre seasons, you’ve amassed a mighty 22-26 record, and you get the boot for not making the playoffs and being the “bane of this city’s existence.” You return the coordinator ranks, and then about three years later, the cycle repeats itself, as somehow the entire football world has forgotten that you were below-mediocre just a few years back. Why would this be any different? (Don’t believe me? I’d bet $50 that Mike Tice is an NFL head coach again by 2009.) (Probably for the Raiders.) (And he’ll get fired in 2011, as Al Davis gives the job to some guy named Art Shell.) (Again.)

On the college level, if you’re young and have won a few league titles, the pros will come calling soon. But for the Old Guarde, you’ve built a program for decades, during an era where coaches didn’t get fired because they looked at the owner funny. They’ve become synonymous with the program (example: Bobby Bowden and Florida State), and there comes a point where this fattens your paycheck to the point where you’re happy staying in College Town for the rest of your life. (Although, if you show up at a frat party kegger, you may have to put your house up for sale. Right, Mr. Eustachy?)

But no matter which path, coaching can be dangerous.

But at which level? As for the NCAA, let’s use Joe Paterno to illustrate.

Penn State Head Coach Joe Paterno has been coaching Penn State’s football team since the university’s inception in 1855. This makes JoePa roughly 191 years old. During his tenure with the Nittany Lions, he has won 360 games on the sidelines of the Navy and White. His legacy is so storied and so famous at this point that YABNews has heard unconfirmed reports that Paterno had actually gone on a safari on 1891 to Africa and killed the lion that would eventually become Penn State’s mascot. (Of course, we find these rumors to be largely untrue – flight didn’t exist until the 20th century, and there’s no way Paterno could take off the 1891-1892 season for a 3 month voyage to Madagascar.)

This past weekend, the aging head coach broke his leg after a Wisconsin player rolled into JoePa’s legs following a reception. And Paterno would lose more than his immediate mobility; the Lions lost 13-3. Apparently, despite the fact that this man’s life is at risk, not being able to get out of the way of the play anymore, Paterno remains determined to keep his day job. I guess he doesn’t need no stinking Badgers.

But while being directly in harm’s way may make Paterno a University insurance plan risk, he may not even me in the most peril within the coaching ranks these days. Is Dallas Cowboys front man Bill Parcells not a heart attack waiting to happen??? Aside from the crankiness and the man-boobs, Parcells coaches a team with a liquored up a kicker, a quarterback controversy, a tough intra-division schedule, Jerry Jones as a boss, the national media watching your every move – oh, and some guy named Terrell Owens. And after their completely improbable defeat to the Redskins in Washington yesterday afternoon, we’re just kind of amazed he made it to the post-game press conference without keeling over or murdering Mike Vanderjagt. Breathe, Bill, breathe.

So who’s going to die on the job first? Parcells or Paterno?

Your Grown-Up Identity

Back in March of ’05 (which was likely written in April and posted in March), we claimed a few allegiances to certain products as a stand for brand loyalty. Looking back, we’re still proud of those declarations; despite the fact Nordberg mocked our manhood since the post was actually about shampoo in pink bottles.

(It should be noted that I typed that entire post using the tips of two cordless power drills. Hey, it was tedious, but it had to be done.)

In reviewing those items, it looks like I was swearing loyalty to several ordinary product categories – ballpoint pens, shaving cream, barbeque sauces, to name a few – and now we realize no one will judge your character by such selections. As a member of the grown-up world, I realize that there will often be times that people judge you by brand loyalty; it just won’t be by the sports drink you choose. (It warrants mentioning that in Condon World, bringing PowerAde into my house WILL get booted off my porch.) However, there are some products that can generate an outsider’s opinion. More times than not, these products are simply “stuff you couldn’t have as a kid.”

The first such example: your car. You didn’t have one when you were 12, and due to “The Man” and his “minimum driving age requirements,” you didn’t spend your time evaluating what vehicle best fits you as a person. (It should be noted here that my sister wanted a purple limousine when she was 4. And she turned out ok. utinni) When you reached driving age, and later, buy a car age, you likely evaluated many factors that would determine what wheels you rolled on. Factors like gas mileage, color, engine size, gas mileage, dice fuzziness, age, gas mileage, and “how many of my friends can I fit in here to make a Taco Bell run” played large parts. Well, you’ve got a car now, and you’re stuck with it. And you’re sitting on my gordita, jerk.

All in all, people my age don’t care a ton about who drives what car.

Moving on, 12 year olds are unlikely to have a favorite beer, either. However, in later years, it’s nice to have a brand loyalty, a go-to, that if someone asks “What’re you drinking?” at a bar, you don’t have to think twice and can fire off your answer. (Note: it’s also a good idea to have a staple mixed drink for non-beer events. Mine? Jack and Coke. Nordberg’s? Bellini.) Some people (Chris Smith?) have developed in to beer connoisseurs, and can give you details about the taste of various brews? Condon? Yeah, my staple is Yuengling. Why? It’s never failed me, it’s hard for Mattias to spell, and it’s a Philly-area beer. It’s a respectable choice, and I’m happy to pull it out of the fridge when friends come over to watch the game. (Even though it’s the America’s oldest brewery, that doesn’t mean it’s been in my fridge since 1829. Trust me – it’s still good.)

But what is my age group to do with Wine?

Like Chris Smith and his tacit knowledge of all things ale-like, there are some my age who have worked hard to become wine experts. They know the difference between a Shiraz and a Cabernet, the importance of vintages and the various vineyards of France and California, don’t drink Merlot just because Sideways told them not to, and can open a bottle of pinot without shredding the bejesus out of a poor, defenseless cork.

Needless to say when it comes to wine, I don’t have mad skillz. Yet.

Now that’s not to say I’m a complete tyro, either. I understand the rudimentary differences in grapes and colors, and I know to trust a bottle from Napa over a bottle from say, Cleveland. I can generally tell good wine from better wine, and I don’t drink it out of a box. If Wine Experts were the Eagles’ depth chart of receivers, I’m probably a Hank Baskett.

The tricky thing is that with limited knowledge comes marginal decision-making skills. In many circles, a nice gift to bring to a dinner party would be a bottle of wine. If it were beer, or much less, running shoes, I’d have a go-to that would make the quick-stop supermarket stop an easier one. Grab the bottle and go (ok, pay somewhere in between.) But with wine, I’m not quite there yet. So how does one get by?

Know the Color. Find your Link.

For me, it’s that easy. If you have yet to develop a favorite, try and find out which color wine would be more appropriate. Asking the host for the menu in advance can go a long way in cutting your potential choices to a more manageable half. Then, scour the racks for a bottle that you can relate to. Example: Spud has allied with the Coppola Winery due to his cinematic tastes. (More a la The Godfather, less Jack, though.) These have to be clever, too, since very few people can play the hometown advantage card (unless, of course, you were raised in Australia or Bordeaux). So inspect the bottles, find something you like, and present with confidence.

(And keep a bottle of Yuengling in your coat if you end up selecting a lemon.)

No, He's Not a Bald Man Now

This past weekend, I visited the Great and Powerful Chris Nordberg down in Charlotte, North Carolina. You may have noticed that it’s been a while since a “phone-it-in” joke has graced the text of YAB, and that’s not because we haven’t been looking for an opportunity. You see, the PTI King has gone all respectable on us, leaving the halls of academia and is actually working. At a job. That pays him money.

In un-related news, the Chapel Hill Chik-Fil-A has suffered a 2.3 million loss for their third quarter financial statements. Weird.

Yes, Nordberg isn’t only working for The Man, he IS the Man. Working for a bank that rhymes with Krakhozia, he’s got a sweet gig in a downtown office where they PAY for you to eat if you have to work on a weekend. That’s high-class, no doubt. He’s got a sweet business card, a nice view of the city, and a cool apartment with squares cut out of the walls where normal people put decorative vases.

(In his absence, we replaced said vases with even more decorative cans of tennis balls and Mountain Dew.)

And the fun does not end there! Nordberg was recently working on a deal that required him to fly out to a major potential client this week and help pitch the bank’s proposal, in hopes of getting to remove “potential” from their name. It required a lot of hard work for Nordberg and his team. But as they flew to the West Coast (in your ‘hood, Toms), they felt confident with their materials, their pitch, and their chances.

Now, we have full confidence in Nordberg’s team’s abilities, and as a member of the team, we know him to go the extra mile for the W. (Hell, there are unconfirmed reports he said he would “dance like Britney Spears for an A” in Szykman’s class at WM.) (Which are unconfirmed not because of a lack of witnesses – we just all think he was bluffing.) But you can never control both sides of the deal, since the deal is often complex. And no matter how hard Nordberg prepares and delivers, someone else could come in with an ace in the hole. Well, Roommate, I’ve got an ace for you the next time you find yourself in such a position.

The following is how Nordberg should go into Pitch Meetings from now on:

It’s really quite simple. One must lure the other party into a win-win bigger situation. Now, Nordberg’s team is the win side of this – the sure thing and the lock. The win bigger may be his competitors – those who may produce greater results, but as a lesser qualified bank, comes with a lot of risk. If the other part should opt to go with Lesser Qualified Bank (that’s actually their name), it could all come crashing down, and likely with a greater percentage than it all going well.

In business, it’s largely a game of calculated risk, and this scenario is no different. As Nordberg’s team awaits the potential client’s answer, one would think it would look like a bunch of suits fidgeting nervously. But no – Nordberg will be too crafty for that. Rather than fidgeting executives around the table, his team will consist of 26 or so attractive women, all wearing the same exact colorful cocktail dress. In addition, each will be carrying a silver suitcase. There’s nothing in these suitcases – but the shininess factor the suitcases bring deflect attention from Nordberg – who needs time to check his Blackberry for satirical e-mails from Condon.

When the presentation is over and the client’s decision in on the lion, this is where Nordberg will need to take control of the room. Dressed in a dark suit, designer striped shirt, and no tie (perhaps an earring?), Nordberg will place a mysterious red button down in front of the decision maker. Hopefully, he’ll have it cased in an enclosed transparent cube on a hinge, but if he’s running late, one of these will suffice. And then, with the help of his portable sound and lighting system, he’ll stare that client in the eye, pause once, and then ask the big question.

"Deal…Or No Deal?"

(And I always thought he’d play the part of the Banker.)

Walked and Loaded

The least-talked about races at any international track and field meet is easily the speedwalking events. It’s even at the Olympics, where women will compete at the 20km level and the men at both the 20km and the 50km. For the longer race, that’s 31 miles of walking – as fast as you possibly can.

We here at YAB find racewalking to be incredibly silly. It’s a sport that hinders the true ability of the athlete. Can these athletically fit men and women go faster? Of course they can – it’s called running.

However, based on the rules of the sport – one foot must always be in contact with the ground and you must straighten your front leg at all times – prohibit the competitor from fully realizing their ability. And in this type of event, that ability is speed. It’s restrictor-plate racing for the human sect. Just imagine if we had our other sports come down to such an artificially employed standard. What if we had a version of baseball where you could use the bat for bunting? Or a football game where the QB’s throwing elbow must be touching his torso at all times? What if we made field hockey players only use one side of the stick?

Ok, bad example.

But racewalking in general gives a bad name to those of us in society who pride themselves on their ability to walk with a great deal of velocity – without looking like possessed ducks. I, for one, have quite the speedy gait. While my height may play a factor in this – long legs make for faster walkers – the reason I walk quickly is because I often view walking as wasted time. After all, it’s literally what you do to get from A to B. And if A was so interesting you probably stayed too long, and B is where you need to be next, that place in the middle should be cut down in any way possible to ensure more time can be spent with A and/or B.

There’s something to be said for a peaceful stroll in the great outdoors on a sunny day – I’m not swinging YAB’s Hammer at Mother Nature – it’s just in an office environment, those amblings are few and far between. (And because they are so far between, we’ve got to move quickly to get to the next one without being late.) Most of my walking is done as part of a daily routine, and I feel like I have a competitive edge over those other fools that take their time with their sauntering. As I silently breeze by colleagues to and from the parking garage, I take a little pride in being more efficient with my commute.

But what happens if you meet your match?

It’s not that I’m ignorant that other fastwalkers exist – it’s just that as a subculture of society, we see each other so infrequently. We know there are others who enjoy the same above-the-limit lifestyle, and are proud of our peers for adopting such quickness. However, when you realize that you’re in the company of your peers, things can get, well, competitive.

In my office building, there is a long (40yds. or so) hallway between the parking garage and the lobby. It’s wide enough that four or five people could walk side-by-side. As I entered this corridor this morning, I assumed my usual brisk pace and, like always, ended up passing a Blackberry-using exec who was too consumed in his e-mail to realize how glacially slow he was. I thought nothing of it; this sort of thing happens all the time. But after passing him, another man overtook me with a slightly quicker step. And before I knew it, I had been passed.

What the?

This presents an awkward situation. Do I make a footrace of it in an attempt to regain my honor, but in the process no doubt tipping him off to my intent? After all, if I pick UP speed, there will be too unusually speedy people racing to work. And since it’s impolite to run in an office – we’d look like – GASP – possessed racewalking ducks.

So I drafted behind him.

Falling into line, I can now enjoy walking quickly a few paces behind while avoiding his peripheral vision and keeping pace. This is what they do in NASCAR, folks. Not only has it made me more covert, there’s less drag to deal with and we both go faster by working together. Of course, one would think that dropping back would be admitting defeat. Perhaps.

Except out of respect for a fellow fastwalker, this guy opened the door at the end of the corridor, and then held it open for me to pass through. While nice of him, this highlighted a more important issue:

VICTORY IS MINE.

Just Imagine: Your St.Ludmila Cardinals!

Ever since the beginning of this blog (2004), we have been comforted by the fact that Camden, New Jersey has been nationally recognized as the “Most Dangerous City in America.” Back in ‘04, we danced in the streets when South Jersey’s favorite place to catch a concert while getting carjacked stole the top spot from Detroit Rock City. (Pun completely intended.)

In 2005, Camden retained the top spot in the land by continuing its daily regimen of gunplay, bureaucratic corruption, and scaring aquarium-bound field trips who “just wanted to see the fishes, not swim with them.”

In 2006, Chris Condon moved apartments yet again, this time down the street into a new complex just yards away from a sweet, sweet movie theater. In addition to having primo restaurants and copious parking, the name of said complex had a familiar ring to it. Yep, you guess it. We live in a complex owned by Camden Living. Now, I don’t know if our faith in Camden by giving the word a connotative second chance got everyone up in the Jersey Version soft, but Camden no longer can lay claim to the Golden Handcuffs award. Yes, friends, Camden is now the runners-up, the Detroit Tigers of the Crime Scene. And curiously enough, this group of Tigers also lost out…

….to St. Louis.

Yes, St. Louis, Missouri, with some timely hitting, excellent defensive play, strong bullpen help, and a complete disregard for local firearm laws, have taken both the World Series and the Top Crime City trophies – in the same weekend. Now, much will be made of the Cardinals being the worst regular season team to ever become World Champions, but we’ll leave that for the experts at Deadspin. Instead, it seems that we will cover the lesser of two titles. Today, Camden passes the torch to the Gateway to the West, who promptly took that torch and added seven counts of arson to its rap sheet.

So what could possibly have the St. Lunatics so angry that would cause a 20 per cent surge in violent crime? After all, the city is home to a World Series MVP who stands 5-foot-7 and is as intimidating as monkey with a cold. Hell, even their most notable monument, the St. Louis Arch, is non-threatening. The Statue of Liberty holds a giant wand of fire. The Arch? Its rounded edges make a paper cut seem more dangerous.

And it’s not in the name, either. St. Louis has been named after Louis IX of France, who was known for his piety and kindness towards the destitute. Sure, he caused a little bloodshed with a couple of failed Crusades, but hey, he was sick of other rulers calling him Louise and he needed to prove he was a tough guy. After being canonized by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297, he went on to become the patron saint of both the French and hairdressers. Goodbye, Tough Guy Street Cred. Here’s a blow dryer.

On the other end of the spectrum, the safest city in the United States is in the Garden State as well: Brick, New Jersey. So the city in Missouri named after St. Wusspants is the most dangerous and the city in NJ named after a hardcore building material is the safest. Maybe it’s time, St. Louis, for a name change.

Now we respect that St. Louis as a name has some legacy behind it. Your sports teams alone and Nelly’s career rely on this. So, in order to keep your city’s abbreviation as STL, so that no one needs to fix their sports score news tickers, we’ve decided to research on behalf of St.Louis a list of L-saints with more intimidating legacies – so that criminals will be too scared to commit violent crime. Hell, it’s worked for Brick.

In fact, we’ll leave it up to the YAB Electorate and based on the vote, I’ll pen a letter to the Mayor. Here are your choices:

• St. Luke – Patron Saint of Surgeons
• St. Leopold – Patron Saint of Austrians (including Ahh-nold)
• St. Lawrence – Patron Saint of Librarians
• St. Ludmila – Patron Saint of Bohemia (and likely a certain Rhapsody)
• St. Lucy of Syracuse – Patron Saint of big, dumpy mascots

Go Go Flyers Head Coach!

The YAB Exclusive Interview Series was last done when Chris Smith passed the 1k mark in Race to Own Every DVD Ever Made (even Sandlot 2). Today, we unearth our microphones and talk with Joe Brescia, the *ahem* new Head Coach of the Philadelphia Flyers.

You’re a Blog: Mr. Bresica, thank you for agreeing to take some time for the people of YAB. Even though your new team, the Philadelphia Flyers have had a 5-day break, you’ve no doubt been busy trying to right the ship. Now we know that other news outlets are reporting that John Stevens has already accepting the head coaching job. We personally put little stock in those reports. As the REAL head coach, would you consider keeping Stevens on as an assistant? If not, who do you have in mind to round out your staff?

Joe Brescia: Chris, don't mention it. I am glad to have the honor, nay, the privilege, to be graced among the YAB records and its audience. I must admit I was shocked to get the call up. It was only the other day that I was making my usual rounds and table visits when I came across a bunch of disgruntled business men talking about the Flyers and the front office. Me not being the one who's afraid to sweep kick in a fight, jumped all over the conversation and started making my ideas known of what i would do. Needless to say, one loss, one firing, and one retirement later, here I am.

John Stevens is a great man. Kind, conservative, and loving. Everything you don't want in a coach, but for a more appropriate genre of management. I moved John into head of customer relations and the newly formed "Phlex Brigade". He actually enjoys wearing the suit. As for my personal staff, I have made a few calls around the league, country, world, and mostly tristate area. My obvious choice for assistant coach is non-other than David Kull. While not the best at draft picks or line-ups for that matter, he is the perfect tool for team motivation and moral. I went and did something no Coach or GM ever did and that was making Kull my assistant team Captain. By a loop-hole in league rules it allows him to take penalties for other players and sit in the box, but I do lose a roster spot. It'll be worth it the first double-minor/game misconduct. As far as the rest of my staff goes, I have taken a more unorthodox approach. We here at the flyers have been in negotiations with numerous corporate and social magnates for certain positions in our staff. We are very close to striking a deal with Tanya Harding as our Goaltending Coach. She's apparently very good handling the pipes.

YAB: Ah, nothing makes me feel confident about a coaching staff more than the phrase “perfect tool.” So if Assistant Coach/Captain Kull is taking up a spot on your roster, and most likely as a forward (since 6 D-men are already a bare minimum), which of your current Flyers gets demoted?

JB: Ahhhh......you raise a very good question. As part of my mentoring system to the younger players, it is those that perform poorly week to week will be sent to the minors to help out coach Kjell. I hear his "new" ultimate ice fighter workout is a blast. This system will be based on demerits. You get a demerit for all of the following:
1.) Not passing to Gagne
2.) Calling Mr. Forsberg by his first name
3.) Not calling Coach Kull by his proper nickname...Flyerhead Man
4.) Not having a hot wife/girlfriend or both
5.) Not ridiculing the new towel boy mercilessly...Bob Clarke
6.) Not bowing when Phlex passes by
7.) Not passing to Gagne
8.) Not having a spare Red Bull on hand for me at all times
9.) Being Mis-Confused
10.) Way too many men on the ice
11.) saying that Bud Ice, the official NHL beer, is better than Yuengling
12.) Failing to speak English
13.) Being Russian
14.) Not addressing me as Satan (That's the devil, and not that cheese ball from the Islander whose name is pronounced (Shu-Taan)
15.) Not donating a large portion of your salary to myself
16.) Not passing to Gagne
17.) Not shooting at least one puck a game at the other teams coach
18.) Having a better cell phone than myself

YAB: That’s an excellent program Phantoms Coach Kjell Samuelsson has developed, and we’re glad you’ve shared it with our readers, but in true Bobby Clarke style, you’ve managed to answer a question without actually ANSWERING THE QUESTION. We need a player’s name here.

JB: Triston Grant. Yeah. I refuse to have anybody on the ice for my team whose name is the name of the main character that James Franco was in that horrible period piece out lining the struggles of England gaining freedom from it's Irish brethren.

YAB: That’s some sound rationale, something that former Coach Ken Hitchcock would never have thought of. Let’s be thankful that the flick wasn’t “Antero and Isolde.” Moving on, we’d like to look a little into your past. With former players like Guy Carbonneau, Craig MacTavish, and of course, Wayne Gretzky in the coaching ranks, what about your playing career in the Shawnee High School parking lot will help you to coach the Flyers back into the win column?

JB: Your prose is astounding. I prefer the much antiquated hit first, mock your mama later approach. Those players that achieve a recognizable degree of creativity will be rewarded with ice time. I am also not one for padding my lead. One goal is all I need. Even if that goal comes within the first few minutes, I would rather use the remaining 50+ minutes of a game down one or two men to relentlessly beat the snot out of the other team. It's all about Intimidation. INTIMIDATION. You don't score until you score. UNTIL YOU SCORE.

YAB: Would you call this season a “culmination?” If so, a culmination of what?

JB: I would indeed call this season a culmination, CULMINATION!!! YAYYYYYY!!!!!! YOU'RE MINE LINDROS!!!

Sorry, where was I, ah yes, the culmination of tears, anger, sadness, and above all hate, have led us to where we are today. This culmination, CULMINATION, has led us to change, which in turn has led to a win. Not just on the ice, but off the ice as well. As Tony Little tells us, those butt crunches we do while riding the pine (No pun intended) will pay off dividends in the later years.

YAB: Final question – if you were stuck in a shootout against the New York Rangers, and you only had one more shooter left, which of the following late-nineties Philadelphia Phantoms would you count on to bring home the W. Paul Healey or Bruce Coles?

JB: You’re a Bruce.

Park This, Hyundai.

Regardless of who’s playing, professional football is most likely the most bankable program on television to guarantee ratings. People watch football not necessarily because of an allegiance to one team or the other, but rather that the sports translates well to television and with so much parity in the league, most games stay close until the end of the game. (Note: We know that this is the idealist reason for why someone would spend their Sunday afternoon watching a tile between the Seahawks and Lions, when in reality, it’s for the fantasy implications. But hey, it sounded nice.)

With such a quality product on the air, NFL Sundays are a great time for a company to unveil its latest product with an attention-grabbing ad that will have people talking about it the next day. Hyundai, currently South Korea’s largest automaker (eat it, Daewoo), have recently attempted to re-energize the Sonata, their mid-size sedan since 1988. And while a huge Family Car in Canada, American sales have been sluggish. So following the “Ooh, Shiny!” principles that have powered the Motorola Razor phone and flat-panel plasma TVs, the following new features have been added:

• A glove compartment that has a refrigerated section that will cool up to 4 20 oz. bottles. (Don't drink and drive.)
• Illuminated neon cup holders
• A detachable dome light that can be taken out of the car (either to use as a flashlight or so thieves can’t get away with your, um, dome light.)
  

Now how does Condon know about these great features? Because of Hyundai’s ability to seize the market by advertising during NFL football. I don’t exactly how useful the dome light thing or the cup holders are (it’s a beverage, not a disco, people), but I think the cooler glove box is a great idea. Rather than having my Gatorade roll around on the ground by my feet on road trips, I could keep it icy cold and in close quarters with my registration and insurance information! Brilliant.

(Of course, I would have to buy a Hyundai Sonata, and that’s not happening.)

So, certainly, Hyundai would be THE talk of the water cooler on Monday right? I know I was going to mention it to my co-workers. Content with this find, I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the game. After McNabb pulled the Eagles within 6, the game went back to commercials. And then it hit.

Hello, Lexus.

What positive ad momentum Hyundai had built with its 3 or 4 Sonata spots was obliterated by one commercial from Lexus, the Japanese luxury vehicle king. What edge did Lexus have over the new and mighty Sonata? Black light dome lights? No. Self-pouring cup holders? Uh uh. A working Foreman Grill in the glove compartment? Nice idea, but again, nay.

The car can park itself.

And we’re not talking it can pull into your driveway without your help. We’re talking PARALLEL PARKING. This is why most 16 year-olds fail driving tests, and Lexus has made it obsolete (assuming Daddy’s rich enough to buy the kid a Lexus). Now, I’ve never had to park between two Champagne Glass Pyramids before, but I gotta imagine it’s slightly nerve-racking. (Hell, I get nervous emptying the dishwasher.) But you’ll need a Lexus to do it.

If they throw in a Trunk Monkey, I’ll buy one right now.

No ones going to steal this car for the dome light.

Grand Moff Ticonderoga

You know that sound in Star Wars where Grand Moff Tarkin gives the orders to test the battle-ready capabilities of the Death Star, but before he gets a chance the Rebel fighters blow the whole thing up? (Note: apparently good timing is not needed when being considered for a promotion to Grand Moff from Regular Moff.) The midget control room guys in the black helmets pull some levers down and clear as day, there’s that glorious sound.

Eeeeeeeeeuuuuuouououuououooooooommm…..

I’ve always loved that sound – not because of the impending destruction of those who face off against the Empire, but rather because some clever Foley guys working for George Lucas created a sound for “blowing up a planet.” Since no one had blown up a planet to date (in ’77), he got to decide what it would sound like. Who knows, maybe the Foley guy, Derek Ball, had been privy to a planet blowing up and had the sound stuck in his head. Of course, that means there’d probably be some decent astronomy literature I could reference, so it’s likely not experience, but rather just brilliance on the part of Derek Ball. Can’t you just hear it in your head? Eeeeuuuuuououououououooooommm.

Why do I talk about a 29 year-old sound effect today? Because yesterday, I swear I head that same exact sound outside my office window.

No, no one blew up the Tanning Planet store across the street; our building instead had a transformer get rocked and force two of our three towers into emergency generator power. Initially, this did not affect me. The backup power supported all the offices around the exterior of the building, while the interior ones were left wondering if they’d be sent home for early dismissal. However, there was simply too much commerce still going on for the generator, and after 30 minutes, we blew the gasket and were down and out as well.

What happens in an office with no power?

First, the employees try their best to be resourceful and continue working. Calculations are done on solar calculators, stacks of filing actually gets filed, and people make incessant lists of “what to do when we have power again.” Of course, this phase will only last 20 minutes or so, based on the reliance on technology the corporate world has undertaken.

Next, employees really start to reach for things to do, only to be thwarted by their underestimate of just how much of a building actually runs on power. People will revert to using battery-powered laptops, yet remain dumbfounded when they send something to the printer and it doesn’t print. Another co-worker attempted to bide her time with some snacks, opting for microwave popcorn. (Turns out, microwaves aren’t powered by hunger. Yet.) My favorite was when a colleague came into my office asking to sharpen his new box of pencils with my electric pencil sharpener. He muttered something about how he’d been meaning to do this for weeks, but didn’t know of anyone else with a sharpener. And since I was just filing, he thought now would be a good time to sharpen his set of brand new Number Twos.

And as he left my office with a whole lotta dull writing utensils, he broke the news to me:

“Hey Chris, I think your pencil sharpener is broken.”

Sometimes the jokes write themselves, folks.

You Can't Leave Your Sticks Behind

When I went with my family to Walt Disney World in 1996, it was my first visit to the third branch of the theme park megalopolis, known as Disney-MGM Studios. While I remember little from the specific visit, I do recall going on the brand-new Twilight Zone Tower of Terror ride. This is where Disney is at their absolute best. Through careful décor and ambience design, they lull you into another world, in this case an old abandoned Hollywood hotel. It’s all well and good, you’re being lulled in with comfort and awe, where they clearly spent some decent coin to keep you interested, and then?

Freefall.

10 years later, the Philadelphia Flyers have allowed their season to take a track not unlike that of the Disney ride that has since been reproduced in California and Tokyo. As fans, we paid the price of admission by coming back after a lockout, that for better or worse actually had to take place. We were there waiting in line at the beginning of this season’s ride, looking around and enjoying the ambience and décor of the 2006 version of the Orange and Black.

So rather than getting the season off on a good foot, they’ve gone on to lose 7 of their first 8 games. Three veterans have since been sent to the minors (including Petr Nedved, a career 300 goal scorer), and there’s probably nothing quite like the feeling of being put up in fancy hotels in Tampa Bay and Boston and New York, only to be now taking the bus to games in Albany, Bridgeport, and Worcester. And in the 3 veterans’ place? The Flyers called up three rookies that have a combined 38 games of professional experience.

Note: the oldest of the three, Stefan Ruzicka was 4 years old when Nedved joined the NHL.

And as to further shake things up, the Flyers fired Head Coach Ken Hitchcock and the General Manager, Bobby Clarke, resigned this past Sunday morning. Now on my usual Sunday morning, I get up, maybe have a bagel, go to church – it’s a pretty laid back affair. In Philly, people lose their jobs on Sunday mornings.

(But I’m sure if they wanted a bagel for the road, they could have one.)

Now in the interim, it seems that management might actually have some decent plans to turn this organization around. John Stevens has been hired to be the head coach, promoted from assistant coach. Stevens recently led the Phantoms (the Flyers’ minor league org.) to the Calder Cup, and with so many of those guys on the roster, this might be a stellar choice.

(The new coach is of no relation to former One Accordian John Stephens, although his ability to wreak havoc during rehearsals may come in handy in the locker room.)

But we here at YAB have a even better idea for the Philadelphia Flyers…

HIRE JOE BRESCIA.

Why not? Not only is he a fan, but if he led them to a Stanley Cup in his first season after never actually playing/coaching/being near professional ice hockey, Disney would HAVE to make a movie about it. And then we get to hire people like Chris Condon as the Casting Director, whereby he casts someone like Wilmer Valderrama to play Joe Brescia in the movie, thereby getting ultimate revenge for the time Joe sweep kicked him during a hockey fight in 1998.

Yeah, so I hold grudges.

But aside from the immediate cinematic tie-in, Brescia would no doubt be good for the Flyers. Consider this – with such a young team, most of the Flyers would actually look UP to him as a big brother and a mentor. According to our records, Daytona’s older than Randy Jones, Ruzicka, Jeff Carter, Mike Richards, R.J. Umberger, Picard, Freddy Meyer, Lars Jonsson, Antero Niittymaki, Joni Pitkanen, and Eager. Plus, he may actually be bigger than Sami Kapanen (assuming Brescia’s wearing skates and Sami is not.)

Joe Brescia is the living embodiment of the smaller, quicker NHL.

Not What It Seams

I thought I was through with this.

During my storied years of high school track, it seemed that our visionary coaches had decided that the best way for us to improve in our sport was to spend our practices running. Granted, there’s probably some hard truth to such a practice format – after all, one would expect a writer to get better by writing – but at times, it seemed a tad gratuitous. After all, warming up on a track team required going for a short run prior to stretching, and this run, 800m or whatever, was longer than any other sport’s intended distance by a good 400m. But hey, we signed up to be runners, so running is what we were bound to do.

The warm-up run consisted of a huge group of guys running the same exact path and with very little wiggle room. (Our coaches thought wiggling was not an acceptable substitute warm-up exercise.) People would get bumped, inadvertently in most instances, and with the exception of the dork who tried to win the warm-up (kylewilliamssayswhat?), everyone was cool with running and laughing our way through half a mile.

But the laughing ceased when someone rips their clothes.

For those who ran on the inner edge of the track, there was probably many a jacket / sweatshirt / long-sleeved T that fell victim to a pointy fence wire. And when it happens, there’s not much you can do, other than keep running.

In the real world, you’ve got to keep running.

Now while there isn’t a warm-up lap you’re required to take in the corporate world, that by no means absolves you from the dangers of clothes-ripping monsters, like that old track fence. In this case, it turns out that the fence shares the same wavelength as the doorknob on my office door.

It’s a frickin’ conspiracy.

You know how I mentioned that I’ve been a tad busy the last fortnight? With the boss on honeymoon during the absolute busiest time of our fiscal year, I’ve been scrambling about, working like crazy, and rarely taking any breaks for air. And while air is seemingly vital for human existence, I decided that my first real break of the week would be spent celebrating a co-worker’s birthday at the other end of the floor.

In other words, free cake.

After all, our new admin actually schedules cake for us via Microsoft Outlook, and when I realized that I had hit “Snooze” on the friendly cake reminder two consecutive times, I realized I just might miss the whole thing. Jumping out of my seat, I rolled around the corner of my desk with full intent of making at least the last few chords of “Happy Birthday.” And as I’ve stated before, it’s not out of a need to want to sing that silly tune, but rather, to be punctual as the Operation Controller Pro Tempore.

But as I walked passed my door, I cut the corner a little sharply and caught my pants pocket on the latch. Granted, I wasn’t traveling at such a velocity that would have allowed me to continue on my course of action while leaving my pants behind (thank God.), but rather just enough to tear a nice 5-incher down the pant leg seam. Drat.

Ripping pants isn’t the big deal here. It’s making it through the rest of the day without anyone noticing. Here’s the way to pull it off. No matter what, always walk around the office with a folder or binder at your side. Actually, that’s a good tip in general. For those who don’t really have busy jobs, carrying a work-related item from A to B will give the appearance you have stuff to do. Which is good, since we could replace you with a robot at any moment.

Why? Robots don’t get tired and they don’t wear pants.

Second Fiddle Once Again

Ok, so last Monday we promised 15 posts by the end of this Sunday, and let’s look at the big board to see where our total currently stands…one…two…

Four. (You have the eyes of a hawk, JP.)

Ok, I guess I have some typing to do. Now as you know well by now, I’ve spent the last two weeks in a funnybringing malaise on account of a certain supervisor being on a certain honeymoon in a certain boot-shaped country. (No, not Bootbekistan.) It’s cut down on the time to blog, as well as the time to come up with idea on what to blog about. I kid you not, I almost spent 650 words last week on why our multi-function photocopier owes me a sandwich.

Eeesh.

But, it’s now Monday, and all has returned to normal in the Land of Condon. This morning I woke up feeling refreshed, knowing that today is the day I hand the department back up to my boss, who on the other hand, is probably ruing the day more than any day ever has been rued. Yep, it’s his show once again, and the first hour of my day will most likely consist of a meeting to bring him up to speed. And since he’s probably got eleventy billion e-mails in his inbox, the speed to said up to speed meeting will be “warp.”

Here’s the thing about being in charge for two weeks while your supervisor is out-of-pocket. Everything can go brilliantly, thanks to your hard work, intellect, and dedication to making sure your department doesn’t go Northwestern Choke on everybody. And more than likely, you’ve stepped into his shoes and reported directly to your superior’s superior, (or uberperior, I believe,) and executed so flawlessly that commendations are no doubt flowing from on high. So much can transpire in a fortnight (there’s that word again) that you now have to include in the “Up to Speed” status check meeting that there’s no doubt you’ll forget some things. And your boss will never truly understand the lengths you went to in order to get the job done. After all, he was sampling Bootbekian rigatoni halfway around the globe. So here’s your one shot to toot your own horn.

(which by the way is a stupid cliché, and we’re sorry we actually used it. Who else’s horn would one potentially toot? C’mon. It’s flu season, people.)

Here are some tips as to how to go into an Up to Speed Meeting.

• Make a detailed list of everything you do while he’s out of the office. That way, you can completely relay all that went on without missing anything that was 1)important or 2)impressive that you handled on your own.
• Acknowledge that no one actually remembers to do the previous detailed list, and quickly sketch your job tasks on a napkin/Post-It/your hand. Make things that are exceedingly hard sound time-consuming, but easy.
• Name drop. Like crazy. After all, you just spent two weeks dealing with people that your boss doesn’t enjoy dealing with. By doing so, you saved him some sanity, showed some face time with the big wigs, and got the job done.
• Assure him you didn’t actually refer to anyone as a “big wig” to their face while he was gone. Even if that person has a comically massive amount of hair.
• Throw in stuff that didn’t happen, preferably from movies or TV shows you recently watched. “Oh, and last Tuesday, while finishing up fiscal year planning, a bunch of chickens tried to escape from our Reston facility because the facility manager suggested for additional revenue we turn them into pies. Don’t worry, though, I called an all-hands meeting, and mediated the two sides into agreeing to co-exist peacefully.”
  

Ok, one down. Now about that sandwich, Mr. Xerox…

Citius Altius Directius

Frankly speaking, the Olympics and movies haven’t dated each other enough. As far as I’m concerned, any time you get to invoke the 5 rings of the Olympiad and re-tell some feel good story of an amateur underdog finding international glory, that’s a ticket and popcorn sold to my wallet. Miracle is the best hockey movie ever made, and while the competition was lighter, I will go on the record to say Cool Runnings has run away with the gold medal for all bobsledding flicks.

(Sorry, “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”)

But since Bode Miller’s recent Winter Games performance didn’t exactly set screenwriters’ pens afire, there’s probably few Olymovies in the near future. So, in order to maintain that relationship with Hollywood, the 2008 Games in Beijing have hired on Ang Lee to serve as an “arts and culture consultant” for their Opening and Closing Ceremonies. Personally, we here at YAB think it’s a decent idea. Anything to take the focus off these children-devouring mascots.

But seriously, the partnership of the Olympics and Ang Lee could go a long way to green light more Olympic movies. Now more than likely, Lee was chosen above all other motion picture directors for at least one of the following four reasons:

1) He’s Chinese, and the Olympics will be in China.
2) They haven’t forgiven the other Chinese director, Yimou Zhang, for “House of Flying Daggers” yet. (Why wouldn’t that flick just end?)
3) It’s a “Dude, we’re sorry we had to ban Brokeback Mountain in our country – please come back and visit, Ang,” kind of begging plea.
4) Yao Ming demanded Tibetan freedom as an appearance fee.

So, yeah, whatever the reason, Ang Lee is on board. With Lee at the helm, he will look to bring some important elements back to the grandeur and majesty that the Opening and Closing Ceremonies were originally conceived to be. Perhaps the sophistication and sincerity of Sense and Sensibility. Or perhaps he’ll instill us with the agility and grace of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And if all else fails, he could also make stuff explode and blow up, a la The Hulk.

But even though we totally can make the connection of nationality, was Lee the right director for this movie? According to IMDB, he’s busy working on a WWII epic with a Mandarin script with one of the guys from Hero. And since Lee averages a completed project once every, eh, year and a half, what happens if he gets behind schedule? What if he just throws into the story of love and violence some B-Roll of a giant green Eric Bana destroying government buildings? His credibility could be shot. Would you want that former shell of a Hollywood director at the helm of the biggest sporting event in the world??? (After the World Cup, that is.)

So who else do we have in mind? Well let’s bring down the job description. You’ll need someone comfortable working with a massive cast, someone who isn’t afraid of musical theater (that knocks out O-Stone, no doubt.), has put together films that grace an international stage, needs to be funny (something the Opening Ceremonies often lack, and would actually entice me to watch), can work with recurring themes, is probably cool with someone internationally famous like Bocelli or Pavarotti or Yanni or Yao Ming killing all the inertia of their show because the studio execs tell us “This guy is big!”, and most importantly, has never directed a film titled “The Hulk.”

Why not J.J. Abrams?

He’s a fresh face that helmed a surprisingly good Mission Impossible III, and the rest of his experience comes via Lost and Alias. Big casts? Lost has roughly 50 billion characters to keep track of. Musical theater? He’s versatile, and could probably get some tips from buddy Rob Marshall (Chicago.) Lost doesn’t get more international (where is that damned island, anyway?), and the man has a sense of humor that doesn’t require me staring at my TV cracking rhythmic gymnastics jokes.

Ang, best of luck to you, but we’ve got our pick waiting in the wings.

Gnomenclature

The last two Tuesdays, Katie and I have spent our evenings in the company of strangers and some very helpful home buying personnel. For the low, low cost of 6 hours of primetime TV watching, you too can learn the ins and outs of what it will take to become a first-time home buyer. Now our lease doesn’t expire until the summer and if I really have a question I’ll give a call to Landowning Yelito (I call her Lando for short), but it’s never too early to learn the ABC’s of mortgages and escrows.Besides, if I don’t have a home of my own, when I can expect Publisher’s Clearing House to bring me my big check? Ain’t no way they’re delivering to some kid on the 4th floor of an apartment building. All the balloons will get stuck in the stairwell.

Now one thing that the Homebuying Guy went to great detail to point out to us that there are some monetary difference to owning property that you may not consider. The main one being, “You can’t sleep on lawn care.” Now as Stephen Ng once proved on the sidewalk outside Millington Hall 10 minutes before noon, you CAN sleep on lawn care, but I now realize Homebuying Guy may have been speaking figuratively. By “sleep on”, he means “forget about.” So, yeah, having a lawn, even if it’s a 5 foot by 4 foot patch in front of a town home, probably costs money. Unless, you’ve got scissors and a hell of a lot of patience.

Now a lawn that size probably does not require you to go buy a lawnmower right away, so that money you set aside for lawn care can be used for other things until your next place. (By the way, no sprinkler system can be superior to what a watering can/balloon can do, so scratch that cost as well.) So if you don’t need to spend the cash to cut or water your green, what else could there be?

Ah, lawn ornaments.

Now I can’t say I’ve ever lived in an abode that supported the use of lawn ornaments, but that by no means disqualifies me as an expert on the subject. After all, I once wrote a paper in 7th grade about how lawn jockeys were used to serve as trail markers for the underground railroad. Now the Civil Rights Movement has largely quelled the use of lawn jockeys in today’s society, and we have re-focused our fascination with jockeys, by cheering them on in Seabiscuit and underwear drawers. No, the two main families of lawn ornaments for this millennium? Pink Flamingos and Garden Gnomes.

For those with lawns and some scratch to spend, we present a highly Philosophical Tale of the Tape.

Which is more practical? The purpose of the lawn ornament is to 1) provide decoration and 2) make your yard unique. Now your garden variety garden gnome often appears in muted colors and low to the ground. The flamingo, on the other hand, sports a Pepto Pink and stands tall in the face of weed whackers. Which is easier to see for someone who didn’t trust in MapQuest? Easy. EDGE: Flamingo.

Who’s got more famous bretheren? Wow, this one is no contest. The Gnome can tip his hat to David the Gnome, whose cartoon may have totally sucked but had a partially redeemable theme song. (This is a Spud comment waiting to happen.) Flamingos, despite their color and beauty, have never had much Hollywood pub, save a crappy eighties Matt Dillon flick. EDGE: Gnome.

Which one does Liz Grimm have in her bedroom? EDGE: Flamingo.

Which could scare squirrels away? There’s nothing scary ever that’s bright pink. Hell, even Barbie wasn’t frightening once the world realized she can’t bend at the knee. Other action figures could be counted on to defend against her Fem-bot wiles. What was I talking about again? EDGE: Gnome.

Who would win in a fight? Yes, the flamingo has all the reach of Lincoln, but never underestimate those short and stocky types. They’ve got a lower center of gravity, a chip on their shoulders, and a bone to pick – one can only be mistaken for a troll so many times. Plus the flamingo, on one leg, would have some serious balance issues in the ring. EDGE: Gnome.

VERDICT: Buy thyself a garden gnome!

Oslo Down

In our scouring of the newswires for something that might entice us into some funny-bringing, not a whole lot is happening right now in the States. CNN seems pretty excited about our population reaching 300 million, but that does nothing but frighten us. After all, that means there are likely 151 million Yankee fans in this country. That number, exceeded only by the Pinstripes’ payroll, is staggering. Kansas Ciry Royals fancount on the other hand has been at a steady 47 for the last ten years or so. Sometimes you’re just so bad that even the locals must find a new allegiance to the Big Apple. Case in point – isn’t Robbie Thompson a Yanks’ fan?

But turning our YABNews desk to the international page, we also dare not delve into the nuclear ear-punch that is North Korea, nor will we comment on the ongoing American presence in Iraq. While both have more national security issues than say, number of Royals fans, neither global arena scares us more than what went down yesterday in the Norwegian village of Bodoe.

They’re baaaaaack.

According to this AP report, a Norwegian man in his 20s shocked the border guards at the city’s central penitentiary facility by breaking IN to jail after are hard night of vodka-slamming. While inmates and Fox programming executives spend hours coming up with ways to break out of prison, this man knocked a few too many back and broke his way in. Surely, not a single prison guard could 1) explain such and occurrence or 2) anticipate this happening, as most jail-related rounds are designed to keep the people they’ve already got. Now I don’t know what possessed the man (Norway is hardly the vodka capital its Scandinavian neighbors claim to be), as being in the outside world would allow Druunken Olav Schlossedberg to participate in the 2nd richest GDP economy in the world. There’s something more to this story, and the AP is sleeping on it. Our theory, you ask?

Easy. He’s a Viking.

Vikings are far more unpredictable than your everyday Norwegian people. Normal Norwegians (or Normegians, for short), spend their days striving in the name of human rights and speedskating; Vikings prefer to pass the time raiding Dublin and screwing with Wales. Normegians: experts at fishing. Vikings: sending their dead to sea on fire. It’s two very different worlds in the history of Norway. And all of a sudden, the Vikings may be back.

Let’s analyze the actions of our friendly prisonbreaker, shall we? For starters, he was clearly a fan of the mead. And if you’ve ever been forced to read Beowulf, there’s a good 40 pages of sitting in a mead hall listening to other stupid Vikings making up stupid stories – (when in reality all of them are just trying to put off the inevitable circumstance when they go out to feed their horse and turn into Grendelfood.) So he’s a drinker – check. In addition, he probably had a bone to pick with the local authorities. Now we’re not advocating sailing and drinking, but what if his longship got towed? It didn’t really fit in that parking space to begin with (much like Suburbans in our country), and likely goaded the tow truck guy into hauling it away, what with such a menacing hull and all. And aren’t Vikings known to be stonger than the average Normegian? Dude, he just went through a fence.

I’d like to see Edvard Munch do THAT.