(99-97) Red Luftballoons

Some would find it pretty awesome that I have a window office. However, I have to say, it’s pretty overrated. I must be going on 3 years or so with a workspace that is bordered on one side by freedom, but you rarely find yourself staring out into the yonder. For one, the window is 180 degrees from my computer monitor. For me to check the weather for myself, I’d have to swivel in the completely opposite direction. Enough swiveling and my chair is likely to unhinge itself into two parts, leaving me sitting on the ground with a sore back and no meteorological knowledge whatsoever.

This is why God made Weather.com.

The other reason I don’t find myself spending hours gazing outside is that my view isn’t that great. Now I understand that Tyson’s Corner is a Corner full of other office buildings, and the likelihood is pretty high that I’m going to look out at some doofus in another company who spends his break time starting right back at me. I could only be so lucky. No, I’m on the 2nd floor (of 9) in my building, which means I’m at least fortunate enough to not stare at the traffic or the parking lot. Whew. Instead, however, I have the roof of the building’s cafeteria in my sights.

Man, that is one sweet air handling unit I’ve got to look at. Awesome.

Yep, I’ve got an obstructed view. It’s like sitting on the inside seat of the Metro. You can look at the Monuments as you cross the bridge into DC, but you have a stranger’s head obstructing the view. And judging from the size of this air handling unit, I’m sitting next to a stranger with a head as big as mine.

But finally, there’s a change to the skyline.

Sitting atop the large metal curved roof, as of this morning, is a deflated silver helium balloon. (Granted, there’s no helium in it now – if there was, it wouldn’t be resting placidly on the roof.) I can’t make out the full greeting, but it appears to say “Congratulations, Man!” on it. Granted, all I can actually see is Congr- and Ma, so it could be a balloon celebrating Congruent Madmen. Which seems odd, I suppose, but be honest with yourself. Aren’t madmen that are incongruous even more terrifying?

Question: Where did this balloon come from?
Answer: The sky, probably.

Thanks a lot, jerkpants of an inner monologue.

Of course, this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered a balloon from the heavens. When I was like 5, my family was visiting my grandparents in Pennsylvania. They lived in a wide-open subdivision, with each household having enough land that they all required riding lawnmowers to keep the grasslands at bay. Anyway, while everyone was inside near sunset, I continued to play outside. The game? Throw the ball up in the air and then catch it. So as my gaze was frequently skyward, I saw a hot-air balloon on the horizon. It started small, and increased in size. As it got so big that I could see the people in its basket, I ran inside to proclaim my fantastic discovery.

No one believes the bored kid with the tennis ball.

As I went back outside, I was just in time to see the balloon narrowly miss (ok, 20 feet) the roof of the house and land in the front yard of my grandparents house. Soon thereafter, the house emptied to join me in my revelry. In addition, several vehicles pulled up to pack up the balloon and celebrate the voyage with the airborne ones. A man emerged from the balloon basket with bottles of champagne and plastic drinkware.

And from that day forward, I’ve assumed that all champagne is distributed by God via hot-air balloons.

Gift Card Detail

This week, a member of my department could leave at a moment’s notice to have her baby. I suppose walking around an office with your stomach significantly larger than expected for such a duration of time can more than stand in for a doctor’s note; absences in such an instance are not only welcomed but encouraged. And as the most recent employee in the department to become a parent, I’ve been the focus of so many pregnancy questions on her behalf.

You know, despite the whole “not having a womb thing.” But hey, I try.

A rite of neo-natal passage in our organization is the “surprise” baby shower. It’s a surprise as much as standing on a train track with a whistle in the distance can be. It will be coming to a conference room near you at some point, and you just hope it gets here before you have to go. The one in which we celebrated Katie and Clara was documented here on YAB, in fact. With that in the rearview, I can gladly look forward to my colleague’s shower, knowing I’m out of the spotlight and my only responsibility involves not dropping my piece of baby cake on the floor.

Ok, that’s ALMOST my only responsibility.

As a good friend of the soon-to-be mommy, I volunteered to take a role in the planning and execution of her “surprise” shower. Since most cakes I’ve made have ended in disaster and my handiest balloon and streamer work involved a dorm room and a whole lot of duct tape, I got handed an assignment that seemed much closer to my alley.

Gift card detail.

At first, the task assigned was rather simple. All I had to do was sign the card and throw some money into the pot that would be exchanged for one impressive gift card to a baby store with improper pronoun-verb agreement use that shall not be named. Simple, right? It’s not like all the signers of the Declaration of Independence did the same amount of work – they served their fledgling country in a mere supporting capacity. Who cares if you disagree with the future of our diplomacy? Put some INK on THIS PAPER! It’ll be awesome.

And while the greeting that you leave within the fold of that Hallmark special will likely have a minimal effect on the new baby’s welfare, the cash you slide in the envelope will. For every cute stuffed animal that is bestowed upon a baby, Mom and Dad know that it’s the simple things – diapers and food – that will have a greater impact overall. So how much do you put in? There’s no set amount in the directions. What if you put too little in? What if you put too much?Needless to say, there is a lot of pressure riding on this donation. For bookkeeping purposes, we have a habit of keeping a monetary log on the outside of the collection envelope. It’s a means to keep track of those dreaded IOU contributors. If you follow the fold, and your predecessors went cheap, it won’t make for a very effective gift card. Go too high, and everyone will think you’re showing off.

(Personally, I like to keep my showing off at work to a minimum – you know, by rolling into the parking garage in my Honda. Sweet ride, man.)

Anyway, it was also in my charge to actually take the collection of monies and exchange it at a local store for the gift card. I figured since I am currently in possession of a baby, a weekend trip to the store in question could be likely, so it would be no problem to do this for everybody. However, this weekend was very busy and by the time I remembered on a Sunday night, the store in question was near closing. Fortunately, I know Wegmans has a gift card center, so I thought that the old grocery store could be my Obi-Wan.

And they were…sort of.

Armed with $200 and a fleeting hope, I entered the store. I figured this would be an easy transaction. I give them money, they give me a pastel gift card. Done. I did not anticipate the gift cards already coming in set increments – namely $25, $15, and $10.

Out of time and out of options, I did the math and left the store.

After all, 8 gift cards are better than 1, right?

Umm...Boo?

Third of three posts regarding Halloween ’07! Enjoy!

No, it isn’t. I lied.As you may have noticed ‘round these parts, it’s been an exceptionally quiet week here at the YAB Mainframe. I think we launched all of one post into the cyberfunny over the last seven days, and that’s not out of a lack of humor occurring in my world on a daily basis. Nor has it been a particularly busy timeframe, either. There are just sometimes when finding a solid block to write is remarkably difficult, forcing the backlog to an astronomical all-time high. Do we give up in the face of adversity? Of course not.

YAB exists on a plane of stubbornness, overlaid with comedic fortitude.

Our Post-It Note of Hilarity (trademark pending) remains full of funny ideas, and we completely intend to get to each and every one of them. However, when you set yourself up with a scheduling mandate (like the one that kicked off this post 162 words ago), greasing the wheels of a train stuck in the station grows ever harder. My plan was to run a trio of posts about Halloween, and to date, we’re sitting on two. Every day we sit down to write, and we see this order staring us in the face.

You know what? We got nothing.

What started as a nostalgic tirade on the silly costumes our parents put us in for our first Halloweens was supposed to finish with a picture of Clara in a costume of which she had zero say in selecting. I had my share of silly outfits for All Hallow’s Eve, complete with the realization that any joy gleaned from that day decades ago is outweighed by the embarrassment endured once incriminating photos surface on, let’s say, your wedding day. However, this post – the third in the triumvirate – will not come to be this year. Clara, in a clever rouse, decided Halloween would be a grand time to catch a virus.

Thus, negating the nefarious plan of dressing her like a honey pot by her parents.

Drat.

You don’t tell a funny story at a cocktail party if you don’t have a punch line waiting to slay. Similarly, you don’t write a Halloween post about funny costumes if you don’t have a funny costume to show at the end.

Furthermore, as I type out this post, I see that the real date is now November 11th, nearly two weeks after Halloween. There’s nothing worse than forcing someone to think about a holiday that is nowhere remotely close to the actual day of celebration.

You got that, Wegmans?

Starting with about two weeks ago, I could purchase my Christmas tree while getting groceries. And while we haven’t been exposed to Christmas music yet, I fear that the days of The First Noel in the Freezer Aisle are soon.

A Return to Hilarity starts…this week.

Holiday-Encouraged Knifeplay

Second of three posts regarding Halloween ’07! Enjoy!

Yes, it’s no secret that the main custom associated with Halloween involves the costumes and the begging strangers for candy. We’ve got that down. Hell, I think we even spoke of our attempts to participate in the holiday a few years back while exposing the fact that I have an enormous cranium. Little known reason of why people blog: to point out their own foibles.

However, taking silver on the Hallopodium would be the ancient tradition of carving pumpkins into Jack-o-lanterns. Why? Apparently in the days of yore, it would turn cold right about this time of year. And since friendship has this uncanny ability to make people feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside, the people of the village would often befriend pumpkins for additional companionship. And since a pumpkin is just a pumpkin if it lacks humanesque features, faces were carved into these oversized gourds. Don’t believe me? Fine, you’re entitled to your opinion. But would the dialogue in Cast Away be as believable had Tom Hanks NOT drawn a face on the stupid volleyball? Yeah, didn’t think so.

My first memories of pumpkin carving involved sitting on the back deck with my grandfather. It was an age when I couldn’t be trusted with a knife – actually, I still can’t be trusted with a knife, it’s just that I’m bigger than anyone who used to tell me I couldn’t be trusted with a knife and rather than argue, I just show them my knife. In this childhood scenario, my only job was to pick out the pumpkin. We’d go to the farm. (in places other than Northern Virginia, you actually go out on a tractor ride and pick your own. No need for Holishax.) I really had only one goal in my selection: “ensure my pumpkin dwarfed my sister’s in size, shape, and technical merit.” To this day, I’m undefeated.

When you can’t do the knifing, you can use your limited skill set to your advantage. The one awful part of pumpkin carving involves the cleaning of the interior. I’ve never been a fan of it. It falls along the lines of those stupid party games where the adults blindfold you, shove your hands into a bowl of wet spaghetti and tell you your touching brains. Who came up with that game? I can’t think of a single holiday so special to me that I’d gladly touch a brain in order to celebrate its personal importance.

There’s a reason I didn’t go pre-med.

Once the pumpkin’s insides resemble a brand new basketball, it’s time to cut. When I was a kid, I lacked imagination when it came to vegetable artistry. Eyes? They should totally be triangles! Nose? What if I used a triangle, you know, so that it can match the eyes!!! Mouth? Why not throw some teeth in there, alternating on the upper and lower lip, so that if the pumpkin magically gains the ability to close its mouth there will be no gnashing of teeth. Hey, stranger things have happened. I once saw a movie where a pumpkin turned into a method of transportation.

Crazy.

So what happens now that I’ve got a kid of my own? She clearly can’t be trusted to wield a knife, and they mere sight of pumpkin guts freak her out. Now Katie did a fantastic job of initial interior demolition, so to this day, I don’t have to deal with the stupid innards. But I like to think YAB has if nothing else made me more creative, so I thought for Clara’s 1st Halloween, I’d try and branch out a bit with my craftsmanship. You’ve got to be determined. You’ve got to be dexterous. You’ve got to have more dedication to art than, say, Celtics rookie Glen Davis: (This is in regards to Davis visiting the Sistine Chapel in the preseason, btw.)

“There’s no way I would take six years painting a ceiling. But I guess you do what you’ve got to do, and I just want to commend Michelangelo.”

Now I didn’t take six years, but rather one full episode of Kid Nation. The finished product is below. Behold my talent. (That’s on homage to my earlier works on the left.)

Regression to an Upset Stomach

First of Three posts regarding Halloween ’07! Enjoy!

It’s not often that I choose to bombard you people with statistical analysis. But as a holder a collegiate and a post-graduate degree, sometimes you need to take your edumacation out of the garage for a spin around the block. William and Mary and GW insisted that some sort of statistics class as part of the course work, although I’ve yet to find a need to find the deviation of anything, standard or otherwise. And since we ate all of our pie charts on account of them being delicious, we’re going to use other means to blind you with numbers. But worry not, intrepid YABbites! We promise the subject matter will be infused with sugar.
But first, a poll.

I don’t know how I came across the poll that ESPN Sports Nation was running the day after All Hallow’s Eve. But when it came down to it, I’m kind of addicted to lists. And seeing that I am a citizen of SportsNation, my failure to contribute a ranking of my own would then make the sample size of SportsNation incomplete. Plus, that would be a lack of patriotism on my part, and in addition to belittling Halloween, my Fourth of July privileges would be suspended.

The task at hand was simple: rank the list of 40 candies from 1 to 40, and while the parameters or performance measures were unclear, we assumed that it was a scale of Awesomitude. My answers are to the right, and while completed quickly, I feel they accurately reflect the correct answers to the quiz at hand.

That’s right. The Correct Answers. Any answers that do not mirror these answers are by definition incorrect. You hear that Sports Nation? And now, my analysis of this saccharine experiment.

• Let there be no mistake: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are the undisputed Number 1 Halloween Candy. Over 8,000 of us are in agreement of this. For some reason, the PB Cup is smaller in volume than your standard candy bar, and yet, you feel satisfied by the amount of candy you just consumed. That’s magic. Whoever Reese is, I applaud his effort to combine chocolate and peanut butter to make the ideal convenience store treat. (Note: Item is 78% tastier if you remember to remove the thin black wrapper underneath the cup.)
• SportsNation has declared the candy corn as the worst candy on the list. I had them ranked at 28. While the texture of candy corn taste mysteriously better in tiny pumpkin form, I feel that there was a miscommunication here on the part of the pollsters. Like moose and deer, corn is a word that stands for both the singular and plural form of the item. When I read “candy corn,” I assumed it was at least a handful of the product, justifying my average ranking. I assume SportsNation figured it was only one – singular – candy corn, relegating to the basement. You know, if you only received one, that would kind of suck.
• Comparing my Top 12 to their Top 12, I see that we share 9 of the same types of candy. What does this go to show? This Candy List is no better than College Football. It’s the same powerhouse teams every single year, with the occasional surprise team that is either having a Cinderella season or a lucky recruiting class comes to fruition. At the top of any candy poll, you’re going to see the same heavy hitters – Snickers, Twix, M&Ms – every single year. It’s the South Floridas and Boise States that are what you really look forward to getting while Trick or Treating. In my case, that would be Caramello. How can you tell it doesn’t normally hang out with the favorites? That’s right. ESPN SPELLED IT WRONG.
• The column in red refers to the number of times SportsNation put each candy in the 1st place slot. It appears out of over 28,000 entries; only 77 give the gold medal to Hershey’s Kisses. And yet, those guys finished a respectable 17th. Conclusion: We can all agree that Hershey’s Kisses don’t suck.
• Mr. Goodbar at 22??? Notice its rightful place on my list at 37. I think I’ve heard this rant before – check the comments, kids.

Additional thoughts? Let’s have them in the comments.

Too Cool for Pool

You grow up around enough swimming pools, you realize there is only a limited number of activities you can do in its vicinity. I suppose just about any sport is a possibility, and some sports (like basketball and volleyball) have gone so far to create pool-ready equipment in case you’re interested in such a contest. But you know why most sports haven’t caught on in a swimming pool?

Sports require running, and you suck at running in the pool.

Seriously, even if you hit a whiffle ball to the back left corner of the deep end, rounding the bases will take a good 12 minutes. And football’s no good either – how exactly do you determine when somebody’s down? And as we learned from the NFL’s foray into London this past weekend – most football players tend to be terrible when water is introduced into the equation. Instead, kids everywhere have come up with a number of games that would, conversely, not be that fun if played on land. That’s what makes them excellent pool games. Sharks and Minnows, Marco Polo, Chicken Fight – and not to forget the ever-popular “Laps” – have become pool mainstays, and I have little doubt that these activities will be on top of the list of things to do next summer.

You know, as long as there aren’t any buzzkill zoo animals in your watering hole.

The fires that have ravaged California over the past week have done very little to benefit anybody. A million people were forced to leave their home, hundreds of homes were burned to the ground, and it will be some time before the Golden State can move on from this tragedy. With such a major event dominating the news for the better part of this fortnight, not a whole lot has surfaced from which we can find humor. In fact, the only good San Diego fire joke came courtesy of KSK – and if it’s KSK, you know irreverence is on the menu. So while I did not want to completely ignore the situation in SoCal, I’m glad I’ve been able to say my piece. Now I can move to comedic pastures – highlighting the one Fire-related event that’s worthy laughing about.

THERE’S A HIPPO IN YOUR POOL.

If you read the second article in Jay Glazer’s NFL beat column from two days ago, you’ll see that San Diego Chargers special teams coach had to prepare for more than just the Houston Texans this week. His wife called to let him know that sure enough, a hippo from the nearby San Diego Wild Animal Park had escaped amidst the chaos and found a new place to dwell in the coach’s pool.

It is unlikely he used the diving board.

The National Zoo here in Washington D.C. has hippos in residence which I have seen on more than one occasion. I have to say, these mighty beasts aren’t exactly movers and shakers – their sedentary lifestyle suits them fine. In fact, going to see the hippos at the zoo is the equivalent of going to the movies to stare at the exit signs. But this hippo in particular is now in the swimming pool of a football coach, and unless he plans to leave and ravage the Hopkirks’ garden next store, Coach Crosby probably isn’t going to be pleased for an extended period of time.

So let’s play some games with the hippo.

As I mentioned above, there are only really three games that are awesome in the pool: Sharks and Minnows, Marco Polo, and Chicken Fight. Which would be the best to challenge the hippo to? Let’s review our options.

Sharks and Minnows – Winner: HIPPO! When you’re a shark, it’s the goal of the minnow to get to the other side of the pool without getting pulled to the surface. When you’re a minnow, you have to get by the shark. You tell me which is easier: stopping a charging hippo or getting by a creature that is the width of the swimming pool.

Marco Polo – Winner: TIE! If a hippo closes its eyes, it’s probably sleeping. Game over.

Chicken Fight – Winner: YOU! You see, you thought Chicken Fight was all about hoisting your girlfriend onto your shoulders for a match of chick-slap dominance. Instead, it’s your chance to kick nature’s ass. The hippo has decided to team up with that stupid tickbird, (in the name of symbiosis), and your girlfriend can totally take that pipsqueak.

I Dub Thee, JUB-JUB!

ESPN, over the years, has managed to create some great personalities in the broadcasting game. They gave us the dry humor of Kenny Maybe, the clever writing of Dan Patrick, the enthusiasm of Keith Olbermann, and the complete inability to keep of a straight face of Charley Steiner. These anchors all had a specific, memorable look to compliment their weapons of wit, and it is for this reason that I was able to recall them from memory to write this opening. On the other hand – what comes to mind when I rattle off the following group of ESPN talent: Steve Levy. Rece Davis. Karl Ravech. Larry Beil. Chris Fowler?

Correct Answer: absolutely nothing.

These gents are the guys who look the most like your stereotypical news anchor and/or desk jockey. White guys with black hair. They haven’t kept jobs because of their astounding senses of timing or humor, but rather because they didn’t suck at what they do. No one has tuned in to Sports Center over the years because they knew any of the above names would be manning the highlights on a given broadcast, but they don’t flub their lines and don’t want to make their produce cry. As long as you can stay average and be a white guy with dark hair and little personality, you’ve got a career in sports broadcasting.But if you start to slip, you get called out on reputable blogs like You’re a Blog. With that said-

Chris Myers, you’re ruining my name. Stop it.

Myers, you had a decent run on SportsCenter. You often played the straight man, or in broadcasting terms, “the unfunny one.” That’s okay, one of the two of you had to be that guy. Better suited for Outside the Lines or Up Close, it was never your forte. And while I do not remember why it is you left ESPN in 1998 – that was the Summer of Shawnee Group Fun and I could have cared less – you’ve joined Fox and continually provided fans everywhere a poor example of what people named Chris are capable of.

Typically, one would think that a guy low on personality would fade into the backdrop of sports. I wouldn’t have to worry about Chris ruining the name Chris on national TV if he was merely mediocre. But as you now have inexplicably risen to the role of Head Sideline Reporter for FOX Sports, your incompetence serves as a daily reminder that not all named Chris are born equal.

Some are born in the Stupid Tree and hit every branch on the way down.

I suppose my dislike of Captain Vanilla goes back to last year’s Fiesta Bowl. Boise State, an underdog from the WAC played the Sooner powerhouse of Oklahoma, and won in overtime via a plethora of schoolyard trick plays. One BSU player that was an integral part of the stunning victory, Ian Johnson, was the target of Myers’ post-game interview. Here’s the thing – Ian Johnson had already let Fox Sports know that at the end of the game, he was planning on proposing to his girlfriend – a BSU cheerleader – on national television. Myers was briefed on this, as his interview was the lead-in to a magical event in collegiate athletics. His witty segue?

"I know you are going to propose to your girlfriend, congratulations"

Furthermore, I think every sports broadcast personality gets asked to cameo in a sports movie every now and then. Real reporters and anchors are used to give the fictional sports line added authenticity. Bob Costas, perhaps the Number One Seed in this category – has done Cars, Coach Carter, The Scout, and BASEketball.

Myers has Juwanna Mann and Rat Race on the old resume.

However, revenge is best served…conan.

Conan O’Brien, prior to the beginning of the World Series, had Fox lead play-by-play man Joe Buck as a guest. In the interview, Buck talked about a little game he plays with his friends where they’ll text message an obscure word and a dollar amount to Buck during the broadcast, and if Buck can work the word into the coverage, he gets the dollar amount. Conan offered $1,000 to the charity of Joe Buck’s choice if he could find a place for the word “Jub-Jub.” The gauntlet was dropped, and Buck accepted.

Now where could Joe Buck fit in “Jub-Jub” so that it would be clever, sneaky, and thwart the specific enemy that this particular column has been aimed towards? To the videotape!

From this point forward, Chris Myers shall be known as Jub-Jub. Perfect.

A Legit Use for Ashton Kutcher's Trucker Hats

Over the past few years, CMT (or Country Music Television, for the acronym-challenged) has managed to quietly install itself as a fixture in that music-themed block somewhere on your cable listing between sports and news. This likely has to do with the emergence of country music as a more potent market force in the music landscape, not to mention the fact that Viacom bought it in 1999. Viacom, who owns MTV and VH1, has proven time and time again that they’ll let just about anything on their TVs. (I Love New York 2? Really?)

When CMT joined your cable lineup, they had to grow up quickly. The art of the music video, and for that matter, looking presentable, was an art not yet learned by many country music artists. There’s no way Alan Jackson in a neon life preserver sees the light of the day now. But CMT (which in this case, has nothing to do with compulsory military training or Charco-Marie-Tooth disease) knows that not all artists are pretty, so they’ll need something to fill the air between Carrie Underwood videos. It’s a shame there’s only one that’s held my attention.

Trick My Truck.

I’ve covered this topic before – hell, it was the reason I swore off couch sleeping in entirety – and there’s not much more you can write about a show that overhauls the least-flashy vehicle on the road. And I do not intend to do that. Instead, I’d like to point out a press release that CMT announced yesterday.

A new makeover series, Trick My Trucker, will debut on CMT on Nov. 10 at 9 p.m. ET/PT. From the producers of Trick My Truck, the new six-episode series will give truckers a physical and emotional overhaul for cash, prizes and a roadmap to healthy living. The show will be hosted by Bob Guiney (The Bachelor) and will feature celebrity stylist Harmonie Krieger and trainer Aaron Aguilera.

Ok, I have no problem with spin-offs. They can be enormously successful if a proper idea exists, at least one more than the fourth-leading actor would like to continue to receive a paycheck. (cough joey cough) And it’s not like truckers aren’t in need of some fine grooming to up their image. After all, there’s only so many shades of flannel that the ladies find attractive. I don’t understand Bachelor Bob’s involvement, and Hermione’s last name is Granger, not Krieger, but it’s likely that the ladies of Country Music Nation will tune in to see this latest production.

But I have a better idea.

You named the show Trick My Trucker, and the brand awareness to the name is what will link this new show to the old successful show about the vehicles. I got that. But where you thought you were clever, it turns out you were just misleading. And if you go by my take on the title, I think I have a WAY more entertaining program to sell you.

Trick My Trucker: The Punk’d of the Cargo Logistics and Transportation World.

Think of the potential pranks Hermione and her wizard buddies could play on innocent rig jockeys:

• Replace their intimidating car horns with one that plays the melody from “I Feel Pretty.”
• When they’re not looking, fill their trailer with melty popsicles.
• Get that damn Convoy song to get stuck on loop over the audio system.
• Open a nightclub in the back of the guy’s cargo hold. Velvet rope and all.
• Introduce new trucker lingo over the CB airwaves that makes no sense whatsoever. Example: “The coattails of the monkey butler are covered with paint thinner. Copy?”

Throw Monahan from the Train

Flipping channels on the way to work today, I caught the chorus of a new pop tune called “Her Eyes.” Man, was it catchy:

Her eyes, that's where hope lies.
That's where blue skies
Meet the sunrise.
Her eyes, that's where I go
When I go home.

As the song launched into what was likely its second verse, I was enjoying myself. But then some things regarding the tune seemed…off. For one, the lyrics were starting to veer towards “completely non-sensical.” And there was that nasally crooning voice. And then it hit me.

OH HELL NO.

The artist at the helm of this single is Pat Monahan. Don’t know him? That’s okay – he’s actually the frontman of a well-known rock band, and has decided to put out a solo album. Personally, I see how it benefits him – the nightly take on tour had to be divided by, well, one. But he’s still playing with a band, albeit a less famous one you don’t care about. And you spend most of the show secretly hoping he breaks out a signature track from the famous band’s discography. Take the case of Rob Thomas. I’d go to a Matchbox Twenty concert. I would not go to a Rob Thomas concert – even though the singles produced are nearly identical in quality. It’s just one of those things. As for Pat Monahan’s band?

Train.

Last summer, we cemented Train’s Drops of Jupiter as the Song with the 2nd Worst Lyrics Ever, trailing only the idiots savant (minus the savant part) known as LFO. And since a lead singer doesn’t have to, you know, practice an actual instrument, he’s often saddled with the songwriting responsibilities for the band. This is why I specifically blame Pat Monahan for Drops of Jupiter. And now that I’ve gotten to work, I’ve researched the entire lyrical content of “Her Eyes,” and wouldn’t you know it –

Somebody wrote this song with their Futility Pen.

Billboard Magazine calls this song “a boisterous ode to Monahan’s quirky woman.” Look, I’m all for writing a song about the one you love. But if we are to believe that every lyric Monahan uses is true, well then, we do not have a quirky woman on our hands.We have a mentally insane person.

Let’s review these words, Lyrical Cynic-style. And if it helps, open this page in another window to hear the song.

She’s not afraid, she just likes to use a night light // When she gets paid, true religion gets it all, if they fit right. Translation: Look, everyone has had a bad dream, every now and then, and it can even be kind of a cute quirk. Way to go, Pat. You’ve found a winner. You know, if she DIDN’T DONATE HER ENTIRE PAYCHECK TO THE CHURCH WITH WHICH SHE IDENTIFIES. 100%? Really?

She’s a little bit manic, completely organic // doesn’t panic for the most part. Translation: She’s slightly crazy, yet a carbon-based lifeform. And for the most part, she doesn’t freak out. On the other hand, she’s completely capable of freaking out, and the mania doesn’t help her cause, but hey – at least she’s not made of plastic. Nice rhyme time, Patrick.

She’s old enough to know, and young enough not to say no to any chance that she gets for home plate tickets to see the Mets. Translation: Mr. Monahan has really taken the rhyme scheme complexities up a notch here, but at the expense of what? We have no idea what she’s old enough to know, and apparently she falls under that magical age barrier that once you pass you stupidly turn down Mets tickets. Yes, New York Mets tickets. Hell, maybe in concert Pat thinks on his feet and throws in Jets tickets. That would really blow their minds.

Like everybody, she’s in over her head // Dreads Feds, Grateful Dead, and doesn't take meds. Translation: Someone hasn’t been paying their taxes, hates hippie rock, and is no pill popper. Good for her – of course, Pat could have just as arbitrarily chosen for her to hate the Reds, or maybe likes to eat bread.

She's a Gemini Capricorn // Thinks all men are addicted to porn. Translation: Geminis are born between May 21 and June 21. Capricorns are born between December 22 and January 19. Pat Monahan likes how these words sounds together, despite the fact that world will implode before a person can be both. That’s ok – he’s probably part of the 50% addicted to pornography. Yep, that explains it.

I don't agree with her half the time // But, damn I'm glad she's mine. Translation. She thinks this song sucks. He disagrees.

And while this songs continues to spiral downwards in the second verse, this chorus is so damn catchy. Feel free to mock Round 2 in the comments.

Aloha Mr. Newark

Thanks for the tip, Caro. I told you I’d get to this.Friends, New Jerseyans, Shoremen, – lend me your eyes. We’ve got work to do.

The role of the older brother is not an occupation that I take lightly. Your parents decided to have you first for a reason, and that reason is to dictate order and law in the life of any subsequent being they have chosen to produce. For the most part, older brothers take the form of a sage elder, crossing the pitfalls of youth before their siblings to report back. It’s a reconnaissance mission of adolescence, basically. You can do the role with much kindness and adoration and hope to be respected. Or, like Wayne did on The Wonder Years, you can force respect by employing a repetitive series of charley horses to the arm of anyone following you on the family tree.

Today, New Jersey opts for Plan Wayne.

I’m no lawyer, but I am friends with enough of ‘em that I can probably practice law in some of the states that no one cares about (you know, the ones they don’t film TV shows in.) So I feel I’m fairly qualified to comment upon (or at least mock) an article published in the Wall Street Journal Law Blog last week. Let’s break down the case in question, with mind bullets:

• British Petroleum wants to build a natural gas refinery on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River. New Jersey, the laid-back state that it is, is cool with this.
• Delaware is not, for environmental reasons.
• Delaware is playing the role of Mr.Hand, who is interested in order and discipline.
• New Jersey is Jeff Spicoli, and would love some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and liquid fuel processing right about now.
  

Now the reason that this case is noteworthy (you know, other than the glaringly obvious correlation to Fast Times at Ridgemont High), is that the crux of the issue is a border dispute, and shockingly, this is one of the few areas of law that only the Supreme Court of the United States has exclusive jurisdiction over.
If it would please the Supreme Court, I would like to make an argument on behalf of the Garden State.

Delaware sucks.

Look, Delaware, we’re really proud that you ratified the United States Constitution before anyone else could even ink their quills. Good for you. If you hadn’t pushed your way to the table, you would just be a tiny state that really holds little special significance in the fabric that has become our nation’s union. That’s right. You’d be a pointy Rhode Island.

It’s also rumored that Thomas Jefferson gave Delaware the nickname “The Diamond State,” but I wouldn’t exactly go around proclaiming this as a coup. Thomas Jefferson didn’t exactly understand the value behind such a precious gem. Rumor has it he also called his mailbox “The Diamond Box,” France “The Diamond Country,” his left foot “The Diamond Appendage” and the local sandlot “The Diamond Diamond.” Hell, we’re lucky he didn’t give us the Diamondation of Independence.

Your state university has the only female team name in the whole NCAA. How fierce.

But hey, at least famous actor Judge Reinhold is from Wilmington. And with that, my argument has come full circle.

I rest my case.

Carpooling with Pocket Aces

I am not much of a gambler, really. I once paid for my weekend at the Borgata for Smith’s Bachelor Party with a lucky turn at a slot machine. I’ve been known to buy a raffle ticket every now and then. And I like to think that if I ever bet the spread on football games I wouldn’t suck at it. But until I pull within less than 10 games of my wife in Dethrone the King, you won’t see me meeting a bookie anytime soon. However, just because I don’t ACTUALLY gamble doesn’t mean I’m a rookie when it comes to how gambling occurs. Look, I know the basic order of superior hands in Poker, when you should double down in Blackjack, and not to yell “Whee!” when watching the roulette ball bounce around the wheel. I’m not an embarrassment in casinos. Why do I know all of this?

I watch movies.

In the 1998 poker flick “Rounders,” one of the frequently discussed hands is Pocket Aces. The definition is simple. In a game of Texas Hold ‘Em, each player is dealt two cards. The rest of their hand is shared with all players at the table. The only advantage you have is if your hidden cards are better than your opponents’. And while it’s completely luck of the draw, you’ve got to use your strategic analysis in betting as your weapon to take the pot. Got it?

However, there’s a damn good chance you’re going to win if you’ve got two aces in your hidden hand, a.k.a. Pocket Aces. So if you’ve got ‘em, you better know damn well how to use them.

This morning was the first morning ever that Clara was to spend in a day care center as opposed to home with Grandma. Because the day care is set up through my company, I was responsible for making sure she made it to school on time. Not really knowing what to expect, I decided I was going to need any advantage I could get so that I could get to work on time and still have time to explain to the day care center all of Clara’s routine quirks. So I figured I’d do something I’ve never done on my way to work before.

I took the HOV-2 lane on Interstate 66E.

For those unfamiliar with the term, HOV stands for High Occupancy Vehicle, and during relevant times of the day, only cars with at least the designated number of people within can utilize this set-aside track. It’s supposed to be a reward for those who choose to save the environment and carpool to work. Well, after doing a headcount inside my Accord (ok, 1…2….ok, 2.), I decided that I fit within the parameters of the situation, even though one of the passengers is largely obscured to the outside world. I was holding Pocket Aces in the back seat.

Man, HOV rules. The cars, they move faster. The air conditioning, it blows cooler. The radio sounds crystal clear, and my windshield wiper fluid has an aroma of success. As I buzzed by thousands of lonely drivers, I checked my glove compartment, just to see if money would tumble out. And then it happened. Sirens and lights in my rearview. Awesome.

When you’re holding Pocket Aces, you need to BET BIG and call the other guy’s bluff. Of course, my friendly local Fairfax County police officer was out to call mine.

Him: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: I think it's because I'm in the HOV lane, but my daughter's in the car seat in the back.
Him: (looks in back) (annoyed) Ok, thank you. (leaves)

Deal me another hand, sir. I’m hot today.

A Boy and His Blog

Mom and Dad, I have a confession to make.

Over the course of my childhood, you were incredibly generous with me. Christmas was never a time of “Look, Santa brought you a stack of magazines from the coffee table” and my birthday gift was never “Enjoy these grass clippings from out back!” Maybe you were so nice to me because you know that I would use your example as to how to be generous to my once and future children, I can’t be sure. But as I look back at all the neat stuff I got as a kid, I’m eternally grateful.

Hell, I had a Nintendo when I was 6. 6!

And over the tenure of my NES days, I must have amassed upwards of 30 different games to play. And since this was the late 80’s, the idea behind each of these titles was fairly archaic and basic; Nintendo did not intend games to become Super until the 90’s. Some were sports games that kept me occupied before anyone had even invented season mode. Take “Baseball,” for example. I just played the real Phillies schedule, and actually kept the score book on a piece of paper sitting on the table in front of the television. I would conduct an entire March Madness bracket in Double Dribble by electing to be one team in each match up, and “advancing” the winner on the bracket before me. In 10-Yard Fight, I’d play against my father and beat him with a complex playbook of run to the left, run to the right, pass to the guy.” Worked every time.

To be fair, my dad didn’t stand a chance. He was a Tetris addict.

As a simultaneous form of conquest and gratitude, I did my best to win at video games. Several of them I could hang on a wall, plaque style, as I actually beat the final bad guy to achieve what every video gaming hero wanted to achieve in 1988: watch the credits of a bunch of Japanese guys roll by. Super Mario 2? Toast. Ghosts ‘n Goblins? Finished. R.C. Pro-Am? VICTORIED!

Some games even made learning fun!

In the latter days of Original Nintendo, I got “Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego?” as a Christmas present. Surely, you’re familiar with the premise of the Sandiego series. (If not, let Rock-a-pella explain.) Anyway, they ran our places for Carmen to hide (Where in Your Kitchen is Carmen Sandiego didn’t test well), so they allowed her to run from the fuzz via time travel. And as much fun as learning about the Renaissance is, the heavy almanac that came with that game served a better purpose as a trench ledge on which to steady the barrel of my Duck Hunt gun. Screw you, Laughing Dog.

But as for the aforementioned confession? It concerns not Carmen or the Dog. But rather, another video game hero and his gelatinous friend.

A Boy and His Blob.

I’m sure at some point I must have asked for this particular cartridge, because it doesn’t seem to be the type of game one of you would have seen on the shelf and been drawn to. I’d like to borrow the premise of the game from Wikipedia:

“A Boy and His Blob: Trouble on Blobolonia is a side-scrolling platformer in which the character and his friend Blob (full name Blobert) travel together on earth and on Blobert's home planet Blobolonia in a quest to defeat the evil emperor. Blobert can change into several different items when he is fed jelly beans. A licorice jelly bean, for instance, will change Blobert into a ladder, while a honey jelly bean will turn him into a hummingbird. Most of these transformations can be remembered mnemonically due to a correlation between the flavor of the jelly bean and the item that results.”

The truth is: I never figured out how to get past the opening screen. Seriously. For all the hours I tried to crack the blobular code, I got nowhere. I'm sure that had I figured how the game, I don't know, begins, it was probably challenging and perhaps educational. However, my gameplay was limited to winging candy at a glorified albino Hershey Kiss.

So thanks for the game, parents. But I've failed you.

I never got my passport stamped on Blobolonia.

Distractics - TV Edition

June 9, 2003.

I remember this day well. While it may have preceded YAB by a good 14 months, this day will live on in infamy. After being at my current place of work for almost six months, our department was re-located from the 5th to the 2nd floor in my building. We left on a Friday with our desks efficiently packed, the elves that we hire to do office moves came in on the weekend, and when we got in Monday, all was magically right in the business world, albeit 3 floors closer to the earth. As I sat down to enjoy my brand new cubicle, I flicked on my computer to begin commerce. And that’s when we learned that the network connection had yet to be re-established, leaving us off-line for the entire day.

I’ve been behind by a day ever since.

This past Friday, I realized for the first time in a long, long while, it was going to be a day of clock-watching. Since I had gotten used to being out of the office on Fridays to rent tuxedoes, I had grown so efficient on a 4-day work week that Friday was going to allow me a little recess. I looked at my phone sitting there, and I had an idea.

Nordberg!

Knowing I could count on him for distraction tactics – nay, distractics! – if I included geography in some form, I e-mailed him a challenge. I listed all 49 Awesome United States of America and Delaware, in alphabetical order in an e-mail. And via a back-and-forth e-mail exchange in which we take turns, our charge was to identify a television show that was based in each and every state. Sound easy? Sound hard? Don’t worry, we did the legwork for you, and our results are below.

I decided to start with a hallmark of television, granting Seinfeld bragging rights in New York. It was a solid selection, and a sitcom that warrants recognition. Nordberg agreed, and then responded with one for Connecticut. Of course, it was the Gilmore Girls. His stated reasoning: “I’m getting some hard ones out of the way early.” His actual reasoning: “It was the first one I saw in my purse.” That’s 2.

Ah, let’s move on to the Painfully Obvious types. These are shows that have their location in the name. And somehow we resisted not knocking out 17 states by merely listing all the CSI’s. Hawaii Five-O (HAWAII). Las Vegas (NEVADA). Eerie, Indiana (INDIANA). Roswell (NEW MEXICO). Dallas (TEXAS). Miami Vice (FLORIDA). Wow, that was great work. In other revelations, the sky is blue and rocks are heavy. That’s 8.

And then you have your iconic city TV shows. These are the ones that force people visiting that city to ask where they can find the house/office/bar in which it was set. No real surprises here. You’ve got Cheers (MASSACHUSETTS), Fraser (WASHINGTON), the Drew Carey Show (OHIO), The Wire (MARYLAND), and the Sopranos (NEW JERSEY). That’s 13.

What about shows that relied on local culture to advance the plot? These are shows that make you think of the location probably before you can name the secondary characters. Say hello to Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman (COLORADO), Dukes of Hazzard (GEORGIA), the Andy Griffith Show (NORTH CAROLINA), Northern Exposure (ALASKA), The Waltons (VIRGINIA), Newhart (VERMONT), and Big Love (UTAH). That’s 20.

What about newer shows? Yeah, we’ve got them, too. And even if they don’t go down in history as great television, they’ve now officially served their purpose. Thanks for the memories K-Ville (LOUISIANA), Eureka (OREGON), Saving Grace (OKLAHOMA), Smallville (KANSAS), and Army Wives (SOUTH CAROLINA). Hooray, 25!

Then you’ve got your group of older shows that you remember being on over a decade ago. Nordberg and I often remembered the show well, but couldn’t exactly place where they were without a little research. Nevertheless, they make the list. Evening Shade (ARKANSAS), Perfect Strangers (ILLINOIS), Murder She Wrote (MAINE), the John Larroquette Show (MISSOURI), Coach (MINNESOTA), and Step by Step (WISCONSIN.) Speaking of which, there are more shows set in Wisconsin than really are necessary. We could have gone That 70’s Show, Picket Fences, Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley. Look, I can’t help Nordberg is a dork. That’s 31.

Hey, shows that Condon likes to watch! Give me The Office (PENNSYLVANIA), The Family Guy (RHODE ISLAND), and Saved by the Bell (CALIFORNIA). Go Bayside, beat Valley! 34!

Look, shows we never would have heard of if it weren’t for a last-gasp Wikipedia run! I give you the tv version of In the Heat of the Night (MISSISSIPPI) and Hawkins (WEST VIRGINIA). In Hawkins, Jimmy Stewart won a Golden Globe for being a lawyer and old, at the same time! 36 and counting.

Reality shows are fun if you’re in a bind. Nashville Star is as TENNESSEE as you can get, and that stupid MTV high school football show Two-a-Days makes Alabama seem interesting. 38, baby.

I pulled a gem with Hey, Dude for ARIZONA early on in the game. I’m still impressed with myself.

And then we have MICHIGAN. So many good choices here. Home Improvement made its mark, as did Freaks and Geeks and Martin. But Nordberg opted for 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter. And since he spelled all the words correctly, he gets it. Hey, we’re men! We’re 40!

That leaves:
DELAWARE – IDAHO – IOWA – KENTUCKY – MONTANA – NEBRASKA – NEW HAMPSHIRE – NORTH DAKOTA – SOUTH DAKOTA – WYOMING.Care to help? Go and rock the comments.

(And no, the Cheyenne Local News at 5 does not count.)

The Post-Season Conference

When a season comes to a close, it is customary for those involved with the season to give a post season press conference. It allows them to commemorate the season and have their thoughts concerning it printed and reported. Most end-of-season press conferences involve a well-dressed person sitting at a table in front of a slew of microphones, with a repeating corporate sponsorship logo pasted all over the cheap backdrop. On this occasion, I’d like to nominate Sun Chips for that sponsorship, ‘cause man, do they ever sound good right now

(drives to Subway) (returns from Subway)

Granted, these postseason press conferences are not without their share of coach speak, so I’ll do my best to keep that to a minimum. Without further ado, I will begin taking questions as we take a look back at the 2007 Wedding Season. What? You thought this was another baseball column?

Opening Statement: Thank you all for coming. My friends and I have recently completed another exciting season of matrimony. I believe I speak on their behalf when I say we could not be happier with our effort. While the scheduling gods in the front office may have dealt us a tough hand, I feel we really pulled it together in the end and gave 100%. All three couples are now happily married, and we look forward to next season, when they join the “savvy veterans” contingent. Ok, now I’ll take some questions.

“Why didn’t you wear a tuxedo this past weekend?”

Excellent question. Nordberg and I had made a pact to wear tuxedoes to all weddings, as long as the weddings went flawlessly. However, at the end of the Mellor-Viehweg affair, I tripped in the hallway returning to the hotel room. Certainly, the streak was broken. Plus, we had heat from the league to wear our alternate uniforms, suits, in order to help league merchandising.

“Where were you pleasantly surprised this year?”

Great question. We are currently going through a time where our generation is required to make their matrimonial mark. With said mark comes establishing 3-5 wedding reception music classics that will be played at weddings decades from now. Since we’ve graduated, I feel that the only songs to make the leap have been Usher’s “Yeah,” Outkast’s “Hey Ya,” and Justin Timberlake’s “Sexyback.” It’s far from official, but judging from the last two receptions, a strong case for Song Rookie of the Year can be made for Big and Rich’s “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”

“What can you do to improve for next season?”

If I give a groomsman’s toast, I can, I don’t know, bring a glass with which to actually toast the couple. Raising a microphone and then drinking from said microphone just isn’t the same.

“What are your off-season plans?”

I’d like to get to know the playbook a little better. Maybe memorize popular wedding readings, in case a teammate gets stage fright. I could jump write in. I could be Guest of the Week for that kind of heroism. But even then, I’m just one player on a guest list. We win at weddings as a team. Thank you, Powerthirst.

“How will you remember this wedding season?”

I’ll use wedding photography. Because the photographer at the Motsinger-Reif affair stayed stationary for their first dance, I will be in the background of EVERY SINGLE PICTURE. Man, I wish I had spun a Frisbee. Speaking of which, the Kunkel-Liggett media did get a shot of me spinning my dinner plate – that should make for a nice memory. And as for the Mellor-Viehweg Week 2 showdown, I’m sure there’s photographic proof of me doing some bridelifting.

“How was the cake?”

At which wedding?

“All of them.”

Wouldn’t know – a science dork from Raleigh kept eating them before I could pick up a fork.

Down Goes...Everybody?

Let’s say you’re an event planner, and you’ve been tasked with hosting the social event of the season. Based on your past efforts, pretty much everyone expects a quality effort out of your camp. Now you know what it takes to put together a respectable soirée, and the vendors you choose to support you have a well-known history and you know whether or not you can count on them in the clutch. Sure, they are 7-9 other parties going on the same night, so vendor contracts are one-per-party, but hey, you’ve done your homework.

Fantasy football is not unlike the above scenario; proper planning and track record are the co-names of the game. You do your homework by picking a proper team in your draft and not signing damaged goods. Take a quarterback’s offensive line. If his team’s front office lets its two Pro Bowl tackles walk in the off-season, leaving last year’s backups and this year’s rookies, this QB will be running for his life all season long. You can see this coming a mile away, and you can plan around it.

Take the weather, for example. An event planner can get round-the-clock meteorological updates and know ahead of time that he just might need to keep that vendor with the outdoor tent supply on Line 2 in case of rain. You can see weather coming. You can see a paper-thin O-Line. These things are predictable. But in either scenario – whether it was the gridiron or the gala – one can’t plan for the unexpected.

This year, my team has been hit by the unexpected. If my fantasy squad were a social-to-do, it just got hit with the power failure that blacked out the city grid. Who saw this coming?

I know reading about somebody else’s fantasy football team isn’t exactly page-scrolling material, but this catastrophic maelstrom of woe that has befell my mighty squad is so remarkable that I beg you to continue. If you don’t, well then, you may have the same fate they did.

Coming into this year, I was the reigning champ in a league that has some Monrovians and some Bristolians, commish’ed by one Jon Rogers. I won last year largely due to an excellent draft, and a little luck (Mattias should have won, but his clinching receiver got a concussion in the 2nd quarter and finished fractions of a point behind.) Confident, I sat down at this year’s draft table to select the 10 players and 1 defense that would allow me to repeat and renew bragging rights for next off-season. (Yes, we drafted 12 rounds, but because Jon is a bench hater, I planned from Day 1 to use the last spot as a rotating waiver wire pick-up.) Let’s review, shall we?

1st Round: STEPHEN JACKSON, RB, Rams
Fate: After two slow weeks, Jackson finally looked like his Nike commercial in Week 3, posting 115 yards on the ground. He rushed 30 times, proving to be one too many. Jackson suffered a partial tear of his left groin, which I speak for all men by saying, “AUUUUUUOWWW.” We haven’t heard from Jackson since, missing the last 3 games.

2nd Round: MARVIN HARRISON, WR, Colts
Fate: In Harrison’s career prior to this season, he had missed 1 game. His durability is why I made him the highest-picked wideout in the draft. When I saw the Colts had pasted 38 points on Denver in Week 4, I was ecstatic – Marvin must have had 100 yards and at least a score, right? Stat line says! 1 catch for 8 yards? What the? “inactive with a bruised left knee?” Damn it.

4rh Round: JAMAL LEWIS, RB, Browns
Fate: I know this was a stretch, but I assure you it was a depth chart pick. However, the one way to negate depth is to develop a sort foot after getting one rush against New England last week. Lewis didn’t play this week, and was listed as “questionable” on the injury report. It appears my drafting strategy was questionable.

5th Round: ANDRE JOHNSON, WR, Texans
Fate: Hey, I remember that guy! He was awesome when he last played. IN WEEK FREAKIN’ 2. Stupid knee sprain.

6th Round: VERNON DAVIS, TE, 49ers
Fate: Last time I pick a stupid Terrapin. I had no idea Turtles were susceptible to Week 3 knee injuries. Turtles have knees?

7th Round: MATT LEINART, QB, Cardinals.
Fate: No one reminded me that you can’t spell “Leinart” without I and R. Broke his collarbone last week, done for the season.

9th Round: JAKE DELHOMME, QB, Panthers.
Fate: It would be nice to have a capable backup quarterback who can fill in when your starting quarterback breaks his collarbone. Preferably not one who needs SEASON-ENDING ELBOW surgery the same week. Cooked.

10th Round: DENVER BRONCOS, Defense
Fate: Yes, it’s impossible for 11 guys on the same unit of same team. This is true. However, when your best player, Champ Bailey, is one a first-name basis with the MRI lab, that’s not a good sign.

11th Round: JOSH SCOBEE, Kicker, Jaguars
Fate: How improbable is it for a kicker to get injured, what with the limited amount of activity required of him? That depends if I drafted him or not. Scobee must have the worst quad strain in NFL history – as he’s yet to kick anything this year.

If Edgerrin James or Laveranues Coles are reading this, you’ve been warned.

You’re next.

Applied Ethics in Banking

Oh my Lord. What do you do?

There come times in a person’s life where they aren’t the focus of any given situation. No one is relying on your every move as to how to proceed, life will continue to move on without your decisive action, and you’d likely be relegated to the background if someone were to make a diorama of the scenario for a class project. (Diorama? Where did that one come from, Condon?) Yeah, you’d be the guy in the diorama that is glued to the back of the shoebox, if not drawn free-hand on the cardboard altogether. Look, this isn’t your show, so just be happy to be a part of it. But then again, this is a stupid analogy. Kids don’t still make dioramas for class projects these days, do they? It finishes a close second for “Dumbest Education Tool” behind the ever-popular hangar-mobile book report.

(Besides after you moved out, your parents may have reverted your diorama back to, I don’t know, a box in which to hold shoes.)

The point of that ramble was simply this: even if you aren’t standing center stage, that doesn’t mean you are not going to react to a situation. It’s a human tendency to show some range of emotion or reaction – that’s the cause-and-effect relationship that life actually brings. It’s remarkable the number of activities you carry out on a daily basis that have zero bearing on anyone else’s life. Standing in line at the supermarket staring at the Tic-Tac display is not going to spawn endless blog material on the cashier’s blog. But say you snapped your fingers and the Tic-Tac display exploded into a million pieces. The other people in line would have to react, right?

Here’s why I bring it up.

The other day, I stepped out of work on my lunch hour to deposit a few checks at my local Wachovia Bank. Now while Nordberg the Teller must have had the day off, that did not dissuade me from ensuring that our funds were replenished courtesy of the reimbursements I had in hand. Now unless someone has decided that it’s a beautiful day for a stick-up, going to the bank and making a simple transaction is about as mundane as it gets. You walk in, you wait in line, you exchange pleasantries and small talk, you receive you receipt, you gank a root beer-flavored lollipop. You leave.

No time for reaction.

And this is precisely how I expected the day’s bank run to transpire. However, Mr. Khaki Suit had an audible in his hip pocket, and wasn’t afraid to call it (he must also be a MasterCard holder, the preferred credit card of audible-lover Peyton Manning.) As I stood at Banking Window 8 (of 16!!), I leaned casually against the granite countertop while Mr. Keck (Nordberg, do you know him?) processed my checks to deposit. Mr. Khaki Suit, who coincidentally was wearing a suit entirely the color of khaki, finished his business three kiosks to my right, and made his way behind me towards the exit of the bank. Why was I following his every move? I was watching as he fiddled with his iPhone, staring down at it while he walked briskly towards daylight.

At the end of the row of teller windows is a floor-to-ceiling glass window. Because the good people at Wachovia insist on the utmost professionalism, it had likely been squeegeed and Windexed mere hours before opening. The window represents the far left end of the wall of the hallway that will take you to freedom. One step around it, and you’re free to go about your day.

Mr. Khaki Suit knows this…now.

Now I could have sworn I saw him glance up from his iPhone to acknowledge where the wall ends and the absence of wall begins, but his gait kept a brisk pace that made me worry for his intended path. I remember my train of thought as if it were just leaving the station. “Ain’t no way he didn’t see that window. He’ll veer.”

WHAM.

Headfirst, Mr. Khaki Suit collided with the unlikeliest of enemies – a plate-glass floor-to-ceiling bank window. His iPhone slid across the slate floor, his wallet fell out of his other hand, and he staggered backwards, absolutely stunned. (His khaki suit, on the other hand, remained wrinkle-free and dapper. Amazing.) Now I am standing a good 12 yards away, far away enough to not be the required assistant to Khaki Suit’s recovery, but close enough to be an eye witness should the plate-glass window press charges.

Oh my Lord. What do you do?

Hey, root-beer flavored lollipop. Neat.

Behind the Sour Cream

“What, did you take Stupid Pills this morning?”
- Mr. Potato Head, in “Toy Story” (1995)

Sir, you might want to check that prescription a little more carefully.

When Toy Story hit the big screen over 12 years ago, it changed the face of animated film forever. The capability of the genre was expanded farther than anyone could have imagined, and it put many an old-timer tracer out of work down in Buena Vista. Hell, they even decided the art form deserved its own Academy Award. The work of Pixar Studios has benefited children across the globe and John Ratzenberger alike. Heck, it even got crap like Titan AE made. Because of computer animation, Hollywood has changed.

And apparently, Hollywood has changed computer animation.

The toys that were cast in the original Toy Story were likely selected because of their timelessness, recognition, and comedic appeal. Yes, some original unknowns like Woody and Buzz Lightyear had to be pulled from unknown talent, but the Toy Casting Agency did a nice job to round out the ensemble. Rex, the neurotic dinosaur, came from an acting family whose ancestors did stunt work in the old-school Godzilla pictures. Slinky Dog had always been the consummate professional, a working actor who had slapstick training from the era of the Stooges. The Army Men often served as extras in the WWII epics of the fifties and sixties. Finally, Hamm the toy bank pig was so talented at his craft; he managed to continually find work despite being in a town run by Jews. Despite his kosher restrictions, even Stephen Spielberg admires that guy’s work.

And then there’s Mr. Potato Head.

Mr. Head, for short, had done some stage work on Broadway (ok, it was past Broadway in the Macy’s Day Parade), but ultimately was a green actor on the silver screen. It helped that his spouse, Mrs. Potato Head, also had her SAG card, as they were hired jointly due to their on-screen chemistry (if that’s what you want to call it.) His ability to channel a vast range of emotions via some facial re-arranging was also a plus that the casting directors saw. Once on set, he fell in beautifully to a role that appeared tailor-made for him. But then again, tailor-made was just a part of his Hollywood pedigree. His grandmother, Edith Head, was a force to be reckoned with in the costuming industry, and Pixar rewarded the family’s work by basing a character in The Incredibles on Potato’s grandma.

Oh, how fame can change a man.

Mr. Potato Head was well-liked by critics and children alike in Toy Story, giving Pixar an easy decision to write him into the sequel, Toy Story 2, which would release in the winter of 1999. His role expanded to action sequences, as he was an asset to the Al’s Toy Barn driving sequence. Life was great. He and Mrs. Potato Head then were offered a variety hour-type show on the WB, which would eventually go to Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. Afraid of the dreaded typecast, they turned down a talk show on the Food Network. Toy Story 3 has long been rumored to be in the works, but the potential split of Pixar and Disney’s working relationship put that on hold for the first few years of the 21st century. Even though Pixar is once again a part of the Magic Kingdom, a potential release date has been pushed back to 2010. Mr. Potato Head is in talks to join the cast, but again, that’s a while from now.

Then the offers stopped coming.

When that phone stops ringing, it’s hard for a struggling actor to keep his spirits up. You do some commercial work for a fast food chain to pay the bills, but that’s about all that’s on the agenda. That 4-bedroom house on the cliffs defaults in a hurry, and rather than reduce one’s self to a 1 bedroom apartment, you decide to pack all your belongings inside the trap door on your back and live with old acting buddies in similar situations. Mrs. Potato Head left Mr. Potato Head for one of the McDonald’s Fry Guys. And just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom –

You get busted in an Australian airport for ecstasy trafficking.

Advanced Merit Badging

There’s an order form on the counter of our office kitchen. Damn it.

Office kitchen order forms are WAY more than they appear. What may seem like a simple way to procure basic luxury or recreational goods has an intense amount of responsibility and office cultural overtones affixed to its high-glossy formatting. Don’t think your boss doesn’t look at the order form to see who is contributing to the social welfare of their fellow worker. He knows that a happy office is a sharing office, and a sharing office buys the crap of the office’s kids’ fundraisers regardless of use or need.

Yes, for decades parents of enterprising young sales children have been bringing in their offspring’s order forms to take advantage of a cubicle kingdom full of suckers. However, the day’s take depends not on order form location, but rather the quality of the merchandise. Take Sally Foster, for example. It is from a combination of quality gift wrap, various home gifts, and gourmet edibles that make a Foster order form a success in the office. 8 months from Christmas? Who cares! Buying some wrapping paper off the break room counter top will 1) save you a trip to Hallmark, 2) make you feel good for planning ahead and 3) make you feel less guilty for purchasing a box of those caramel filled chocolate meltaways you just signed up for as “emergency desk food.”

School children often hawk the wares of the mega candy corporations as means to earn some green for a future class trip or other fundraising activity. However, an office kitchen is a difficult marketplace to move product. You see, when it comes to candy, the names of the game are selection and availability. First off, an order form for standard candy bars makes little sense – since if someone’s ready to drop a buck fifty on a candy bar for a good cause, there’s a damn good chance that they’re hungry…now. I can’t see myself placing an order for a candy bar, only to wait in fevered anticipation for its arrival 10-14 business days from now. God, what if it’s all melty? Secondly, if the candy is on the premises, it’s likely limited to one or two varieties. Guess what, charity – the vending machine gives me twenty varieties. Sure, my money may not be going to support a worthy cause, but I am going to dine on the Snickers bar of my choosing. Limitations to the system are no doubt the downfall here.

Of course, we’d be remised to discuss sympathy order forms without mentioning the perfect business model of the mighty…Girl Scouts. Now YAB has covered everything there is to cover back in this classic early 2005 post, but everything I wrote back then holds true today. Ultimately, the Gals in Green have it right. By signing up to their order form, you are agreeing to buy something of which there is no other supply chain. You’ll have cookies, you’ll be contributing to the welfare of a colleague’s family, and you’ll prove to everyone that you don’t hate children. Girl Scout Cookies are the product that sells themselves; and this is a good thing because there’s no way I’m buying anything from a creepy sales rep who spends his entire day pacing the linoleum of my office kitchen.

It’s pretty damn easy to be a Girl Scout.

Boy scouts need money, too, so they of course must compete in the market with a product line of their own. But if they were to roll out cookies, no matter how brave, clean, and reverant they may be, people would simply accuse them of being market copycats. So somewhere along the line, boy scouts adopted...popcorn.

Funny, the only popcorn ever in our office kitchen is burnt microwave popcorn.

Not exactly the best billboard for the product.

An Open Letter to God, the Baseball Fan

Dear God,

I know your preferred method of correspondence is prayer, but let’s face it, I’m at work and I’ll get more than a few strange looks kneeling behind my desk. I am not writing you out of desperation…yet. But I want you to know that there are two sides to everything and it’s possible that you may have not yet realized the good in the pinstriped half of the National League Divisional Series.

Take 2 Corinthians as an example. Sure, Paul used his “A” Material in 1 Corinthians (“without love, I am nothing” is some inspirational stuff, Lord – nice assist on that one), but that doesn’t mean that 2 Corinthians is no better than a cut-rate sequel written by a man who got overly excited about making the Book. There’s still valuable scripture in there.

I read an article that came out last summer about the Colorado Rockies. It was in the USA Today, and while I do not know if their circulation extends beyond the Pearly Gates, but I tell ya, those full color picto-charts have their appeal. I’ve linked it here, but I doubt God uses a mouse to click through get his information. Anyway, the story is thus: the Rockies’ organization are guided by Christianity, and regularly hold prayer meetings to build not only as baseball players, but as fine moral men. As you well know, you’re not going to find a Playboy, expletive-laden music, or Devil’s Food cake in the locker room.

I thought the Angels and Padres were more apt teams to become the God Squad.

Look, I’m proud of the Rockies and what they are trying to do. No matter what thy calling is, one should try and make an effort to devote their vocation to You, as they will be rewarded with everlasting life, I got that. I’m a finance analyst and my favorite arithmetic operation is addition since the symbol resembles tiny crosses. But is Divine Intervention the way to win a Divisional Series? Can the Almighty choose favorites in America’s Past Time?

Revelations 2:2 -- I know your deeds, your hard work and your perseverance. I know that you cannot tolerate wicked men.

God, neither dugout is full of wicked men. For they both have worked hard to make the post-season. And while I know you have a history of rewarding those who hold your Being in highest regard, and I know Todd Helton’s beard is his daily reminder to walk in your footprints, and Clint Hurdle pens “Jesus” in on the “Bench” section of his lineup card, but what about the Phillies? They are good guys, too! Could you, maybe, I don’t know, let these two teams duke it out, without carrying Matt Holliday fly outs over the fence?

I’m telling you, Lord, my Phils are good guys. Jimmy Rollins often misses practice to walk old ladies across the street. Shane Victorino is still an altar boy in his local parish since the robes from when he was 12 still fit. Chase Utley memorized Acts of the Apostles during a rain delay in Florida. Ryan Howard has The Golden Rule branded into each of his bats. Pat Burrell prays in the outfield every game that he won’t get hit with a battery. Aaron Rowand must live with the Fire of God in him – there’s no way a man can live his life with so much reckless abandon without having an after-life plan in place. Abraham Nunez is the only Latino Jew I’ve ever known. Carlos Ruiz’s sign for a slider inside is actually the sign of the cross. And Kyle Kendrick – our pitcher today for Game 2 – just finished Sunday School.

Lord, those boys in red are good boys. So while the Rockies get all the Ink of God, keep in mind that the Fightin’ Phillies will totally invite you to their World Series Parade. If you let them.

Oh, and thanks for “mentioning” to Charlie Manuel that Adam Eaton sucks. Didn't want to see him on the postseason roster. Smite him at will.

In Your Name,

Chris Condon
Phillies Fan

Revenge-Ma-Tazz

A few weeks back, I regaled you all with the tale of how I accidentally Punk’d my local tuxedo rental shop by walking out with my measurements but zero formal wear leases to speak of. All in all, things seemed to go smoothly. I was able to deliver my specific measurements to the local tuxederias in Chapel Hill and Princeton, my credit card was charged, and I never once had to return a worn formal garment bag to the mall near where I work. Of course, Ray at After Hours Tyson’s Corner is likely still awaiting my call with the Event ID for Dave’s North Carolinian affair, but he’ll get over it. I hope.

Apparently Tuxedo Karma is a bastard.

Now while each tux rental shop is out for their own profit margin and bottom line, I did not anticipate some underground guild structure that links them all arm-in-arm, in the name of snappy dressing. Apparently, punking one store, regardless of location, affiliation, or chain status, can get you in some seriously hot water with the whole family tree. So what if I ganked some free measurements under misleading pretense? It’s not like I’m ever going to be held responsible for my actions.

Word to the wise: The Tuxedors. They’re connected.

24 hours prior to the marriage that would rename Julie Viehweg on this blog to “The Prodigal Roommate’s Wife” had me, as well as the NC Duo of Dave and Nordberg, standing in the hallowed halls of the Market Fair Mall tux shop, known as “Chazz-Ma-Tazz.” A unique moniker, I know. But because there’s nothing more uncomfortably than an awkward silence while another man fiddles with the clothes you are currently wearing, I decided to make small talk as to discern where such a unique store name might come from.

“So, where did you get the name for your store?”
“Well, my name is Chazz, and then I just added some Ma-Tazz.”
“Oh.”

Ok, so it wasn’t something cool like the name of a tuxedo shop in a classic movie or a line from a long-forgotten Sinatra single, but at least we know the truth. But I made an effort to be friendly, so if there was some sort of formalwear retribution in the works, maybe he’d forget about it and be a nice Chazzman.

Prior to that, he called us into separate dressing rooms based on the name on the garment bag, and needless to say, we were mildly baffled as to whom he was speaking. The dressing room assignments follow, as spoken by Mr. Chazz.

“Room 1, I need a Dave REEF.”
“Room 2, is for a Chris NORBERG.”
"And Room 3, that would be for you, Chris GORDON.”

Call me Flash, people.

So as Flash and his superhero friends got their James Bond on, we took turns stepping out in front of the Hall of Mirrors to allow the expert to admire his tuxedo-selecting work. Nordberg may have needed some different pants, I don’t know. As for me, everything fit just right. And to put the finishing touches on, Mr. Chazz affixed the piece-de-resistance to my trousers.

Suspenders.

Call me crazy, but I think suspenders are awesome. I specifically bought a pair to wear to a formal dance awhile back, and they add some class to your everyday suit. Curiously, our suspenders were added underneath the vest, so no one could actually see them, and they had a tendency to pull the pants up a little higher that say, standard level of comfort. But hey, Spud picked them so who was I to complain?

As we shuffled off to the rehearsal, the following exchange took place.

“Hey, what do you think of the tuxes?”
“I think they’re sweet. Nice touches with the pocked square and suspenders, no?”
“What suspenders?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have any suspenders."
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Then WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WITH SUSPENDERS?”

Tuxedor’s Revenge is served best cold with elastic.

A Cake Named Pinstripes

Now that’s how you do a birthday.

I was on the receiving end of two different birthday presents of which I would like to discuss with you. The first one will leave you with a question worth hours of meditative pondering. The second might read like semi-serious sports column. I ask that you forgive me for both in advance.

Item #1: a fog-less in-shower shaving mirror. By my request, I asked for a mirror that you can put within the shower curtain so that one can shave without having to treat sideburns with a “best-guess” methodology. Well, I used it this morning, and the circular reflection of facial insight worked like a gem. No longer do I have to peek outside the curtain to get a glimpse of the mirror on the other side of the bathroom. But riddle me this: if they have the ability to make shower shaving mirrors fog-less, WHY DON’T WE USE THAT TECHNOLOGY ON ALL MIRRORS?

Item #2: a playoff spot for the Philadelphia Phillies.

Yeah, let’s just savor that for a second.

I’d like to personally thank each and every New York Met that phoned it in over the last part of the season. Your inability to hold a late-inning lead, play error-free baseball, pitch effectively out of the bullpen, or beat the Phillies in any of the last six games you played against one another were all very thoughtful, and I appreciate you thinking of my city and me. I’d also like to thank the Florida Marlins, who took care of business and ended their season on as ruiners for the Mets. And as for my local team, the Washington Nationals, thank you as well. I admire your manager’s move to make this a fair fight and play your starters throughout the weekend over young’ins, as well as the whupping you delivered at Shea Stadium early last week. You will always be my second-favorite team because of your efforts this season. (Also, thank you for losing the season series with the Phillies; Mattias owes me a Wawa hoagie because of it.)

I’m forgetting someone here in the division. Who could that – oh right, the Atlanta Braves.

Screw the Atlanta Braves.

But it was the Fightin’s who had just as much to do with this post-season birth as any of the teams listed above. They made a true stretch run that did not falter in the end. They won games in all sorts of ways, and that included spotting the other team a few runs every time Adam Eaton took the hill. Now they go into the postseason with a recovering ace, an old man, and a couple of Kyles on the mound, and honestly, I couldn’t be more confident about it. The lineup is locked and loaded at every position (assuming Ruiz’s elbow is okay after getting drilled yesterday.), and Charlie Manuel has promised me he will do everything in his power to not let Wes Helms onto the field.

The last time the Phillies made the playoffs, their charmed existence became a thread woven into my daily fabric. I was permitted to go about my day wearing hats, jerseys, and everything else I had in my support of them. Meetings were interrupted to discuss their chances, and the entire commute was froth with baseball chatter.

Of course, I was in 8th grade at the time.

Yes, the last time this ballclub played extra frames was 1993 – the year that they lost to Canada in the World Series. I’m twice as old now as I was back then. Darren Daulton is twice as crazy. And yet, during all this tim of chasing down New York and San Diego, somehow Philly ended up in the driver’s seat. Citizens Bank Park will play host to Game 1 and 2, and potentially Game 5 in the following week. Our opponent will be either the Padres or the Rockies. (They play a one-game playoff tonight, which is good, because it’s totally unfair to make Philly have to play both of them at the same time.)

I’d like to close with a statistic. In 1980, the Phillies won the World Series in my first full season of baseball. Clara, my daughter, was born 49 days before Opening Day, making this her first full season of baseball.

Just sayin’.