Callsign: Soccer Mom

I’ve driven many different vehicles in my lifetime. There’s the Volvo Tank – the Garden State Warrior – that helped me through high school and college and allowed me to make friends with the authorities. I drove a Toyota Camry for awhile, and managed to salvage the cool sunglasses holder, about two weeks too late for Karen Yelito to benefit. There’s the One Accord silver bullet in which I currently roll, that has formed much of my basis for the Law of Vehicular Car-ma. I play shofar in Katie’s Highlander often, and on occasion, I have the need to helm a moving truck. Throw in a rental midgetmobile every now and then, and I have a full fleet of rides that I could captain at any time.

Just don’t ask me to drive stick.

And now, thanks to my recent trip to Colorado, I can add another fine driving machine to my garage. One would think that in my visiting the Rockies, I would have rented a car that sounds rugged and manly, like a Silverado, Tacoma, or Ridgline. (Hell, they even tell me Chevy named this one Colorado in honor of my visit. Go figure.) But no, I realized that this trip would be about something different than chasing wild horses across a mountain ridge in my pickup truck. It would be about people moving, safety, and the ability to look cool wherever I drove.

Hello, Toyota Sienna.

Ah! Just listen to that name. “toy-oh-taaaahhhh si-ennnnn-ahhhhh.” It is really like music to the ears. Music with four-wheel drive. It’s just beautiful, that name. Now if I had to picture a car with a beautiful name like Toyota Sienna, this is the vision I get. Now I already know it’s a Toyota, so it’s guaranteed that my new wheels will get decent gas mileage, have efficient seating and hold up against other mid-priced wheels. But Sienna! What a glorious name – it must be the type of car that you imagine at sunset, cruising across the summer plans alongside a gentle brook with the wind in your face and the sun warming the cool early evening air. Yeah. This one has trendy sports car written all over it.

(Note: that’s not me in the driver’s seat there. How did you expect me to simultaneously take the picture?)

That’s right, people – I made this look good.

Driving a mini-van is not unlike driving a normal-looking vehicle, with the one exception that it is completely unlike driving a normal-looking vehicle. Look man, I’m not built to drive a minivan. Fighter pilots drive Corvettes. Cowboys drive pick-up trucks. Stockbrokers drive luxury sedans. Tall, left-handed bloggers drive cars named after a cappella group for which they once sang. You know who drives minivans?

Soccer moms. Soccer moms drive minivans.

So based on my week-long stint at the helm of my powder blue chick magnet, this is what I learned about soccer moms.

• Soccer moms are incredibly thirsty. Within reach, I had access to two cup holders in the center console, a third that unfolded from beneath the radio controls, and a fourth that comes out of the doors. I knew that soccer requires the most endurance out of any team sport, but I had no idea that need for sports drink recharging extended to those who shuttle the players to games. Wow.


• Soccer moms do not have eyes in the back of the heads. But they do have a handy school bus mirror up above so they can keep an eye on all eleventy billion passengers. I’m watching you, Grandma.


• Soccer moms are music lovers. This Sienna came equipped with a three-disc CD changer, but I can’t say we were able to fully utilize the bass shaking system this car no doubt had. You see, the CD player was busted. Well not completely busted we should say. While two of the discs were permanently on the DL, the third did succeed in playing music. By music, I mean Disney’s Family Christmas Collection. There’s nothing like celebrating a trip to your sister-in-law’s USAFA graduation like Jiminy Cricket singing “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Right?


• Soccer moms never get a chance to play soccer. Damn it.

Save Your Carry-On. Save the World (Pt. 1)

Ok kids, we’re back. Quite possibly with a vengeance.

Over the past week, we’ve been biding our time at the base of the Rocky Mountains. You see, my sister-in-law is now a newly minted 2nd Lieutenant in the United States Air Force, and we got to witness it all. There was pomp. There was circumstance. There was cross-country air travel with a small infant. Get ready to party!

But even before we could test how a 3 month old child would react to non-exit row seating and subpar in-flight movie selections (read: Bridge to Terabithia), we had to get on the plane first. And the best place to board planes, we’ve found from experience, is at airports. Funny how things work out that way. When you are traveling with a baby, it’s best to minimize the number of steps in the process. With two parents, one can be dropped off and stand guard over luggage and kin while the other desperately tries to find a place to park in the econolot.

Katie = Terminal Sentry
Chris = Econolot Nomad

However, if it weren’t for my trip to the lot that time forgot, I wouldn’t have seen Zachary Quinto getting off a shuttle bus upon my return to the terminal. You see, I didn’t know his name was Zachary Quinto at the time, so I didn’t say anything to him. Surely, you don’t know about whom I am typing either under the name Zachary Quinto. For all you care, he’s just another guy at another airport with no other claim to fame than having the most obscure initials on the planet. But what if I called him by another name?

What if I called him Sylar?

NBC’s largely successful sci-fi drama Heroes may have produced an underwhelming season finale, but that will in no way detract from the series’ frosh effort. And the villain of Season One was a twenty-something white guy with a penchant for sawing people’s heads off with his finger and absorbing their special power. So with each murder, he grew stronger and harder to defeat. He’s Mega Man, but with a heart of stone.

And he likes to fly domestically out of Dulles Int’l Airport.

Normally, this would be an awesome story to kick off a vacation. “Dude, I saw someone famous at the airport this morning!” “That’s awesome! Who was it?” “It was SYLAR – the guy who has the power to furrow his brow and set of a nuclear bomb at any time!!!”

Needless to say, this guy’s probably not going to make it through the TSA without taking off his shoes and belt.

Surely, there must be a line that can delineate the real world from Hollywood, something that would make me breathe more easily that I’m entering the baggage check area a few yards ahead of a man capable of the eradication of life by merely blinking. After all, actors and their characters often assume very different appearances. It’s not like Jack Nicholson goes to Lakers games dressed like the Joker. (Although it should be noted that the Joker just requested a trade from L.A. as well.) Here’s the problem with Mr. Quinto.

He’s dressed just like he’s on the show.

He wore a pair of blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, Chuck Taylors, and a black hoodie sweatshirt. Yeah, pretty much exactly like he looks on the show. Granted, he was clean shaven, and also was wearing a beat-up Pittsburgh Pirates cap, but he could have walked right off the set and into the terminal. (From his iMDB profile, that makes sense, since he’s from Steeltown. Our sincere condolences.)

And for the record, I didn’t stop him and say hello, really only because I didn’t know his real name and didn’t what to call him Sylar to his face. I feel that famous people only want to be approached by actual fans, and I think that actual fans would know enough to know the guy’s real name.

Well that, and I like my skull to stay in one piece for the flight. Makes wearing the in-flight headphones a lot easier and much less gross.

Kayaks for Midgets

Fairfax Corner, the collection of restaurants, retail stores, and the movie theater by which we live is a highly enjoyable locale for a early evening baby walk. From a people standpoint, you get to witness the happy hour scene at Coastal Flats or Rio Grande, where young professionals come to forget the day by befriending heavy metal buckets containing ice cold bottles of beer. On weekends in May, you can watch as groups of uberformal high schoolers stand outside P.F. Changs for three hours waiting to have dinner, knowing full well they’ll be late to prom on account of Chang’s unwillingness to take reservations.


Hey Joe, work on that, will ya?

It’s truly a family outing when both Katie and I take the baby out in the stroller. Clara, who is now cool with sitting in the actual stroller and not her rear-facing car seat on top of said stroller, faces forward and now has WAY more to look at. So while Katie stops in Ann Taylor Loft to look around, I figure it’s probably best to do the fatherly thing and introduce the kid to the wonderful world of outdoor sports and expedition.


It’s what Uncle Nordberg would want.

Other than the movie theater, my next favorite place to frequent in such proximity to our apartment is REI. A superstore of all things recreationally awesome, it contains everything you’d ever need to have fun in somewhere other than the suburbs. Now there’s much to see in this story, and walking through it with Clara can be high comedy, since so much of their merchandise – bikes, cooking gear, pickaxes – are shiny.

Babies love the shiny.

However, REI is not the type of store that can spin-off another retail outlet devoted entirely to the barely-walking market segment. It works for Gap, it works for Pottery Barn, it works for the Limited. But these places sell things that babies can use, just in miniature fashion. Clothes and housewares, sure.


GPS systems and tents? Maybe not.

So while I’m not advocating the good folks at REI to create a baby superstore, I would like to highlight that they haven’t forgotten about the consumers of tomorrow altogether. I did a “baby” keyword search on their website, and the database kicked back 127 results. Let’s look at some of them in more detail.

BOB Revolution Stroller – For the parent that won’t let procreation stand in the way of fitness, we have this stroller that allows you to jog with baby. These tires look more durable than the spare donut I have in the trunk of my car. So the baby sits in the well-sheltered launch seat while out-of-sight Dad pushes from behind. Don’t worry, she’ll know you’re there. The nylon roof isn’t soundproof; she’ll hear your desperate panting without a problem. Typically, I run on treadmills because there’s less incentive to stop running for me. I assume this would work in similar fashion. Based on our adventures in the car at red lights, stopping is most definitely a bad thing.

Chariot Carriers Cougar 1 Chassis – It’s pretty much the same thing as the one above, but this time the baby is enclosed in their own little space pod. You’re probably not going to be running 5k’s with this one, but it gives your kid a very early sense of royal entitlement. The reason we feature this one is because in B.C. times (Before Clara), they had a version of this thing on the store floor that had skis attached. Ok, so it’s warm enough to be all-weather, I got it. How the hell are you going to get this thing on the chair lift?

Co-Pilot Limo Child Seat – By now, you realize that REI is not advocating extreme outdoor sports for baby. They just don’t want their existence to hinder your ability to cliffdive, rock climb or join the Amazing Race. This is a bike seat that my parents had back when I was a kid – you strap it to the back, and Mom and Dad go on long relaxing bike rides without having to worry if you’re home redecorating the dining room with your crayons. These things have a narcoleptic quality to them, as I used to fall asleep instantly. It was hard plastic, rigid, and upright – not exactly conducive to slumber.


This explains so much.

Desperately Seeking Mutombo

I don’t care how Desperate you are; don’t disappoint Dikembe.

Dikembe Mutombo easily makes out Top Ten Personalities in Sports right now, and probably takes a back seat only to Gilbert Arenas in the NBA. We’ve featured him as a hypothetical employee here as a minor tribute, and we asked a computer his age-old question on his behalf. Long story short, he’s a 7-foot-2 man from the Congo with shot-blocking talent and a heart of gold. Hell, he even befriended the French.

In the NBA, the most prominent player from France is San Antonio Spurs guard Tony Parker. You wouldn’t know it from his appearance, since they don’t allow players to wear berets or cravats on the court and he has yet to head butt Andrea Bargnani in an NBA Finals game. Overall, Parker is a nice player and a nice guy. But his defense and jump shot are not why most people know Tony Parker. Most people know Tony Parker because he’s part of the current highest profile relationship in pro sports.

He’s engaged to Eva Longoria.

Eva, for better or worse, has forged a career by being cast on ABC’s flagship dramedy “Desperate Housewives” over the last three seasons. She’s turned this job into becoming a fixture on all those “Sexiest People on the Planet” lists as well as underdeveloped movie scripts. Now Parker is still alive in the playoffs (the Spurs are currently doing battle with the Utah Jazz for Western Conference supremacy), but once that’s over, the two of them will be getting married this summer.

Good for them. Bad for the children.

Parker is a national icon in France, and the French would gladly pay good money to see him play hoops live. Now Tony doesn’t need the cash – hell, anyone who registers at Tiffany’s doesn’t need the cash. So why not donate it to a good cause. As the great humanitarian Gheorghe Muresan once proclaimed, “Win One for the Kids!”

Enter Mutombo.

Mutombo has raised millions of dollars, as well as donated a large sum of his own earnings to better the lives of so many back in his native Republic of Congo. He’s been the chief benefactor behind countless hospitals and schools. And as an international face of the NBA, his plan to hold an exhibition game in Paris in July would benefit the children of the Congo. Of course, if he holds a game in Paris, he should probably include Tony Parker.

And so he did…

…Parker was totally excited to be playing in front of his countrymen, and signed up immediately. Turns out, he’s going to be a little busy. Now Katie was cool when I finished up a finance project for B-School on the flight down to our honeymoon. Eva Longoria, I’m guessing, not so much.

Parker’s out, since he’ll probably be at some exotic locale where he and his new wife rent a bungalow on the beach for eleventy billion Schrutebucks a night. Mutombo, being a kind, gentle soul, understands. Of course, this means the game has to be cancelled.

WAIT!

According to this article, Longoria plans to be back on the set of Desperate Housewives the day after the wedding. The honeymoon isn’t immediately following, as she’s going back to work as Eva Longoria Parker the very next day. But Eva, why aren’t you letting your husband come out and play?

Easy. Eva Longoria hates children.

Look, I understand that you need to keep up with those fast-lane ladies you roll with. They’re not nice people. Marcia Cross kicks puppies. Teri Hatcher once ran over a hobo and drove away. Felicity Huffman cuts out boxtops for education and promptly burns them in her fireplace. So it should be expected that Longoria is just maintaining street cred by depriving the children of the Congo of health, schooling, and happiness.

Tony, it’s not too late, man. Run away.

Patent the Funny

Surely you remember when I told the tale of the MBA speaker I listened to in what seems like ages ago. Come on, he was the intellectual property expert that told the story about the formula behind Listerine belong to the Archdiocese of New York? No?

Well what about when I wrote about the very same intellectual property expert when he was brought in by my professor the next semester and I made him pay for telling the very same stories he told the first time around? Really? No?

Oh, Mr. McLawyerson, how quickly fame can evaporate.

While you can only learn about intellectual property in MBA school (twice), inventions are for everybody. Anyone with a good idea and too much free time can invent something. If it’s weird enough, you can go on ABC’s American Inventor, and show it off to Pat Croce. For the record, he feels great. But wait, what if somebody invented your idea long before you even got the chance???

Enter Google Patent Search.

I just found about this a few hours ago, and I’m already hooked. Google, those titans of the internet, have created a search engine that indexed patents held by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (in Alexandria), and allows you to see all the ideas that people have felt were worth a few years and a couple hundred dollars to protect. YAB has little use for the USPTO, since we’ve not really entered the inventing game. We were once forced to invent something for 6th grade, and the best thing we came up with were kitchen gloves that helped open jars. (So if you even think about gluing strips of sandpaper the fingers of rubber gloves, we’ll call you on it.)

We’re in the funny business here, and the USPTO insists there be no more funny business. Just to make sure, we typed “funny” into the almighty Google Patent Search to see what attempts have been made in the past to patent the funny. After all, they do have over 7 million of ‘em on file – and with a full-text search tool, we should find thousands of historically chronicled ideas of hilarity, right?

Try 10.

Yes, only ten people in seven million have submitted patent paperwork that has included the word funny. (Unless of course, Google is truncating my search results. If that is the case, I’m going to assume the omnipotent Googlites are display the ten funniest as well.) And of these ten funny ideas, three of them totally miss the punch line.

Apparently funny is a term in electronics that refer to “a sequence of pictures and associated text.” So as for Microsoft’s and Nokia’s submissions, they are about as hilarious as According to Jim. Yech. And a third is a camera built especially to look like a funny car, the car that for lack of a better description, is funny looking. No dice.

What about this funny font that incorporates animals into the letters? Take a look at it. The animals correspond with the letters! Alligator Bat Cat Dog Eagle Frog Giraffe Horse Iguana Jaguar Kangaroo Lion Mouse N-

What the hell is that? A Nnail? Nlug? A Nermit Crab?

Moving on, our favorite funny patent (and by funny, we’re inferring “OUSTANDINGLY CREEPY”) is this baby pacifier. What makes it new and patent-worthy? It seems that Dieter Berndt has placed a “funny face” on the actual rubber part of the paci that goes in the infant’s mouth. However, Mr. Berndt’s art skills leave something to be desired.

“Here, kiddo, put this in your mouth. Shhhh… It’s okay. Yeah, there’s a funny face on the rubber part. It’ll be fine. Just don’t look into its dead, dead eyes.”

The Project Management is Strong with This One

It’s no secret that I’m not a big fan of sitting in corporate training sessions. Given, it’s the best way to collect many well-intentioned employees and make them as unproductive as possible during a multi-hour block, when in realty, a handy quick reference card could have taught the same thing, but hey, it’s old school. You may remember that the last time I sat in a conference room learning about our new project management software package, I took the time to blog by hand in my notebook, and that was no easy feat. This training is better than that one for two main reasons:

1) Lunch is provided.
2) They let me have my laptop.

I’ve always said, “The best way to teach a new software package is with hands-on experience.” Ok, I haven’t always said that, but that’s only because I try to avoid giving strangers the idea that I’m some sort of software package dork who can’t talk about anything else. I’d be an extremely boring individual if that were true, and you people probably wouldn’t even read this blog, considering I would just be wax poetic about the capabilities and add-ons available with Version 13.2 of Project X. So I guess I could have hit backspace over the past 85 words and changed the word “always” to “occasionally,” but well, the train of thought came roaring through the station and wasn’t making any stops. I hate when that happens.

The reason I was allowed to have my laptop this time around is because we were to participate in a Data Exchange session. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, Data Exchange is an online meeting module that allows you to see everything that is happening on the presenter’s own screen. It sure beats staring up at a projected version, and by logging into the DEx, you can ask questions electronically. That part of the DEx operates much like a standard chat room.

Frank has entered the room.
Hilary has entered the room.
Gary has entered the room.

Now, my conference room, in a rare move to overkill, allowed you to follow along on your laptop as well as follow along on the projection screen. So, I could participate without actually logging into the chat. However, had I decided to enter the chat, which I almost did, I paused for a second at the place where it asked me to enter my name. Had I done it, I would have followed the above syntax and used solely my first name. But if the wickedly bored side of my brain took over, the big screen would then show in the corner:

Darth Vader has entered the room.

I think that would be the scariest thing ever for a presenter to have to read mid-slide. Are you kidding me? I didn’t know Darth Vader was planning on attending. I don’t see him in the room anywhere, so he must be in the McLean office. It doesn’t matter where he is – I think he’s capable of sending the mental death choke cross country if I screw this up.

This could send shivers down the presenter’s spine, even if Lord Vader chooses to sit back, passively participate, and breathe heavily on his laptop keyboard. Hey, he may find this training session incredibly informative. After all, the goal of this software package is to create a formal process by which to carry out construction and large-dollar maintenance projects. And after his bratty son and his friends blew up the Death Star, I can only assume that someone had to fit a construction manager’s helmet on top of his pre-existing Sith warrior dome, no?

According to the original trilogy, Return of the Jedi shows a second Death Star as a construction-in-progress. Furthermore, the events of “Jedi” occur only one year after the Empire Strikes Back, and four years after Luke’s one in a million prayer. Now I don’t know about you, but that seems like a hell of an accelerated schedule to build Version 2.0. Think about your local interstate appropriations project. That thing’s been under construction for like 10 years, right? Considering the Empire probably spent the first 6 months or so in shock, early schematics probably weren’t really finished after 18 months (after the Achilles’ heel of the first Death Star, there’s no WAY intergalactic building permit services would simply green light a carbon copy of the first set of plans.)

Ah, the benefits of Darkside Autocracy.

If I were an accountant working for the Empire, my job would be easy. Project approvals come from the guy with the black hood and bad back. If he wants something done, he points that arthritic finger my way and I open up the financial coffers. He’s a spare-no-expense type of guy, so if he wants a plasma TV or little weird rolling droid things in every room, so be it!

But this is Free Market Capitalism, not the Empire.

Darth Vader was no doubt hired by the Emperor to build the Second Death Star, and his ability to intimidate is what put the project so ahead of schedule by the time the Ewoks get involved in the saga. He’s lucky to have been able to expedite such a massive undertaking, considering he has to deal with vendors like Watto for parts, and they drive the hardest of bargains.

Eh, there’s no way the blackest brother in the galaxy waits for six electronic budget approvals before he commences work.

Darth Vader has left the room.

Days by the Hundreds

A lot can be accomplished in just 100 days. Napoleon went on an all-out military campaign that restored Louie the 18th to the throne. FDR kicked off one of the most influential presidential terms with a hunsky of legislative progression. Ferris Bueller could do pretty much everything there is to do in Chicago, considering he would take them all off. But for those with less ambitious goals, those who choose to relax and recline, sometimes it’s just great to be alive.

Clara, for example.

Today marks Clara’s 100th day of life. While she may have not led any European military campaigns or found jobs for those drilled by the Depression, I think she’s satisfied with her progress. In just 100 days, she’s developed a routine, responds to those around her, sleeps through the night, eats with regularity, is impressed by toys and wishes to play with them, can scoot a bit, has visited five different states and the District, and has full knowledge of the Fairfax Country utility schematic grid.

I would call her a baby genius, you know, if I wasn’t morally, ethically, and cinematically opposed to such a child classification.

A baby’s first 100 days are impossible without the support and aid of wiser, taller people she comes to know as parents. Having not yet mastered the art of transportation, things like bottle prep, taking baths, changing clothes, and retrieving the pacifier you just shot out of your mouth like a cannon explosion just wouldn’t happen. Face it kid, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. /Colonel Jessup.

And you do exactly what you need to ensure that I enjoy my end of the bargain. In the morning, you are at your best, smiling and looking around because it’s too early for something like a wet diaper to annoy you. I swear, you think you’re actually speaking English to me, but the random assortment of cooing and ahhs make your point well enough. Long story short, you’ve enjoyed your first 100 days with me, despite the fact that I’m over three times taller than you. (Let’s hope I stay taller, too. I highly doubt the WNBA will be around when you’re of pro ball playing age.)

When I get home from work, you seem genuinely excited, as I am handed you moments after dropping my briefcase and entering our home. Maybe it’s because you know I’ll be feeding you shortly, but I’ll take the enthusiasm, whatever your motives. Remember those early days when you’d spend your early evenings wailing just because you could? Ancient history, kiddo. This playing and sighing during the prime time hours is WAY better. But hey, you had 100 days to fill – I would have tried out my pipes every now and then too.

So where do you go from here?

Clara, you’re growing up. It’s time to enter that next stage in your life, the stage of independence. Now I’m not suggesting you figure out how to open the fridge or go down and get the mail, but instead, it’s time to take a little more interest in that other room off the kitchen. To date you’ve spent your nights mere feet from Mom and Dad in your Pack-and-Play. Yet I’m sure you’ve noticed in the room where we keep your clothes (and my computer desk, but that’s space utilization for you) that there’s a pastel-covered bed that may be right up your alley. There are way more plush, huggable bunny rabbits around, and a mobile of friendly revolving butterflies overhead. You’re moving up in the world, and you’ve got a place of your own. I’d hand you keys, but 1) the door is always unlocked and 2) you’d just end up chewing on them anyway.

Last night, Clara spent her first night all alone in her very own bedroom-slash-Dad’s-reduced-workspace, and she did just great. She slept by the LED light of the walkie-talkie base station while we monitored her sound breathing two rooms away. And as fun as staring at a Fisher Price one-way communications device is, I did eventually fall asleep.

Which someone took as an opportunity to check her fantasy baseball team.

Questions or Comments for the little one? E-mail clara.grace.condon@gmail.com.

What, No Trenchcoat?

You don’t run into that guy every day.

I’ve been assigned to a special task force team to evaluate vendors for a multi-million dollar service contract to be awarded by Corporate. I assure you, the inherent coolness that comes with the title “task force” is by no means reached by the duties that this collective of functional experts shall carry out. Most task forces get to do things like recon, espionage, and the occasional elimination of their mark. I get to read maintenance proposals and come up with intuitive questions to gauge their capabilities.

(The questions I’ve written down? Yeah, that’s a blog for another day.)

As enlightening as 80 page performance index proposals are, all the competing bids say essentially the same exact thing – “Hire Me! I’m Awesome!” And while they read like tax code but with the vigor of Ashton Kutcher, they don’t exactly differentiate the all-stars from the scrubs. And since we don’t want no scrubs, we bring in the vendors one-by-one for a formal presentation. We do this for two reasons. First, it allows us to get to know those who will be potentially working hard for the money over the term of the new contract. Second, we want to see if those public speaking courses they took in B-school are really worthwhile.

The first vendor today, we’ll call them Dinder Mufflin, had a very nice presentation, strong enough to warrant further consideration. They arrived as a team of three, but clearly, one of them was more comfortable fielding questions that his team members. In this regard, he was Throckmortonesque. While he may have been wearing a sharp black suit with a slick yellow tie, and spoke with a slight Midwest accent, the thing I will remember most about him will be his name.

“Good afternoon. On behalf of Dinder Mufflin, my name is Derrick McGruff.”

The initial reason for the name recall? You don’t meet many Derricks these days. In history, the 5 most famous Derricks (or other spellings thereof) are Jeter, Jacobi, Lowe, Zoolander, and the frontman of the Dominos. I mean, if this guy leaves the full-service commercial maintenance field, he could have a legit shot to enter that list. He’s nice enough, and could really excel in politics, we think. (With a frontrunner list of St. Christopher, Columbus, Reeve, Marlowe, and Wren, I don’t stand a chance.)

But then I got the guy’s business card.

Handing out business cards at presentations is a formality that most companies abide by. Upon the entering of a conference room where more than one firm is presence, everyone suddenly becomes a veteran blackjack dealer, whisking tiny rectangular rolodex fillers in every direction to the point where nobody knows anyone else, but they at least have proper documentation to study up on later. Derrick and his team provided no exception. In fact, I’m staring at the keynote man’s info right now.

C. Derrick McGruff. Regional Account Manager.

Ah, he’s one of those guys. In every group, there’s someone who prefers to eschew his or her given first name in favor of professionally rocking their middle one. Sometimes it’s to create a separate identity from their father, who bequeathed his name to them in the name of lineage and tradition. Sometimes, the first name is just plain embarassing. If your name was Melvin Jake Connors, you would go by Jake, right? Jake gets invited to come to the movies. Melvin gets tripped in the hallway. Of course, this was a formal setting, so I didn’t have a chance to ask C. Derrick McGruff what the C was for. Hell, he could be a Christopher, and that would create some interesting small talk when their Power Point presentation freezes, no?

Wait a minute.

Let’s look at this a little closer. Let’s disregard that Derrick is a cool name and that’s why he goes by it and truncate the business card a little further.

C.D. McGruff.

“On behalf of Dinder Mufflin, I’d like to thank you all for listening to our pitch and we hope to be in your future plans. Have a good day.”

“Whatever you say, CRIME DOG!!!!”

Flipping the Scripps

Next week, the Scripps National Spelling Bee will take place, allowing some bookworm kid (not Charlie Brown) to add a nice little crown jewel to their college application by becoming the National Champ. Last year, Katharine Close took home the prize by nailing “ursprache” in the final round. Nice work, Jersey girl.

(In ’93, Geoff Hooper won on “kamikaze.” Must have been a slow year for smart kids.)

This year, like last year, the final will be held live on prime-time network television, and millions will tune in to watch Websterites correctly spell words like euonym, elegiacal, and vivisepulture. (It should be noted that all three of these words have been clinchers for past champions, yet Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize any of them.) However, as fun as it is to see kids in white polo shirts correctly spell stuff, I think it would by much more enjoyable to watch the complete opposite. Without further ado, we give you the 2007 National Spelling Cow.

(While bees are excellent spellers, we assumed that cows righteously suck at it. So they get to be the namesake.)

Proctor: Hello, and welcome to the 2007 National Spelling Cow. For those unfamiliar with our long and storied history, the goal of the Spelling Cow is to crown America’s worst speller. The winner will receive a Webster’s Dictionary, a Speak and Spell, and an actual cow. Thanks to our corporate sponsor, Kraft Foods, for that last one, kids. We have four contestants here in the finals, so let’s just get started, shall we?Our first contestant is Christopher Nordberg. Mr. Nordberg, your word is “BEHAVIOR.”

Nordberg: Behavior. B-E-E-V-I-O-R. Behavior. (DING!)
Proctor: Excellent. Next, we have Mattias Caro. Mattias, your words are “DUMP TRUCK.”
Mattias: Dump Truck. D-U-M-B-T-R-U-C-K. Dump Truck. (DING!)
Proctor: Well done. Our third finalist is Akeelah Anderson. Miss Anderson, your word is “ECCLESIASTES.”
Akeelah: (looking immensely confused) Ok, Ecclesiastes. E-C-C-L-E-S-I-A-S-T-E-S. Ecclesiastes. (HONK!)
Proctor: I’m so sorry, that’s incorrect.
Akeelah: What the f-
Proctor: I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave the stage.
Akeelah: How am I going to explain this to Morpheus (exits)
Proctor: Our final contestant is Captain Jack Sparrow. Captain Sparrow, your word is “SAVVY.”
Sparrow: Savvy, eh? S-A-V-V-E-E- Savvy? (DING!)
Proctor: Correct, well done! Ok, back to you, Chris. Your next word is “CONGLOMERATE.”
Nordberg: Conglomerate. “C-O-N-G-L-O-M-M-E-R-I-T.” Conglomerate. (DING!)
Proctor: Clever, indeed. You pass. Mattias, the word is “TRANSFIGURATION”
Mattias: T-R-A-N-Z-F-E-E-G-BO-BOP-S-H-U-N. (DING!)
Proctor: Splendid! Sparrow, the word is “ARE.”
Sparrow: R…(HONK!)
Proctor: I’m sorry, Captain, that was surprisingly correct.
Sparrow: The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do. For instance, you can accept that your father was a good speller or you can't. But spelling is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that some day.
Proctor: What? Eh, whatever. Our final two spellers are Mr. Nordberg and Mr. Caro. Let’s enter the lightning round, shall we?

Nordberg: Eunuch. Y-O-O-N-I-C-K. (ding!)
Caro: Elementary. E-L-E-M-E-N-T-E-R-Y. (ding!)
Nordberg: Maestro. M-Y-S-T-R-O-U-G-H (ding!)
Caro: Akeelah. A-C-K-E-E-L-A-A-A. (ding!)
Nordberg: Fjord. F-BORK. (ding!)
Caro: Greatness. O-V-E-C-H-K-I-N. (ding!)

Proctor: That was some truly horrific spelling right there – well done! Ok, Mr. Nordberg, let’s take this up a notch. Your word is “CURRENCY.”
Nordberg: (sighs.) Ok, you may have just doomed me, but Currency. C-U-R-R-E-N-C-Y. (honk!)
Proctor: I’m sorry, that was accurate. Mr. Caro, for the win, the word remains “CURRENCY.”
Caro: Currency. C-U-faintsandfallstofloor. Currency. (ding!)

Proctor: We have our champ, Mattias A. Caro. Here, have a cow.

Breed, Eagles Breed!

And fish were just starting to feel safe.

Quite possibly the biggest news to ever be heard in the hallways of Arlington’s United States Fish and Wildlife Service, it seems that despite the rocketing gas prices, the fledgling war effort, a loss of confidence in Presidential leadership, the struggling real estate market, and Paris Hilton’s ability to capture the national attention span, America is doing just fine. While most accountants use numbers as the bottom line for success and failure, we here at YAB prefer to live in the abstract.

Symbolically speaking, we’re awesome.

The latest sign? The noble Bald Eagle just pulled a Pacino.

For the duration of my life, our national bird was out. It was the poster creature for every reference to extinction, endangered species, and threatened existence. While all the fame and publicity of holding such lavish photo opportunities might seem nice for awhile, look what it did for the title’s predecessor. Poor Dodo, we hardly knew ye.

Despite being limited in number, the Bald Eagle has consistently stepped up to the plate for the U.S. It has stayed still countless times so that we could create bronze replications for our federal buildings. It has survived a horrific re-creation of itself at Nationals games. They’ve sent one of their best to serve as one of the most-underrated Muppets of all time. But because of rampant deforestation, urbanization, and prejudice towards those who lack full-bodied heads of hair, the Bald Eagle has declined in numbers over the years.

Time to pull them back in.

After all, the Bald Eagle is such a stern, menacing, dignified avian animal, it sets the tone for all of America on the international stage. Ever wonder what birds other, less impressive nation have come up with? Switzerland employs the noble “chicken,” while the UK rolls with the fierce “European robin.” Other than Peru’s “Andean Cock-of-the-rock,” frankly we’re not impressed.

And for the record, someone should probably break the bad news to Mauritius. Their national bird in the dodo.

Being placed on the USFWS’ federal list of threatened and endangered species is like taking a seat on Death Row. You know your time is coming as a species to disappear, and it becomes a waiting game. Countless inmates have come before you – T-Rex, Auroch, Laysan Rail – and gone without much fanfare. When the Bald Eagle joined the list, things did not look good for him, nor America.

But these birds – they are a-breedin’.

Come June 29th, the USFWS will hand down a landmark decision as to whether they will or will not remove the Bald Eagle from our national registry of short-stick carrying creatures. It seems that while everyone was so careful not to kill these guys, they’ve taken the opportunity of this safe period to build their numbers back up and re-enter the birdforce with numbers not seen since the beginning of the 20th century. So in an unusual reversal of fortune, it seems the Bald Eagle has proven itself worthy as a self-sustaining national landmark.

(That freeloading oak tree, on the other hand...)

So just where are all our bald eagles, you may ask? According to this map, they prefer the cold confines of states like Minnesota and Wisconsin. And while the climate in Arizona and New Mexico are largely similar, bald eagles prefer being in the former by a score of 86-8. And you questioned the draw of having four pro sports teams. But the most curious thing on the map? Apparently, there are 2 bald eagles somehow finding a way to live in the District of Columbia. Sure, there’s only a pair in Vermont and Rhode Island, too, but where in DC can bald eagles fly?

Apparently, they’re cool with taxation without representation.

Vehicular Revolutions

Take 2 on My Vehicular Revolution:

Yeah, I tried this once before. The rationale behind it is that while driving can be fun, it can also be boring. And outside of having interesting passengers, good tunes on the radio, or the never-ending quest to perfect in-car climate control, driving can also be tedious and boring. When I first became a motorist, I did so in the Garden State Warrior, a ’90 Volvo that was business in the front, and well, business also in the back. It wasn’t a party vehicle, it drove to places I needed it to. It wasn’t fawned over by other high school students – it did not have that laidback feel of “cool.”

In other words, it wasn’t a Jeep.

Joe Brescia drove a Jeep, and he made it look cool. (Strike that, the Jeep made Joe Brescia look cool. Fixed,) And without knowing it, Joe Brescia entered an unwritten brotherhood of cool. Jeep Drivers (Wranglers, not Grand Cherokeers) maintained a laidback fraternity of people who got from Point A to Point B in style. However, they did so without pledging allegiance to any series of Greek letters, secret handshakes, or keg-infested houses. Their acknowledgement was simple. Anytime one Jeep passed another Jeep, their respective drivers would wave. It was their simple way of saying, “Hey man, I’ve got your back, even if our vehicles lack roofs or doors.”

Why not Volvos?

For a good year of high school, I incessantly tried to become the initial pledge class to a similar Volvo Brotherhood. Everytime I passed a Swedish tank, I would wave. Sure, the first time one of my Shermanian bretheren encountered me, they’d be a bit confused, but I was sure they’d eventually come around. However, I soon found that the lack of convertability of my car strongly hindered my ability to wave in all meteorological conditions, and my desire to be a Volvo Revolutionary was quelled. Sure, there was that one time on Robin Hood Drive that a fellow Tanker DID wave back, but that could have been a fluke. While this revolution showed initiative, it goes down in my history as nothing more than a building block.

That was Take 1.

Take 2 occurred this morning, and reflecting, my motives remain bizarre. 260 days a year, I drive the same 9 miles through downtown Vienna to work. Sure, it’s given me a few good angles for the Funny (let’s single out this, this, and this as Exhibits A-C), but it’s still as boring as According to Jim. Maybe it was Clara being especially cute this morning. Maybe it was the fact I actually got up early enough to make my lunch before I left the house. Maybe it’s Casual Friday, and I’m wearing jeans. Who really knows, one thing is clear – I was in a good mood, and willing to drive “outside the box.”

(Not literally. My God, that would be a disaster.)

The catalyst to all of this? Flipping stations during a commercial break for both Elliott and the Junkies, I happened across the classic rock station.

“I Wanna Rock!”

Yes, Twisted Sister’s ode to rock, made recently relevant thanks to Road Trip and some rental car commercial, was blaring over the airwaves and I was taken aback. Normally I happen across this spot on the dial to find some crap from Foreigner or the ‘Wagon.. But today was different. And to show how it was different, I did the least logical thing possible.

I opened the sun roof and threw up my rock hand.

For the next 2 miles.

With an average speed of about 19 mph, I rocked my way up Route 123, long after Twisted Sister had finished rocking. I rocked my way through the traffic report, that annoying Jerry’s Subs commercial, and anything else that crossed my audio path. My hand to the sky, motionless, I stared straight ahead throught my shades to garner the reaction of my vehicular comrades.

They, too, wanted to rock.

While I garnered a collection of odd stares, heads shaking, and laughs from pedestrians, those in the motor brigade knew it was Friday and it was time to rock. Over the parade route of rock, I got four other rock hands in return. As I pulled into the parking garage, this ultimately meant little.

Except that my commute rocked harder than yours.

Yo Quiero Enfamil

You got to give credit to the ad wizards that have been at the helm of Taco Bell for the last decade. The stupid Chihuahua has become an advertising icon (and microwave fodder for the boys of Governors Square), the bell sound is now synonymous with their Gorditas Bajas, and other than the one misfire campaign of Taco Neck Syndrome, they’ve been influential, trendy, and cool.

Enter Fourthmeal.

For the last several months, the Bell has been trying to convince America that there’s a meal that rests between dinner and breakfast. No, not Second Breakfast, you Hobbits – we’re talking Fourthmeal here. Because of Taco Bell’s late, late drive-thru hours, their marketing push hopes that you will consume some tasty high-caloric junk food and precisely the time when your metabolism has turned in for the night. Now don’t get me wrong – there’s no fast food eatery that sounds better after a night at the bar, but I can’t say I’ve left my apartment to grab a Crunchwrap after the clock has struck 12. So while I may not enjoy Fourthmeal, I certainly know somebody who does.

Clara.

Depending on when her last feeding of the day prior to turning in for the evening is, Clara may open her eyes sometime between dinner and breakfast and look around. Her eyes adjust to the dim glow from her nightlight, and she’s quick to discover that all is quiet in her house. Seems like a perfect time to demand additional sustenance.

Now since someone has yet to gain the know-how to walk themselves to the kitchen and rummage through the pantry in the middle of the night, our daughter still likes to order out. Instead of a phone, she babbles. Instead of a menu, she babbles. Instead of tipping the delivery guy, she promises to pay later via making his t-shirt a darker, wetter shade of whatever color it previously was. When it’s time for Fourthmeal, anything is possible.

Now while Clara still sleeps in our room (we’ve yet to break out the high tech walkie-talkies – I can’t wait to teach her trucker lingo,) I’m a good 10-12 feet walk over to her little butterfly-lit corner of the room. If I’m up and walking around in the middle of the night, it’s either because she’s called out for takeout or I’m lost. When I get over there, I witness the same thing every time.

1. Eyes wide open.
2. Baby’s head turning back and forth like she’s watch Nascar.
3. Rest of body still contained within the Swaddle – amazing.
4. Pacifier inexplicably a good foot from her mouth. When she decides it’s time to sing, that thing takes off with the thrust of a space shuttle.

A baby’s range of activities is very limited. She can choose to sleep, eat, fill her diaper, sit and admire our interior decorating skills, lie down and wonder why no one paints their ceilings anymore, stare at the television, swing, or just smile and give her parents the impression that they have everything under control. But when it’s completely dark in the apartment and the tall one’s hands are entering the crib, the realm of possibility is limited to one: chow time. There’s no other reason Captain Groggy could be elevating her at that time of night.

When we make it to the other room, my objective is simple. I need to obtain formula, fee formula to baby, return baby to crib. If pre-planned, this will take no more than 10-12 minutes. You see, sometimes you can have forethought to prepare Fourthmeal ahead of time, store it in the fridge, and a few microwave buttons later, Fourthmeal is served. This is the much-preferred method of midnight feeding.

And as awake as Clara was when she was awaiting her train to the kitchen, she feeds with her eyes closed. Now, I know she’s awake, since there is no reason for babies to have mastered the art of sleepeating – with such a small agenda, there’s no reason to multi-task here. And I know I’m awake, because I’ve seen more episodes of the Drew Carey Show then I even knew existed.

(It will be interesting to see what Clara’s impression of Cleveland is when she’s older.)

How We Gonna Pay?

While Rob Harford may have recently taken the plunge, after further consideration the Condons are going to hold off on buying a place of their own for another six months. There are a number of factors that went into this decision, but ultimately, the market’s asking price of both and arm and a leg seems to be too much. I suppose I could get by with only one arm, but that throw-in leg – I’m going to need that. My balance isn’t that good.

So this will mark only the second time in my post-WM life that I will stay put at the end of a 1 year lease. In the past, life events such as marriage has forced the hand to relocate, while other times it was the ability to have a roommate (a prodigal one at that.) But regardless of what it was that ultimately forces me to load all my worldly possessions into a rickety rented truck, one motive has always been constant.

Next year’s Rent.

Faring just better than Towing Company Lackey on my list of Least Favorite People by Career Choice, the landlord has inexplicably more power over your life than they rightfully deserve. They are the masters of the bait-and-switch, catching you in a lull that comes with affordable move-in specials only to get clocked by a renewal notice that could stop a heart. It’s not like the value of the apartment in which you live suddenly rockets in value by more than $100/month, yet the landlord has no one to keep him in check. Sure you can decline, but who wants to move again? Those utility account start-up fees will totally cut into your summer-blockbuster-movie-admission fund, no?

I’ve moved a couple times because of this very fact, so I have to say, I was less than optimistic to receive the terms of extension from my current complex (still named Camden.) It’s become a rite of spring to watch my semi-weekly earnings get chomped like a starved Pac-Man. What would it be this time, landlordjerks? $80/mo? $120/mo? $200/mo?

Try 16 dollars per month.

What bastards!

Look, oh Titan of the Residential Treasury, I have a kid now and I just can’t absorb that kind of blow to my monthly budget! My little girl’s gotta eat, and formula isn’t cheap. You think I have that kind of scratch lying around at month’s end just to overstuff your coffers for the same exact service you provide now? I think not! This is an outrage.

Ok, breathe.

Realizing that arguing with the landlord will get me nowhere but tired, I’ve thought about it and come up with the following cost-cutting initiatives in order to pay next month’s rent. Any additional suggestions can be placed in the comments.

If I paper clip my pockets shut any time I get in a car, that’ll be a dollar saved.
If I get that Five Guys cheeseburger sans bacon, that’s a dollar saved.
If I charge passers-by to look at the sleeping baby in the stroller, a dollar earned.
If I park illegally for softball, that’s a dollar saved.
If I had a dollar for every time I messed with Nordberg’s plans, that’d be a dollar, too.
If I convert that stupid film can of European coins from my trip to Germany, that’s a dollar, too.
I could rent a car and save a dollar.
If I can figure how to take people’s pennies and rearrange them to depict local DC landmarks with my hands, that’s a dollar earned.
If I wear one less dress shirt a month, that’s a dollar saved.
I could go on a cruise ship and dance – that’s another dollar.
If I could walk Richie Rich’s dog in the morning, that would be a Dollar.
If I see Pirates of the Caribbean during the day at matinee pricing, that will be a dollar saved.
If I rearranged the letters of “Landlord,” I could get a dollar there, too.
If I order take out rather than sitting in a restaurant, that’s a dollar saved.
I could absolutely suck at Deal or No Deal and still save a dollar.

Damn it. So close. Can I borrow a dollar?

Clarair

Two weeks from now, I will be boarding an airplane for Colorado to attend my sister-in-law’s graduation from the Air Force Academy. Katie will also be joining me on this high-altitude voyage, and since I’ve yet to do a cost analysis on multi-day compensation wages for babysitters, a certain lap jockey will take her first commercial plane ride ever.

(Joanie, it’s not too late to “borrow” a jet and pick us up.)

Thinking back, my five most recent trips on airplanes have included destinations of Charleston, New Mexico, San Diego, St. Lucia, and Maine. 3 of these were vacations with Katie, another was work-related, and the last was ended unfortunately when Chris Nordberg was killed by coyotes. Regardless, packing a carry-on bag for any of these excursions is a remarkably simple endeavor. Within your shoulder bag, you probably pack an mp3 player, a laptop (if you have a final MBA project to finish en route to thy honeymoon), a book you just bought in the terminal, a bottle of water and some gum, and just to freak out your rowmates, something weird – like a live fish. Once seated, you move the essentials into that seat pocket with the SkyMall magazine and stow the rest up above.

Something tells me flying with Clara won’t be quite that easy.

Prior to the delivery, you spend your time accumulating the gamut of goods that will assist you in being a good parent. After all, babies don’t come with an instruction manual, and they certainly abide by the marketing adage, “accessories sold separately.” Hopefully, with some luck and generosity of close friends and family, you’ve got your place outfitted for infant invasion in time for that trip home from the hospital. In those first three months, though, you actually find out what from your registry were crucial buys, and what is merely a plus to have.

There’s no way I’m fitting the Crucial Buys into my carry-on.

Now thanks to some intelligent forethought in the hospitality industry, I can rent a baby car seat and a crib from the respective rental car and hotel the Centennial State has to offer. As for the rest, it seems that I’ll need to pack the veritable all-star team of baby supplies in order for this trip to be a minimal-tear success. This list currently includes, but is not limited to the following:

• Bottles – No baby tool is more essential than the means by which you feed the baby. Since someone’s digestive tract only accepts liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner, a ready supply of bottles will be making the trip from our home to the plane. You see, some people frown upon using the airline’s supply of perfectly-sized airline alcohol bottles after a thorough cleansing of them in the restroom. Go figure.
• A tarp – The plane ride is about five hours, which means at least one guaranteed feeding time will pass. This item is for the benefit of the passengers sitting the row behind us. Trust me on this one.
• Stroller – Here’s the thing about babies. From the time I first met Clara, she’s increased in size by about 50%. Wow, that really got out of hand fast. Holding her for five days in higher altitude will do a number on my arms. This is non-negotiable – the stroller is getting checked on the plane. Our brand is Peg Perego. It’s Italian, which means that it’s stylish, trendy, and will lose any major battle with any other stroller anywhere. (Note: I called it Pinot Grigio for the first two months. Warrants mentioning.)
• Baby Bjorn – For places where four-wheelers dare not go, we have a Baby Bjorn. For those unfamiliar with the Bjorn, it’s like a baby backpack you wear on your front, giving you a hands-free way to carry the baby. And not only can you operate dining utensils and pick things up with the best of them, it confuses the heck out of the baby as to how productive you’re being. Ok, that’s two good inventions for the Swedes (after Ikea, of course.) 8 more, and we’ll let you forget about The Cardigans. Lovefool, my foot.
• Baby headphones – I figure a cross-country flight is just as good a time as any to teach Clara to not believe hippies and critics of pop: Dear, “world music” is terrible. Those people who swear by “world music?” They’re doomed to fail in life. Then I’ll bet the baby 10 bucks that the guy with the ponytail across the aisle that just ordered a Diet Fresca from the drink cart has his headphones tuned to world music. (This will be immediately followed by a monologue as to why gambling is wrong.)

Have a Drumstick and Your Brain Stops Ticking

A few nights back, I attended my first ever game at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. The following are some thoughts concerning said game.

Up until this point in my life, I had actually only seen major league baseball in three different places. First, you have Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. The Fightins’ home until 2004, it was a concrete monolith that favored symmetry over style. Second, there’s RFK Stadium in DC, the current home of your Washington Nationals. In essence, it’s the twin stadium to the Vet, only with a greater propensity to run out of concessions in the upper decks by the 4th inning. And finally, there’s Citizens Bank Park, the current home of Philly. Much to the chagrin of the bankers that are spending million to loft their moniker over the park, it’s come to be known simply as the “Bank.” Lord knows Billy Wagner cashed in there after one good season.

(Fun Fact: Citizens Bank Park can be re-arranged to spell both “CRAZIEST PINK BANK” and “ZEBRA NAPKIN STICK.” That is all.)

However, we can now add the retro-modern feel of the Charm City to that list. This was no easy task. With a 7:05 start on tap, I left my desk at 5, some 50 miles from my seat. Once you calculate the money needed for gas and the anguish of spending two straight hours in traffic, there’s no way I’m shelling out any cash whatsoever to which the lowly Orioles do battle with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. But Condon, sports franchises make money by charging patrons to watch the game! What will you do?

Enter the Chinese Chicken.

Joe Brescia, in the 15 years that I’ve known him, has worn a lot of hats. He’s been a youth soccer enforcer, a World Cultures compatriot, a roller hockey linemate, the future GM of the Flyers, a trampoline inspector, arcade race car driver, cell phone connoisseur, a Savage Gardener, and the hat Lou Jester stole from him in high school. But now we can one more lid to his collection.

Caterer to the Stars.

For those who don’t know, The Breche Mode is a manager of the new P.F. Changs in Inner Harbor Baltimore. Somehow, he convince the Baltimore Orioles to let them supply locker room cuisine for home games. In exchange? You guessed it.

Free tickets.

I could care less if Miguel Tejada and Erik Bedard fight over the last lettuce wrap if Mr. Brescia sends a free seat to a pro ball game my way. (Note: Tejada always wins that battle.) And so he did last week, where I witnessed quite possibly the weirdest sequence of events I’ve ever seen live at a pro sporting event. Let’s paint the picture, no?

Okay, it’s bottom 5 and the O’s are clinging to a 7-6 lead. Melvin Mora (quite possibly the geekiest first name for an athlete) singles to center field to lead off the inning. Kevin Millar flies out to center, and Jay Payton steps to the plate. On a 1-0 count, Mora steals second. The D-Rays’ catcher, Dioner Navarro, throws the ball into centerfield (he was distracted by the icy sheen from the dome of Sr. Brescia) and Mora gets up and tails it to third, beating the throw from the outfield. He’s safe, and everybody agrees.

Everyone, that is, but Tampa 3B Ty Wigginton.

Wigginton (the geekiest surname in the MLB) makes short work of his rant and gets tossed from the game by the umpire. You don’t see that every day. As he sulks his way to the dugout, he throws his cap into the stands. You don’t see that every day. Because we are in Baltimore and not Tampa, the crowd chants for the recipient of said cap to throw Ty’s hat back onto the field. He complies.* You don’t see that every day. In all the excitement surrounding Wigginton and his well-traveled hat, few saw a man running across the outfield from his seats in left-center. You don’t see that every day.

Oh, and the Orioles won. You don’t see that every day.

*Personally, I would have rebuked the surrounding fans and kept the hat. But that’s just me.

A Giraffe's Lament

Hi. I’m a giraffe. That’s right, the tallest brother in the jungle. And I’m typing on a computer. Don’t question the mechanics – just be amazed that a creature whose head is a good 14 feet from the computer monitor is composing a blog. I don’t need to see what I’m typing. I’m a giraffe. We’re known for our touch typing abilities.

I asked Condon if I could have 600 words of your time to address the general public about how my people have been traditionally perceived in all walks of society. I pick this day because of the Yahoo News story that has outlined recent tragic events at a Lithuanian Zoo. For you lazy bipeds who are too lazy to click, I broke the collar bone and the nose of a 22-year old drunk college student who thought it would be fun to climb into my cage. For some reason, the world finds it shocking that this tool’s injuries are so severe. Your Associated Press came to interview, and the only questions they asked the zookeeper concerned how unusual it is for me, a noble giraffe, to attack a human.

Look, damn it. I’m freaking fierce.

This is the problem I have with you people. When it comes to the fiercest of God’s creatures, all my neighbors clean up on that ballot. The lions, the bears, the rhinos, the gorillas – all are feared by children too young to comprehend the inherent safety of zoo cages. I watch people fear pansies like the hippo (apparently fat guys are scary regardless of buffet line proximity), and the raccoon (what I wouldn’t give to drop kick that eye-black son of a gun), and yet I’m loved by all – just because I’m a vegetarian. Hey man, both Spider-man and the Green Goblin are vegetarians. If you saw them coming, you’d soil yourself.

So big deal.

And what’s more, it’s not like you people are overlooking my tenacity because of some diminutive stature I bring to the table. I stand eighteen feet tall and way 1,300 pounds! Look at guys like David Ortiz or Shaq or any huge defensive tackle – you’re scared of them because of their size, aren’t ya? Why not Giraffes? One of these days I’m going to be slowly munching on some upper branches for the world to see and I’m going to move my neck so fast at some poor kid’s bucket of popcorn, he’ll run so fast the cheetahs will get whiplash. If I chose to run right at your sorry little desk, you would totally move. Little known fact: giraffes are considered the ninja warriors of the jungle.

You’re damn right I taught that kid a lesson. I had a few reasons for this. First off, I hate Lithuanians. I agreed to do an eight-month zoological exchange shift with the condition that my next assignment will be in Bali or Fiji or somewhere else that sounds tropical by default. And what’s more, the pride of Lithuania is Darius Kasparitis, my second least-favorite hockey player of all time (you win this time, Barnaby.) Every day I have to hear how great Darius is, I cry a little on the inside. And secondly, I’m a firm supporter of keeping our zoos alcohol-free. There’s no reason that any place that includes a monkey house as part of its landscape should have any ready access to booze. But hey, don’t blame me. I voted for Brazaukskiev.

Face it; you people just don’t appreciate my people. God put us on the Ark to be awesome to look at it, and we didn’t survive all these centuries because we’re strong rebounders and can see around corners and stuff. Do you see any other abnormally tall creatures roaming the African savannah? No? There’s a reason for that. I killed them all.

And yet, the best tribute you invalids came up with is a bit part in that crappy movie Madagascar. Was I portrayed rightfully as a godless killing machine? Nay.

I was a nervous basket case with the voice of David Schwimmer.

No really, thanks.

Tar Heel Sundae?

Every day, I get a call from the Prodigal Roommate during his lunch break. Our lunch breaks are very different. I spend my lunch break eating lunch at my desk. He spends it walking the streets of New York City, trying to avoid getting blindsided by raging taxis and Ukranian Cuisine vendor carts. We’ll chat for a few minutes, normally about the day in pro baseball or what movies we’ve caught recently, but one thing is always a phone call staple.

Mister Softee.

Mr. Softee, who according to Wikipedia is “the largest franchisor of soft ice cream in the United States,” hangs out just outside Spud’s office, enticing busy New Yorkers with ice cream. Sweet, sweet ice cream. A mid-day ice cream cone, usually reserved for 1950’s residential cul-de-sacs or parking lots of public swimming pools, has found a way to convince those who spend their days in business suits to indulge. No matter how serious one’s job is, somehow the good ice cream man has convinced people of all ages that it’s a good time for an ice cream.

And I’m curious.

Walking outside my office at lunch time will do me no good, unless I’d like to tick some people off on Leesburg Pike by playing Human Frogger. There’s no delightful conehead with melting vanilla brains waiting by my door, no sir. But I wonder what it would take to make that happen. Ah-ha!

According to Mr. Softee’s website, he’s got an offer for you! One of the four main sections of the Softee cyberspace? “INVITE US TO YOUR PARTY!”

I sure will!

However, I have some bad news. There are many places that Mr. Softee trucks are available for company picnics, birthday parties et al, but Washington D.C. is not one of them. If I am to party with Softee and Friends, I’m going to have to leave the area, for somewhere else where Softee rolls. Looking at the list, one locale stands out.

Charlotte, North Carolina.

This Chris may not live in Charlotte, North Carolina, but a certain excellently-named college roommate of this Chris certainly does. As for the interwebs go, Chris Nordberg is incommunicado for the week until he gets his laptop fixed. He’s got no personal e-mail and thanks to work restrictions, no access to blogs. Man, what a downer. Good news though, Nordy. I have just the thing to cheer you up.I’m throwing you a party. And Mr. Softee’s invited.

According to this form, all I need to enter is Nordberg’s personal contact information, the event date of his party, the address of the party, and the estimated number of guests. And just for fun, there’s a place for additional comments. Ok, let’s see here. Let’s go with Nordberg’s apartment on May 19th. The party will be from 7:00 to 7:08 pm. The estimated guest count will be one. And as for additional information, let’s go with, “Mr. Softee, if you don’t show up with hot fudge topping, I will kick your cone to the curb.”

How can they say no to this party invite? A belligerent solo ice cream partier!

So let’s say Mr. Softee doesn’t contact Nordberg in advance and just shows up. (We figure that if he does call Nordberg beforehand to negotiate cost it will be the end of the line for this endeavour.) Maybe the Mr. Softee deliveryperson will be an attractive skinny blond girl who has a master’s degree in business and spends her time off the job watching Fox Soccer Channel and drinking Mountain Dew. Would that not be the most awesome “How We Met” story for their future wedding???

And if this is exactly how it goes down, I should get some preferential wedding status. Like I get to sit on a matrimonial throne. Yeah.

The Year in Movies, 2005

One of my proudest recurring features, The Year in Movies, has twice occurred as the final post of each calendar year the blog has been around. As we had mentioned, I’m not a pro movie critic; therefore my job is not to see all the year’s movies for a living. However, as a cinema enthusiast, I feel qualified to impart my take on the year’s ten best. But in order to do such a thing, in the past I have given myself one extra year to see what I had missed, so that my Top Ten list isn’t just what I paid to see in the theatre and any early-year releases that fast tracked themselves to DVD release. When I reviewed the Best of 2004 in 12/05, I had seen 49 flicks. I thought that was a strong case for my list’s authority.

When 12/06 came around, I realized that I was not ready to post my Best of 2005 list. Sure, I had seen over 40 ’05 movies at that time, but some glaring omissions in watched list would negate the credibility my list had. The easiest way to disarm authority is to say, “Well, what about (Insert Movie here)?” and to have me respond, “Oh, I didn’t see that.” So with all due respect to Spud and The Chumscrubber, I now feel ready (with last night’s viewing of Hustle and Flow) to release The Year in Movies, 2005.

Yes, it’s May.

The other reason I was so hesitant to publish previously is that I was unsatisfied with what made up my Top Ten. The thing is with ’05, it was a year with a lot of good movies, just so few great ones. As I churned through some late winter Netflix rentals to displace the bottom end of the ten, few rose to the challenge. Before we get to the list, here’s some quick observations.

Worst Movie I Saw from 2005: The New World. With all due respect to Madagascar, The Game of their Lives, and The Wedding Date, Terrence Malick’s take on the story of John Smith and Pocahontas was a 150 minute movie where they introduced Smith’s main rival 100 minutes in. It was long, it was drawn out, and it was pointless. After watching this at the Tyson’s AMC, the four of us ran as fast as we possibly could for a strong drink. Like arsenic on the rocks.

Most Underrated Movie Not on My Ten: Serenity. A strong movie from the sci-fi genre, the dialogue alone makes me want to rent the entire Firefly series on which it was based. I’m a sucker for witty banter, and this movie delivered.

Most Overrated Movie: Brokeback Mountain. The thing is with Brokeback, it was universally declared the best movie of the year, (well by everyone but the Best Picture voters of AMPAS), and with such a universal accolade, I was expecting, well, the best movie of the year. While the love story was done well, this movie has a glaring flaw: the pacing. The movie takes place over 20 years in the lives of Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist, yet it’s nearly impossible to figure out how far the story progresses with each passing scene. However, if it weren’t for the aging of the two leads’ children, you would have no idea we were fast forwarded by leaps of years. They did very little to make it clear that time was passing quickly, as Ledger’s appearance doesn’t change nearly at all, and Gyllenhaal grows a mustache, but it’s far from old and distinguished. This is a critical flaw for a movie that was predicted to be the best of the year.

Best Re-watchability: There are movies in any collection that you can put in anytime for background noise, for a release from reality, or just an excuse to wolf popcorn. This year’s winner, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, is an action-comedy that while thin on the resolution, has yet to disappoint.

The Year in Movies, 2005

1. Crash – And here’s the thing about Crash. It was a good-to-great movie that won Best Picture in a weak year. But as an art form, the storytelling and acting are phenomenal, the best I saw in 2005. It solidified Paul Haggis as an A-List screenwriter, reinvigorated the careers of Bullock, Newton, and Dillon, and introduced us to Michael Pena and Ludacris. It had a message, but wasn’t preachy about it. (Preachy: The Constant Gardener)

2. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang - Best script of the year. Runner-up in the re-watch category. Further proof that Val Kilmer is an under-rated character actor, and that Robert Downey Jr. could have been on the greats of his generation, if he didn't insist on being a golden god so often.

3. Munich - Other than a strange final scene choice for Spielberg, this would have been my favorite movie of the year. It's dark and depressing, but it found a way to ratchet up suspense, develop characters, and depict a historical even I had previously known little about. Now if Eric Bana could stay out of scripts involving Drew Barrymore, we'd all be a little happier.

4. King Kong - I was worried about this movie when I heard it was being re-made. Peter Jackson was due for a major letdown, and with Jack Black as the male lead, I was skeptical. But he also had Naomi Watts and Adrien Brody, so I looked forward to it. As the big monkey rampages through the final act in old New York City, I realize that this is Hollywood movie making. It was the perfect storm of everything big budget, and I loved it.

5. Good Night, and Good Luck - Meanwhile on the other end of the film spectrum was this black and white take on Edward R. Murrow vs. Senator McCarthy. David Straithairn finally delivered a performance that removed him from the "That Guy in That Movie" Hall of Fame. Don't get me wrong; he does a great job as the brother in The Firm, the commisioner of A League of their Own, and Pierce Padgett in L.A. Confidential, but this will be his career moment. Slickest movie of '05.

6. Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe - An astute re-telling of the C.S. Lewis book, it blended fantasy, solid child actors, and a sweeping score to do justice to such a literary classic. It proved that a movie company needs to work hard to interpret a good book if they want it to succeed, as opposed to Eragon.

7. Cinderella Man - Every year, it seems, there are 6 big movies that could warrant Best Picture nominees, and one will be inevitably left out. Ron Howard's Depression-era boxing match hit the canvas as smaller movies like Capote snuck in. Make no mistake - this movie overcomes Renee Zellweger to make my list. And that's saying something.

8. March of the Penguins - Let me take this directly from my Film Critic review:Wow - I didn't know I can smile for 83 consecutive minutes. I loved this.

9. Walk the Line - The inevitable comparison for this movie will be the previous year's musical biopic, Ray. These movies are identical in structure, and the acting of Joaquin Phoenix and Jamie Foxx are a dead heat. But what makes Walk the Line a good movie is its pacing, and the inclusion of his early tourmates.

10. Sin City - I didn't like everything about this movie. The Bruce Willis storyline is weak, and I prefer a full story as opposed to three vignettes. However, the technical achievements in the visuals of this movie propel it past any other flaws it may have. Most revolutionary effects since The Matrix.

Honorable Mentions: Millions, Batman Begins