Measure Twice, Blog Once

We admit it’s been a bit quiet around here the past two weeks, and we’ve done very little to fix that backdating problem – wow, can it really be 32 days? – and we’re not going to make excuses. It’s been a hectic 14 days at YAB Central, and several of the forthcoming posts may give the loyal readership a glance into what rolled into becoming a perfect storm of blogging braindrain. At this point, some might turn over a new leaf and make some changes after a treacherous stretch of 7 and 7, but we here at YAB have other ideas in mind. Instead, we’ll back up the car, find that old leaf rather than turning over a new one – and resume daily postings and then some to bring the funny once more.

Hell, in the next span of half a score and four, here’s a YAB Promise: in the next two weeks, from now until Oct 29, expect 15 posts instead of the usual 10. We call that a Promise of Progress. Note: if Pro is the opposite of Con, then is Congress the opposite of Progress?

Man, did I ever come up with a lot of ways to say “2 weeks” in that first ‘graph. When a writer continually references the same noun, one often turns to synonyms to make his words seem more “well-rounded,” “intellectual,” or “thesaurus rex.” However, nouns are people, places, or things. Synonyms are normally tools of the verb or adjective populace. It’s a lot harder to “synonymize” nouns. Take two weeks, for example. The only actual synonym? (And we’ve been saving it, yeah.): FORTNIGHT.

Ah yes, who doesn’t love a good fortnight reference? It sounds so classy, and yet at the same time, completely medieval. But it is not in the vein of writers to be talking about different units of measurement – that’s scientist-speak. And scientists have little use for verbosity. It’s a language of precision, which is why so few words like “fortnight” exist. However, it is often the case that scientists don’t have a word to accurately explain a measurement. And rather than consult the writing community, they do something much more fun: the make a new word up. The following are an analysis of little-known terms of measurement. May these expressions find their way into thy vernacular.

Jerk – in the worlds of nuclear weapons and astrophysics, a Jerk is equivalent to one kiloton of high explosive. Wow, a Jerk can really do some damage, and I’m not even in the nuclear weapon world. However, if you really need a bomb, maybe you should look at some of Steve Martin’s other films: Bringing Down the House, Mixed Nuts, The Out-of-Towners, for starters.

Stone’s Throw – I suppose this would work as a decent estimate of distance, but I feel that the precision of such a statement desires some refining. After all, aren’t there outside factors that need to be considered – windspeed, for one? Also, which Stone is doing the throwing – this one or this one?

Parsec – a measure of distance in outer space, literally the “parallax of one arc second.” And rather than take this space to further define our definition, let’s instead point out the George Lucas has ruined parsecs for everybody. After all, if Han Solo’s Millenium Falcon could make the Kessel Run in 12 parsecs, then what other measure-bending statements are possible? Hey Chris, how hot would you say that cup of coffee is?

I’d say about three fortnights.

Sleeping with the Enemy

And after 426 days and 425 nights of blissful marriage, the inevitable happened.

Condon slept on the couch.

Now before you freak out and get the wrong idea, consider this. I was only there because both the wife and I have been fighting a cold, something fierce, and my ability to sleep soundly no matter what, paired with her ability to have her eyes wide open as I hack-cough so loud as if the Express Train was coming through our bedroom wasn’t quite working out. Being as chivalrous as my influenza-riddled brain could manage, I offered to sleep in the other room, so that we could both enjoy some rest and relief from fevers and allergies for a night.

Hello Sofa, my old friend.

As Spud mentioned in the closing to his killer Best Man speech, I had a history of couch-sleeping during my days as a bachelor. Now the only reason that this went on for so long was that despite our couch’s complete lack of comfort, it was a good night’s sleep. But then marriage came, and I spurned the Couch for a nice new bed with a nice new wife. And I slept better than an awkwardly used armrest could ever manage. There’s has never been a night since when I’ve favored staying put over going to the bedroom. So during the tenure of our marriage, I couldn’t even tell you if sleeping on the couch would still be the same.

Now I know. And the answer is NO.

When I used to sleep on the couch, I enjoyed placid, comforting sleep. Last night? I might as well have been on crack.

I’m not one of those people that often find their daily happenings permeating into their following night’s dreams. I find it fascinating for those who get to enjoy this. There’s probably a lot that can be interpreted from such an inclusion. But for me – things are way different. Take the weirdest dream I ever had, freshman year. I dreamt that Matt Weng came to me, as I was sitting on some dunes, and told me that the world had run out of vinyl siding. In addition, our crafty planners had come up with an effective substitute building material: toast. I didn't even have breakfast that day.

I wish I could make stuff like this up. YAB would be much funnier that way.

As I was falling asleep last night on the couch, I watched the ending to another great episode of CMT’s Trick My Truck. If you haven’t seen this show, you must. It’s a way better version of Pimp My Ride, since they overhaul 16-wheelers. And there’s no Xzibit. But when I turned off the TV and closed my eyes, the show didn’t end there. Maybe it was the couch or the medication, but another episode of the show started in my head. It was occurring in real-time, and I was watching as they tried to put together a killer truck for some trucker that depends on his rig to make a living. In other words, it’s a normal episode. So far.

But after about an hour of watching this dream version, it was clear that by the end of the show, they were nowhere near being completed. No doubt, this trucker’s life was about to be ruined. I woke up in a cold sweat, and hell, I may have even been crying. Who cares if this episode wasn’t real and I made it all up in my head? I was a wreck. I paced around the apartment for a good five minutes trying to separate reality from fiction. And from this debacle, I now know one thing.

Couch, you and I aren’t friends anymore.

Out to Punch

No doubt, there are a lot of useless things you can find by just walking around your standard office environment. Electric staplers, inspirational framed posters, fake office plants, Human Resources – all of these simply take up space. But at one point in your company’s history, these items may have played a pragmatic role in the pursuit of commerce. There had to be a point in existence where you hired a weakling who couldn’t manually affix paper together without the help of something that plugs into the wall. And somebody at one point must have been the slightest bit swayed by a group of skydivers endorsing TEAMWORK. Fake plants? If there ever were to be a intra-office game of Rubber Band Wars to commence, these would provide excellent cover. And HR? Make that H-Arr.

Everyday, I visit the reliable water cooler at least fivefold. It’s an agonizing 23 seconds of di-hydrogen oxide refilling, as our kitchen is largely boring. There’s a copier, and a coffee machine, both rarely used, and with that lack of use, come a lack of people to make small talk with. So my eyes take the time to scan the room for more useless office items, at least to the point in time when the Nalgene bottle I use has reached the brim and my shoes become wet. And time and time again, my gaze hones in on the most useless of things in my office:

The Punch Bowl.

Yeah, sitting there in all its glory on top of our office fridge is a good-sized, frosted glass, brand new looking punch bowl. We’re talking a good two feet in diameter here people. Now I can’t say I’m in the market for a punch bowl, but if I were, I would have to consider this punch bowl as a likely choice. It definitely looks like it can contain brightly-colored standing liquid with the best of them. Too bad it’s never been used.

Turns out I don’t work in a reception hall. Who knew?

Yes, as long as I can remember we’ve had that punch bowl nestled up on that fridge when it should really be somewhere else where it fits in better – on a bridal registry, perhaps. Now I’ve been here nearly four years and never have I seen this punch bowl put to use, either proper or improper. While slightly surprising, fruit punch hasn’t been able to crack into the Office Beverage Stalwart Duo of Coffee and Water to date. Maybe it’s because we have a fear of having to spend on petty cash on wall repair.

So what does one do with this discovery? Well, I could probably just dispose of said bowl, but no doubt and impromptu luau would be planned that would request its use – that’s irony, folks. And there’s no way I’m actually going to fill it with punch – Lord knows that sharing food (or in this case, a ladle) could be an epidemic waiting to happen. And I don’t have the money in our facilities budget to hire a temp employee with the job title of “Stirrer.” So it’s time we get creative, use everything we can in our offices, and become more efficient that Donovan McNabb against the Cowboys.

So here are my two suggestions:

1) Inbox – Everyone has an inbox, and if you can find it on your desk, you’re just not that busy. However, inboxes are often designed to be only a few inches tall. A few thick invoices come your way and it’s overflow city. So why not use the punch bowl as my new inbox? It has a bigger target, so that it will collect paper and, by the power of gravity, condense it at the bottom of the bowl. It’s also much taller than my current inbox, which judging from the paper explosion that is my desk, might come in handy.

2) Fish Bowl – While we may have fake plants, there is a severe lack of pets in this working environment. Why not take one of the empty cubes and have an aquarium? I’d probably keep the electric stapler far, far away from our little oceanic display, but a few little fishies could add more color than some fake plants, inspire better than a dopey poster, and make the pirates feel right at home. Of course, this is an open-air punch bowl, which makes it hard to clean, and I’m not sure if a can get a concave water filtration system. Eh, if not I can always re-assign our “stirrer.”

My Honor Student Just Won a Prize

We’ll be the first to admit that it hasn’t exactly been a banner year for America in the arena of global competition. The Winter Olympics produced many disappointing finishes for our gold medal favorites, Bode Miller being at the top of the list. Last month we lost to Greece in a game we invented, at the International Basketball Championships held in Japan. Similarly, the US of A finished a remarkable 8th in the World Baseball Classic despite playing the tourney on home soil. USA Hockey? 8th again. Ryder Cup team? Blown out. And of course, the Stars and Stripers didn’t make it that far in the World Cup. Jocks of America, for shame.

But what about our geeks?

In a year where patriotic championships are a lost cause, those who were likely mathletes in high school have picked up the slack for the athletes by emphasizing our cerebral superiority in world affairs. Each year, some report comes out saying that as far as education goes, we’re right on pace with Bhutan or Latvia or somewhere else with little world power, and yet, we continue to dominate as a global leader (assuming athletics are nowhere to be found.) But just because only 43% of Americans know where Ohio is, that doesn’t mean our dorks can’t rule the school.

America: Land of the Free and Home of the Nobel Prize.

You see, there are many ways to make a team a champion. Look at the recent few who have hoisted the trophy in their respective sports. The Steelers did it on a team-based effort with no outright superstars and strong team mentality. The Chicago White Sox, while long gone this season, did it with one strong aspect (pitching) and the rest of the aspects being above-average. The Carolina Hurricanes? Veteran leadership and timely goaltending. But what of the Miami Heat? After global stars Dwayne Wade and Shaquille O’Neal, what else do they have? It’s a proven way to win – give the ball to the best guy on the team.

That’s how we roll in academia. Rather than well-educate the masses of the United States, we’ve got a few intellectual superstars and we’ll let them do the heavy lifting. Take Edmund S. Phelps, who took home the Nobel in Economic Sciences over the weekend. He has helped us all further understand the “trade-offs between inflation and effects on unemployment.” So what if our eight graders think that photosynthesis is no longer needed now that we all have digital cameras? I now understand inflation-unemployment trade-offs, thanks to my fellow countryman, Edmund S. Phelps!

But our Nobellian dominance has by no means begun and ended with Phelps. Three other awards have been handed out this year, and each one has been awarded to one of our Dr. Shaqs. In the field of medicine, Drs. Craig Mello and Andrew Fire have discovered a gene disabling technique that will, um, er, revolutionize the means by which we will disable genes. Granted, while this accomplishment may be great, I would be tempted to award these two the medal strictly on the opportunity to meet a guy names Dr. Fire.

As for chemistry, good old American Roger D. Kornberg has something new for his mantle, taking home the Nobel for his studies on how cells take in information from genes to produce proteins. Good thinking! For the record, Canada’s entry in this arena, “Does mixing Molson with Labatt Blue get your drunk faster?” was also considered, but largely dismissed as being “too risky for the Scandanavians to recreate at the ceremony.”

Surely, we’ve got the world of Physics hanging on our every last American word these days, as the tag team of Smoot and Mather for their further convincing the world that the big bang theory is THE theory when it comes to universal creation. That’s good news for Busta Rhymes, who whether you like it or not, has got you all in check.

U-S-A!

Fumbling the Keys

In college, there was nothing better than notification that you had a package waiting for you somewhere in the depths of the campus mailroom. Whether it was a surprise from home or you were quick to discover the glories of on-line shopping, a trip to the University Center was always made more enjoyable when you were able to find one of those yellow package slips in your mailbox.

(And besides, since Wendy the Sandwich Lady was only there freshmen year, couldn’t we all use another source of joy at the UC? God, I miss those 12-inch hoagies.)

While the Wendy analogy may not translate to other college campuses, the package slip methodology should. In order to actually turn that package slip into a package, one had to go around the corner to the mail desk, sign in, prove their identity, spin around in a circle three times, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, construct a miniature mail truck using only paper clips and twine, recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards, promise the guy behind the desk he’d get 10% of all foodstuffs contained within said package, and say “please.”

Or at least that’s what we told freshmen during orientation.

All in all, in reality, it was an easy process. On birthdays and anytime I bought a DVD on the dime of the good folks at Echo.com, I could receive a package. It was incredibly easy, and in most cases, came with glee.

But then you enter the real world, and the real world manages to make the receiving of packages hell for the working professional.

Having lived in four different apartment complexes in 5 years, I’ve found that with each increase in quality, receiving a package is safer and more complex, but not necessarily easier. In the first place, packages would be left on your doorstep, and your chances of receiving of said package was directly proportional to how fast you got home after work. In the second place, they asked your neighbors to hang on to packages for you if you were not home. Not a bad idea, but this of course assumes 1) you know your neighbors and 2) speak the same language as them. In the third place, the leasing office held them, and you could pick up them during normal business hours. Too bad normal business hours were 1:00-1:15 on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Or at least it felt that way.

But now we live in Fairfax Corner. Nevermind our complex is called “Camden.” They’ve made getting a package EASY. On the first floor there’s a room with the entire complex’s mailboxes, built not unlike a college mail room. Everyone has a tiny key that gets them into tiny boxes. Within these boxes you can get tiny mail – but definitely not large packages. When you do get a package though, the mail fairy leaves a small key in your mailbox. This small key corresponds with a much bigger mailbox on the opposite wall. Combine the two, and You’ve Got Package.

This is how Katie explained it to me last night, when she picked up a very nice birthday gift from Mr. Andersen.

Of course, she used logic and smarts to put together that puzzle – no document or notice was given to explain the system. After all, yeah, I saw that key in the box last week, and just assumed, “Hey, it appears the mail guy left a key in here by accident. I guess I’ll just leave it until he finds it.” My ineptitude isn’t a big deal in this regard, as Katie came in to close this package receipt out. However, the very same thing happened in early September, and my course of action then may have totally punted the plan.

When I first saw a key in early September, I took it upstairs with me. No real reason why, just thought it was funny, perhaps YAB material. I threw it on my nightstand, and it sat there – until last night – when I realized, “Oh, God someone sent us a package a month ago, and I haven’t claimed it yet.”

Umm – it was gone.

If anyone tried to send me stuff in early September only to have it returned to sender, now you know why.

In Zod We Trust

We know that it’s hard to trust famous people. They exist on a completely different financial plateau than you and me, and that tends to alter their views, their politics, and their choice of clothing. We acknowledge that it’s hard to be famous – it can be a grueling swim with the phone is ringing and you’re stuck in the deep end of your Money Bin, but cell phones have made even that easier for you A-listers. From Mel Gibson to Tom Cruise to Jon Voight, everyone in Hollywood seems bent on giving us good reason to never trust them again.

(Oh, what? Why shouldn’t we trust Voight? Here’s why.)

On a slow news day at our sister site, Forbes Magazine, it appears that some sly intern got a cool idea to get a quick story with minimal work involved. While he should have been researching hedge funds and treasury bonds, he instead submitted a list of the Ten Most Trusted Celebrities in America. Why did he think this was such an easy gig? Easy. There are in fact only ten celebrities in America you CAN trust. But despite the made-up survey data and the cool embedded pictures, you can clearly tell this is the work of an intern. After all – the ten he gave us are completely untrustworthy. And as a civic duty, YAB now presents why you can’t trust Forbes’ Most Trusted Celebrities.

You’re welcome.

Oh, and the link to said list is here.

1. Tom Hanks – Just because we like to remind the super-successful of early career choices, it should be noted that two-time Best Actor Tom Hanks once dressed up as a woman with pal Peter Scolari in order to score cheap rent in an all-women apartment building. That might make him brilliant, and but it doesn’t make him a bastion of trust.
2. Rachael Ray – Generally speaking, politicians and leaders with something to hide often speak in louder volumes in order to seem more convincing and to take the focus off other aspects of their personalities. We give you PopWatch’s review of Rachael’s new talk show.
3. Michael J. Fox – Yes, the man has done incredible things with his charitable foundation for Parkinson’s disease, and he’s never played a single baddie in his illustrious TV and film career. He’s got the baby face that makes you want to trust him. That’s cool. But there’s a blemish on the record of MJF, and we had to go all the way back to 1988 to find it. Forbes Magazine, as a leading publication in the financial community, should not be recognizing a man who in an attempt to get rich quick via a clever purchase and time travel, bought the Gray’s Sports Almanac in such a scheme.
4. Oprah Winfrey – Hey, if Letterman has trouble trusting you, and he’s the Voice of the People…
5. James Earl Jones – Yeah, nothing weird about trusting a man responsible for building not one but TWO Death Stars. Yeah, I can sleep at night with that pick.
6. Denzel Washington – steals candy from babies.
7. Ty Pennington – For those of you who do not know Pennington, he’s the host of ABC’s wildly successful Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Each week, Ty and friends change the lives of some hard-luck family by ripping their current abode to shreds and erecting something much bigger and better in its place. It’s hard to not trust a guy who does this for a living. But what happens if something goes wrong on the set of his show? What if they can’t make the deadline? What if the concrete base settles everything on less than a 90 degree angle? All I’m saying is you might have a crazed host with a nearby supply of nail guns and circular saws. Yikes.
8. Ron Howard – once shot a man in Reno for spite.
9. Morgan Freeman – was the wheelman for the notorious spiteful Reno killer, Ron Howard.
10. Reese Witherspoon – someone who’s most famous for player a lawyer? Really? And what’s more, a lawyer with a sequel? Wow. Stupid intern.

The Investment, Heart Deux

Among the many things you can find out by reading I’ll Blog You, the daily musings in the Life of Lacey Smith, is that despite all the DVR and DVD options they have in that house, they’re never too busy to root for the Philadelphia Phillies. In her Wednesday post, she valiantly defies Education by tracking the score between the Phils and the Washington Nationals – no doubt she has discovered the ancient Chinese secret of ALT + TAB. Well, Lace, in our second half of this dramedic essay, let me fill you in on what you could not see on MLB.com Gamecast at RFK Stadium that night.

After all, I was there.

But before we do that, we feel so inclined to include some more economispeak regarding the Investment of Heart. (Further justification of why I went to grad school, you see.) A sporting event that goes into overtime is not unlike an arcade game. Now we know that very few of you have grown up within the era of arcade games, as Nintendo, Sega et al have discovered crafty play-at-home versions where the only quarters you’ll lose are the ones that fall into the couch cushions. (Of course, you’ll probably be down a few Cheetos as well.) The game is meant to be a standard length, as dictated by the rules of the game. If you are unable to complete said game in said duration, and GAME OVER is blinking at you with the fury of a thousand suns, an additional investment is required. For an arcade game fanboy, it’s another quarter. For a sports fan, it’s more heart.

I was at the game on Wednesday, some 25 rows behind the Phillies’ dugout. I had invested a standard level of emotion, and as the game remained close throughout the first nine innings, I was getting my money’s worth. With the Fightins’ taking a one-run lead into the ninth with Tom Gordon coming in to close, I figured that that quarter-worth of tension and nerves had been a solid financial venture. However, as the Flashman walked in the tying run, knotting the game at 5, I knew that I’d have to reach back into the pockets for more.

Now when the Nationals were unable to plate one more run in the ninth and we got sent to extra frames, the city of DC did exactly what many sports fans would do. In a city where a 90 minute lead-time on your day requires you to get up way earlier that you liked, the stadium emptied as Washington took to the field in the top of the tenth. I can’t blame them. With a Metro ride or traffic, it’s likely they’re still an hour away from making it home. And at 10:20 already, the exodus was on. Plus, they had spent all their heart.But about 3,000 fans ponied up another ounce or two and stuck around. For the Nats’ diehards, it was an investment of commitment to a young team with a promising future. For Phillies fans, in the heat of the Wild Card race, it was an all-in proposition.

And we were all-in.

As the innings progressed – the 10th, the 11th, the 12th – the crowd convened closer and closer to the field, as the ushers had phoned it in at this point. Hell, we had paid $3 for our tickets – when it was all said and done, we had paid less than 4 cents per out to watch this thriller in person. A companion continually asked if we were in South Philly. Back and forth, neither team could manage to put it away.

This is what I love about Philadelphia fans, which by the 13th inning were easily 80% of the remaining crowd. They’re fully invested. Playoffs for this unlikely team with a lineup including nobodies like “Coste,” “Victorino,” and “Nunez,” are still in it, months since the season was put up for sale at the trade deadline. Philly fans dig that, even if it has been 23 years since their last championship. We may be the number 2 Tortured Sports City in America, but we’re not fair weather. (by the way we tip our hat, of course, to Cleveland in this one.)

When Ryan Howard (no, not the one on The Office) was intentionally walked three straight times, RFK filled with boos. When Clay Condrey got a key K in the bottom of 13th, the ancient stadium erupted in cheer. And I was there, and I was proud to be a part of it.

What is even more impressive may be the Nationals fans that also chose to screw their morning commute and stick around. Loyal as ever, with no playoffs in sight, they hung with their scrappy team. Hell, Frank Robinson had been asleep since 8:15, and they were just as excited play witness.

So when Jimmy Rollins ripped a two-run triple in the top of the 14th, we went nuts. And while DC fought back to within one in the bottom half of the inning, the Phillies returned on our investment of heart with an 8-7 victory. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t impressive, but it was worth every emotion to have been there in person.

With last night’s loss and the Dodgers completely on fire, this game may end up being meaningless in the history of the Fightins’. But at the time, you can never know.

That’s why you play the game.

The Investment of Heart

A Dramedic* Essay by Chris Condon

Contrary to what George Steinbrenner and Co. want you to believe, it doesn’t cost that much to be a sports fan. Well, from a monetary point-of-view, anyways. Going to games in beautiful state-of-the-art stadiums where even when there isn’t any action on the field you can watch sausages with legs race the perimeter is normally worth the price of admission. And while the best way to show your hometown pride is to don thyself in, team apparel (fa-la-la…), it’s not a requirement to pledge one’s athletic allegiance. Ok, you may need cable to watch the games at home. And cable costs money. But hey, it’s not like that $40 check is only for sports. You get other channels for your check. Some of that check goes to the Weather Channel. And probably other channels too, but we just think it would be nice if the Weather Channel got some cash to spruce things up and make weather more exciting. Here’s a tip – Meteorological Around the Horn. Could be a gold mine. Or a future blog post.

But this column wasn’t meant to be about cable revenue distribution. (That’s because we know nothing about such a silly thing.) This column was meant to be about what it costs you to be a sports fan. And after running many numerical calculations and cost/benefit analyses, to the point where our solar calculator melted into a raging ball of fire-magma, it turns out that we have an answer. Sports will cost you. It will cost you heart.

We now test this theory with two scenarios.

May 5th-6th, 2000 – The Game Theory – Finals are an interesting schedule rift for even the most seasoned college student. You no longer have classes to attend, so any semblance of a daily routine has been shoved out the window. You life now revolves around sporadically scheduled exams by which your last four months of existence will be objectively graded. And yet, Academia throws in a monkey wrench – by putting said exams during the NHL Playoffs. Now this wouldn’t have been a problem on 5/5/00, had the Penguins and Flyers played a standard hockey game. With a Game Theory final looming, I just figured I’d watch the game (along with Spud), study during and afterwards, and just do it. Of course, nobody mentioned my plan to the goalies of the evening, Brian Boucher and Ron Tugnutt. As the 1-1 tie went to overtime, I knew I was in trouble. But here’s the dilemma. I had already paid the price of admission, as the playoffs require a significant emotional investment. When loser goes home plays a part, I can’t just turn off the TV and find out the score in the morning. And so we watched, gasping at each Jagr wrister and hoping with each LeClair deke that this game would be over soon, with Philly on top.

“Soon,” to both teams, was an incredibly relative term. For it does not encompass two overtimes, or even three or four. Yes, in the fifth overtime, we were still playing hockey. The players? Completely spent. Chris Condon? I was so on edge that if Spud had knocked the remote off the coffee table, my frayed psyche would have either jumped up and punched a perfect circle into the fridge door or cried uncontrollably. Completely unpredictable. You see, with each overtime whistle, you spend a little more heart to remain a part of the action. And at that point, I had bet the farm – or at least the results of my Game Theory final. When Keith Primeau finally scored the game winner to end the third longest game in HISTORY, I let the loudest scream of my soul out – at 1:37 in the morning. However, with two sleeping roommates, I had to then take that scream and internalize it, completely throwing all internal systems out of whack – and may have led to more crying.

Or at least that was my rationale for oversleeping the final the next morning. (Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, I finished in plenty of time. Hey - an A-minus! Cool!)

And with that, this essay has become a novella, and now with our backs held to the Word Count Wall. Part Two – this afternoon.

*Dramedic (adj.) – 1. a combination of dramatic and comedic; 2. Condon’s inability to keep a straight face even while having full intention of being poignant; 3. an anagram for “Diced Arm”

They Should Make Britches Bigger

Ok, so yesterday’s post didn’t go as planned. It was planned that a post would be written, and as it turns out, it was not. Weird.

So as you all know, I now am blogging live from the comfy confines of an actual office. While my door is always open (unless closed), I am able to enjoy relative privacy and a sense of detachment from the cubicular world. Now from a productivity standpoint, this suits me just fine – the fewer entrances to my workspace, the better. However, from a comedy standpoint, living in the land of half-walls and modular furniture was a waterfall of material for YAB. And with grad school being a distant memory at this point, it was nice to have cube comedy to fall back on when the funnywell runs dry.

Note: if you drop a penny in the funnywell, don’t expect your wish to come true. Expect a pie in the groin.

So have we seen the last of the comedy that calls Cubeworld home? Well, judging from an e-mail I got this morning, the answer is no.

Passive-aggressive behavior is when a person exhibits conduct that attacks others in a manner that disguises itself as anything but an attack. It’s for those who are too weak to make a statement but would like to see things change anyways. While enormously frustrating, it’s still better than the lesser-known Aggressive-passive behavior, where people are trying to keep their opinions as low profile as possible, but yell them aloud while sleeping and run into office furniture while talking.

Well, a case of the former hit my inbox with all the trimmings of a textbook passive-aggressive. While the subject line remained blank (something that kills me) and the addressee list was suppressed, the point of the email was clear. We have a newbie to our floor, who started maybe a month ago. In this person’s previous position, they were in an office. Now the rock the cube. And as the e-mail will go on to insist – this person is having a little trouble adjusting. It reads:

CUBICLE ETIQUETTE By Jill Bremer, Bremer Communications (note: This is Jill Bremer. She’s a certified Image Professional. And I’m the King of Sweden.)

“Is your current workspace a cubicle? Life in a cube presents certain challenges. Studies show that most workers are not thrilled with the idea of working in a cube because of the lack of privacy and the increased noise. Here, then, is a set of ground rules that will help cube dwellers remain both productive and neighborly.

(What follows are some suggestions as just how one might remain neighborly. We will promptly do our civic duty to mock the most glaring inclusions.)

• Post a sign or flag at your cube entrance to signal when you can be interrupted. -- I had no idea that I needed a cursory knowledge of semaphore. We're going to need a bigger boat.
• Keep your hands off a cube dweller’s desk. Just because there’s no door doesn’t mean you can't help yourself to their paper clips. -- This is why Kill Bremer is no Image Professional (whatever that means.) She has no idea of the difference between can and can't. Paper clips for all?!?
• When you leave your cubicle, turn your phone ringer off and let it go to voicemail or forward your phone number to your new location. -- Do you realize how many times I get out of my chair in a day? Sorry about not finishing those reports, Bob, but I was busy configuring my phone for the 6 trips to the water fountain, the 3 to the restroom, and twice to beat my head against the Wall of Stupidity.
• Set pagers to vibrate -- and set phasers to stun. Look, I'd much rather have the beeping of a Blackberry than the recurring rumble of the PDA vibrating across somebody's desk. No jackhammers allowed.
• Use your “library voice”. -- Guess what, Jill - there's no such thing as libraries anymore. Kids use the Internet these days, and if someone wants to read a book for free, they go to Borders. Therefore, the term "library voice" has been officially abolished. Starting...now.

Little People Standing Tall

Yes, we all know that new television season is upon us, and yes, programming is becoming more and more original and refreshing in this fallout from the reality show overload phase of our society. This week, Aaron Sorkin has once again hooked us with Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and The Office started strong last night as well. Now we’re just killing time until October 5 gets here, whereby Lost will become a regular part of our lives once more.

But sometimes, you just miss the past.

Despite being a child of the seventies, my first full decade and thus, my childhood, occurred in the eighties. For the most part, my parents would probably describe as a kid who preferred the outdoors to the indoors, taking many an opportunity to fall out of trees and scare the heck out of them. But that should not and will not the quality of television in the eighties. You want a reality show, studio execs? Bring back American Gladiators.

Yeah, you heard me.

Look, AG is completely relevant in our day. It combined the ability for the everyman to do battle with steroids, personified in the form of enormous gladiators with random one-word names. Sure, we understand names like Turbo, Tank, and Storm, but others have left us scratching our heads. Malibu? Sunny? Dallas? Zap? What kind of names are these? I’m surprised that Gwenyth Paltrow wasn’t a fan of this show. Arbitrary nouns make great names.

Having begun in glory back in ’89, we’ll give credit to AG as an eighties show, even though it stretched its lifespan ‘til ’97. And yes, the great Joe Theisman? He was a studio analyst for the show in ’89. God, I hope Kornheiser brings this up on MNF someday.

But we’re scattering from the point. Not only was American Gladiators a launching pad for a crappy ex-jock commentator, it was the ultimate means to settle disputes. You got a problem? Why don’t you overcome it while tennis balls are shot out of a cannon at your head at 105 mph. And we here at YAB have decided to settle one of the all-time Great 80’s Debates by pitting two hostile gangs against one another in an AG cage match, tale of the tape style. Without further ado, let’s declare a winner of...

SMURFS versus SNORKS

Breakthrough and Conquer – AllStar vs. Papa Smurf – The leader of their respective squads, these two lead off the competition with a football-like game that has been breeded with wrestling. Now, neither stand a chance in a game where a Gladiator is charged with pushing a midget cartoon character out of a ring, but AllStar’s blinding speed allows him to go five-hole through the legs of Malibu to the finish line. Papa Smurf crumbles into an arthritic heap. Sorry, Pops. EDGE – SNORKS!

Assault – Smurfette vs. Casey Kelp – Yes, it’s Ladies Night in the event where the REAL objective is not getting drilled in the face by a tennis ball from Diamond or Gemini. Casey Kelp was paired up with AllStar on the Snorks, and since Snorks often find themselves in peril (c’mon, they’re underwater and the size of breakfast croissants), they needed a gutsy girl Snork to help AllStar overcome evil. That was Casey – she was a Tomsnork. Smurfette, while often helpful against the likes of Gargamel, was ultimately eye candy in the weirdest communal living situation in cartoon history. Casey has the dead-eye aim to hit the target and end the game with the crossbow from 30 yards out. EDGE: SNORKS!

Powerball – Brainy Smurf vs. Tooter – Has anyone noticed that the number one skill a Gladiator needed to be on the show was “tackling?” After Breakthrough and Conquer, Hang Tough and about 3 other events, if you could wrap your arms around an opponent and take them down to the ground, you had a steady job for years to come. I’m not advocating supplementary cooking challenges, but it just seems like too much of one athletic feat, you know? Anyway, Powerball is a game of angles and geometry. It’s about picking the shortest line to whatever basket is along the path of lease resistence. It requires cunning, wit, and intelligence. None of which you find in a Snork who speaks through musical notes out of a long forehead tube. EDGE: SMURFS!

Joust – Jokey Smurf vs. Junior Wetworth – Junior Wetworth was a classic example of the eighties cartoon villain. It was actually his father, the mayor or something, that caused the most destruction to the general Snork way of life. But since no one likes to watch a bunch of kids doing battle with the government, they created a son of the Mayor, who is as whiny as he is corrupt. It’s a Draco Malfoy complex, really. And like Draco, Junior Wetworth has no business in the Joust. Jokey Smurf employs an exploding jousting paddle, sending Blaze to the mat. EDGE – SMURFS!

Hang Tough – Vanity Smurf vs. Daffney – This is no doubt the most insane event they had on American Gladiators. Can you imagine the pitch meeting in which this became reality? “What if we take our ordinary competitors and make them hang to rings, and then have our Gladiators hang off them and make ‘em fall? Yeah!! Wait, but what if the Gladiators accidentally grab on and pull off the competitor’s pants? We’re so low budget, we can’t afford the blue censor dot!! OH! I’ve got a solution! Spandex FOR EVERYBODY! Dude, you’re a genius.” Oh, by the way, this event is a complete draw – Vanity Smurf and Daffney are complete pansies and neither species has much in the way of upper body strength. EDGE: DRAW!

The Eliminator – Hefty Smurf vs. Dimmy – We need not waste blog space listing the credentials of a guy named Hefty Smurf, as he was an obvious choice to take on AG’s killer final obstacle course challenge. Dimmy on the other hand, is clearly the A.C. Slater to AllStar’s Zack Morris. He dates the Snork referred to on Wiki as “the prettiest Snork,” he’s clearly stronger, and damn is elastic-waist stone-washed jeans existing underwater, Dimmy would be sure to don a pair. (For what it’s worth, that makes Tooter the Screech Snork.) But if you want a be a champ, you can’t let girls and fashion get in the way. Hefty Smurf lives to lift weights (and pound the crap out of Brainy Smurf), and frankly, he’s been training for this all his life. Dimmy gets railed by Nitro in the gauntlet and Hefty takes this in a walk. EDGE: SMURFS!

It’s the SMURFS in a 3-2 decision.

Sweet and Shower

Ain’t nothing more awkward then taking a shower with other people.

Part of the typical American office culture is that when an employee is approaching a major life event in their personal life, someone in the office recognizes this and makes an effort to acknowledge it with an in-house celebration. A person’s birthday happens every year, and a short ceremony of awkward singing and cake usually commences in the office break room. I work in a building with 2,500 other people. Theoretically, that means there’s like 7 of these going on every day. And on Fridays, make that like 20 considering even cake cannot convince people to come in and work on a Saturday.

But for impending weddings and births, your regular office go-getter insists on taking it to the next level. The cake: it gets bigger. Presents, balloons – introduced into the fray. A casual run around the office can no longer gather up the team for the festivities – an Outlook Meeting Maker is required. Yes, it makes birthdays look like any day but.

What you’ve got is a shower.

Whether baby or bridal, the shower serves as a nice gesture that gets everyone involved in sharing the excitement that you currently possess, for whatever imminent occasion that might be. And while that little one on the way or your day to wear a tux or dress may have been decided upon months ago; consider this a perk of the trade. Congratulations! Those who you spend 40 hours a week with want to let you know that they’re rooting you on!

And yet, why do you feel so strange?

Well if you are of the female readership contingent, you probably don’t feel all that awkward. You’re probably elated and touched that while commerce is going on all around, this one conference room has been decked out in streamers and confetti in your honor. All those you work with are just thrilled for you, and as a result, pepper you with questions about the wedding or baby. And since you likely spent the last nine months planning the arrival of either, you are more than happy to show off your hard work and efforts, spilling the details with glee. If there are presents involved, you can pull off that reaction from a gift with class and enthusiasm, something guys have to struggle with.

That is, unless your co-workers managed to buy you something that has nothing to do with housewares or little pajama sets.

If you are of the male readership, the shower situation is slightly more perplexing. This is especially true if your expectant mother/bride to be doesn’t work in the same office and is unable to attend. All that stuff that she is so good at – the compliments, the questions, the well-wishes – now fall to you to field. You’re not at your regular position. Now you’re playing QB and the blitz is on. This is not to say the you’re lacking gratefulness in this scenario – you just can’t pull it off with all the people asking about finer details of your big day. In other words –

It’s everything your normal shower isn’t.

Think about it – when you drag your self out of bed in the morning, the first place you’re headed is to the shower. Unless you’ve got some intramurals or working out on tap later, it’s probably going to be the only shower you have today. And yet, on this one day before your life event, you’re suddenly getting two showers.

One will last 5 minutes, tops, as you work with the precision of a surgeon to clean with speed but efficiency. The other will last an hour and half, and as the guest of honor, you’ll be the last to leave – long after the temperature the room is no longer warm. One will look to eradicate dirt, and the other wants nothing more to dig it up. And finally, one will be a quiet time of introspection, reflection, and occasional singing. The other may include singing, sure, but it will come from all those other people in there with you.

How did you all get in here, anyway?

Blinded by the White

Cell Phone, cell phone, why have you forsaken me?

It feels like yesterday (ok, it was June 10th, 2005) when I completed the first successful flip of my new flip phone. There’s just something about the rush of sliding your thumb slightly between the two ends of your cellular device, and with a quick flick, the gadget flies open in a uber-techno dazzling move of…telecommunications. You just feel cooler with a flip phone. Sure, you’re not going to do anything cooler that maybe order a pizza, but there’s still something incredibly top secret about using one.

Maybe if it were a top secret pizza…

Yes, I’ve got my trusty Motorola to the side of my keyboard here today, and it would be pleased to know that I’ve dedicated yet another post to discussing it. Of course, it cannot hear the words I am lamenting in its honor – personally, I’m annoyed by those who read aloud what they are typing and I shall not join their ranks. And with my recent bout of verbosity, there’s no way this will get sent to my phone via a text message, either. That would cost at least 30 bucks, and if we’re throwing that kind of cash around, I might as well order a top secret pizza. Of course, my phone is no idiot – it understands my voice commands, so maybe if I flip it open it will be able to read the words right off my computer screen. Cellular cognizance – it’s possible right. Perhaps it could work…

…if my phone wasn’t legally blind.

That’s right. My phone is blind. No matter what speed, angle, or direction I flip it open, it’s ability to see the outside world is gone. Instead of helpful icons, I’ve been left with the equivalent of digital snowstorm. Nothing but white screen.

The problem with a white screen is this: you know everything that the phone is functionally capable is in complete working order; you are just not allowed to witness it work. A blue screen would inform you of the problem, and explain that you’re screwed. A black screen probably means your battery’s dead. A green screen is an opportunity to do some cool CGI stuff. A white screen? Simply hopeless.

I guess it’s not so bad – after all in olden times, phones didn’t even have screens. Their functionality was simple. You press some buttons to dial, listen though one end and talk through the other. End of innovation. And this would be a fine way to treat The Great White Hope, except that technology has taunted us with other features, features I’ve grown accustomed to both using AND viewing.

TEXT MESSAGING – For anyone who is in the business of sending me text messages, I thank you. If you haven’t seen a response or reaction from me, however, now you might know why. Since the audio on the phone isn’t broken, I know when someone has sent a text, I just can’t determine who it’s from and what it says. So I just make stuff up in my head. (That said, thanks Joe, I’m going to love the Flyers season tickets you bought me and text messaged me to tell me!)

DIALING – It has been well-documented that you have no idea what anyone’s phone number is. We’ve become overly addicted to out cell phones, so much that we have no idea what sequence of digits will connect you to anyone these days. Since I can’t actuall see my contact list, I do have a backdoor to my addiction – speaker phone. Yes, for some reason, if I put my phone on speaker phone and click on what I remember to be the Contacts key, my phone will say each person’s name in the creepiest computer voice imaginable. And yet, it manages surprisingly well to nail nearly every name. Viehweg, Arsenault, Maugham – it gets them all. Well enough to forgive its “Strud Mellor” and “Jahzen Andersen.”

So if you call me and I sound a little off, don’t take it personally. I’m just trying to figure out who the hell I’m talking to.

Let Sleeping Frogs Lie

You have to love when meetings are done via conference call. You don’t have to go to a conference room, you don’t have to leave your computer, and thanks to the vital “Speakerphone + Mute” dynamic duo, you can actually continue to do regular, productive work instead of scribbling on a notepad to prevent your hand from falling asleep.

Especially in a presentation-type call, where your input will be minimal, your attention span can wane. Now a few months back we explained how dangerous it is to leave your desk on such a call via the Off-the-Chain Quotient, and while 36 people mean I could have taken over 34 billion steps away (don’t tell me the formula’s flawed), I stayed glued to the chair, getting work done and drifting out of conference call cognizance.

Until…

The call was an all-hands meeting designed to explain upcoming corporate policy standard changes. There’s a lot of ‘em and they’ll be here soon (changes, not meetings). This is why the call was being held. And while we may or may not have known how dramastically it was all going to happen, we know now.

And to think I almost missed the speaker’s analogy.

He compared it to boiling a frog. Yes, boiling a frog. From a logical standpoint, the analogy works. If you were to put a frog in a pot of boiling water, the frog would immediately hop out of it, saving its own life and leaving you with only a mildly scorched amphibian. But if you were to place a frog in a pot of lukewarm water, and ever so slowly increase the temperature on the stove, the frog will detect little change, and for no other reason that humans are smarter than frogs, will die an eventual scalding death. (If Peter King wrote this blog – I’d guarantee you a “croak” joke here.)

Regardless of what corporate overhaul changes we should see in the coming months, there is one question of mine that the speaker failed to answer for me, now paying acute attention:

Who the heck would ever think to boil a frog?

Clichés and saying have to have some basis in order for them to become clichés and sayings, don’t they? That means at some point in recorded history, someone saw that the “ease into a crisis” method of gradual change was similar to something he had either once done or at least witnessed. At some point, a frog was boiled under two highly scientific experiment variables – by shock and by awing into submission, and that guy was a part of it. And it’s not like this is one animal-masochist leading this conference call – this is on Wikipedia, for crying out loud.

And what’s more, apparently in crisis management, the boiling frog theory is used “to illustrate a slippery slope argument.” Needless to say, a slippery slope is another place a frog would prefer not to be.

Run, Kermit, Run.

Spinach in the News

This is what happens when farmers stop paying attention.

New York (YABNews) – While the majority of Americans have experienced little daily change with the FDA’s latest warnings on the hazards of consuming spinach, one local man has seen his life turned upside down.

A recent outbreak of E. coli bacteria in the nation’s spinach crop has led to fairly widespread panic across the country, as well as provoking CNN into asking ominous questions on its screen graphics such as “Spinach: Vegetable of Doom?” After a morning roundup of the cable news networks ongoing coverage of Leafygate ’06, it appears that the Democrats are blaming FoxNews, FoxNews is blaming Terrorists, and Terrorists are blaming Mark Brunell.

All four did not immediately return phone calls to YABNews. Surprising, since Brunell phoned it in last night.

Regardless of the cause, 4 Americans have died and another 109 cases have been reported to the FDA. The outbreak has spanned 19 states, and curiously, none are in the Southeastern United States. Both the FDA and mothers are now aware that someone hasn’t been eating their vegetables, and are immediately sending senators of said states to their rooms.

But what of the man who was mentioned in this article’s opening and then ignored for the following two paragraphs? Since YABNews and the FDA are always getting each others’ mail, we decided to hang on to Case #110 of the E coli epidemic for ourselves. And man, are we depressed after hearing this guy’s tale.

A local sailor man’s well-being has been crushed due to the recent health advisory, and no one in the farming industry is willing to own up. Mr. Popeye Mononym, who works as a dockworker, has lost his job, lost his girl, lost his house, and lost his appetite – all due to agricultural negligence.Either a mama’s boy or an Atkins diet psycho, Popeye has sworn by spinach consumption for as long as he can remember. And despite there being a fast food chicken chain that shares the same name as him, he insists on the poor man’s lettuce as a sustenance. “You don’t see Roy Rogers eating at Roy Rogers, do you?” he questioned.

At the time of this article, Mr. Rogers has been dead for six years.

But one cannot blame Popeye for this oversight; his hunger strike has left him a tad lightheaded. Last Wednesday, when the news of the E. coli broke, Popeye abided by the federal warning, and by doing so, skipped breakfast. He works as down at the city docks, unloading cargo ships, which he has done ever since retiring from the Navy out of protest for the factual inaccuracies contained within the 1986 movie, “Top Gun.” (Aside from any military gaps in protocol, seriously Tom, how do you put on your shades when you’re hugging Iceman at the end of the movie? Out of thin air they come, damn it.)

Popeye’s supervisor pulled him out of the line by mid-afternoon Wednesday, after his employee was showing signs of immense fatigue. Exhausted, Popeye fell asleep in the break room and overslept, missing a 7 o’clock dinner date with his true love, a Miss Olive Oyl of Long Island. (Doesn’t matter, we suppose, as she just picks at her food judging from her figure.)

With the reduction in productivity, Popeye was fired from his job, and as a blue-collar employee, found himself walking out the door with a substandard paycheck. With rent due, he came to blows with his landlord, a local man who goes simply as “Bluto.”

Despite winding up his right arm like a windmill and tooting his corn cob pipe like a train whistle, Popeye was a first round KO victim to his landlord, and was promptly evicted. Sure, he had some savings in the past that could have paid the rent, but he loaned it today to a “Mr. Wimpy” and was not expecting repayment until Tuesday.

Now he is finished, ‘cause he didn’t eat his spinach.

Party on, Wang! Party on, Garth!

Can we please make fun of the New York Islanders today? Please?

Even as a one man writing and editing team, I have an internal struggle with what to post each day for fear of alienating any one readership group. And after last weekend’s massive NFL-TV preview, I was hesitant to do another sports story so soon after such an athletic overload. That’s a shame, because at a point this week where the idea well had run dry, the Isles were feeding me material left and right. Well, it’s been long enough since that last sports topic, and now, let’s delve into the managerial maelstrom that is the New York Islanders.

The New York Islanders are one of those forgotten franchises in pro sports. Guys will often play the game (perhaps on a car trip or treadmill) where they try and name all the pro sports franchises for a given league. Why? Because other games are much too hard to play on a treadmill (Could you imagine Treadmillopoly? Thought not.) So for the few who attempt the NHL, the Atlantic Division often rattles off as “Philly, the Rangers, the Devils, the Penguins, and…hmm…okay…maybe I should give Treadmillopoly a try.”

Behold the Power of the New York Islanders.

Not only they the forgotten franchise of the NHL and the Atlantic Division, they’re even forgotten in their own city. With the Rangers on Broadway, there’s not much press for the team who once thought this uniform, an homage to the Gorton’s Fisherman, was a good idea. But rather that capturing the hockey fan’s attention by putting the puck in the net and victories in the win column, the Isles have taken an alternate approach to acquiring press.

Let crazy people run the team.

You know Computer Associates, right? They’re the company that creates software for corporate business enterprise systems. While that may sound boring, we love that after listing their storied list of products, Wikipedia also notes that as of September 1, CA “removed towel service in the CA Gym.” Bunch of savages.

CA was started by Charles Wang, and while running the company, he made a lot of money. Wang was good at what he did and therefore, was handsomely rewarded. Enough so that he was able to buy himself a nice big present in 2000. Yep, you guess it. The New York Islanders.

We could put a few paragraphs of straight talkin’ hockeyspeak that would illumniate the ineptitude that the new GM used through the first 5 years of the Wang Dynasty. Botched draft picks, silly trades, and even trusting in Satan got the Isles’ nowhere fast. But now, Wang has taken it to the next level. Of Hell.

After a 2005 campaign that left NY outside the playoffs for the first time since 2001, they decided to go in a new direction, hiring Neil Smith as their new general manager. Smith entered into the Islander Pentavirate, whereby Wang, Coach Ted Nolan, Smith, and former Isles Pat LaFontaine and Bryan Trottier make decisions in the same fashion as the Big 5 of the UN Security Council – unanimous or else. Apparently, like Ross on friends, GM Neil Smith only skimmed his contract, avoided reading the small print, and upon finding this 41 days later, promptly left the organization. The only shorter head managerial tenure occurred when William Henry Harrison coached the Red Wings in the 40’s – but somehow he caught pneumonia being around so much ice.

With a GM vacancy mere months before opening night, most owners would scour the league’s former coaches and current support staff to replace Nolan. Not Charles Wang, he’s not most owners. Islander fans, welcome your new GM – backup goalie Garth Snow!!!!

Huh?

We admit that goaltending is an important component of a hockey team, but does that make a netminder fit to run the company? In the business world, this is the equivalent of taking the firm’s junior comptroller and moving him to the head of the boardroom table. Which not only must anger the senior comptroller, but make us all wonder – what the hell is a comptroller?

But the junior comptroller doesn’t forget where he comes from – the net. Hopefully, this explains why new GM Garth Snow just signed their starting goalie Rick DiPietro, to a 15 year, 67.5 million contract. Yes, that’s right. 15 years. I’m going to be 41 years old, and this guy will still be under contract for the Islanders. What happens in 2008 if DiPietro’s skills decline in a few years, and a new hotshot is ready to become a starter. Don’t worry – DiPietro will only be on the bench for the next 1,066 games.

The Islanders – it’s like shooting fishermen in a barrel.

With this Gift, I Continue to Thee Wed

Over a lunchtime phone call with the Prodigal Roommate, we got on the topic of Anniversary Gifts. Why? I have no idea. Maybe he saw a guy on the streets of NYC panicked that he had forgotten his anniversary and was frantically trying to remember if the 5th Year is supposed to be “hot dog” or “gyro.” Eh, desperate times call for desperate measures. (Hey buddy, I would have gone with the hot dog. It’ll hurt less when your angry wife throws it at your head.)

Vending carts aside, through the years it has been passed down in Western Culture that there are specific gift materials associated with milestone years of a couple’s anniversary. Was this a marketing ploy by various merchants and artisans of yesterday, making sure that if nothing else, every married man would have to buy his wares at least once in his lifetime? Judging from the list, that’s an emphatic yes. How else does “iron” or “linen” make the list?

Now since YAB likes to take all the hard work out of gift giving, we’re more than happy to abide by this weird pre-set standard. And since we’re years away from anything dangerously expensive (25th in the Silver Anniversary, 50th the Gold), we’re going to make this post serve as ideas for future anniversaries down the road, much like a journal or diary, but without the vertigo-inducing marbled cover. So these are my ideas, out in the public, so I trust you not to steal my ideas and give my wife my present ideas for our anniversary. ‘Cause damn, that would be embarrassing if I ever forget.

Year 1 – PAPER – Congratulations, you made it a year without killing each other. You’ve survived in a tiny apartment with too much stuff and not enough space for it. Here’s something made of paper to show I love you. Ok, as long as it’s not divorce papers, there’s a lot of options for this one. I’ve heard that the “paper” is often the deed to your first house together. Yeah, a nice thought, if you don’t live in DC. In actuality, our “paper” was plane tickets, as we spent our vacation together in Charleston back in August via the friendly skies. This made it kind of sad when the ticketing agent, upon our missing our connecting flight in Atlanta, tore up our anniversary presents when he issued us new tickets for a later flight. Thank God I didn’t get that house deed – I would have had to kill that guy. And no one likes anniversaries in Georgian prison.

Year 2 – COTTON – This is the next one on the horizon for the Condons, a mere 11 months away. Now cotton is best known as a fabric, so the easy answer is something in the apparel category. But we don’t like easy here at YAB. We like clever. But there’s nothing clever about a textile with as much range as Vin Diesel. So when I come up empty-handed next year, I’m going to need a strong drink to get through the day. Hey, I’ll have a Cotton Gin and Tonic.

Year 3 – LEATHER – The ladies reading this are probably dreaming of a nice purse or pair of boots for the triennial milestone. The guys are trying to calculate how long they’ve had their current baseball glove, and wonder if it’s time for a new one. Eh, it would beat getting a belt, ladies.

Year 4 – LINEN – Oh good, more textiles. According to Wikipedia, apparent “doily” is a type of linen. A useless one, but a linen nonetheless. Funny story: while traveling Europe in 2001 with Jasen and Sara, we decided it would be incredibly cool to get Spud a handmade chess set. (In Prague, I assume it’s pronounced “czhess.” We found a wonderful shoppe managed by a husband and wife team. He hand made chess sets, she made custom doilies. And that, ladies and gents, is where you need to shop if your are ever in the market for chess sets and doilies – at the same time.

Year 5 – WOOD – Get the little lady some uncut tree stumps, and tell her to hang on to them. They’ll come in handy a year from now…

Year 6 – IRON - …because she is the proud recipient of a brand new AXE! I know it’s the thought that counts, but anytime you can give a gift that required forging, that’s taking it to the next level.

Every year after that, it probably doesn’t matter what you get her. After realizing that girls don’t want battleaxes as anniversary presents, you’ll be digging out of a hole for years to come. So no matter the anniversary symbol, whether it’s Wool (Yr. 7), Tin Aluminum (Yr. 10), Silk (Yr. 12), or Lace (Yr. 13), you’re probably stuck with wrapping said symbol around a Tiffany’s box and hoping it counts.

Postscript – Notice on the Wiki list nothing is listed for 16, and yet, 17 and 18 are claimed? Isn’t this a WIDE OPEN WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY for any consumer product? Just imagine this, 16 years into your marriage. “Honey, I wanted to get you a watch, but well, Year 16 doesn’t call for a watch. Instead, here’s a football helmet filled with Fritos. Love You!

(Duck immediately.)

We Don't Sell Chicken

As some of you in the DC area may have seen, my company is currently in the middle of a massive talent recruitment initiative. When you work for a company whose name is an acronym, there’s not a whole lot that can be done to 1) distinguish you from your acronymic rivals or 2) give the people an actual clue into what you do all day. In the past, there were only a few companies that went by such abbreviations, and with their numbers being so paltry, it was easy to remember that AT&T were the telephone folks, IBM were the computer folks, KFC were the chicken folks, and 3M were the Post-It folks.

Nevermind that 3M stands for “Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing. Coal miners need partially adhesive neon paper reminders too, you know.

Anyways, my company has presented itself as an employer of choice in the federal contracting biz, and with just cause. We all know it, but since you aren’t our customer, you probably don’t know it. And in order to not be confused with the chicken folks – South American Incredible Chicken? – a massive Metrobus and Metrorail ad campaign was rolled out a few months ago.

How does one instill confidence in an acronym that doesn’t sell chicken?

Well, the ads need to look intelligent, strong, and reassuring. You use bold, patriotic colors and strong words about how important our work is to America’s freedom. These are going to be displayed on the back of public buses, which means for lack of a better term – in traffic. You want people to be proud of your company’s work, so much that you want to work for them and join in. Maybe some bald eagles would help the graphic.

Pretty much, make it look like the Colbert Report.

We’ve got a Corporate Publications Department that makes these types of things, and they know what verbiage and what color schemes make a good ad. But the one place they need input from the company’s talent is well, pictures of the talent. Now the first round of billboards picked three people I’ve never met to stand guard on the billboards, standing to the left – and looking up and to the right – as if our shareholders’ report was being delivered by Superman at that very moment.

(Of course, this begs the question – if we had access to Superman, why the hell didn’t we put him ON THE ADS, and not just the equivalent of the little birdie Mr. Photographer uses to make babies smile at Sears? Eh, he’s probably under contract, anyways.)

Well, we’re into Round 2 of the campaign now and we’ve got three new people on the ads. And the weird part is I actually have seen two of them before. In a company of 40,000+ people, that’s saying something. Yep, these two know each other, as I see them frequently in the gym. In fact, they’re a couple to the best of my knowledge. They both come and leave the gym at the same time, and based on their casual nature of conversing, they clearly know each other…well. In the gym, conversing is supposed to be awkward and meaningless, as you gently try and convince someone you want to use the machine they’re on without actually saying so. These two? They’re great looking, both of ‘em. In a company of scientists and engineers, these two are a Hollywood couple, while everyone else is, well, Professor Frink and Doctor Nick. It makes total sense they are now part of the ad campaign.

But why not Condon? Hey, I just got a haircut, didn’t I? I could be inspired by Superman off-camera with the best of them.

Parched and Starched

As a guy, dry cleaning is a simple process, really. You wait until you have two dress shirts left (one for today and one for tomorrow), take the other 24 to the cleaners, and when they are finished tomorrow, you reclaim said shirts by paying a paltry fee for an incredible amount of fabric. Pants and suit coats run on a different schedule and are submitted for cleaning on an as-needed basis. Again, the cost isn’t much, and it sure as hell beats trying to iron and press pants in the comfort of your own home. I suppose a tie can enter the rotation every now and then, but only to combat stains – after all, nothing looks sillier than receiving back a freshly cleaned and pressed tie – on a hangar.

This is all old news, though – YAB covered it here in a “Choose Your Own Adventure Blog.”

Before we get to our reason of posting, let’s try and pull back the curtain on dry cleaners everywhere, shall we? After all, how many people actually know what goes into dry cleaning a shirt? All we know is you hand it over a counter in a crumpled heap (the shirt, not the counter), wait a day, and then pick it up at the same counter, hangar-ed and ready to wear. Sounds kind of mystical, no?

I suppose a little bit of evidence can be extracted from the name “dry cleaning.” The reason for dry’s inclusion is that of all the things dry cleaners use to clean your mustard-covered shirt, water CANNOT be one of them. Anything else? Sure. Just not water. That would be wet cleaning, and that’s forbidden, as per the Sacred Council of Dry Cleaners. (They meet in caves and wear robes made of that plastic sheeting they love so much.) Instead, petroleum-based solvents and other cleaning agents are used in a washing machine-like mechanism that tumbles the mustard right off of your shirt. Petroleum-based solvents? With the world in an oil crisis, I expect us to switch to hybrid dry cleaning any day now. (And for the record, this was invented by the French. Make your own joke here.)

However gents, once married, you can expect the dry cleaning world to change immensely. No, not in the type of solvent they use on the other side of the counter; your world will change on this side of the counter, making dry cleaning far more complex than you can possibly imagine. Why? Women’s Clothing.

Like everything else becoming one with your matrimonial union, so do you daily chores. And since I get the killer discount at the lobby shop on the first floor of my building, it made total sense to consolidate both Katie and my dry cleaning on this side of the fence. No matter, I’ll just be making twice as many trips. (Taking my 24 shirts and her 10-12 pieces at the same time might cause dry cleaning overload and the nice woman at the lobby shop to cry. And crying would count as tears, which count as water – which the Sacred Council will punish with death. I don’t want to be responsible for that sacking.)

There are three difficulties a guy will encounter with doing his wife’s dry cleaning, and they are as follows:

1. The Garment ID – With guys’ clothes, it’s pretty easy to tell the dry cleaner what each item of apparel is. What’s that? You wear it on your legs? Pants! On your torso? Shirt! Stupid piece of fabric around your neck? Tie! But when asked by the dry cleaner what you have in the bag of your wife’s clothes, it’s easy to freeze. Yes, a skirt is a skirt, and a dress is a dress, but what of the many tops a woman chooses to wear to work. You see these? They’re called knit-tops – which is a fancy clothier word for “we have no idea how to categorize what they are, so instead we’ll just call them by how they are made! Brilliant!” Well, in dry cleaning world, your choices are “blouse” or “sweater” Which do you choose? Which DO you choose?
2. The Green – Men’s shirts? A buck apiece. A woman’s sweater / dress / blouse / skirt / jacket? Eleventy billion dollars. Apparently the Sacred Council of Dry Cleaners like to take women to, um, the cleaners.
3. The Getaway – When you take the wife’s clothes TO the dry cleaners in your building, you can cleverly conceal them in the laundry bag. No one is the wiser that you’re carrying women’s clothing. But what happens when you pick them up? Since you can’t park your car in the building’s lobby, there’s a guarantee that you’re walking out of the place which a arm of hangars in the finest floral patterns you can imagine. And no matter how stealthily you scoot to the elevator, it’s guaranteed to open up…with 6 other business men inside. Awkward looks for everybody!

Dueling Previews, Part IV

Hey, look at that! On your keyboard! There’s that special six-pack of keys that exist to loom over the directional arrow keys! You see that one particular key in the bottom-right? Page Down? Press it. A lot. This mega-column was 6,000 words, so if you haven’t been with us on Friday, you’ve got some catching up to do.

Part 4 of YAB's Simultaneous Fall TV and NFL Preview…and scene!

AFC East

Miami Dolphins and 30 Rock (NBC, Wed, 8:00) – So, the Dolphins are everybody’s sleeper pick to get into the playoffs and make some noise, eh? Ok, they’ve upgraded at QB, handed the running game over to the promising Ronnie Brown, have a bona fide star WR in Chris Chambers, and Wes Welker is returning to his jack-of-all-trades role. Things are good on the field. But off the field, something happened that may have a lingering effect on the defensive side of the ball. For the past 6 years, defensive end Jason Taylor and linebacker Zach Thomas have led the ‘Fins D to solid production each year. How are these leaders so close? Well, Taylor actually married Thomas’ sister in 2003. Things have been good. But since Taylor and Zach Thomas’ sister filed for divorce this past spring, could this fracture the unity Miami has had on D? Sacks will no longer be celebrated with “Nice job, Z-T – you want to come over and barbeque at the house later?” Instead, if Taylor misses a tackle now, Thomas may be declining that invite. How is this like the new SNL-themed comedy 30 Rock? Well, let’s say that SNL is the Dolphins of old. They had good games and bad games, but have been generally reliable. Now you have a spinoff sitcom headed by SNL’s most talented writer, Tina Fey, and she’s taking Rachel Dratch with her. They’re also relying on bringing in alum Tracy Morgan and host extraordinaire Alec Baldwin. That’s a lot of SNL to be taking from SNL. Now, they run the risk of making too many in-jokes and taking patronizing shots at the mouth that fed them for so long. Why? Because that’s why the viewing public would watch this show. Marriages are fun, but divorces are better TV. EDGE: Miami Dolphins

New England Patriots and Kidnapped (NBC, Wed, 10:00) – NBC’s making a power move by putting a major new drama against ABC’s major new drama, The Nine. And why not? They’ve got Timothy Hutton and Dana Delaney as a New York power couple who are going to flex some serious acting muscle, especially once they find out that their son has been kidnapped. The show will progress into a revelation that the duo aren’t the perfect family that we are originally led to believe. Should be good television. Meanwhile in Foxboro, the Patriots have also been the victim of a recent kidnapping. Coach Bill Belichick is without his defensive coordinator, 35 year-old Eric Mangini. Belichick was quoted as saying, “Yeah, I used to take Eric to football games and give him money for ice cream, and just like that, he was gone. How much is the ransom? Eh, screw him.” EDGE: New England Patriots

New York Jets and Men in Trees (ABC, Fri, 9:00) – Anne Heche is back! But unfortunately, her new 1 hour dramedy is a scripted show and won’t let her to improve much. After all, this is the reason I’d watch a show with Anne Heche – for more outbursts like when she claimed her alter-ego, Celestia, was the half-sister of Jesus. But no, this show will play out like a cross between “Someone Like You” and that crappy Heather Graham sitcom that lasted all of 3 episodes. Will there be Men in Trees in the Meadowlands? There sure will. With Chad Pennington’s arm having all the consistency of string cheese, there will be many an errant pass stuck in the trees surrounding the Jets’ practice facility. They’ll be better than you think, but not much. (Especially once Patrick Ramsey takes over in Week 5) EDGE: New York Jets

Buffalo Bills and Six Degrees (ABC, Thu, 10:00) – From the producers of Lost and Alias come six New Yorkers – and despite the various occupations, genders, and ages, there’s a good chance they each are a better quarterback than J.P. Losman. The cast of six includes the poor man’s Julia Stiles (Erika Christensen), Jay Hernandez, who played some ball in Friday Night Lights, and Bridget Moynihan, who has skills by association (she’s the girlfriend of Bills nemesis Tom Brady.) At some point, we’ll figure out their connection, but this has potential to suck in an audience and get that fanbase it will need to be a survivor. The Bills, a different breed of New Yorkers, don’t have the star power Six Degrees does, but consider this. Buffalo is the home of the Goo Goo Dolls. The Goo Goo Dolls had a hit record titled “Give a Little Bit.” This is a cover of the original song by Cheap Trick. Cheap Trick was also known for the song “I Want You to Want Me.” This song was covered and featured in the teen comedy Ten Things I Hate About You. That movie starred Julia Stiles, the rich man’s Erika Christensen. And that, my friends, is how Six Degrees is done. EDGE: Six Degrees

AFC West

Denver Broncos and Shark (CBS, Thu, 10:00) – From the official CBS press release – “Sebastian Stark, a charismatic, supremely self-confident defense attorney who, after a shocking outcome in one of his cases and a personal epiphany, brings his cutthroat tactics to the prosecutor's office as the head of the Los Angeles District Attorney's High Profile Crime Unit.” This show is also said to have a younger “apprentice-type” cast, which leads me to believe it to try and be a House knockoff, and without the genius that is Hugh Laurie. But let’s focus on the network’s description of Stark (played by James Woods). Can we not apply this from a fantasy perspective to the Broncos Head Coach Mike Shanahan? By inventing the running back by committee, you never quite know what to think of playing Mike Bell or Tatum Bell. And what’s more – he knows he holds this power. Which is why he taunts us. What a shark. EDGE: Denver Broncos

Oakland Raiders and Celebrity Duets (FOX, Thu, 9:00) – Just because Dancing with the Stars exposed some hidden talents of supertalent A-list megastars like John O’Hurley and Drew Lachey doesn’t mean that this one’s going to make it a second season. When someone can’t dance, their professional partner can do a damn good job in helping and hiding the weakness, and faking it can take someone like Master P a few rounds. However, there’s no such safety net in singing. If someone has an amateur voice, the pro (Kenny Loggins or whoever) can’t doing anything to save them. So pretty much, Fox is providing a show with solid talent ready to sing beautiful songs, and somebody who thinks they can sing (Carly Patterson, really?) is getting ready to screw it up. Strangely, the Raiders have a similar plan. Build a solid offensive line with the durable Lamont Jordan running behind it, have one of the best WRs in the game in Randy Moss running the deep routes, and the glue that holds them together? Aaron Brooks. Here is an example of Brooks in action. Good luck, Silver and Black. EDGE: Celebrity Duets? I guess?

San Diego Chargers and Vanished (FOX, Mon, 9:00) – Quite possibly a cross of Fox’s two hit dramas, 24 and Prison Break, it seems that Rupert Murdoch’s channel has finally figured out how to succeed in more than animated comedy. Fox pushed promo of this show during every major sporting event they’ve had since the Super Bowl (yes, the Super Bowl was on ABC), and it looks like the hype might pay off. Vanished is the story of a senator’s wife who has inexplicably disappeared. The show is presented through various points of view, from the FBI to the senator to an involved reporter. With Prison Break as its lead-in and a strong cast, it should do well, and it is unlikely this show will be going anywhere mid-season. However, it is the Chargers that have fallen off everyone’s collective radar this season, and in the same vein as the Eagles, are often being left outside the playoff picture. The catalyst to this vanishing act? Drew Brees, who has bolted the Bolts to New Orleans, leaving the QB of the future, Philip Rivers, at the helm. Now the Chargers struggled against a hard schedule last year, and still managed a 9-7 season. But unless Rivers can establish a passing game so that defenses can’t load up against LaDanian Tomlinson, their playoff hopes will vanish by October. EDGE: Vanished

Kansas City Chiefs and Top Chef (BRAVO, Wed, 9:00) – What can we say about Top Chef? It’s technically not a new series, as it had a brief run last March and while critically-acclaimed, few viewers made it up to Bravo for it to catch on (in Fairfax, it’s channel 100 on non-digital sets) But we see what Bravo’s doing and we like it. While the networks have people competing in various arts, like singing or dancing, Bravo via Project Runway has started making contestants compete in their life-long professions. Like fashion design, cooking can bring in a paycheck, and this show will focus on the cooking, unlike Hell’s Kitchen. How do the Chiefs relate to this? Well, to be frank, they don’t. So we’ll close with two thoughts. One – Larry Johnson will be the leading fantasy football scorer this year. Two – Snickers and the Chiefs combined for one of the most clever ads of the nineties. EDGE: Kansas City Chiefs

Well, that’s it. We promise the next post will have nothing to do with football or television. Amish soccer, perhaps.