Tower, Version 2.0

Let’s cut to the chase, people. In this era of primetime game shows, we’ve been getting most of our crazy money giveaway ideas from the United Kingdom. For some reason, they have cornered the market on innovative ways to simultaneously dole out large sums of money to undeserving peasants, while at the same time inject just enough suspense and glitz to prevent you from changing the channel. Eh, they were bound to be good at something – you know, after that whole colonialism thing blew up in their faces.

Why must we look across the Atlantic for programming innovation? Are we incapable of coming up with riveting television on our own? We’ve got resources they don’t. We are graduating millions each year in silly collegiate majors like “communications,” and no doubt if we get someone to organize, we can have these people sitting in rooms round the clock inventing new, good TV, right? We have more people! More rooms! More clocks! Suck it, England!

(calms down)

When it comes to overcoming our once-oppressors, it’s helpful to look into America’s past. After all, there's no place better to look how to top the Union Jack than what history has shown us. We can find an original television idea in our annals that would work perfectly well in today’s media programming climate. In fact, I think NBC already has.

They’re bringing back American Gladiators.

This is an excellent choice. Not only was this one of the best game shows on TV in the early nineties, patriotism will ooze out of TIVO, it’s so American. Now I don’t know what updates are to be made to the previous edition, but I do know that they’re going to need contestants. And barring stupidity on their part, that means one thing.

Chris Condon is going to be on American Gladiators.

I have copied selected excerpts from my 22-page completed questionnaire. Enjoy.

3) What is the next milestone in your life if you do not make the show? I intend to re-focus, re-tool, and re-apply. I understand that Gladiators in America is the pinnacle of the sport; however, there are many smaller national federations in which I plan to hone my skills and eliminate any deficiencies. I’ll start in the Caribbean ranks, beating up the competition on Haitian and Curacao Gladiators, and then make my way to the mainland up north. I’ll come back as the 3-year reigning champ of Canadian Gladiators, with a world record time in the “Igloo-Build” event.

7) What would your friends say are your best qualities? I’m tall.

8) What would your friends say are your worst qualities? I can’t hear them to find out. They’re all much shorter than me.

10) How competitive are you in every day life? I’m damn competitive. This morning I made two dishes of oatmeal, handed one to my 6 month old daughter, yelled “GO!”, and finished way faster than her.

15) How would you use the American Gladiators prize money? I’d put a significant down payment down on a new townhome in the DC area, thereby reducing my monthly mortgage payment to just under $6,000/month.

19) What conversation topics are “off-limits” for you at a dinner party? I cannot answer this question, as I’ve never hosted a dinner party. Dinner parties are for those who lose at American Gladiators. Winners have other means of eating – like going through a Wendy’s drive-thru and poking the cashier relentlessly with my giant jousting bar.

21) If you were going to be in People Magazine, what inside info about you would be put up next to your picture? “Actually subscribes to People Magazine.”

22) What is your most embarrassing moment? So there was this lamppost once…

23) What is the weirdest thing about you? I am typing this questionnaire with my mind.

26) From the list above, please circle your 3 biggest fears. (From the list, I circled “fire,” “the ocean,” and then I wrote in “If you find a way to put fire on the bottom of the ocean, I might cry.”)

30) Do you have any allergies? Red, white and blue spandex. Will that be a problem?

34) Do you know anyone who has or is applying for the show American Gladiators (if yes, please list their names.) Sure. Chris Condon

44) Below list the people you would like to appear with you on the show to help support you:
1. Katie Condon
2. Jesus
3. Master Yoda

----------------------------------------------------
I’ll let you all know when my episode airs.

Michael?

Now that Katie and I are both back at work simultaneously, our evening schedule has a new sense of reform to it. We plan out dinners ahead of time. The first one home begins the preparation of dinner while the other curses the traffic to holy hell. Dinners are planned thoughtfully, with careful consideration given to nutrition and preparation time. And since we’re once again a double-income household, all we eat is steak. Porterhouse Steak stuffed with Maine lobster and dollar bills.

Ok, I lied.

It’s Rhode Island lobster.

However, since the ground beef didn’t entirely thaw for burgers last night, we decided to take advantage of our surroundings and order out. As you may have noticed, many traditional “sit-down” restaurants have developed some sort of curbside service, by which they can load your food into some enviro-friendly Styrofoam, place it in a paper bag, and meet you in your car at one of a few designated parking spots right near the lobby. (Losers in this scenario – the handicapped. Enjoy being another 10 feet from the door.) Sometimes, they’ll even take your card there for payment, run inside and return to your car with a receipt. It’s just like buying gas in New Jersey, but 73% more delicious.

However, it’s completely ridiculous for me to get in my car, descend the four levels of my spiraled maelstrom of a parking garage, drive 50 feet out the front of the complex, U-turn, and pull into one said spot at the nearby P.F. Changs. I don’t care how delectable their lettuce wraps are or which of my high school friends lives and breathes their cuisine, I’m not wasting fuel on such a venture.

What's that? Try walking? Oh, right.

In the 50 feet between my apartment and PF Changs, something strange was afoot. First off, as I walked out from underneath the garage overhang, I heard crickets. Actual crickets. God made crickets not becayse of their role in the food chain or even their ecosystem; God made crickets to signal the ominous.

Maybe I ordered the wrong chicken dish?

After making a brief, ill-fated phone call, down came the rain. A steady drizzle for the last 30 steps to the walk-in, take-away entrance to Changs is nothing. I don’t need an umbrella for such a minor inconvenience. I’m tough and on a mission for dinner.

Inside, the transaction went well enough. I handed them a card, they handed me food from the Far East. (Sidenote: I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I’d appreciate your thoughts here. When you pick up food and pay with a card, there’s often a line to leave a tip. In standard sit-down scenarios, this is extra money you are paying to the wait staff that transported your food from the kitchen to your table. Here, they’re transporting your food from the kitchen to, well, the hostess stand right next to the kitchen. Do you leave a tip? If so, how much?)

HERE’S WHERE IT GETS WEIRD.

Since it was raining out, and two people were about to enter from the wetness, I did the nice guy thing and held the door open for them. The first person, a girl short enough to be completely out of my line of vision passed by, and may have said thanks. The second person, a guy, did offer his gratitude, along with a killer double take. He looked at me, smiled in recognition and said –

“Hey! S’Michael! Great to see you!!”

I responded, “Good to see you too!!” (with matching levels of enthusiasm, although I don’t know why.)

The reason I put the S’ before Michael there is to indicate that he was reminding me of his name, not identifying me as Michael. Here’s the problem, though. I’m good with names. No wait – I’m awesome with names. And yet, I have no idea who this guy is.

So Michael, if you’re reading this, apologies. Who the frick are ya?

Instant Massaging

WHOO.

What a summer, man. I am spent. The temperature often climbed to levels that rival “slightly uncomfortable,” on several occasions I had to decide which of two social barbeques to attend, and the water, MY GOD, the water in some of these pools. I often found myself having to use my legs to keep my head above water. Is there no rest for the weary? Must the summer season be the most grueling, stressful, and out-and-out exhausting of all the seasons? I can’t take it anymore. I need fall to get here now. And if fall isn’t available, I’ll settle for his dorky, more preppy older brother, autumn. If there was only a way to relax after the grind that is June, July, and August. What’s that?

Free massage? Sure!!

Last year, Katie became the recipient of three, count ‘em, three massage gift certificates at a local spa that’s connected to one of our area’s fancy hotels. The gift came as a “mea culpa” from the spa, who had offered less-than-stellar service at a function Katie hosted there. Sometimes it’s a damn good idea to lodge a complaint. Anyway, each gift certificate carried a shelf life of exactly one year. Surely, we could find time in a twelve month time frame to kick back every now and then with soft lighting, nature sounds, and applied muscular pressure, right? Not exactly. After 11 of those 12 had expired, we realized we were now in a dire use ‘em or lose ‘em situation.

And this, kids, is how August became National Massage Month.

While Katie enjoyed the first one a few weeks back, we decided to use the last two this past weekend – you know, to put the stresses of uh, summer vacation, behind us. And as you can guess with any activity that involves a tall guy lying on a short bed, hilarity ensued.

For those who haven’t experiences a pro massage, let me assuage your fears and let you know how it goes down. After checking in, you are banished to a locker room to change into a Spa Brand signature bathrobe. You’ll notice on the tag that it reads, “One Size Fits Most.” (For the record, that’s just a bathrobe company being lazy. But can you really blame them? For a living, they manufacture apparel that you are supposed to relax in. Eh.) Once changed and in sandals, you are to go sit in a waiting room that plays earthy music and has comfy chairs and has peaceful magazines to read. My personal favorite is “Placid Wheat in the Wind.” (Hey, who left this copy of Volcano Eruptions Quarterly in here? Kids these days.)

When the massage is free, you don’t get to be choosy. That’s why when the spa attendant greeted me, she asked if I would be having a Swedish massage today, I had to say yes. I don’t know what the other nationalities charge. Those pesky Bulgarians may have special robot fingers and charge more than the free gift certificate would cover. Now to my knowledge, a Swedish massage is your standard, textbook massage. It requires rubbing with moderate pressure, no one’s walking around on your back, there’s an occasional circular motion that’s thrown in with the back-and-forth, and that’s all there is to it. So I wonder: how did the Swedes lay claim to “Standard Massage Technique?” They basically have called shotgun on the entire industry. But I can’t blame them. The Scandinavian leisure industry is freakin’ cut-throat. The Norwegians have the market cornered on cruises, and to a lesser extent, pillaging. The Danes are still crying “scoreboard” after their coup of Hamlet back in 1602.

(The Fins, on the other hand, totally missed the boat on this. Which is what makes them the whipping boy of Scandinavia. Hey, maybe you guys can invent some special dart-throwing technique or champion competitve chair sitting. Good luck, Jaarko.)

We Todd Ed

I’m sorry for confusing all the DC Metro readers concerning my recent exploits into sports news reporting. From yesterday’s breakdown of a Phillies-Nationals match-up, to my MYFO post that just may have scored me a spot in the owner’s box of the Washington Capitals, I may be giving folks the wrong impression. Read my words: this is a Redskins town. The football team in burgundy and gold comes first, and the rest of those meddling franchises come sixth. With a Fairfax IP address, I may have confused many that I don’t cover much as to the happenings at Coach Gibbs’ training camp. So here’s an obligatory Redskins Training Camp post.

Nelson put it best: HA-ha!

The name Todd is a bit of an enigma, in my opinion. It stands alone without a longer version (e.g. Chris alongside Christopher.) At first impression, Todd is a preppy guy. He wears finely pressed khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and no necktie. He can quote your basic assortment of the literary classics, and there’s a good chance he can pronounce coxswain correctly. He’s got a strong-sounding name, and has a strong personality to go with it. If he’s got money to spend, he was probably born into it. There’s not a private prep school in the country that doesn’t have a Todd in its graduating class. Case in point: Todd Anderson, of Dead Poets Society.

(Or Yaz’s brother, we suppose.)

But Todd is evolving. The two most famous Todds on TV right now? First you have Todd Flanders, Ned’s youngest son on the Simpsons. He’s pious like Diddly-dear-old-Dad, which will help when the bullies pick on him. (condemnation to Hell can be a harsh payback). The second exists on Scrubs, and Dr. Quinlan has turned the name Todd into a state of being. He’s not Todd, he’s “The Todd,” as if anyone else who dare enter through the door of Sacred Heart with the very same name will be forced to change it on principle. The Todd is a perpetually hilarious character, and his macho (if not romantically-confused) edge makes him a guy’s guy.

Wait a minute. Don’t guy’s guys play sports?

That’s the stance of the Washington Redskins, anyway. Last season, they signed two Todds to the team. First you had Todd Yoder, a 7-NFL tight end out of Vanderbilt, who earned his paycheck by hauling in one catch for a 4 yard touchdown last year. Secondly, you have Todd Wade, a journeyman o-lineman who filled in adequately for Jon Jansen one game late in the season. However, with the departure of Derrick Dockery to Buffalo, Coach Gibbs is looking to have Kyle Busch Todd Wade slide into the guard position.

So far, there’s been mixed results.So with such Toddrockstars on this team, why not go out and sign some more? Todd Heap is a top-three fantasy TE for Baltimore. Todd Sauerbrun is one of the game’s elite punters in Denver. Todds Steussie, Herremans, and Weiner were o-line stalwarts last year for the Rams, Eagles, and Falcons, respectively. (Yes, I just tried to use the word Weiner respectively.) Based on these (partial) results, the Redskins would be foolish NOT to go out and sign another Todd as fast as humanly possible.

From Redskins.com: The Redskins continue to tinker with the roster and find ways to improve depth. On Monday, the team signed veteran wide receiver Todd Pinkston-

WELCOME BACK, SKINNY ARMS!

(Note: Pinkston is day-to-day at Redskins camp. His arm snapped in half while picking up the pen to sign his contract.)

No Box Score is an Island

Being a Philly fan outside of Philly is hard.

Over the weekend, I spent some time back in the Delaware Valley at the Jersey Shore. For the most part, vacation havens like Ocean City, Wildwood, Avalon, Sea Isle, and others serves as a convenient place for those in the tri-state area to take a break without having to book an airline to get there. The premise of shore life is rather simple – it’s the only place you can look forward to sitting in an uncomfortable chair to just read a book. But the Shore is more than that – there’s a culture aspect to it.

And that culture loves Philadelphia sports.

As you drive the long North-South avenues of any of the isles, you’ll see that this area, some hour and a half from the City of Brotherly Love, live and die by the teams they so desperately support. Eagles flags billow in the breeze off the deck railing of rental duplexes. People spend their evenings not watching the crap on network summer television, but watching the Phillies play a moderately important series against the Braves. The basketball courts no longer have players with the Iverson shoes – they’ve moved on to Andre Iguodala jerseys and Kyle Korver haircuts. The vacation getaway is alive with Philly sports talk, without the help of Angelo Cataldi et al.

Back to the real world…

The omnipresence of Philadelphia sports disappears as you go over that picturesque bridge near Havre de Grace on I-95 in Maryland. The Flyers bumper stickers are harder to come by, and the Eagles preseason WYSP radio broadcast crackles into silent airwaves. If you want to be an out-of-town sports fan, it’s all on you to maintain the fervor and interest that you receive automatically by breathing the hometown air. You have to make the best of it with what you’ve got.

Fortunately for me, both the Phils and the Birds play in the same division as their Washington D.C. counterparts. That means even if everything else goes wrong, I’m guaranteed 2 NFL and 18 MLB games with full media coverage here in the Nation’s Capital. So there I was, listening to the Washington Post talk radio station for the last few innings of the series opener between Philadelphia and your Washington Nationals.

Not mine, mind you.

Without TV coverage, I keep track of a lot of the Fightins’ efforts via GameTracker on MLB.com. It updates pitch-by-pitch, and keeps way closer to real time compared to whatever hamster-powered engine the NHL uses. As I was busy lowering Clara’s crib down to the second notch last night, I watched as the Nationals went up 2-0 on a pinch hit double over the head of Pat Burrell. Dejected, I minimized GameTracker and set out to do some errands.

Following a brief trip to Wegman’s, I spent the trip over to Target in the Top of the 8th with Philly down 2-0. After a non-surprising pop out from Jason Werth (he’s your Victorino pro tempore), Greg Dobbs ended up on second after a Ryan Zimmerman throwing error. Rookie phenom catcher Carlos Ruiz singled him home to make the score 2-1 with one out.

At this point, I had been sitting in the Target parking lot for five minutes. With newly acquired Russell Branyan coming up (batting average: .197), I figured I wouldn’t get too excited about this mini-rally.

25 minutes and 36 packages of gooified baby veggies later (bought, not eaten), I returned to my car to check the score. All of a sudden, we’re bottom nine. Bottom nine!

(If the bottom of the ninth is being played, that means that the home team (in this case, Washington) is either tied or trailing. Otherwise, they wouldn’t even bat. Translation: WooHoo!)

So Branyan decked a 3-2 Jon Rauch pitch into the right field, uh, “Washington Wall of Fame,” Tom Gordon held them scoreless in the eighth, the heart of the Phillies lineup fanned in the ninth, and now Brett Myers stands on the mound while I sit in my car.

Batter #1: Ryan Langerhans. Result: Struck out, swinging.
Batter #2: Brian Schneider. Result: Struck out, swinging.
Batter #3: Nook Logan. Result: Struck out, swinging.

No one in the DC area was cheering louder.

Or in my car, for that matter.

Round and Round

Do you have a favorite song? Of course you do. In this age of digital music, iPods, and satellite radio, you can hear your favorite tune pretty much any time you want with a few turns of the dial. No longer do you have to shuffle through CDs or call FM radio stations in order to catch that single you desire, and we’re way past the age of rewinding cassettes for a second play. For years, I’ve been meaning to rank every mp3 I own in order to determine what my favorite song is. However, the massive excel spreadsheet required or the second coming of Mookie Madness have yet to formulate, so I’m left wondering what should be on the top of my podium.

For babies, this process is way easier.

In order for a baby to pick a number one song, they have to do a similar thing. They must evaluate each and every song they have ever heard, and then decide which song makes them the happiest. The nice thing for them? They haven’t heard that many songs. Their personal discography is limited to songs 1) heard on the radio once they’ve decided sitting in the car seat isn’t a cry-worthy activity and 2) songs that Mom and Dad have sung to them in order to distract them into calming down, and quite possibly triggering a smile.

Radio music doesn’t stand a chance.

This leaves in the running all ditties in which either Mother or Father are the recording artist. And despite strong showings from such timeless classics as “Lollipop,” “Rock-A-Bye Baby,” “Hush Little Baby,”, and Nordberg’s “Spider-Pig,” we have a winner.

The Wheels on the Bus.

What’s not to like about the Wheels on the Bus? The title vehicular components goes round and round – much as hit records used to fly off the stacks back in the days of vinyl. It tells a story – this bus is not content with a power ballad about how it sits all day in a garage; no, it’s an epic story where the title character embarks on an epic meandering journey.

All through the town.

Let’s review the lyrics to this rock classic with greater detail, shall we?

• The motion of the wheels on the bus turn a simple nursery tune into a fully-choreographed musical from the very first verse. “Wheels” are not usually a part of a baby’s first vocabulary chapter – that’s reserved for Mama, Dada, hello, and the like. Therefore the “Wax On, Wax Off” motion of the wheels gets the point across without having to skip ahead in the Big Book of Words Baby Will Memorize by Age 3.”
• After the wheels on the bus, there’s no coda listed in the sheet music, which means it’s the singer’s responsibility to come up with the next verse all on their own. A common choice for the 2 hole are the wipers on the bus. (For the record, they go swish, swish, swish.) This begs the question – should there be singing on any public transportation when it’s pouring outside? Wouldn’t this distract the driver?
• The song also goes on to tell us that the “People on the Bus go UP and DOWN.” Fair enough. This song was written a long time ago, long before the Department of Transportation got their way with new-fangled safety regulations. If they had their choice, the DoT would insist on the Seat Belts on the Bus go Click, click, click. Keep dreaming, bureaucrats.
• Careful, driver. Make sure Rosa Parks isn’t on the bus before you utter your demanding declaration. You could be in for a legal world of hurt.
• There’s also a delightful little dialogue in the middle verses where babies on the bus cry (wah, wah, waah) and their mothers promptly quiet them (shush, shush, sshhh). This is where the daddies on the bus pretend to be asleep.
• If your baby really loves this song (like Clara), you’ll be hard pressed to come up with additional, previously unwritten verses. For instance, does anyone know what sounds a double overhead camshaft makes?

Blinding Me with Science

Even when things appear to be healing just fine, you can never be too careful with an eye injury. Therefore, I took off a little early to get out to Gainesville, VA for an eye doctor’s appointment. As you might not expect, hilarity ensued.

As I drove through I-66 traffic with the blinding speed of a drunken yak, I tried to recall the last time I had visited an eye doctor – a harder task than it sounds is. Truth is, I’ve never been to an ophthalmologist. So far, I’ve been blessed with excellent vision – a trait I hope Clara has already inherited. Case in point: when I was at the hospital with a swollen cave of a left eye, the doctor on call decided to check my vision as a precaution. Standing 20 feet away from the chart, he asked what line I could read. I’m guessing that Line “8” would have exhibited 20/20 sight. With my swollen eye:

“I can read 9. Maybe 10.”
“Oh really? Well then, be my guest.”
“A-P-O-T-C”
“Okay then.”

I’d be a fighter pilot with the eyes, you know, if I my head didn’t continually bang against the ceiling off the cockpit.

Since I lack any eye doctor experience, I didn’t quite no what to expect. Now I can’t say I wasn’t exactly fearing the worst – I’m sure the AMA has outlawed Clockwork Orange-like procedures in today’s accepted medicinal protocol, but still I have no idea. The lobby of his office seemed not unlike other offices of other doctoral pursuits, with plenty of open space, mildly comfortable chairs, and more magazines that I’ve read in my lifetime.

When it was time to get my ocular region checked out, I did all the usual expected games: “Follow the Pen,” “Stare at the Light at the End of the Tunnel,”, and the reading of “More Letters Way Far Away.” But then came the kicker surprise: dilation!

Dilation is a process by which doctor decides to ruin your short-term vision by looking for problems that may affect your long-term vision. After two quick drops to each of thy oculars, you have to wait 10-15 grueling minutes before your pupils get huge and the doc can really see what’s going on. In a doctor’s office, 10-15 minutes is a lot of time for awkward small talk with your physician of choice, so the doc exited the room leaving me to my own wits for a period of boring. To counter said boredom, he offered me a magazine that I do not normally read: Road and Track.

Conclusion: Road and Track is easily the fuzziest magazine I have ever read.

After a successful examination, you and your medically-approved beer goggles are free to go, if you promise to do the following: 1) Do not look directly into the sun. 2) Wear sunglasses for the next few hours. 3) Do not attempt to read anything until your vision returns.

Time to go to dinner at a nice restaurant with the in-laws! Now, with small-print menus!

I’ll tell you what, I made it in record time from Gainesville to Manassas. Of course, without the ability to read street signs or negotiate traffic lights, I just assumed all the lights were green.

And that everyone was honking their horns in concurrence.

Joe Cool Finance

I just made finance awesome.

Of course, the means by which I achieved this stunning feat are far from awesome, but Machiavelli would no doubt approve of my weekend antics. This past weekend was our end-of-season Capital Alumni Network Double Elimination Softball Tournament (CANDEST, for (not that) short), and I was all geared up to improve upon our 5th place finish from last year. We had dispatched of Georgia Tech in a previously played first round game, and was ready to upend the higher ranked Auburn Tigers early Saturday morning.

Ok, that didn’t go as planned.

Ending up in the losers’ bracket early on is a bit of a mixed blessing. Yes, it makes the road to an ultimate championship damn near impossible, considering you’ll have to play at least 4 more full games then the team who takes the winner’s bracket approach to the finals. On the other hand, instead of your next game always being a guaranteed tougher draw, you take a step backwards in the level competition and play a low-seeded patsy who just defeated another low-seeded patsy to stay alive. In our case, it would be the #48th ranked Gamecocks of South Carolina.

Generally speaking, most teams will play their best players throughout the tournament, with the ultimate goal of winning the whole thing. However, most teams will list “having fun” as some sort of secondary objective, and that translates into playing your bench when you can. So for four innings, I watched our team build a lead against the Spirit of Spurrier. In order to stay sharp however, I was to enter the game shortly after that as the feared “late-inning defensive replacement.”

Bad idea.

The first play was simple enough; a pop out to my right which our third baseman handled with relative ease. You know, there’s something about tournament softball. Just off the left field line is a DJ playing music the greatest hits of the 80’s (Everyone loves Journey.), there are plenty of spectators, and with the right gust of wind, you can get a whiff of the grilled food you’ll soon be enjoying once this game is over and you can relax for the day. But now is now the time to think about all this. Now is the time to get the second out of the inning.

This was the first game we had played on the main field this year, but I remember ousting Notre Dame last year during our marathon-loser’s bracket survival run. The field plays sharp, as it is well groomed. The dirt is fast, but manageable-

CRACK.

As the sharp grounder headed my way, I had a complete beat on the bright yellow orb. It would be a three-hopper as it darted in my direction. The ball hit the dirt early – probably before the pitcher’s area – and would bounce again before a final short hop into my glove. Years of AP Geometry and Physics come in handy in these sorts of situations. As the amplitude of each bounce decreases, the ball will eventually end up in a straight roll. But since it would take a distance that would place it in the outfield for that to take place, I’d have to play this off the bounce. Judging from the first two bounces, the third should hit a few feet in front of me and hit my glove about 8 inches over the sandy earth.

ROCK.

Did I say 8 inches? I meant 3 and a half feet.
Did I say glove? I meant left eye.

So here I sit in my office, crunching numbers and creating spreadsheets, whilst wearing the sunglasses I should have been wearing on the diamond. For the record, my eye is fine. It’s swollen and blacker than usual, but there’s no damage. In a week or so, we should be back to normal.

Other than the fact that I just made finance awesome.

Routinely Morning

“Time to make the donuts.”

I once responded to one of those e-mail surveys with the aforementioned line as the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning. Of course, it was a lie. My profession does not require me to produce commercial breakfast pastry, and even if it did, I’d have to leave my apartment to do so. We lack the convention donut-making mechanisms to pull off such a job requirement. And despite the frequent discussion of donuts on this blog (Look! Exhibits A, B, and C!), we’re actually not that big a fan of it as a first meal offering. (We prefer bagels, having been raised in an Orthodox Jewish home.*)

*Not really.

“Time to get the baby.”

Yeah, that’s a more fitting first thought to my mornings on most days. For the last four months, Clara’s crib has been located, well, in her own crib, er, bedroom. It’s really far away from my bedside, considering I have to traverse Throwpillow Mountain, wade across the Living Room of Doom, hang a right at Doorway Labyrinth, and end up in the room where Clara sleeps alongside my old trusty sidekick, Attica. She practically lives next door. However, at some point as the sun rises, I awake to go get her for her morning feeding. And based on the limited confines of her crib, she’s going to greet me in a number of ways. A sampling is below.

1. If Clara has woken up on her own accord, she may be enjoying the view of the ceiling as a peaceful, happy baby. Sometimes I feel like I should put something awesome on the ceiling for her to look at until I find my way into her room, rather than the apartment complex-grade white paint that lacks a certain appeal. Maybe one of those Magic Eye posters would do the job. That would be an impressive one-up at the next social gathering – “Oh yeah? My little girl sees the world in 4 dimensions. What can yours do?” Anyway, if Clara is lying there on her back, she’s completely content with the state of her world. She hasn’t yet been told by her stomach that it’s time for breakfast, she hasn’t realized she could probably use a changed diaper, and she definitely hasn’t caught on that there are many more fun things happening beyond the bars of her bed. She’s laugh, squeal, rock back and forth – and on a good day, she could probably go for a half an hour. Probability of giving Dad a Good Morning Smile: 98%
2. If Clara has woken up but for one of the reasons I’ve already mentioned, she’s going to start her day with finding a way out. She’s not at the point where we have to lower the mattress, thusly raising her exit point another foot into the air, but that doesn’t mean she’s not getting into the ready position for launch. For a baby who has yet to master the crawl-climb-repel-microwave-drink maneuver that babies in the CIA do all the time, the chain of events have to be simpler. Clara will get her roll on, flip to all fours – and wait. So when I show up, she can see me coming from the minute I enter, toss a casual smile in my direction (Probability: 72%), and already be in position for a paternal airlift.
3. “OH MY GOD! WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS??? I know that when I close my eyes I night, it gets dark. But I’m pretty sure they’re open right now, and I can’t see a thing! And my pacifier’s gone! Where did I put that thing? I’d look for it, but since I’ve gone legally blind in both eyes, what good would that do me? Seriously? Oh man, now I’m going to have to rely on Dad to get the bottle in my mouth when he’s too tired to aim, and that’s going to be a disaster? What did I do to be robbed of my vision? Look, Lord, I’m sorry that I caused that diaper explosion two minutes after we left the house, I won’t let it happen again!!! Why? Why Me?
   
   (Dad removed pink bunny blanket from Clara’s eyes.)
   
   “Oh. Right. Amen.”

The Channeling of Allen Iverson

We sittin’ here, I’m supposed to be the franchise player, and we in here talkin’ about practice.

Now that I’m all grown up, not too many days end with the lacing up of the cleats and the running out onto the field for a little twilight work on the old skills. Sure, I play softball and football, and playing said sports often result in playing competitive games against competitive teams, but going out just to hone your grasp of the game is something that gets left on your Microsoft Outlook cutting room floor.

I mean, listen, we talkin’ about practice.

Tonight, I will be hitting the dirt and grass in Annandale to participate in our William and Mary Alumni softball team’s annual practice. That’s right; it’s annual. We decide it’s so important to improve and to stay sharp a maximum one time per year. It always falls within a week of the biggest double elimination softball tournament that ever was, and after dispatching of Georgia Tech in our first round game, we have a long road to hoe from here on out. So tonight, we’ll be exploring what it means to hit he cut-off man, how to aggressively run the bases, and if we have time, maybe a short-sided scrimmage. Who’s excited?

Not a game, not a game, not a game, we talkin’ about practice.

I have to confess, though, I’m a bit of a gameday-type athlete. I do my best work in the heat of competition, and that should be expected. However, I have a history of turning the intensity dial way down when I’m not sporting our team’s official colors, winning points for my side, or when I don’t have Chariots of Fire running through my head. Track practice was the perfect example. Not only did I have little interest in winning the warm-up laps (Kyle Williams?), I was please to just finish the work outs. Much to Lou Jester’s dismay, my game face was far different from my hurdle face. Wait a minute. That makes little sense. What’s a hurdle face?

Not a game, not the game that I go out there and die for and play every game like it’s my last. Not the game. We’re talking about practice.

Team sports were really no different. The one way to kill the morale of a bunch of kids playing a team sport that they desperately love is to make them run. Running will destroy all the fun being had. Coaches, you’ve got to keep the running to a minimum, or make it a part of practice out of fun or out of necessity. If you need to make it fun, have your team do Indian runs while dribbling a soccer ball. If you need necessity, unleash a wolf to chase ‘em. Preferably a hungry one.

How silly is that? We’re talking about practice.

The lack of intensity is a bit of a problem, because my body really wants to go out; it’s my brain that says calm the heck down. When I see a sharp liner five feet to my left, my body instinctively gets into “time to fly through the air with reckless abandon” mode. In fact, pulling such a stunt would be good practice in case a similar situation occurs during the match, but in practice? You just get mocked.

What are we talking about?

But the real nice thing about practices these days? You don’t have to wait in the dark for your mom or dad to come pick you up, and you don’t have homework to do when you get home. (Unless, of course, you have a daughter who needs to feed and a bath…)

We’re talking about practice.

The Steve Zahn Principle

Free Food in the Kitchen!

Now that I have your undivided attention (works every time), I’d like to comment on the most recent break room offering that I encountered just yesterday. I wish it could say it was a delicacy of choice – perhaps donuts or cake would have been nice. However, it’s not an uncommon practice for a colleague to bring in more than they can chew with the intent of leaving the rest in the name of communal goodwill and sharing. And while I can’t identify said colleague, I can thank him for yesterday’s sacrificial offering of…

Cheese Balls. 25 ounces of cheese balls.

There are so many things to consider here.

First off, the mere size of this canister was staggering. Now it’s common practice for people to buy snacks at their local supermarket to keep in their desk at work. By nature of most people’s desks, these containers must be small, compact, and easily concealable when the boss walks by. The cylinder was slightly bigger than a regulation NBA basketball. No wonder the thing had found a new home in the kitchen.

Secondly, you may have glossed over the fact that this canister, when it was once full, weighed 25 ounces. I know that doesn’t seem like much, but it’s a legit pound and a half – of strictly puffed cheese and air. And 1.5 pounds of cheese balls weighs just as must as 1.5 pounds of brick, feathers, hammers, whatever. So in order to amass that amount of load, you’re going to need a whole lot of cheese balls.

384, to be exact.

You see, a serving size (according to ye tub grande) of Cheese Balls is 12. There are 32 servings in the container. I could eat one cheese ball every day of the year and still have some left over to watch next year’s Rose Bowl. (However, 4 out of 5 doctors strongly advise against this diet staple. The 5th, conversely, is crazy and is likely the type who prescribes pain killers to park benches and elm trees.)

Ultimately, cheese balls are not a filling snack, so it’s a bit of a mystery as to how they’ve managed to survive in a market with so many other satisfying options. In digestion, all you’re doing is turning puffed cheese into tightly compressed cheese powder, devoid of the nutrients that keep you (and those park benches and elm trees) healthy. So how have the Cheese Balls done it? How are they still lining the shelves alongside much worthier offerings, like Sun Chips?

I give you the Steve Zahn Principle.

Steve Zahn is one of our generation’s That Guy in That Movie. He really isn’t much of an actor, and his comedy stylings aren’t in the league of the guys who can carry a movie. He’s a bit player, who since 1992 has amassed 42 credits to his name. And of those 42, 18 are flicks a good portion of the population has seen. And while Steve Zahn isn’t the reason to go see the movie, you don’t mind that he’s there and actually enjoy his screen presence once in a while.

The secret to his success? Diversification of roles.

Every movie Steve Zahn does is a completely different genre than the last one in which he appeared. You want romantic comedy? He’s done You’ve Got Mail. Horror more your liking? Check out Joy Ride. In the mood for some action and adventure? He stars alongside McConaughey in Sahara.

Indie? Reality Bites.
War? Crimson Tide.
Animated Voice Over? Chicken Little.
Musical? That Thing You Do!
Crappy Martin Lawrence Cop Movie? National Security

You see, Cheese Balls are just one of the many forms the idea of air-puffed cheese powder takes in order to maintain shelf life. Whether it’s a curl, a rod, a doodle, or a Cheeto, it’s still the same damn thing. And yet, we’re never unhappy when it’s on a party snack table, but we never run to the store specifically for it. Like I said, it’s the Steve Zahn of snack food.

2 Bed, 1.5 Bath and My Friend Flicka

Despite the fact that new home sales are moving slower than Michael Vick merchandise, the DC Metro area continues to live by the motto, “The grass is always greener if you build residential apartment complexes on top of it.” You can continue to drive west towards the great outdoors all you want, but as long as your taking I-66, it’s going to be awhile ‘til you find it. People have been moving to the area in droves over the last decade, so much as to skew the Harry-est Town in America sweepstakes that Amazon ran in conjunction with J.K. Rowling’s 7th book. Long story short, they used book sales against 2000 census figures to find it where the most HP7’s per capita were heading.

Who likes commentary on fractions? You do, suckers.

Because there are many, many people in towns like Vienna, Falls Church, and Fairfax, and these many, many people purchased the book, Amazon didn’t see it coming. Therefore, the denominator of their magical formula was understated (there’s a lot more here than in 2000), and it seems like just about everyone in the Metro area was purchasing the wizard tale with reckless abandon. And the worst part? The winning city (Falls Church), was allowed to select a charity for Amazon to donate $5k to “The Mary Riley Styles Public Library Foundation Trust of Falls Church.”

Mary Riley Styles, you lucky, undeserving bastard.

But back to the topic at hand: the residential construction free-for-all.

As I’ve mentioned on occasion, my apartment complex is owned by Camden Living Properties. For Jerseyans, it may shock you that I’ve chosen to live in Camden. Other than the surname of the sap-fest that is 7th Heaven, the only other cultural relevance it has is in the frontrunners for Most Dangerous City. So, the coincidence in nomenclature keeps me safe from errant gunshots and carjacking – a plus, it also leaves me devoid of aquariums within immediate proximity. And just once I’d like to say hello to a dolphin while getting my mail.

Camden, like any other aspiring rental property developer, is working frantically to acquire as much acreage in the Northern Virginia area. While this may be good for their bottom line, it’s confusing as hell for the guests of their tenants. Within 2 miles of y apartment complex, there are two other Camden properties that friends may have seen in passing and therefore assume it is where I live. (These are the people “too good” for MapQuest, not surprisingly.) So how does Camden combat this problem?

By installing oversized chess pieces.

Just down the street from us is Camden Monument Place. It’s on Monument Drive, but so is ours. It’s a place, but so is ours. So in order to give Monument Place a different personality than Fairfax Corner, they hired a crack team of designers and artists to give the new complex its own identity.

They came up with a severed horse head.

Look, I’m all for the equine agenda, but doesn’t this seem a little strange to anyone else? It’s not like they’ve used animal kingdom decapitation at any of their other locations. So there it is, standing on the corner of Fair Lakes and Monument (note: the other Camden property is called Camden Fair Lakes, naturally), for all to see.

Including the poor sap whose view is nothing but the back of a horse head.

Get Out Of My Testing Facility and Into My Car

Forgive the scarcity of posting as of late. You see, I’m helping my company buy a new car.

(Ok, that’s not entirely true. There’s no reason that my company would ask me to consult on a new vehicle purchase. I’m far from a car guy, and while my Honda Accord screams sensibility to any government auditor who may roll up alongside at a red light, it’s not exactly the taste that a mega technology firm. A mega technology firm like ours would make their own cars. That transform.)

As you may have guessed, we’re speaking in metaphors.

As I’ve alluded to in the past, my company is completely switching out its existing software mainframe for a new, much shinier, product. I was not part of the decision making team – my pay scale is nowhere near a conference table that such a decision would be made. We’re talking a multi-million dollar contract award here. But, while I may not have a seat in the table, that doesn’t mean they don’t want me in the room – you know, to bring them fresh coffee.

I have been assigned as an official pilot program tester. My goal is to carry out instructions that mirror things we do in our current system, to see if the new system can handle what we’re so accustomed to. How I was selected for this task, I’m not quite sure. Regardless, I’ve been given a very specific directive to complete my part of the systems testing, so that others may complete their parts – all before week’s end.

Yeah, it’s mid-day Thursday. What?

After being given the green light yesterday, I encountered a few uh, issues. First off, they want us to do this testing in a special testing room. This special testing room, sadly, is across the parking lot. This parking lot is long, and the temperature is hot. Yesterday, I valiantly crossed the asphalt inferno to complete my testing – for the good of the project. When I got to the special testing room, I found out what made it so special. It’s so special that only people 2 mm tall can enter. Or it was just locked. One of the two, I’m sure of it.

So after coming back to my own office (which required another trek across the red hot blacktop – good thing I wore shoes to work), I sat down to try and do the testing regardless from the confines of my own computer. In order to do the testing, I needed to pull data from two sources. Of course, after carefully reviewing the data, there was a bit of a disconnect.

Like getting a chipmunk to speak Swahili.

But that’s okay; I’m a smart guy and know who to call (other than the Ghostbusters) in this type of situation. With that resolved, I sat down to access the system and get moving, having already wasted an hour with these two problems alone.

“Problem with your User ID/Password. Please contact your administrator.”

WHAT?

As you can see, this isn’t exactly going as planned.

The problem here is my name is linked to every test that has yet to run, yet I have done nothing wrong. If the higher-ups are checking progress, I’m going to be the one in hot water, rather than those who set the whole thing up.

“So Condon, what do you think of our new car?”

“Well sir, I look forward to the new features that will make it way better than the old car. Its ability to hover above and blow by traffic will give us a great advantage on the roadways. However, I’m concerned that the ignition button doesn’t work, the door trunk release requires the strength of a bear to activate, and I have to climb through the sunroof to get in, but, hey I’m excited.”

2 Minutes for Cross-Blogging

751 posts in, and it’s finally paying off.

It was nearly 3 years ago when I decided that I could make the internet a better place by creating You’re a Blog. My reasons were simple in that regard – one does not need a divine ultimatum from the Lord Almighty to type things on the interwebs these days. I realized I really enjoyed writing e-mails in comedic fashion, (informative and to-the-point was SO 2003), and blogging would be a way to do it on a more widespread basis.

That, and to impress Katie. Oh, how the ladies swoon for dry humor cybersatire.

Over the last three years, I feel I’ve grown as a writer. I dare you to go back to August 2004 and see the early material we published on this site. I hadn’t yet found my voice when it came to writing these things. Such misfires included the sappathetic tribute to William and Mary Orientation, which just wasn’t funny at all. We’re talking the lowest form of comedy right there. Like a foot and a half below puns. We also learned the lesson to not try and stretch a one-liner into a full column. An ill-fated October Jiffy Lube post taught us that lesson the hard way. (Notice there are no hyperlinks to either of those two columns. Sometimes history is best left buried under a very, very heavy rock.)

We’ve tried big projects along the way to finely tune our literary equivalent of exploding fish, such as the NFL-Fall TV Preview and the monstrous “We Didn’t Start the Fire” parody that commemorated Post 500. Ultimately, we find that our comedic wheelhouse is best served in the topics that we know best.

Surprisingly, that’s more than just Saved by the Bell.

Take sports, for example. After finding the lighter side of sports for two years, we stumbled across the kingpin in the field, the Gawker Media-run Deadspin. A multi-post all-sports site run by the very clever Will Leitch, Deadspin aimed to point out that not everything is exactly as Sports Center reports it. And to add to the hilarity, they allow comments on all of their posts. However, not just any comment can make the cut over there. Any new comments from unknown commenters are reviewed by an editorial board for wit, relevance, sarcasm, and laughs. If they deem your material funny enough to join their ranks, why then, you’ve joined an elite fraternity of people who can mock athletics with the best of them. Last October, a comment about Will’s favorite team, the Arizona Cardinals, got me my ticket to the big dance.

For those who read the ‘spin, regularly, I’m known as “Hextall454.”

I chose the name for a couple reasons. One, it shows that I’m an ice hockey fan above all else. Second, it shows that I’m a Philly sports fan above all else, other than of course, being an ice hockey fan. Third, it delightfully lampoons that medical sports crème Flexall454. Good thing, man. Flexall454 so had it coming.

The thing with Deadspin is that other than the sports of basketball, football, and baseball, everything else if a bit of a sideshow. It’s not that Will isn’t knowledgeable on the topics, but rather, he knows that there’s a much smaller audience for ‘em. Sadly, ice hockey is included in that lot.

But then the Deadspinners had an idea.

Whenever hockey WAS mentioned on the site, the puckhead faithful would comment in droves. They’re a passionate crew, no doubt. Therefore, the decision was made to support and promote a Deadspinoff blog, devoted entirely to hockey.

You can see what’s coming here.

I’ve got a new gig (concurrent, I assure you) now, as I have been asked to join the editors’ staff of Melt Your Face-Off. The link is over there in the sidebar, so you know where to find me. If you hurry over now, my Flyers piece is at the top of the page!

*Now, with 73% more Mighty Ducks references!

What Does MINE Say? Suite!

Most corporations these days are forever entangled with the one-stop document management package that is Microsoft Office. I can’t speak as to whether or not it is the best office suite on the market today, mainly because I have no basis of comparison. As long as I can remember, it has been the dream team of Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Access, and Outlook that has been running my professional life, whether I like it or not.

We pause a moment to pay our respects to Microsoft FrontPage, an early web publishing tool that was pre-loaded on Mookie and on which I tried to develop and administer my first-ever Fantasy Hockey League. Those were the days when I made the league GM’s pick up free agents by filling out actual paper work. Needless to say, they were plenty of shiny objects in my peripheral vision that grinded this e-project to a screeching halt. Hey, I was 17. Sorry guys. Let’s go ride our bikes!

I like Microsoft Word. 98% of the blogging that occurs on YAB has its initial draft typed up in Microsoft Word. It allows me to keep a much closer eye on column length, word count, and spelling and grammatical errors. And most of the time, it succeeds in that job. You know where Microsoft Word chooses to fail me, however? Homophones. Why couldn’t the wizards behind grammar check write in some code that would prevent the most obvious of homophonic errors from happening? We here that it will be hear in future versions.

I like Microsoft Excel. But then again, I kind of have to. When you devote your career to the inner workings of financial number crunching and other miscellaneous calculations, it’s a love or die proposition. It’s an organized way to make math do the work for you, and it has so many lines meeting a right angles that even Nordberg can appreciate the simplicity of the design. Of course, I’ve never tried to pen a blog post in Excel, nor have I found a way to incorporate everything I learned in AP Calculus within the program’s confines, but it does serve as the Oscar Party Standings Engine, does it not? Shockingly, no derivatives or binomials make appearances in that fine workbook, either.

I like Power Point. There’s nothing like the fast moving combination of professional headers and overstated bullet points to make something appear organized, yet user-friendly. However, a successful Power Point presentation must thrive on content, not bells and whistles. For example, in grad school I once attended a marketing course where the professor opted to use a Power Point to outline a chapter. As part of her knowledge, her slide said that “Local Print Media and Word of Mouth are Major Tools in Forming a Grassroots Campaign.” Why she chose to capitalize everything is beyond me. However, the phrase “Major Tools” stayed with me long after class was dismissed. It just sounded official. Since then I’ve been sending Christmas cards to my state’s senator from Retired Major Edolphus K. Tools, in hopes that Jon Rogers will open said card on behalf of the Senator, and immediately fall out of his office chair.

I’m completely indifferent about Access. Databases are something I’d pay someone to design for me. Other than the once I made to organize our wedding guest list, they’ve all been failures. If I only had a friend who loves to collect DVDs, create microbews, and design databases. That would solve all my problems.

I hate Outlook.

It just told me I’m going to be in training for the next five hours.

Harry Potter and the Spoiler Alert

I just got a call from my wife after she returned from a doctor’s appointment for the baby. In her 8 am travels, it was not the rush hour chaos that most vividly caught her eye and earned itself a rant. Instead, it was the 100 yard-long line that has formed outside the Fairfax Barnes and Noble, a good hour before they even open. It extended across the parking lot all the way to the abandoned Mexican restaurant that has been closed for over a year now.

(Tangential Side note: This restaurant, once “Tia’s”, has an exterior designed like an old Tijuana cantina, complete with cacti and fake tumbleweeds. The design of the building is so customized to the feel of knocking back Coronas with lime that it’s no surprise that the landlord has had difficulty finding a new tenant. Personally, I see this as a perfect service firm opportunity. What if a bunch of computer repair technicians needed some office space? Voila – Los Geekos. That, my friends, is a gimmick you can take to the bank.)

Is it that the youth of America have an unquenched thirst for overpriced bookstore lattes and a desire to buy out the entire Sudoku rack while waxing apathetic on Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and 2006 Puppy Calendars? Of course not. If they do, they would show up on time at 9 o’clock when the store actually opens and pursue such endeavors. No latte is worth waiting in line for.

In fact, I suspect that when B and N actually DO open their doors a 9 sharp, most of these pint-sized consumers won’t even go into the store. That’s not their plan for a largely humid Friday here near the Nation’s Capital. In fact, I have a feeling that it will be 15 hours from the opening of those doors that they will sit idly deliberately not participating in the commerce of the day. What, is Barnes and Noble selling concert tickets?

No, just books.

People often cite the HR race between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa as the seminal event in the nineties that saved Major League Baseball. Who cares if the two of them were taking enough horse steroids to lap the Kentucky Derby field? It was riveting, it was exciting, and it defeated the threat of baseball backsliding into obscurity.

Children’s literature has come an awfully long way since the days of Book-It. At the same time Mac and Sammy were punishing baseballs for existing, the Internet was stealing the will kids had to read books. Books are not cool. There’s no scroll bar in books, and I can’t copy and paste my favorite chapters in e-mails for my friends to read. (Copyright infringement be damned.) And what of reading? Reading is a lot of work. If I’m going to spend my afternoon reading, it better be something truly awesome or, well, a promise of free pizza at the end of the dust jacket.

J.K. Rowling managed to 180 the children’s literature industry. She has sold 325 million books with the Harry Potter series, and come midnight tonight, another 12 million will be sold instantly in America. 12 million books, without a cent spent on marketing, advertising, or brand awareness. Not bad for a previously unemployed researcher.

No one can possibly imagine hordes of kids and adults waiting in line to buy a BOOK at the stroke of midnight ten years ago. However, it’s happening at B&N’s, Borders, Targets, and other outlets around the country tonight. Of course, had these little bookworms heard of the internet, they could get a good night’s sleep and receive it in the mail tomorrow from Amazon (guaranteed) like yours truly, but hey, who am I to dictate conventional sleep schedules?

Without further ado, I give you the 9 MEGA SPOILERS FROM HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HOLLOWS! BOOM!*

(Note: May not actually be spoilers. We’re making it up as we go.)

1. He Who Must Not Be Named is going to have a wicked time trying to fill out his 2007 Ministry Census identification papers.
2. All this time, Neville Longbottom has sucked at magic because he’s been holding his wand backwards. Silly Longbottom.
3. It will be revealed that Hufflepuff House is no longer a meekly-named also-ran in the four-square world of Hogwart’s, but rather a super-advanced cadre of wizarding ninjas. They will kill Lord Voldemort with their special brand of Magic Fu.
4. Victor Krum has been taking anabolic steroids, and is forced to forfeit his winnings from the Quidditch Qorld Cup and the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
5. Dementors aren’t evil soul-sucking fiends; they’re just misunderstood.
6. What Hermione Granger lacks in pure wizarding blood, she makes up with an exceptionally high midi-chlorian count.
7. Butterbeer is actually 180-proof grain alcohol. Yowzer.
8. Harry Potter will survive the seventh book, but by the end, he’ll be very tired. His view on formalized education will be forever jaded, and decides to live out his days as an accountant in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
9. You’re a horcrux.

Decaf Nuclear Warfare

Since I got to work early, my morning routine had to be altered slightly. Because of a blasted 8 am training session (which I am currently listening to), I didn’t get my morning play session with Clara, and unfortunately, Katie had to get up early to take my shift. I tried to get as much done prior to waking her (diaper change, bottle prep), but ultimately there was only so much I could do. As a thank you to my wife, I ran out and got some coffee, nay, Caribou Coffee for her to enjoy while Clara downs her first bottle of the day.

Alas. it’s never a good idea to drink alone.

I thought that making an A.M. coffee run would be a largely simple and uneventful endeavor. For someone who knows what they’re ordering, it’s a simple walk in-order-pay-depart progression that will happen as quickly as the baristas are awake. At least that’s how they roll at Starbucks…

Caribou Coffee: Academic Caffeine Central.

As I handed forth my Wachovia debit card to pay for the coffee I have no intention of drinking, the barista behind the register fired back, “Do you want to save 10 cents by answering today’s trivia?” Now here’s the thing – that’s a one-answer, loaded question. I make a pretty good living. I often make purchases that result in a receipt of some loose change. I could really make it through the day without keeping that extra dime, (much less 6.) But this is an invitation for free money; I don’t have to pay extra if I get the question wrong. After all, it’s coffee house trivia – how hard could it possibly be?

“Who is credited with being the father of the atomic bomb?”

Holy hell.

I realize that there were a few routes that Caribou Coffee could have gone when it comes to question selection. First, they could always have coffee-themed trivia; in fact, this is what I was half-expecting. It would allow self-indulgent coffee nerds to feel good about themselves when they can carefully discern the difference between a macchiato and a mochachino. Perhaps it would be a geography question, as to what blends come from where in the world. I would have been fine with this question. I would have gotten it wrong, mind you – but then I could explain to them, “Oh, I don’t drink coffee. This is for my wife.” Then not only do I save face, I get nominated for Husband of the Year.

The second way they could have gone with the questioning was with something pop culture-related. This would have been current and timely, considering I’ve been practicing by watching VH-1’s World Series of Pop Culture the last couple weeks. And come to think of it, I remember being in here before and noticed that the trivia o’ the day was PRECISELY pop culture. It was “Name two Fraggles from Fraggle Rock.” (Wembley and Red come to mind.) Now THAT’S the type of knowledgeable worthy of saving a dime.

Back to the question at hand – “Who is credited with being the father of the atomic bomb?”

Don’t get me wrong, this is a legitimate trivia question and is not outside the realm of questions I would expect to find in a box of Trivial Pursuit, or even in a Jeopardy! Daily Double. But now I’m standing in front of 5 baristas (5!) with a stunned look on my face realizing that this is just a clever and cruel way to for them to interact with customers while maintaining their daily dime supply. After all, profitable businesses can’t just give away money – the questions need to be hard. Ok, back to my feeble answer…

“Oppenheimer is coming to mind.”

“Um, okay, that’s correct!?”

Damn right, that’s correct. I now wish to pay full price and be physically handed a dime as my reward.

Feel the Toddler Burn

It’s the middle of swimsuit season, which means whatever New Year’s Resolution you’ve put off for, oh, 7 MONTHS, has to be pulled out, dusted off, and tried on so that you can look good in the sun. According to 43Things.com, losing weight is the number one goal of all people, regardless of age or gender. An active lifestyle is the key to such an endeavor, as is an outlet for physical activity to burn off all that extra stress and calories.

Like I said, regardless of age.

Now our daughter was born some 34 days after everyone made their Resolutions for ’07, so she’s not exactly holding herself to some rigid workout ideal. However, babies by their very nature lead a sedentary lifestyle. Cycling, cross-country skiing, and playing some hoops down at the Y aren’t exactly options, when one is still working on mastering the crawl. And since rolling across the blanket will only get you so far (and so dizzy), they’re has to be other ways for babies to get that energy release.

(Note: It should be noted that we don’t have a chubby baby. We have a LONG baby. If you’re looking at a picture of a baby and think of the Michelin logo, it’s probably not our baby. Clara is all muscle. If they made Baby Under Armor, she wouldn’t even need to order the shirts with the built-in abs.)

After a recent trip to Babies ‘R Us, one thing became very clear. Babies do not exercise.

They exersauce.

While an exersaucer may sound like a Tony Little or Body by Jake infomercial of an invention, in reality it’s the best lil’ workout machine a baby can have. Yeah, that’s it over there to the left. Colorful isn’t it?

The exersaucer, as per the good folks at Evenflo, is designed to “grow with child by offering teethers and big buttons for younger babies and simple word association for older babies…18 age appropriate activities teach developmental milestones such as imitative play, hand-eye coordination and object permanence, 50 different sights and sounds are pleasing to little eyes and ears; simple word association and fun dancing lights reward baby, offer the most learning opportunities in one activity center.”

In other words, it’s A.D.D. Central.

But just because it takes the “Ooh, Shiny! Theory” to the exteme does not mean that it’s not cool. In fact, when Clara is placed in the middle of all this fun, she can’t possibly think of a place she would rather be. (And if she tried to, the “fun dancing lights” brainwash her attention span back to the present.) The following are a list of apparatus, accompanied by their Daddy-sized equivalent.

After all, if there were a Exersaucer in my size, I’d be the first one in line to buy.

1. The cell-phone – Yes, Clara has a phone that talks to her, flashes little red lights, and is ergonomically-designed for the ultimate in baby telecommunications comfort. Daddy’s version: A cell phone, obviously. Moving on.
2. Turtle on a string – The small, green, plastic turtle is on a string just so that when she knocks it off the ‘saucer, he doesn’t get too far, regardless of velocity. Her preferred activity with SGP Turtle? Spinning the ribbon around so that he ends up on such a short leash, escape is inevitable. Daddy’s version: my Dell mp3 player. I can just look at the thing and my headphones get irreversibly tangled.
3. Letters and Numbers Electronic Book Extraordinaire – Every time she turns a page, the thing reads her the letter and number of the day and plays a little reward music. Granted, she’s clearly turning the pages by accident in her quest to further torment SGP Turtle. Daddy’s version: An audiobook of Harry Potters 5-6. I need a refresh before next weekend.
4. Rattle Puppy – Rattle Puppy is a 10 inch tall dog that Clara can bend towards her with her fully-coordinated kung fu grip. After such a sparkling achieverment, she does the only logical thing – she tries to swallow Rattle Puppy. Daddy’s version: An endless supply of Gatorade through a sippy cup.
5. Peek-A-Boo Apple – One of these days, she’s going to realize that there’s a little red button that triggers this jack-in-the-box piece of fruit. The little worm that pops up laughs and courteously says hello. Daddy’s version: Whack-a-Mole. Never get tired of that one.
6. The Hanging Trio – Yes, dangling from a soft-cloth arch are three new friends that await Clara’s downward tug. Sometimes they play music, sometimes they identify polygons – whatever their choice, jovial synth music accompanies. It’s the ultimate in hand-eye coordination. Daddy’s version: You want hand-eye coordination? Hook up a Playstation.

Toby Keith Wears Bootas, Too

I work for a patriotic company. My patriotic company’s primary customer is the federal government, which is no doubt a patriotic way of doing business. Our logo contains only patriotic colors, the lanyard around my neck says “USA” in no less than 6 places, and our ads on Metrobuses feature our employees looking to the sky in some sort of patriotic tribute. It’s largely rumored that there’s a flock of bald eagles soaring across the sky just off-camera. Who wouldn’t look at such a site?

Communists. Communists wouldn’t look.

Furthermore, many of the civic service programs and initiatives our company carries out are for patriotic ends. Take the current supply drive that is occupying nearly 70% of the lobby downstairs. Because you can’t buy a Blackhawk helicopter for what you could have ten years ago at the Walgreen’s downtown, our federal defense budget has little room for many things that our fighting men and women could use over in Iraq. We’re not talking weaponry or armor here; no, it’s the simple supplies that make life so much easier that we so often take for granted stateside. Therefore, any employee of our patriotic firm that can part with new socks, batteries, DVDs that don’t suck, footballs, and the like are encouraged to do so. Patriotically.

However, our building has no less than 6 entrances, and most of the actual employees don’t come through the pristine lobby, thereby missing the solider supply drive altogether. Don’t worry though, military personnel. Whoever’s in charge here has thought of that and posted, well, posters in all of the elevator cabs. Since the first floor it largely common area, it is assumed that nearly everyone uses the elevators. This is called an ad saturation immersion strategy. There’s just one tiny problem here.

Proofread for your country.

The “Support Our Troops” campaign is a noble name, and it appears in four places (patriotically) on the full-color, one page flyer. Who doesn’t want to support troops? They’re doing a job you don’t want to do, and they look cool doing it. Well, apparently SpellCheck doesn’t want to support the troops. After all, there’s a rectangular banner in red and white that borders the entire flyer. And within the red bordered ribbon, the following phrase is repeated over and over:

SUPPORT YOUR TROOPAS.

Easily the greatest typo since I was asked to donate bloof, it appears that not only does patriotism mean supporting the UNITED STATES, but now it also means that I should claim allegiance to the foot soldiers of King Koopa.

And I thought the French made for strange bedfellows.

Koopa Troopas, or mildly agitated turtles, spent the 80’s not as a part of Iran-Contra, but instead torturing a portly Italian plumber and his slightly taller, definitely more fashionable brother, Luigi. Maybe we’ve decided to ally with the villains of the Super Mario Brothers series for diplomatic reasons, but it’s more likely that it goes back to the lines drawn in the sand during WWII. After all, was Mario’s home country not a member of the Axis of Evil? Italia, we remain divided to this day.

I suppose you’re curious as to what a bunch of two-dimensional slow-moving baddies from a 1986 video game can bring to America’s efforts in Iraq. Here’s a listing of the Troopa capabilities.

Goomba – clearly a land force, as they have never once shown any inclination to become airborne. Will attempt to defeat insurgents by running them over at 2 MPH.

Bullet Bill – heavy artillery corps; Bill’s weaponry can go for miles without feeling the adverse affects of gravity. We could just fire them from here, you know, if Africa wasn’t in the way.

Blooper – The Troopas’ equivalent of a Navy Seal force. Curious zig-zag attack pattern particularly helpful in avoiding Persian Gulf depth charges.

Boo – covert spies; especially good at Red Light, Green Light on the streets of Fallujah

QUITE FRANKLY, THIS IS A FILLER POST!

Let’s take a couple of things I’ve been meaning to write about for a few weeks and merge them, shall we?

Thing 1: While I was enjoying some time before the 4th, outside of the Commonwealth of Virginia, I got a voice mail from the Prodigal Roommate outlining a new set of state regulations that detail higher, if not excessive, driving fines here in the Old Dominion. In summary, the following violations have been amended to charge evildoers the following:

• Leaving your license at home: $750
• Speeding 20MPH over the limit: $1,050
• First-time DUI offense: $2,250
• Another 1.5 cents per gallon on this gas tax, just because they can
  

Personally, I have no intention of breaking any of the above laws, but you may. But there’s good news for those of you who read this blog from out of state – THEY DON’T APPLY TO YOU. Only Virginians will feel the wrath. (But if you care to fill up your gas tank while driving 35 in a 15 while drunk and your license flew out of the car just before – God help your soul and wallet.)

Thing 2: Clara has become quite perceptive to her surroundings in recent weeks, an excellent sign that she will have full control of all 5 senses at an early age. (This will no doubt make her wrestle internally as to why she insists on putting her foot in her mouth.) If she’s in the middle of a room, her attention can be captured by a change in lighting, the sound of your voice, the feel of your hand on her back, and the smell of fresh brick-oven pizza (rumored.) A few weeks back I had the NBA Draft on, and my little one was exposed to quite possibly the most engaging sports news personality there is (assuming “engaging” is synonymous with “freakin’ loud”): STEPHEN A. SMITH

Thing 1 and Thing 2, MERGIFIED!

The following is a conversation between Virginia "Governor" Mark Warner and Defender of the People, Philly sports columnist, and ESPN Yelling Head, STEPHEN A. SMITH.

Smith: THANK YOU FOR MEETING WITH ME, GOVERNOR WARNER.
Warner: This is no problem, Stephen. I’m glad to be available for my citizens.
Smith: I DO NOT LIVE IN VIRGINIA, BUT EVERYTHING I SAY IS IMPORTANT.
Warner: And why is that?
Smith: I’M STEPHEN A. SMITH!
Warner: Ok, that doesn’t actually mean anything to me. Let’s start over. I was the governor of Virginia. And we’re here to discuss the new driving laws that became effective July 1.
Smith: QUITE FRANKLY, JOAKIM NOAH IS A TERRIBLE ADDITION TO THE CHICAGO BULLS. I DO BELIEVE THAT BEN WALLACE HAS ENOUGH HAIR FOR ONE PROFESSIONAL NBA FRANCHISE. JOAKIM NOAH BRINGS NOTHING TO THE TABLE, AND THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH DRIVING.
Warner: Ehrm, yes. I can see that. Anyways, we have added these laws to help fund 65 million dollars annually of construction, and we feel the best way to fund this is by making those who abuse our roadways pay the most.
Smith: I LOVE CHEESE DOODLES.
Warner: Huh?
Smith: MR. MARK WARNER, WOULD YOU BELIEVE THAT KOBE WANTS OUT OF LOS ANGELES? IT WOULD ME A DEVASTATING TURN OF EVENTS IF MR. MITCH KUPCHAK WERE TO TRADE THE BEST PLAYER IN THE GAME.
Warner: This is such an ill-advised interview. Why are you yelling?
Smith: THIS IS MY INSIDE VOICE.

Warner: Ok, is there any way we can wrap this out without me punching you in the mouth?
Smith: I AM OF THE OPINION THAT YOUR NEW REGULATIONS ARE A TRAVESTY AND PRESENT AN INJUSTICE TO THE PEOPLE OF VIRGINIA. I SHOULD KNOW SOMETHING ABOUT THE LAW – I PLAYED ONE ON TV. NOW ABOUT THOSE CHEESE DOODLES.
Warner: Quite frankly, this didn’t go as planned.

I'm Majoring in Pre-Wash

Will Smith was no dummy. Not only did he get accepted to M.I.T, know how to pick movie scripts, and work his kids into the business, he understands the importance of vehicular hygiene this time of year. I’d like to cite his 1991 published work, “Summertime,” where he theorizes that the key to a successful July weekend afternoon is riding in a car “you spent all day waxing,” not to mention “just finishing wiping you car down.”

Even the honey with the light eyes agrees.

As for me, I appreciate the look of a freshly-washed car as much as the next guy, but I currently lack the driveway capacity to administer said cleaning. Rumor has it my apartment complex actually houses a “designated car wash area,” but it’s also rumored that they have a leasing office that “always puts the customer first.” So since I lack a hose, large water receptacle, and any type of amphibian-themed wax, I must rely on private industry to make sure I have a car worthy of being seen alongside all those jeeps and benzos.

What the hell is a Nissan sittin’ on Lorenzos, anyway?

In Northern Virginia, you have a few options as to what company you’ll let assault your ride with a room full of mechanized car washing monsters. There’s always the gas station option, for one. The gas station option is an afterthought for the gas station franchise owner. It’s his tertiary business, behind gasoline and the crap he sells inside. You’ll be lucky if all the parts are working, the pipes aren’t frozen, and the side buffer doesn’t rip off your radio antenna. Inexplicably, the gas station option waiting line is on average 6 cars deep. Apparently people like to multitask so much today that they’ve found a way to simultaneously waste time AND money.

Then you have the Raise Money for My Sports Team Car Wash. Rather than build a car wash themselves, the gas station owner will allow a bunch of local schoolchildren to hook their hoses up to his water supply and poorly scrub down the car of any sucker who’s damn near out of gas and had no choice but to turn in. The quality of this car wash is on a sliding scale. Much like the kids’ attention span, a car wash in the first half hour will be damn near exquisite. Anything after that will be phoned in. But hey, these kids have niche talents – like volleyball, swimming, track, and gymnastics. Apparently sports that lack national TV contracts are poor.

The real winner with these car washes? The neon-tinted poster board manufacturers.

And finally, you have the folks who are in business to be in the car wishing business. Yes, we have many firms along crowded commuting avenues that make a living as stand alone carwasherias. Two of the more prolific ones here in Fairfax County?The Wash Brothers: Mr. Wash and Dr. Wash.

Mr. Wash has jumped feet first into the growing cleanliness coupe industry. In the Baltimore/Washington area, he can now boast seven locations, including Vienna, Falls Church, and Arlington. Mr. Wash is a self-made man; he’s done everything he can to grow his business. (Even rudimentary website design!) When you go and see Mr. Wash, you know what you can expect. The price is well-displayed, the customer service is interpersonal and friendly, the sponges are uh, spongy, and you leave with a good solid car wash. It’s nothing fancy – Mr. Wash doesn’t having any special techniques or tricks of the trade. He just uses good old-fashioned soapy know-how to get the job done.

Dr. Wash, on the other hand, went back to school and got his degree.

Of course, since Dr. Wash is a doctor of washing, he has to roll a little differently. Rather than having a location, he’s got a practice, and that practice is on Rte. 29 in Chantilly. He’s got a bunch of advanced car wash methods within his realm of knowledge but insists on referring your car to colleagues for second opinions prior to cleaning. Rather than worry about pesky lines (like the gas stations), you make an appointment, and then wait in the parking lot of Dr. Wash for 40 minutes prior to being seen by the mops. Oh, and don’t worry about his unprinted, likely astronomical prices. Your auto insurance company will negotiate on your behalf, and you’ll probably end up with only a $7.50 co-pay. (Note: tri-color foam wax is not covered by Geico.)

To each their own, I always say, but consider this. In Sweden, they have universal car washing.