Throw Mauer From the Train

In our first year of blogging, we attempted to cover the MLB All-Star Game, running diary style. After about 90 minutes, we lost interest in covering a largely meaningless exhibition game that the National League gets perennially waxed in. This season’s edition will be held tonight in San Francisco.

We have no intention of live blogging it.

However, we don’t want it to pass us by without any mention, so we’re going to do a much more compact, concise running diary. Rather than chart interleague balls and strikes for four hours, let’s stay within our standard column length while showing our astute grasp for America’s Past time while taking a few cheap shots along the way. Without further ado, we give you the 2007 Live Blog of the Commercial for the MLB All-Star Game on Fox.

Preamble: This commercial, much like the pinball-themed once of last year, shows various Major League All-Stars on their way to the All-Star Game in San Francisco. The design of the ad is to show the game’s best and brightest working together to compete against the other league, while reminding people of the host city’s key features. There’s a problem, though. Fox needs to air this commercial for a good month and a half prior to tonight’s game in order to garner sizeable interest in the telecast. However, the All-Star rosters are only announced 10 days before the game.

What does this mean?

The commercial is shot in the pre-season, long before anyone can put forth a half-season of merit, earning them an All-Star invite. Because of this, uh, scheduling error, MLB must do its best to predict who will be in the Big Game as to not look like jackasses. Therefore, you’re not going to see Roger Clemens, who was retired at the time of filming. (That’s okay, he’s not an All-Star anyway.) Let’s proceed, shall we?

The commercial in question can be found here.

0:01: You can see this is fiction from the get-go. A trolley stops to pick up Giants left fielder Barry Bonds. No, it’s not fiction that Bonds is on the team; rather, it’s fiction because a trolley is willing to stop to pick up Barry Bonds.

0:06: Meanwhile, Derek Jeter (2-0!) hops on the American League trolley after wandering aimlessly through the streets of San Francisco for hours. You would think a guy making $17.9 million a year could have afforded a cab. You would also think that there’s an injury provision in pro ballplayers contracts that forbids them to casually jump onto moving vehicles.

0:11: As the two leagues’ trolleys pull alongside one another, they come to a stop at a traffic light. We see three NY Mets – Carlos Beltran, Jose Reyes, and David Wright – all All-Stars (5-0!) standing and smiling. They’re smiling because the trolley is much preferred to the NYC Subway. Across the way are a couple of Twins – Johan Santana and Joe Mauer. Who the hell let Mauer on board? He’s no All-Star (6-1!), having spent most of the first season on the DL, thereby killing my fantasy team. Oh and apparently, the All-Star Game will be decided by who can chew gum more pleasantly: Wright or Mauer.

0:18: Wright slows the train to pick-up Braves’ outfielder Andruw Jones (6-2!), his .211 average, and his 87 strikeouts. Nice pick-up, Dave.

0:21: The A.L. counters with Home Run Derby Champ Vlad Guerrero (7-2!). Something tells me this will be their 10th win in 11 years already. Damn it.

0:24: Wright violently shifts gears, and newspapers fly out of the hands of Nomar Garciaparra (7-3!) and Beltran. For the record, the Mets’ 3B is anti-Sudoku. In the background behind Nomar, an extra wearing #97 remains unfazed.

0:26: Hanging from the side of the NL Car? Mark Ruffalo – no, wait. That’s Barry Zito. (7-4!) No wonder this NL trolley is so damn slow. That guy’s ERA is 4.90 and his contract is heavier than Prince Fielder.

0:28: Chicago Cubs Derrek Lee and Alfonso Soriano (9-4!) are clearly on a date.

0:30: Madman Conductor Wright hits the brakes, as he drives right through a parade. Lance Berkman (9-5!) loses his footing, while Chase Utley (10-5!) and Ryan Howard (10-6!) point and laugh at the tuba players running for their lives. I had no idea I root for such sadistic bastards.

0:36: Apropos of nothing, Jimmy Rollins (10-7!) is eating a donut. He deserves to be on this trolley, but alas, he is not. Why isn’t here in SF tonight?

0:38: Because the phantom hand of Jason Bay (10-8!) has pulled Pirates’ infielder Freddy Sanchez on board. (11-8!) My only real problem with the All-Star rosters, Tony LaRussa picked an under qualified Sanchez over starting pitcher Ian Snell, thereby using up the spot that Rollins deserves. Ok, off my soap box now.

0:41: On the AL trolley, someone sends Jason Giambi a text message that says, “DUCK!” It should have said, “UR NOT AN ASTAR! TTYL!” (11-9!) A-Rod (12-9!) watches from afar, and makes 2.3 million dollars in the process.

0:48: For no reason whatsoever, Blue Jays pitcher Roy Halladay swings out of the trolley and busts a Road Closed sign with a hanging curve. He’s angry, and he’s not on the team, either. (12-10!)

0:52: Despite Jason Bay’s irony, both trollies crash into the water surrounding San Fran. All the All-Stars drown. Guest kayaker Adam Sandler is too late.

Only on FOX!

Having the Power of Adam and Eve

Over the course of your life, you’ll make millions of decisions. Some of them may be small and insignificant (re: Gummi Bears v. Sprinkles, 1992), while others may be quite complex (re: William & Mary v. Other 47 Schools I Applied To, 1998.) And while the effects of these choices you make may have some long-lasting remnants to your once and future life, no decision I’ve ever made will have greater ramifications than what to name our first-born.

You get one shot at this one, folks.

Naming a child is a responsibility like none other. Long after you’re gone, your kid needs to live with the choice that you made as to what the world shall know him/her as. You can play it safe and allow other attributes of their future lives define them. You can take a big risk for a big reward, and allow them to be the cool kid in class even before they set their Trapper Keeper down. You can take a big risk and ruin their lives, as celebrities so often do. (Gwyneth McColdplay, I’m looking in your direction.) Or you can name the kid Jeeves, and punch his ticket to butler school.

(But hey, he’ll be excellent at fetching croissants for ya.)

The first question anyone will ask you after finding out you are a new parent is, “What is the baby’s name?” This is a completely natural question, I assure you. Just like a person of any age, a baby must rely on their name for identification, not the number of toes she has or whether or not she’s currently asleep.

But here’s the thing about, “What is the baby’s name?” The way it casually flows into a conversation, the one who asks the question has no choice but to like the name the baby has been given. I have never once asked that question only to follow up with, “That’s a horrible name!” It’s not in human nature to do so. Let’s say your friend has deemed their newborn a truly horrible name. You can’t say, “You’re joking, right?” in case that may actually be the name. You need to accept the name in stride or else, you’ll never be invited to see the baby again. This goes double if the baby is present. Sometimes I think about answering that question with the name “Horseradish” just to prove my point.

Lucky for Clara, I didn’t push for her to be Horseradish.

So where does Clara come from? Other than the name was my idea, I really couldn’t tell you. Long before marriage and pregnancy, everyone fantasizes as to what they will name their children. I’ve had Clara in mind for years, but for reasons unknown. I’ve never known a Clara personally, and it’s not a family name, either. And even after Katie agreed it would be an ideal name, I had to convince her it had nothing to do with Back to the Future Part III.

(Honestly, that’s pure coincidence. Unless we name our first son McFly, that is.)

The year I was born, the top 5 boys’ names were Michael, Christopher, Jason, David, and James. (For the record, “Spud” ranked a surprising 12th) I like my name, and wouldn’t traded it for any other in the world (except maybe for “Danger.”) However, having the most popular name is not necessarily good. It forces your friends to accept their surnames as their given names and forces you to go by an initial all through elementary school. Clara is unique while not being bizarre, currently ranking 246th among all girls’ names.

That’s perfect.

Actually, 245 is a rank worth attaining, since the 245th current girl name is “Heaven.” As a Christian, I feel qualified to say that’s a terrible name. It’s not really a name at all, just a misguided parent’s hope for piety in their young one.

Which of the following professions is more likely to employ a girl named “Heaven?”
a) Nun
b) Stripper

Just sayin’.

Do I Sound Like I'm Ordering a Pizza?

Late last week, I came down with the nastiest flu I’ve had in a few years. Granted, it came and went in 36 hours and here I am at work feeling strangely fine, but it was still a complete pain. For one very long Friday, it cripple my ability to be productive, eat stuff, and write humorous blog posts. But I would gladly sacrifice all three of those abilities for a long weekend if I could regain the ability to get back the other thing of which I was robbed during my mini-epidemic:

See the end of Live Free or Die Hard.

You never quite know when sickness will set in, so it’s best to continue living your life until whatever flu/cold/fever/plague/gout decides to show up at the party of your life. How did I get so sick so quickly? I’m really not sure. The early prevailing theory in the clubhouse came from a poorly-cooked burger I made just prior to leaving to see a movie. (That is, this was the theory, not that the theory was given to me by a talking burger.) While this origin is unconfirmed, I didn’t think it was a cool enough reason for being bed-ridden, so I’ve largely debunked it and made up a cooler reason. If anybody asks –

A ninja sneezed on me.

Yeah, that sort of interpersonal contact isn’t one I’d prefer, but it 1) would be a logical way to inherit an illness and 2) make you all think I hang out with incredibly awesome warriors of shadow, so that’s what we’re going with. So I was hanging out with ninjas, and one happened to sneeze on me on my way to see Live Free or Die Hard.

(Not surprisingly, he also ganked my popcorn without me knowing.)

You may have noticed that I have yet to post my rating to Live Free or Die Hard in the Film Critic box over to the right. Until now, you people have no idea that I even saw the flick, let alone how I feel about Bruce Willis reprising John McClane after 13 years. I can say this much now – I really loved it.

I really loved the first hour and ten minutes. I loved how Justin Long and Willis bantered. The plotline was solid enough for me, and I thought some of the action shots were the best in years out of Hollywood. I thought Timothy Olyphant was a decent (not great) villain, and the one-liners from the trailer turned out to be a lot less groan-worthy once re-inserted into the dialogue. The first hour and ten minutes were worth the price of admission.

What about the rest, Condon?

Well friends, I couldn’t tell you how it ends (nor do I want you to tell me in the comments.) I left the theater prematurely thanks to my newfound friend, Influenza. I exited stage right after some dummy’s concession stand pizza sent me reeling, and I trudged home completely depressed that my stomach was not going to hold out for well, more stuff that blows up. So now I sit here having spent 9.25 on two thirds of a solid action flick longing for the rest.

Damn it.

However, it would have needed to be equal or better to the original Die Hard to make me buy another ticket, so now I’m stuck waiting until Netflix can deliver me my sorely-needed movie ending sometime around Thanksgiving. Or am I?

I’ve spent the weekend brainstorming the following ways in which I can convince the good folks at the movie theatre to let me in without paying. I appreciate any inputs or votes you may have in the comments.

1. Ask nicely. Use “Puss in Boots” sad eyes.
2. Sneak in. Use something shiny as a diversion.
3. Buy a ticket to a shorter movie (1408) and catch the ending afterwards.
4. Threaten to run around the lobby like a lunatic yelling out the endings to every other movie unless they let me in.

Living with a Covert Ops Hippie

College commencement speeches, regardless of who you have deliver them, often carry many of the same tired old clichés for seniors in poorly-ventilated nylon tablecloths to take in with all the enthusiasm of a rock. It’s not the seniors’ fault; hearing about the long journey they’ve taken or it being time to enter the real world is trite before they even hit the poor acoustics of their university’s basketball gymnasium. At the same time, I’m not suggesting there should be a revolutionary change in the oratory comfort zone that is the graduation speech, either. It’s a rite of passage, just as much as the post-diploma handshake, the mortar board cap launch, and the 45-minute mulling about session as newly minted grads try and locate loved ones in the stands is.

But hey, maybe some pyrotechnics would add something.

So yes, you’ve entered the real world, much as the 2nd runner-up in the ’96 Republican primary said you would. It’s been a whole 5 years since that speech, and you’ve done other clichéd things like jumping in with both feet and hitting the ground running. Perhaps your travels and your career path have taken you far, far away from your collegiate home in Williamsburg, Virginia. Maybe you did grad school or got married. Hell, you may have even had a kid. And with the crazy home sales market, you’ve probably hopped from apartment to apartment to apartment with little regard for updating your contacts and address books.

But remember, Alma Mater is watching.

The bastion of knowledge at which you spent 4 years likes to know where its children end up once they leave the nest. The reasons for this are as varied as the paths each graduate takes with his or her life. Some colleges like to know where you to hit you up for some cash once you’ve gone into the real world and made a financial killing. Others like to send your alumni magazines that really no one reads other than the 3 inches of text dedicated to your class’ notes in the back.

(Note: This, too, is a waste of time. It’s just a listing of the section editor’s friends who got married since the last release. So if you aren’t the section editor and you didn’t invite him to your wedding, you’re probably not going to get any press for it. That’s okay – we hear he gives copies of the alumni magazine as a wedding gift, anyway.)

One other reason that your alma mater likes to keep tabs on you is to send you information regarding historic homecomings that end in 5 or 0, most often signifying that word that everybody loves: REUNION! Yes, come back and show off how awesome you are to the classmates you haven’t talked to since! Bring your pretty wife! Dress up your adorable children! Rent a sweet car from Enterprise and fool ‘em!

This past week, I received a brochure for all the things W&M are planning to bring home the Class of 2002 in style. But in order to do so, they want to make sure that they let EVERYBODY in the Class of 2002 in on the party. That’s where their crack team at Alumni Services comes into play. Alumni Services is a clever surveillance op that stops at nothing, thanks to the power of the Internet, to find out where each graduate has landed, five years after scattering to the wind. Of course, this is a public university and therefore, is constrained to a state budget (at least it’s not Pennsylvania’s budget.) So some graduates have slipped through the cracks.

78 out of 1,304, to be exact. 6 per cent's not that bad.

But still, there are 78 nomads out in the world. 78 souls that have become such free spirits that their own alma mater can’t even find them. In a world of internet, e-mail, Facebook, alumni organizations, academic departmental newsletters, student organizations, blogs, these 78 people have fallen off the grid. They’ve become the dreamer minstrels of our generation – those who can’t be bothered with names and numbers and forwarding addresses. They live to be free of all that. Or maybe they've become top secret spies in other lands, damn near impossible to unearth.

Well, I’m ready to do my part, Alma Mater. For I have located one of these special ops free spirits. Yes, she’s been on the run, but it’s time to come to justice. For on your list of missing people, I have found number 52:

KATHERINE PRETZ

And all this time, I thought she really was an elementary school teacher.

International Stereotype Theatre: UK Edition!

I think we may have stumbled upon a potential recurring feature here at the YAB, when we took the noble nation states of Liechtenstein and Switzerland to task over an errant invasion plan back in January’s International Stereotype Theatre post. And since we’ve made it abundantly clear that holiday-accurate dating is not high on our priority list, we bring to you now how a couple of jolly gents from England spent their Fourth of July. Yesterday.

Alistair Beachem: Well I say there, gov’nor, lovely weather we’re having today. I mean, sure, it’s raining and overcast and the dampness has made me a completely depressed sod, but at least the temperature has cracked 50 today.
Neville Worthington III: 50, you say? I must object, Alistair. It’s rather baltic out, so much to say that it’s mighty nesh outside. 50? My dear friend, I’d be dead if the mercury reached 50!!
Beachem: Forgive me, gov’nor. I see where the confusion doth lie. I was speaking meteorologically in an American tongue today – 50 would be the reading on the Fahrenheit side of the aisle.
Worthington: And praetell why, gov’nor, would you do make such a pants move? That’s not just poppycock. It’s pish-tosh rubbish poppycock.
Beachem: Give the Yanks their due, gov’nor. After all, it is their Independence Day.
Worthington: Yes, I feel like I’m going to throw a whitey, gov’nor. How can you possibly celebrate the Yanks’ Independence Day. After all, it is the BIGGEST UPSET in the history of the world, and we’re on the losing end. Bugger!
Beachem: I heartily apologize. Lord, pierce my heart with a bullet, for I have commit treason in the eyes of the crown.
Worthington: Calm down, gov’nor! Where do you expect the Almighty to procure a firearm?
Beachem: Well-played, gov’nor.

(a third man enters, excitedly)

Nigel Fischenchipper: Come hither, gov’nors! I’ve got an idea that’s easily the brightest crayon in the box!
Beachem: Brighter than fruit AND cake?
Fischenchipper: The Queen will knight me for sure. She’ll even let me sit at that perfectly circular table she always makes such a big deal about.
Worthington: We’re all ears.
Fischenchipper: I propose a sneak attack on the Colonies!!!
Beachem: (spits out his tea and drops his English Muffin on the floor) WHAAAT?
Worthington: (does a spit take while brushing his below average teeth) BLOODY WHAAT?
Fischenchipper: The way I see it, the war’s been over now for nearly 231 years. Those blokes’ll never see it coming!
Beachem: But why, gov’nor? Why even bother?
Fischenchipper: For they have taken our greatest asset stateside!
Beachem: A Double decker bus?
Worthington: Fawlty Towers?
Beachem: The excellence that is Oasis?
Fischenchipper: Nay! DAVID BECKHAM!

(all three men down a pint of ale and in a pristine act of hooliganism, kick the arse of a nearby Arsenal fan)

Fischenchipper: You see, if we strike now, on their day of days, they’ll glad return ole’ Becks to the Old Country in exchange for our swords in their sheaths.
Beachem and Worthington: BRILLIANT!
Fischenchipper: You sound like Irishmen.
Beachem: Sorry, gov’nor. Well, if this crusade is to succeed, we’ll need an inside man, a true Benedict Arnold. Any suggestions?
Worthington: What about South Carolina? They’ve never officially rejoined the Union!
All: HUZZAH!

(for no reason whatsoever, an old man runs across their path chasing scantily-clad women to a jovial tune, at slightly sped-up time)

Fear and Teething at 30,000 Feet

I took my first airplane ride when I was 6.

It was 1986, (a fortunate perk of my birth year that allows me to remember how old I was because the digit in the “ones” column of the year largely coincides with the “ones” digit of my age.) My parents had decided against 1,030 miles in an Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera in favor of putting my sister and me on the shiniest airplane Eastern Airlines had to offer. And aside from an intense ear ache from cabin pressurization, I survived. And it only took me six years of life to prepare.

Clara’s already taken two airplane rides. She’s less than 6 months.

But we’re not here to talk about a baby’s experience on an airplane. Why not? Well, for the most part it’s been largely uneventful. Clara has been well-behaved on both her flights to see Aunt Joanie graduate in Colorado Springs and Uncle Nordberg umm, phone it in on a lake house dock in Charlotte. She’s been happy, eager to look at all the people and things around her, has only knocked one in-flight beverage on Daddy’s shorts, concurs that the oxygen masks that may descend from the console in case of an emergency look ridiculous, and has slept quietly for long periods of time. Flight attendants haven’t had to been flagged down to quiet the vocal midget in Seat 19B, nor has she decided that 30,000 feet above sea level is an ideal to provoke a diaper change. Honestly, we couldn’t be happier, and if this blog was about her, it would now be over at 266 words. At that would be a record of brevity.

Nah….

This blog post, rather, is about the experience of everyone else BUT THE BABY on an airplane. You can tell an awful lot about a person based on how they deal with a baby on an airplane. Don't believe me. Watch this.

An air-bound person's first stop before they can even get a chance to ignore the pre-flight safety monologue is the gate from which the jet will be departing. Now let's assume that I had my act together and got wife and baby to the gate in plenty of time to pick out some prime people watching seats at ole' Gate D7. When someone turns the corner with their carry-on in hand, the reaction is such:

"Oh, how cute! A baby!"

This is a natural response mechanism. God made babies adorable to make stressed out people take a freakin' break. (Well that, and to force grandparents into visiting their immediate children.) So when a weary airport warrior is about to pass out for 40 minutes prior to them calling for Loading Zone 1, they have no other choice but to smile. They sit down across the terminal aisle, and they are pleased.

"Oh God, where's my seat?"

Yep, that's when it sets in. For every adorable baby that ever was, there's been a horribly cranky one on an airplane. Babies have no idea what's actually going on - the projected altitude and cartographical destination have no bearing on when they feed or nap next - so the "cool" factor of air travel does not affect them. All they know is that the temperature was just raised a bit, there's no breeze, and Mom or Dad have insisted on sitting down in a chair that carefully stows their knees deep within their ribcages. And if you remember back to any moment when you've seen such a sight, you may remember an unhappy bystander that is forced to deal with this latest bout of infantile displeasure.

So what do you do? You check your boarding pass. Of course, since the baby has no boarding pass of her own printed on her bib, checking your own pass will be utterly a waste of time. But hey, we understand your need for airborne peace, so the parents of this baby who's showing absoluely no sign of sadness forgive you. Hey, watch what happens when we tickle her.

"Did that baby just giggle aloud?"

Yeah, she did. And once again, you're reminded that babies can be more than Great Aviation Scream Machines. You sit your laptop bag against the chair leg with a sigh of relief. After all, you've calculated that on a 757 jet, you only have a 2.1 per cent chance of being cruelly assigned the seat next to the giggling child across the row. And you know what? Even if I do have that seat, it'll be okay! Babies (giggling ones especially) are awesome!

"We will now pre-board all first class passengers, and passengers with small children."

Oh my Lord, how much stuff do those parents intend on bringing onto the plane? There isn't enough room for a diaper bag, a Baby Bjorn, a blanket, toys, food, SkyMall for Babies, and well, the actual baby. I'll probably have to spend half the flight looking for the kid's pacifier on the floor or wiping goo out my laptop's keyboard. Are those Cheerios between F2 and F3?

You know what? It's too late. Our Almighty Creator has a grudge against me, and I've been assigned the commuting seat from Hell. Here I come, kidd-o. Yeah, I see 17A wide open for my taking. Man, I can't wait to listening to you wax hysterical for the next 1 hour and 23 minutes (plus taxi time) about how the cabin pressurization is hell to pay on your baby eardrums. Here I come, death. Take me now.

(checks boarding pass one more time, only to find assigned seat 27A)

"What an ADORABLE BABY!!!"

Pretty Tall for a White Guy

Of Philly’s four major sports teams, the NBA’s 76ers are the one I follow the least religiously. That doesn’t mean I don’t look for their results in the box scores or can name at least half their roster or watched every minute of the 2001 Finals, but basketball has always trailed the other three. So, in the first NBA post since when Tony Met Dikembe, I give you a limited history of Recent Tall White Guys of the Philadelphia 76ers.

Recent Tall White Guys of the Philadelphia 76ers

Shawn Bradley – (C, 7’6”, 275lbs. 1993-1995) – Bradley was the Great White Hope, having been drafted at number 2 in the ’93 draft. (Ahead of Penny Hardaway, Jamal Mashburn and Sam Cassell – well done, guys.) According to his Wiki page, his favorite movie is Dances with Wolves and enjoys water skiing. Wait a minute. A man who stands 90 inches tall water skiing? This I have got to see. So whichever one of you who is sitting on this footage, get thee to YouTube. Bradley’s also a devout Mormon, having attended BYU and done his missionary work prior to the NBA time. Personally, I like my Mormons under 7 feet tall.

Mike Gminski – (C, 6’11”, 250lbs. 1988-1991) – The G-Man. You could count on him for 11 PPG, 11, Rebounds, a block or two, and the best beard on the court. He figured that if he’s not the best player on the court, he might as well look as close to Chuck Norris as possible and intimidates the rookies into thinking he was. Now he’s a college basketball announcer, and guess what? He writes a blog! No word on whether or not he’s done a post about the Recent Tall White Guys of the Philadelphia 76ers. Although he should. See how much fun we’re having?

Jeff Ruland – (C, 6’10”, 240lbs. 1986, 1991-1992) – Ruland only managed to play 18 games for the Sixers, since a knee injury from a Boston Garden baggage cart ended his career prematurely. It’s probably for the best, considering he came there at the end of his career and his best skills were being big and white. In the nineties, he lived in Medford and rented videos from Couch Potato’s, the store I unofficially worked at during my college summers. Um, Mr. Ruland, it appears that you’ve had the movie “Forget Paris” out two extra weeks, and you owe us another $11.40.

You try and say that to a 6’10” with a straight face.

Matt Geiger - (C, 7’, 243lbs. 1988-2002) – This guy, who played Danny Ocean’s bouncer friend Bruser in Ocean’s Eleven, has got the rest of them beat. He had a nice 10 year career in the NBA, included a 52 million dollar deal for five years he signed in 2001 with your 76ers. Granted, an ankle injury in ’02 forced him into retirement, which is probably a good thing. At that point in his career his best skill was “fouling Shaq.” But being a mediocre white man for a decade in a pro sports league does not come without reward. How do I know this?

Matt Geiger is freakin’ rich. This is his house.

Geiger’s trying to sell this St. Petersburg, FL mansion as we speak. In case you are interested, here are some of its features:
Sq. Footage: 28,000
Includes: “Several lavish bars, a DJ station and dance floor, hot tubs, a pizza oven and even a cigar room. Also, he’s got 40 televisions, and 18 of them are wired with a network of Xboxes. Do you realize what that means? You and 17 of your friends could play Madden together, and control 82% of the players on the field! (Shotgun: Left Guard!)

And if the 330k gallon swimming pool or 5,200 sq.ft. guest house don’t make you get out your checkbook, here’s the piece de resistance.

“man-made lake stocked with 2,500 bass and a

personal herd of livestock that has included 12 buffalo, 11 Watussi, two donkeys, a miniature horse and one cow on the 40-acre estate." Umm, two questions…

1. You own 12 buffalo? Where does one purchase a buffalo?


2. Only one cow? You cheapskate, you couldn’t get her a friend?
   

(Photo courtesy of Sports by Brooks)

More Fun than Trucker Lingo

I can’t believe Wikipedia has an entry for “Baby Talk.” However, I’m extremely disappointed that this discourse on infantile communication has been written with perfect grammatical American English, and not actually baby talk. That would have been awesome.

What am I doing looking up baby talk on the internet? Firstly, I’m a dork. I’m a William and Mary dork. When something major life event comes along you hit the library or the net to do research on it (I first heard this in a WM Best Man speech, and it rings loudly true.) Secondly, I have a baby. Thirdly, she thinks she’s the premier orator of her generation. You know, even if she hasn’t said her first word. (Note: goocooooblaaawaah is not a real word.)

Clara is slightly over 4 months old now, some 5 months before the Internet Mommies say real words will start to come. (They also point out that “the "d" sound usually comes before the "m" sound. Sorry Katie, I will convince her to be left-handed during our limited window of direct communication. Bwah.) Now you might remember that when that time comes, I’ve already laid out baby’s first alphabet so that she may become an advanced intellectual visionary-type. But since those ABC’s consist of real words, and we’re full NFL season away from them, we’re getting back to basics.

The three most common words we use when talking to our child are “mama,” “dada,” and “baba.”

Mama is no doubt step 1 to identifying the mother. Dada is the first name she’ll ever call me, and at the same time, confuse me with a WWI Swiss cultural arts movement. Baba has been the term for bottle, or as I like to call it, the “Silencer.” Katie brough baba into our vocabulary, but I had no idea that this was a widespread term for cylinder of milk. You learn something new every day.

Notice something similar about these three words? Yeah, they all have identical make-ups. Each word shall be constructed using a consonant, the letter a, and repeat Steps 1 and 2. mama, dada, baba. See, symmetry is our friend.But why stop there? We’ve got five whole months of primitive baby communication to kill. So without further ado, here’s the rest of Clara’s First Spelling Words.

haha – laughter; used to express enjoyment, hilarity, and glee.
gaga – standard baby conversational filler; equivalent to the adult phrase, “Lovely weather we’re having.”
nana – used twice consecutively and followed by a “nah, Hey!;” used for cheering on daddy at softball games
tata – a closing, as in “See you later, Mom. I will now be crawling behind this couch.”
rara – when a baby has déjà vu of the Egyptian god of the Sun
fafa – baby’s favorite Guster song
kaka – baby’s favorite Brazilian soccer player
jaja – baby’s least favorite Star Wars character; Uncle Lucas, what were you thinking, man?
yaya – it appears our child knows some divine secrets of a certain sisterhood
lala – singing; melodic tune; has nothing to do with any stupid Teletubbies
wawa – baby’s first Mid-Atlantic convenience store
vava – baby’s first Mid-Atlantic convenience store in Germany

The View from 25 Inches

On many occasions I’ve gone through my own personal morning routine here on the blog. Sometimes it’s been related in running diary form, and other times via a dress shirt button countdown. It’s a frequent topic of discussion, especially back in the days where I kicked off my day with 600 words of the funny, hot and fresh out of the oven. The easiest thing to do in this business is write about personal experiences, and if only three hours of the day has elapsed prior to putting words to your keyboard, well then, that’s what your audience will get. (Hence the number of bagel/donut posts over the last three years.)

But there comes a time where morning material runs thin in a man’s life, and he must look to other people’s morning routines for humor and entertainment. Now since Katie is enjoying her summer vacation and my co-workers don’t know about the YAB, I’ll have to go with a minute-by-minute account of the only other person I have a daily encounter with. So without further ado, here’s a best guess analysis of how my daughter perceived the first two hours of her day. (I will be putting in italics to speak from her perspective. Note: Clara does not think in italics.)

5:43 AM: Ok, and the eyes are open. It’s still pretty dark in here. And I still have no use of any of my appendages. Probably not time to get up yet. Eh, whatever. (Stares at glowing LED light from Baby Walkie Talkie HQ) Let’s see if I can find the tall stumbling one. “Hey You! Hey You! Hey You!” (Translated to read: Blaaaaaaaghg.) Ok, he should be here in 3…2… (Sees incoming pacifier) Gulp. That was fun. Zzzzz.

6:19 AM: Ah. Now that’s a catnap. Hey, it’s much lighter in here. I wonder if I can get up now. Wish I knew how to tell time. I’m sure Sports Center must be on by now. Eh, let’s do it. “Excuse me, father. Shall we watch MLB recaps in 40-second form now?” (read: Blaaaghg. Woogoo. Wagh.) Hi, Daddy. I was wondering-GULP. Just because you put this pacifier back in doesn’t mean I have to close my eyes. Wait, what are you doing – checking your fantasy team on the computer in MY room. Forget it; I’ll see you at 7.

7:03 AM: Third time’s a charm. (Dad removes SwaddleMe from arms and legs.” Free at last! Free at last! God almighty, free at last! I figured I’ll just flail and stretch for a few minutes while you make breakfast. Look at me! On my back! On my front! On my back! On my – whoa. Who is that? I wish someone would calmly explain the physics of reflective surfaces. I have got to find out if that other baby is here when I’m asleep. Creep-y.

7:07 AM: Up on the shoulder and wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

7:08 AM: Down in the lap and slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp.

7:13 AM: I’ve noticed that when it’s time for the mid-feed burp, Dad comes over to the kitchen and now insists on burping me over the kitchen sink. Some would think it’s because he’s thinking ahead and wants whatever misses the cloth to end up in the plumbing. Others might say he does it so I have a nice shiny target at which to aim. My guess is he’s tired of have to scrub the carpet as part of his morning routine.

7:22 AM: Only three hours until one of those magical white bottles comes around again. How ever will I pass the time? If Dad’s in a hurry, he’ll pop in a Baby Mozart video. You know, the ones that play classical music over colorful images not too far off from a nasty acid trip? Yeah. Or he’ll grab a toy and watch in awe as I try and grab it with both hands. He does it all the time. Why is he so amazed when I do it?

7:38 AM: You want to see something amazing? Watch me put this foot in my mouth.

Air Can-ada

Oh man, does it feel good to wield so much firepower.

Some might think I have the job of a desk jockey. All of my work can be done in relative safety, protected by an L-shaped shield of faux mahogany furniture. There’s a highly unlikely chance of a natural disaster here in suburban Virginia, I don’t have to operate with flames of death licking my heels, and wild animals do not roam freely at my feet. But these are not the reasons why I feel safe atop my ergonomically-compliant swivel perch.

It’s because I have my finger on the trigger.

That’s right, people. I’m armed and oftentimes dangerous. They say that police officers and soldiers have an increased sense of self-confidence when they know they have the ability to shoot to kill, and now I know exactly what they mean. I deal with my fair share of idiots during the day, and because of this, I’ve perfected a “It appears that I’m listening to you, but in reality I’m naming all the NHL teams alphabetically to pass the time in my head” face. Now, I can end these incessant sessions (that never allow me to finish with Toronto - Vancouver – Washington), with a quick move to my holster and a point blank blast –

Of canned air.

On Thursday, I decided it was time to do a little tidying up at my desk. Filing had been long overdue; Post-its littered the landscape endlessly. There’s nothing more satisfying to coming in on a Monday morning to a clean, organized desk. (For Nordberg, this comes as no surprise.) In order to get a thorough cleaning, however, I needed to borrow some supplies from the office supply cabinet.

The Smith and Wesson of the cylindrically compressed air gun rack, Office Max Gas Duster is not just a weapon – it’s a work of art. The cold steel of the can pressed against your palm as you take aim at dust, dirt, and loose paper clips gives you the strength of ten men, and the cleanliness of ten women. The long red pressure-sensitive trigger begs to be fired, and the tiny black straw that protrudes forth from the muzzle is a sight to be seen.

(Or a substitute for a coffee stirrer. One of the two.)

It started innocently enough, as I blasted cold jets of air from the can into the crevices between the keys on my keyboard. As the ‘board was vacated by all foreign substances, I’d like to say that my job was done. That justice was served. That cleanliness is next to godliness. But then the power, well, it just took over.

Cans of air have so many uses. They can remove Post-It notes from the desk and into the trash can. They can launch paper clips into the hallway on the heels of lesser-liked coworkers. You can file paper into neat piles using the same principles of physic that govern the sport of air hockey. What about blowing the air can into the phone to convince a vendor that you can’t find their invoice in the middle of a hurricane? Or dusting crumbs off the front of your desk from that English muffin you wolfed.

Or you can get creative…

As our intern nervously told me his vacation plans for the summer, I sat before him with one hand resting calm on the desk on the other on the trigger of my air cannon. Turns out he’ll be taking off two non-consecutive hours in October to go to the beach.

Works like a charm.

We Be Dustin' Off Lyrics

Awhile back, the American Film Institute hit us with the 100 best original songs in American film. The greats were all there: Over the Rainbow, White Christmas, Stayin’ Alive, Mrs. Robinson – movies that become as well known for their music as they were their acting. In modern times, popular musicians will write and perform music not so much to make acclaimed lists such as these, but instead to have a crossover Top 40 hit that will be remembered as fondly as the film for which it was written. Don’t believe me?

Check out the collective late 90’s works of one Will Smith for further proof.

On many an occasion, the hip-hop community has risen to the challenge. Eminem provided new material for his flick, 8 Mile. The Ninja Turtle movies left us with several promising singles, none better than TURTLE Power by Partners in Kryme. However, this genre of music would not have been possible without RUN-DMC, and as you may have forgotten, they too had gotten in on the movie scoring game.

Kinda wish they hadn’t.

Early rap was nothing like it is now. It was a genre of style, of being completely different. It was the equivalent of dropping a show like The Office in the middle of 80’s TV, where family-centric situational comedy ruled the day. Of course, those who invent the game get to make the rules. RUN-DMC got to make the rules.But just because one gets to make the rules doesn’t mean they can’t be held accountable for their lyrics. With such a loose flow with simple rhyme schemes, this should have been an easy thing for them to accomplish. And in so many songs, they succeeded. In those songs, they were able to rap about anything they wanted – when no one’s rapped about anything before, you get to pen the first chapter in anyway you like. However, when given a specific assignment – say a movie tie-in rap – it looks like they struggled. A lot.

In our first edition of Lyrical Cynic in two and a half months, (last one here) we’re going after another song we actually like. A song we like inexplicably. A song crafted not for a movie soundtrack, but for a sequel. A song that decides a good place for the bridge is only 1:16 into the tune. Our first rap entry to LC, it has lyrics so laughable that it’s probably long forgotten in your memory. Lucky for you, we’re a steel trap.

Ghostbusters Rap, by RUN-DMC

It’s a catchy re-mix of Ray Parker Jr.’s ’84 hit, and it does well to highlight the call-and-answer style that these guys made so popular. But it, um, how do I – MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER. A highlighted top eight lyrical train wrecks accompany below:

1. “Your heart fills with fright / not filled with the things / that go bump in the night!" - Ok, so we understand that the spooky confines of watching tv by yourself in the dark can be scary, but whatever it is that caused the fright, it was something OTHER than the things that go bump in the night. I give you the equivalent of a Navy Seal that's afraid of a mouse.

2. "All alone on the phone / so whassup with that noise / ... / so you get up and call" - Even in music about movies, it appears continuity errors can occur. This is a common editing mistake. A guy's on the phone and then two lines in the lap later, he gets on the phone again. Brilliant.

3. "Kids at school and I'm no fool and I got no time to waste / So you get up and call, don't trip and fall / Go outside and leave the place / Now it's no dream because you seein' a shadow in the night" - The kids attend night school? What, they're holding down jobs during the day?

4. "They be dustin' off ghosts / like true ghost dusters" - Worst rhyme ever. But then again, maybe DMC's kids' jobs are in this previously unheard of industry. (Note: only true ghost dusters need apply. Accept no substitutes.)

NOTE: The rest comes from the final verse, or how I like to call it, the NYNEX Phone-It-In Special.

5. "I remember the time, I visited the grave / My life on the line, only my life to save" - I'm all for paying respects to the dearly departed, but if my life needs saving as a result, next time I'll just say a little prayer at church. STOP GOING THERE.

6. "All by myself, with no one around / Did not understand a hand comin' out the ground" - While I personally enjoy the "comin' out the" section in the name of syllabic sacrifice, I've got to give him credit for overstatement of the year. Can't say a hand breaking through the earth is a largely understandable occurence. That brings us to the next line...

7. "I knew it wasn't mine / it was somebody else." - I take that back. This is the overstatement of the year.

8. "We are your friendly neighborhood ghostbusters," / that's what they said to me" / We are the busters of any, G-H-O-S-T." - Damn it, the Ghostbusters listen to Fergie. And in effort to save some time, let's be glad they didn't name their crew Supernatural Appartition Busters.

Park Place Cinema

Growing up in the company of the Shawnee Group, I have come to love board games. During that fun-filled summer between high school and college, at least one night of the week (I think it was Mondays) was devoted to sitting in Aaron’s back room or Smith’s basement in a challenge of 2-dimensional competition. Over time, we got to know and dominate anything Hasbro or the Parker Brothers could throw our way, and even modified some games on our own to give them a fresh spin. One of these days, I’ll update Wikipedia on the rules of Double-board Risk, Taboo Mafia, Uberultimate Outburst and Hungry Hungry Steinberg. (One of those I may have made up.)

When we weren’t playing board games, we were often watching movies (that was Tuesdays at Cole’s house.) The two nights had a very different tones to them. One involved shouting at each other in the name of fired up rivalries; the other was a chill evening watching films from the 80’s and eating junk food amidst the finest in jungle prints. But combining the two nights? That’s crazy talk!

Or is it?

Ridley Scott, of the Flying Directing Scott Brothers, has been attached to a rather peculiar film project. Yes, the man who brought the greatness of Gladiator, Blade Runner, and Black Hawk Down has signed on to direct movie based on a board game. Now judging from his greatest successes, you probably have some pretty good guesses as to what game they are trying to create a script around. Risk? Stratego? Of course, games built upon the precept of conquest and battle would make for a sweet war film. Battleship? Axis & Allies? Yes, it could have a strong hero character that lives in a time of adversity and must use his cunning mind and his lucky dice to find greatness. Jedi Duels? William and Mary Duels? Not even close.

Try Monopoly.

(Somewhere in Charlotte, Chris Nordberg is jumping with glee.)

According to the report, Scott has been given the pick of Hollywood to turn the game of deeds, dice, and free parking into a comedic thriller. There will be no swords, no guns, and no knives with which to do battle in this one, folks. After all, there isn’t a real villain in Monopoly, unless you count that pesky cop who hangs out in the corner and sends you to jail without trial by jury, due process of law, or a swing by the bank to pick up a couple hundred bucks in prison yard gambling scratch.

To quote Gladiator, we’re terribly vexed.

Nonetheless, we have faith in Sir Ridley, who has used the finest in Hollywood’s screenwriting stable in the past, to craft an engaging script that won’t feel like being stuck on Baltic Avenue while hotels come out of nowhere all around. However, since this project is so vague, the best we can do to help our the man who brought us both Thelma and Louise is give our tips for casting the blockbuster hit of 2008.

Rich Uncle Pennybags – JON VOIGHT – can play the old, jovial millionaire, in much the same way he played FDR in Pearl Harbor and Nick Cage’s dad in the National Treasure flicks. Since each of the characters will effectively be playing with house money, and therefore his, he can let out a mean streak for when some idiot buys Tennessee Ave with his last $180. And by mean struck, I totally want to see the fire in his eyes of Coach Kilmer. Also, if he agrees to do this, I just might forgive him for Baby Geniuses 2. Maybe.

Go to Jail Cop – SYLVESTER STALLONE – Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the horror in people’s eyes when they overshoot Marvin Gardens by one, but wouldn’t that actual fear seem a lot more real on screen if Stallone was waiting there in the corner for you, dressed as Judge Dredd? There would be little arguing with his ruling. Plus, this cop is the strong, silent type. The less we have to make Sly say, the better.

Car – VIN DIESEL – No one will ever question his speed or furiousness.
Top Hat – SAMUEL L. JACKSON – Forgive him if he updates he character and has it decked out in all things Kangol.
Scottie Dog – SEAN CONNERY – Celebrity Jeopardy version of course.
Weird Looking Shoe – STEVE BUSCEMI - typecast
Thimble – ELIJAH WOOD - Our underdog in this whole crazy mixed-up flick. We hear he’s played this role before. Let’s just hope Gollum doesn’t swallow him.

Tickets go on sale Friday, on the corner of New York and St.James. Parking will be free.

Patriarchal Excellence

Look, before I get into this one, I’d like to point out that a guy does not need motivation to be a good father. No matter what external prizes and promises lay just beyond the nursery, the mere fact that you get to take care of someone who is one half you every day, and that someone starts every morning smiling at you is truly enough. Later this week, we’ll get into baby’s first hour of the day, but for now, let me assure you that Clara’s definitely a morning person. And morning people can make non-morning people happy in the morning. We’re talking “It’s a Wonderful Life” happy. And that is enough to propel you to patriarchal excellence.

But since it exists…

This past weekend, I had my very first Father’s Day. Yes, every year in June there is a day that is set aside to praise fathers for all their general awesomeness. Gatorade overflows in champagne glasses, neckties fall from the heavens, the finest meats and cheeses for all – this is all just standard D-Day operating procedure. I spent it watching some sports, playing with my daughter, letting her sleep in my lap while Tiger came up short at Oakmont. (It should be noted that Tiger became a daddy on Monday, which means he has to wait nearly a year for his first Father’s Day. Maybe had you made that eagle putt on 18, the baby would have leapt out of womb a few hours earlier. Sucker.)

How is Father’s Day better than your birthday? You have to earn your day.

With birthdays, you’re merely celebrating another year of earthly existence. As long as you don’t die, you’re guaranteed a cake and maybe some gifts 12 months from your last one. Great job, man. You continued to breathe. Huzzah.

But Father’s Day is a merit-based day of honor. You can’t expect anyone to recognize you on that 3rd Sunday in June if you’ve refused to pick up from soccer practices, chosen solo trips to Vegas instead of attending ballet recitals or being placed in charge of dinner, only to serve an unopened can of soup with a spoon and a post-it that says “Bon Apetit.”

Mmm-mmm good?

I feel I’ve done a decent job of earning this Father’s Day. I’ve done my share of early dawn feedings, changed her diaper more than the Orioles switch managers, taken her on her first date, ensured her ticket to Heaven, taken her on many walks, set up an Olympic training regimen, and given her internet access. She knows who I am, recognizes my voice and presence from across the room, and understands that the coolest kids in the class are left-handed.

(Of course, I have no idea where she got that idea. We’ll chalk it up to Natural Order.)

Does that make me Father of the Year?

Yeah, that’s right. Father of the Year. It’s an actual award, with slightly more prestige than a fantasy football league championship. It’s bestowed on deserving dads by the Father’s Day Council. They exist to promote stellar fatherhood, while also benefiting deserving charities. This year’s honor roll of dads include:

• Miami Heat guard Dwyane Wade
• U.S. Army Chief of Staff Gen. George Casey Jr.
• Former Senator John Edwards
• Van Heusen CEO Allen Sirkin
• CBS’ The Early Show’s Harry Smith
• Middle School Principal Laurence Whitcomb
  

What do each of these great dads bring to the table? Wade had kept the promise to his two sons Zaire and Zion that when Uncle Shaq comes over for dinner, he won’t eat them. Casey once bought his kid a Sherman tank for Christmas to play with in the sandbox. Edwards promised his kids universal healthcare – all the Flintstones vitamins they could eat. Sirkin wears very nice pants. Harry Smith didn’t name any of his kids after himself, and Laurence Whitcomb hopes one day to have his middle school named after himself.

Fine credentials, gentlemen. But have you devoted a comedy blog to your kid?

Ha. Thought not.

Commerce Bank = Morris Day

Choosing a bank can be a long and arduous process. One can weigh the strengths and weaknesses of a particular bank, whether that is locations, solubility, profitability, expansion plans, services offered, friendliness of tellers, on-line capabilities, and FDIC accreditation.

Or you can choose the one with the pretty sign.

For those light bankers who do not have thousands and thousands of dollars to utilize a firm’s financial portfolio management team, the simpler the reason for choosing a bank, probably the better. Back in ’98, I opened a small checking account in Williamsburg with a bank called Crestar. Why? Because they had a branch a three minute walk from my dorm. And if I recall, they had a surplus of red lollipops at the counter. Their pens were firmly chained to the transaction desk – that told me that they cared for all their assets, including my 500 bucks. What else could you possibly need in a bank?

Like Monstro to Pinocchio, Crestar was swallowed by SunTrust Banks in 1999.

Ok, so now I’m a SunTrust man. Their existence was fine to me for the remainder of college. Their ATMs were easily accessible, their debit card was aesthetically pleasing, and they had a good name. If you can’t trust the sun to rise each day, well then, who can you trust?But while their name was a strong one, it wasn’t particularly fun to say. This brings us to my present bank of choice.

Wachovia. Wacccchoooooveeeeyahhhhhhh

My reasons for selecting them were far more substantial, you see. Since they had previously gulped up First Union, they had a presence in the Mid-Atlantic states. Therefore, I would never be without cash back in NJ. Also, they hold the naming rights to the Flyers’ stadium. Somehow this means something to me. Throw in free checking and a promise to employ one of my college roommates – Wachovia, you can have my business anytime.

But what about Commerce?

Commerce Bank would be the definition of my hometown bank. Founded in Marlton and headquartered in Cherry Hill, NJ. And hell, they even had a Mr. C before our own Mr. C became Mr. C. A fair part of our readership either works for, has family who works for, has friends who work for Commerce. With their free coin counting and their 7 days a week banking, how can you say no to the home team?

With Commerce looking to expand into the DC Metro area, they are looking to employ the same promotional methodologies that have worked so successfully in the Delaware Valley and elsewhere. Most notably is the TV and radio station breaks, when a short ad for Commerce comes on. Now this ad does nothing to mention their extended hour convenience, nor will they highlight their professional investor relations or their artistic backwall murals in your local branch. No, Commerce would just like to remind you of their existence by allowing their logo to appear while they provide you with non-banking information.

“Local time and temperature, brought to you by Commerce Bank.”

I had no idea you could sponsor time.

Think about this. Commerce is spending ad dollars to sponsor the time. The time that you get for free on your wall clock, DVD player, wrist watch, and cell phone. If they didn’t let me know of what time it was, I would have many other avenues to ascertain how close I am to the hour. We’re talking an intangible commodity here.

In other news, Wachovia has moved to sponsor air.

Walking the Plank

2 years ago, we set out our clubhouse rules for our fantasy baseball team as a result of a former player of ours making a rookie mistake. Yes, for fans of my then-named franchise “Ig League Chew,” we regretted to inform them that starting shortstop Clint Barmes was injured because he was stupid. What was known at the time of publishing is that Barmes had fallen down some stairs carrying groceries up to his first-year pad. What came out later was that by groceries, he meant “large slab of deer meat that he shot and killed over at Todd Helton’s house.” Ah, of course. Sadly, I’ve been pushing our commissioner to add deer meat to our league’s list of banned substances, but I’m making very little head way.

Now, Mr. Deer Meat is as far from my roster as possible. In fact, not only do I not have a spot for him on my squad, his MLB team, the Colorado Rockies, don’t have room for a career .250 hitter with a history of venison miscarriage. Since the end of April, Barmes has been biding his time with his new wife in Colorado Springs. He’s no Rockie; ‘tis a member of the Sky Sox.

What is the singular form of Sky Sox, anyway? Sky Sock?

But just when you thought I had flushed fantasy incompetence from my virtual locker room, I find out that one of my pitchers has been taking careful notes of Deer Meat’s limited tenure here. Now I was proud of Deer Meat, a waiver wire pick-up that was flirting with batting .400 before his “hunting accident.” I, too, had similar aspirations for late-round draft pick Ian Snell. After all, he had a solid spring training, was capable of throwing heat, and as a member of the Pittsburgh Pirates, it was unlikely he was on many people’s radar.

And despite having a dumb name, Snell hasn’t disappointed. He’s got a 2.63 ERA, has 78 strikeouts, and may be flirting with an all-star selection from Steeltown. Sure, he’s not national news, but he’s a strong contributor to my team this year, the 4th place “Dickie Thon in a Box.”

So why was I worried when I heard he’d miss his next start on the radio?

This morning, I was listening to DC101, a non-sports talk station. Once an hour, they run through a news report, which closes out with sports. The sports normally focus on the big things – things that make ESPN.com’s front page, as well as the latest on the DC teams. So when the final story started with, “Pittsburgh Pirates starting pitcher Ian Snell will miss his next start due to a blister on his finger,” I knew I was in for a world of trouble.Why would a non-sports station blindly report that a decent small market team pitcher not in Washington’s division has an injury that isn’t even worthy of the disabled list?

Oh God, there’s going to be a punchline here.

It turns out that the rumor of Snell’s blister is truth. And unlike many other pitchers in the game today, his did not come from pitching too much. Yet again, my fantasy baseball team will suffer on account of a star player trying to feed himself. From the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette,

“Ian Snell will not start tomorrow night against Seattle because of a blister on the index finger of his right hand. The right-hander blistered his finger while cooking in his kitchen. "I was cooking a chicken breast for a salad and burned my finger," Snell said. "I'm all right, but the salad wasn't too good."”

WHAT?

Look, Ian. I’m proud of you. You play a game that has featured perennial fat guys like David Wells, Antonio Alfonseca, and Curt Schilling. You’re trying to maintain that slim figure by eating healthy. We’re very excited to see that your diet is reasonable, yet protein-enriched. But damn it, man. May I introduce you to Perdue Short Cuts? It’s either that, or I’m making you vegan. You’ll be the only vegan in Pittsburgh.

Deer Meat, I’d like you to meet Chicken Salad.
Chicken Salad, this is Deer Meat.

Naming Rights and Wrongs

Sidney Lanier is a man we’ve chosen to remember as famous. How do I know this? The man warrants his own well-written Wikipedia page. Some would say Sidney Lanier, a guy you’ve surely never heard, is not worthy of having his own Wikipedia page. After all, it appears that Sid was nothing more than a Civil War-era musician and poet, which explains why the Confederacy lost. For it is our opinion that musician/poets make terrible soldiers. Especially flutists.

That’s why we invented Fife and Drum Corps a hundred years prior.

But Lanier would go on to greater mediocrity, publishing poetry in low-circulation Southern magazines and finding a chair in the world-acclaimed, um, Baltimore Peabody Orchestra. (The Peabody was no match for the Boston Pops or the new York Philharmonic. So, it was pretty much EXACTLY like the A.L. East division in MLB.)

But apparently being an above-average fish out of water of the past is exactly what it takes for someone in the future with too much free time to pen a Wikipedia page about your life. And what’s more, that is not where the legend of Sidney Lanier stops, no-no.

The man’s got a middle school in Virginia, too.

Yes, after much recent construction, my morning commute vision is no longer obscured and I can now see that Sidney Lanier Middle School is the name of the bastion of learning next to the 7-11 on Jermantown Road. It’s a beautiful facility that will surely do the children of Fairfax Country much good for years to come. How an average musician/poet from Macon, Georgia got his name on a Virginia school is beyond me.

Sonnets make crappy bribes.

As baffling as that is, it gives me hope that my name will someday be arbitrarily plastered on a civic locale of note. The way I see it, there’s tons of things that need random names assigned, and my strong background of alliteration and, well completely awesomeness, should go a long way in securing naming rights. But just because you’ve got your name on something doesn’t mean you’ve reached the holy grail of existence. There are levels of name fame, and here at You’re a Blog, we’ve decided to save you the legwork.

Our following categories will denote how famous you’ve become based on how awesome your memorialized plaque item is. The theme for today if you’ve yet to reach that top tier? Don’t Settle.

TIER 1: middle schools, hurricanes, deadly diseases

TIER 2: a grandchild, elementary schools, high schools, university building/facilities, libraries, your own cable news show, an intergalactic star, hospital wings, production company, mixed beverage

TIER 3: a new species of plant/animal, element on the periodic table, passed federal legislation, a character in a movie, a street in your hometown

TIER 4: a college or university, an internationally-recognized prize of distinction, a professional sports stadium, a professional sports franchise, international airport, Fortune 500 company, France

TIER 5: national monuments, national parks, mountains, major city, a new United State

TIER 6: the Christopher P. Condon Pearly Gates of Heaven

Any other ideas? Let me know in the comments and I’ll let you know where they fall.

The World According to AARP

I can’t say I’ve ever been impressed with the magazine selection you would find in the waiting room of a medical office. Short of Dr. Bisignano’s dental practice – whose array of periodicals has always been strikingly excellent – the reads from which you must choose are always a massive disappointment. The Times and Newsweeks are always torn to shreds by the time you get to them, the only U.S. News and World Report I ever give a damn about is the annual college issue (which people steal), and if one should be so lucky to find a Sports Illustrated lying around, you can join with America in congratulating your Chicago Bulls in becoming the 1997 NBA World Champions. I always knew you had it in ya, Michael.

What’s that? Yes, this is a Ladies Home Journal. I read it for the articles. Honest!

However, that’s all a smorgasbord of glossy literature compared to what I’m currently perusing this morning. I figured it would be a good writing exercise to pick up one of the two choices laid before me and mock it to no end. Now, I don’t feel comfortable picking up “Travel + Leisure,” since my worldly voyages are limited, and I don’t feel I’d benefit from learning where all the “undiscovered French country inns” are. (Note to T+L’s editor: if you’re able to feature said inns, they’re probably no longer undiscovered. No it’s okay, exposing covert locales is always a good idea. Just ask my pal Scooter.)

What does that leave me? Ah, AARP Magazine.

Now a wise man once told me that old men hate everything but Matlock (ooh, it’s on now!), but the writers of AARP Magazine would have you believe otherwise. For those unfamiliar with this civic organization, AARP is the American Association of Retired People, as well as people who receive their membership cards early despite the fact they’ve still got 10 years of grindstone left.

College tuitions these days.

Anyways, here is what YAB has learned about old people by reading a November 2006 edition of AARP Magazine. (Now, in bullet form!!!)

• Ed McMahon is a complete shill. I don’t know if he’s having trouble with his last few mortgage payments in Boca or something, but the dude is a spokesperson for EVERYTHING. God forbid you run into this guy on the street – you many walk away from that conversation with a brand-new Sleep Number bed, bathroom makeover, a case of Boost calcium drink, and of course, AARP Insurance. Johnny, help a brother out.
• This is by far the best piece of exercise equipment. It’s called The Entertainer, and it’s a sadistic bastard of electronics. Long story short, it’s a combo heart rate monitor and universal TV remote. You hang it off a treadmill or whatever it is you use to exercise. If your heart rate drops below a pre-determined rate (say 128 BPM), the TV will drop the volume on you. Take a break? It turns the TV right off. Disclaimer: may not correctly operate for the final episode of Sopranos.
• 19 per cent of women between 35 and 65 can identify with Kirstie Alley’s body. In lesser-reported figured, 0 per cent have a valid explanation as to why there were three Look Who’s Talking movies.
• One of AARP’s 9 Secrets to Better Health? Drink more coffee. While their research shows such an initiative may stave off cavities and colon cancer, not to mention Type 2 diabetes. It should be noted that one of major sponsors in this edition is Maxwell House. Not I’m not declaring conspiracy here, it just warrants mentioning. But I wouldn’t be taken aback if Tip #10, “Eat Woodchips Daily” would have made the final edition had HGTV had an ad in here.
• There’s a infographic called, “Who’s Your Elvis?” Based on the decade of your age, the good folks at AARP have declared the voice of your generation, regardless of musical tastes. Yeah man, nothing says hardworking blogger, husband father of one like the music of Kurt Cobain.
  

Something tells me that isn’t the readership demographic they were looking for, either.

Happy Flag Day!

It’s June 14th, people. Start worshipping thy proudly displayed fabric.

According to Wikipedia, 26 nations around the world have a Flag Day to celebrate, and the United States is part of that sacred brotherhood. No two Flag Days fall on the same date, and probably for good reason. Have you ever seen two flags raised on the same pole simultaneously? Of course you haven’t. Flagpoles aren’t equipped to handle such a heavy workload, and besides, who decides which flag shall fly higher? Seems like a bureaucratic nightmare to me.

I’d like to point out that those nations that celebrate flag day really have little rhyme nor reason to them. It’s not like the 26 best flags in the world are truly represented here. Bhutan is completely sleeping on a prime newsmaking opportunity. Some nations, like Sri Lanka, Curacao, the Faroe Islands, and Aruba celebrate probably on account of them having very little to do the rest of the year. Other nations, like Ukraine and Lithuania, recently celebrated independence from Soviet Russia, and with a clean holiday slate, just started binging on new holiday creation. But hey, my former Russian friends, it’s gotta feel good to raise that flag with nationalistic pride.

After all, in Soviet Russia, flag waves you.

In the U.S., today commemorates the adoption of Old Glory. This happened in 1777, some 172 years prior to its enactment by an Act of Congress. For those 172 years, Americans wandered the streets aimlessly, wondering if there would ever come a day where we could drop everything and revel in the majesty of Betsy Ross’ best work. Sure, everyone knew that on Sundays you went to church to pay homage to the God in which we trust. But we lacked protocol when it came to hoist and huzzah-ing the flag. Whew. Glad Congress cleared that up.

(Note: remember that post a month back about my senioritis learn to golf project? This was Congress’ senioritis resolution. After all the declaring of war in the forties, they needed a cake assignment to regain momentum heading into the fifties.)

Now don’t read this incorrectly; in reality, I’m a flag enthusiast. The display of an organization’s colors, no matter how wretched, is an important part of one’s identity. Here are some things I’ve noticed over the years.

1 – Red, White, and Blue rules. Last week, the G8 nations, or “best nations,” met in Germany to tackle the leading problems our world currently faces – poverty, global warming, steroids in baseball, to name a few. 6 of these 8 nations use the American colors to fill out their flags – Canada, France, UK, Russia, US, and Japan all stay within our patriotic palette of hues. That leaves Italy (oh, so close!) and Germany (no wonder you hosted – out of guilt, yes?) in non-compliance. Since it’s clearly the design of individual symbols of autocracy that make a nation truly great, I say we boot them for their poor artistic vision. Come on in, Australia and Slovakia! Great to have you.

2 – When I was very young, I had this enormous map of the world adorning my wall. At the foot of the map was a selection of the world’s national flags. For some reason, I recall cutting out small rectangles of paper and attempting to draw my own set of the world’s banners. Why? I don’t know. Maybe baseball cards weren’t in season. Anyways, I came across my masterpiece years later. Apparently, the only color paper we had was green. And since white crayons are known to suck, my collection was slightly subpar. Well, except for Libya. Right the hell on.

3 – The official term for one who studies flags is a vexillographer. I find it hard to believe that something like flagology was already spoken for. Way to fancy the place up, dorks.

Off to Mourn the Wizard

Bill Nye, the Science Guy: Good morning. I want to thank you all for coming on such notice. It is not typical for the Brotherhood of Fictional Science to meet on such short notice, but I feel that we could not wait for the next Halley’s Comet to come round, as per protocol. Before we begin, I would everyone to go around the room and give their name and field of expertise.
Beakman: My name is Beakman, and my world is zoology.
Spock: I am Mr. Spock. I can be of help with intergalactic astronomy.
Bunsen Honeydew: Yes, greetings. I am Dr. Bunsen Honeydew and this is my assistant, Beeker.
Beeker: MEEP!!!
Honeydew: We are skilled chemists.
Mr. Peabody: And hello, my name is Peabody, and this is my adopted boy Sherman. We are experts in time and space physics.
Nye: Excellent. Now as some of you may have heard, we've lost a brother in science yesterday. I know it's been a while since we've had a meeting or he's been on television, but I just learned that Mr. Wizard passed away, succumbing to cancer at age 90.
Beakman: In tribute, we must each pour a beaker of unknown brightly colored chemical compound out onto the pavement, in honor of our fallen brother.
Beaker: MEEP!
Honeydew: No, not YOU, Beeker. Had you no idea that you and I are named after random laboratory equipment? That Henson fella didn't try too hard in that department.
Beaker: meep...
Honeydew: Yeah, I know.
Mr. Peabody: How can you even understand a damn thing that guy is saying? All of his words are not only unintelligible, they're identical!
Honeydew: Honestly? I haven't a clue what he says all day. Faking it.
Spock: Allow me to mind meld with the lad. I will translate. (engages in mind meld) Ah, you see, Dr. Beaker has some brilliant theories on the acceleration of airborne particle fusion, not to mention some riveting ideas on nuclear atomization of sea turtles. But for now, all he has in his voice is sadness. Complete sadness.
Nye: As do we all, my colleague. Mr. Wizard was a staple in the educating of young minds via television. Without him, I would have no idea how to create a tornado by using a couple two-liter bottles.
Mr. Peabody: What I wouldn't give to put the youth of today in our WABAC machine. They could see that there's more science in two-liter bottles than just cramming a Mentos in there.
Beakman: And I had no idea that I could create contained housefires within my mom's stock pot. Some might say that I can credit my existence on morning television to the man.
Honeydew: You haven’t lived until you’ve created a paper mache volcano, or shot a rocket into the sky between tapings of The Muppet Show. Isn’t that right, Beeker? (looks around) Beeker?
Beeker: Mppp eeeep Mpp Meep Meeee Mppp Meppp.
Honeydew: Don't cry, old friend. It will be okay. Science will live on.
Nye: Of course it will. Thanks to YouTube, anyone can go back and honor Mr. Wizard, as the best intro sequence in scientific history is available there.
Spock: And yet, your intro theme has been viewed over 25,000 more times than his.
Nye: Dude, I'm THE Science Guy. Not some Science Guy. THE Science Guy.
Beaker: MEEP!
Spock: He called you an egomaniacal jerk.
Nye: Big words from a man whose jaw hinges at the back of his neck.

Flushing in Fear

There are dangers in this world. Dangers that people need to be warned about. Natural disasters, potential terror attacks, movies about above-average intelligence infants – the public deserves to know what’s coming to them. Fortunately, we’ve evolved as a species to the point where we can put alert notification protocol in place long before it becomes too late. But before we continue, we pause for this message from the Emergency Blogcast System…

Eeeirrrrrgg. Eeeirrrrgg. Eeiiiiirrrrrrggggh.
This is a test. This is only test. If this were a real blogging emergency, we would have shifted from original, well-crafted comedy in favor of some YouTube video of a guy getting hit in the groin with a baseball. And the screen would flash red. Or something. I don’t know. Never happened before. But it could.This is only a test.

Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop.

You see, just like the EBS, we’ve come up with perfectly good ways to alert people of nearby danger. On highways, we have electronic overpass signage. In Homeland Security, we have a Skittles-sponsored Taste the Rainbow of Doom System. Natural disasters, if meteorological in composition, can be tracked and trumpeted by our friends at the National Weather Service. Their wide array of brightly-colored precipitation maps will let you know when to bring an umbrella and when to get in your car and drive to Arizona.

But what will be in your Flagstaff-bound Camry, praetell?

It’s one thing to warn people about when there will be gale force winds and cows flying through the air. It’s another to remind them to be prepared for the next Aerial Bovine attack. YAB fully endorses the efforts of www.ready.gov, in hopes that the next time a pal of Katrina chooses to blow, we as the American People will be prepared.

But there? Really?

Like I said, FEMA has the aforementioned website to instruct people what they will need in desperate times. Of course, the FEMA website may not be on your morning blogroll of things to check out before starting work. That’s understandable. So by partnering with a grassroots effort (and that likely includes the Health and Safety guy that works for us), they’ve designed posters to remind you to be prepared. They’re far more omnipresent that a website. Seems like perfectly good bulletin board fodder to me.

I said BULLETIN BOARD.

In recent years, restaurants have become quite adept at discovering a great way for men to spend just as much time in their bathrooms as women. They call it the Urinal News. (Although I would prefer the much-truncated Urinews.) Above a standing stall, one can find a glass-enclosed front page or sports page of the day’s paper before them. This is cutting edge current events acquisition, people. And I’m all for it.

What I’m not for? Public Service Announcements above thy wall-fused throne.

This is where I found the huge picture of a cyclonic weather system over Louisiana, accompanied by the big red letters “ARE YOU READY FOR AN EMERGENCY???” Good God, people. I don’t exactly find this to be the appropriate time for a FEMA Shock and Awe campaign, do you? Way to catch a guy with his pants, er, open. The last thing I need to think about in this situation is where I’m going to get a flashlight and canned food on such short notice. Lesser men could be shaken by this.

And as I don’t need to remind you – this is the last place we need shaking.