You're a McBlog

It’s time to check in with our good friends at McDonalds. Since I assume from their surname that they call the Emerald Isle home, it’s always nice to honor my fellow countrymen, countrywomen, and countryfryguys with a little bit of blog publicity.

(I don’t know what it is about fast food that makes it such a frequent topic here on YAB. It’s not like I eat it all that often. But probably when you are looking for a topic in the morning and you pass 37 chain restaurants on the way to work, they have a way of seeping into the comedic subconscious. But I digress.)

First things first, we send our best to the family of Herb Peterson, as he will be remembered in history as the man who invented the Egg McMuffin back in 1972. He passed away Wednesday. He was 89. While there appears to be no signs of foul play (HE WAS 89.), the Hamburglar has been taken in for precautionary questioning.

Wow, the Egg McMuffin. This guy invented it. For decades of fast food, no one had even imagined the notion of placing a conveniently circular cooked egg patty between the two ends of an English Muffin. THANK GOD FOR HERB PETERSON. Without him, you breakfast value meal today could consist of an English Muffin placed between two egg patties. What a mess.

And somehow, I’m sure the guy who invented the McRib Sandwich is continuing to live in anonymity, despite his crimes against humanity.

Once thing is clear about McDonalds – they sure know how to brand. No matter what, for the rest of all eternity, anytime somebody affixes a “Mc-“ to the beginning of any word, you’re going to assume that it has to be associated with the Golden Arches. McMansion? Yep. McPaper? Why not. McDegree? Yep, complete with grease-stained diplomas. While they may be no more than clever literary devices for less-than-clever journalists, they have permeated our vernacular to the point of exacerbation.

(That last sentence brought to you by SAT Verbal flash cards, no doubt.)

But if the trend is to exist, count on Mickey D’s to take advantage of it. Let’s say you’re sitting at a red light, enjoying the McDonald’s Snack Wrap you purchased at their drive-thru moments ago? In fact, you love its combination of ranch dressing and minimal prep time so much that you would like to work for an establishment clever enough to combine the two. How can you get more information about working at McDonalds? Look at your receipt, stupid.

www.mcvirginia.com

Look at that! They’ve localized their job openings by state, and went so far as to affix their trademark prefix to the state’s name and register it as a domain name on the world wide web! But hang on, maybe they just did it for VA. Let’s try another.

www.mcmaryland.com

www.mcnewjersey.com

Oh my gosh! That’s some serious forethought. Maybe they overlooked state where there aren’t actual people, just meandering water buffalo…

www.mcwyoming.com

NO WAY! These guys are McRelentless (TM!)! Ok, it turns out, that by going to www.mcstate.com, it clearly shows that they’ve gone ahead and registered all the dotcoms of state names with their M-C in front. So for all you aspiring rappers who have a strong affinity of geography and would like your own website, you’re out of luck. Enjoy being relegated to MySpace.

What’s this?

The only exception to the rule comes to us from Hawaii. The website for burger flipping positions in Maui is actually www.mchawaii.net, rather than .com. Why? Because it appears the Management Consultants of Hawaii has beaten a certain fast food behemoth to the punch.

Grimace is not going to stand for this.

Previewing the Midwest

Last year, the NCAA committee decided to no longer name each quadrant of the bracket after the host city in which their regional final would be played. After a longstanding tradition where we used directions to define where the Sweet 16 and Elite 8 matchups were held, for some reason we wanted to make four cities in particular more famous by naming a whole bracket piece after them.

This, of course, is the opposite of what the NHL did years ago, where they scrapped less helpful designations of divisions, named after important hockey people of the past, for the directional identities the conferences hold today. So if you were wondering on your last trip to the Wachovia Center what was the Patrick Division championships that the Flyers won on those banners, now you know.

As to why they haven't won anything in a while, I can't help you.

So, as I was saying, we're back to the mighty directionals of the compass: EAST! WEST!! SOUTH!!!

MIDWEST?!?!?

As long as I can remember, North has gotten shafted. Apparently there aren't enough decent hosting venues in North Dakota and Maine. Eh, can't blame them. The games would draw too many Canadians.

MIDWEST BRACKET CAPSULES

• Kansas has a famous saying, "Rock Chalk Jayhawk." It comes from a 19th century Chem professor of theirs who thought "Ra, Ra" was too hard to remember because it didn't rhyme with Jayhawk. Note to Coach Bill Self: if your team forgets what they're playing today, remind them that it sounds like "masketball." Works every time.
• .2% of people registered at CBS Sportsline have picked Portland State to knock off Kansas. I'm glad that all of the players' parents are internet savvy.
• When I was a kid, I played rec league basketball and my dad was the coach. As coach, one of the things you get to do is name the team. We were the Runnin' Rebels, no doubt named after the powerhouse of the early 90's, UNLV. Hey Dad, did our team have recruiting violations, too?
• Kent State would like to win just one game on the national scene where dumb sportswriters don't use "massacre" in the headline. Sincerely, the Golden Flashes.
• I have a photo hanging in my bedroom at my parents' house of me playing the French Horn in the All-SJ Jr. High Band. There's a trumpet player in it wearing an awesome St. Louis Blues jersey. I'm wearing a boring Clemson sweatshirt. I'm pretty sure I had no idea where Clemson was at the time. Hey, Brett Hull, wanna trade?
• Malik Allen, a forward for my high school at my time to attendance, went to Villanova. Now, he's showing how clever he can be with the Dallas Mavericks.
• David Reif went to Vanderbilt. And was good enough to play on the scout team.
• Siena is a college best served burnt.
• USC features a player who was simultaneously named after a breakfast juice AND a condiment! I give you O.J. Mayo! Awesome.
• Kansas State wishes more people would watch New Amsterdam, but will ultimately credit Fox with its wild schedule moves for the clever show's inevitable cancellation.
• No one will be rooting for the Wisconsin Badgers in Wisconsin this weekend. Especially if Brett Favre fails to be resurrected this Easter Sunday.
• Computer Science Fullerton? Dork.
• Gonzaga can't wait for tonight's episode of Lost. Something to remember - it may have been a season and a half since we last saw Michael, but on the island, it's closer to like three weeks. That's a lot less explaining to do. Number of times he says "my son" in this episode: eleventy billion.
• Davidson almost beat Maryland last year in the tourney. Failing to do so is their greatest regret.
• Georgetown's Roy Hibbert is a Level 5 vegan. He doesn't eat anything that casts a shadow.
• UMBC? I love acronyms. How about University of Mind-Bending Cattle? Seriously. Cows with mind control. UNSTOPPABLE.
  

September Madness!

Welcome to YAB. Don't mind the date - we've misplaced our calendar.

Regardless of the month it says it is, you are obligated as an American to reduce your productivity this upcoming Thursday and Friday and pay attention to likely meaningless games between colleges you never considered attending. And sure, it's one thing to root for the sake of rooting, but wouldn't it be a little more fun if you had some skin in the game?

Who the hell came up with that phrase, anyway?

(Ok, apparently it was Warren Buffet. That man is everywhere!)

Actually, I'll tell you what. At YAB, we ask not for your own skin, but offer the promise of a wicked sweet prize. (And just because Mike Nordberg has yet to receive last year's T-shirt doesn't mean that said promise will be unfulfilled.) Welcome to You're a Bracket III.

All you have to do is go to the following (outdated) url:

http://yab07.mayhem.sportsline.com/e

The password? Why that would be "condon."

In the coming 24 hours, expect some bracket capsules to help with your selections, although I should warn you.

I intend to make everything up.

Let's start with the East, shall we?

• North Carolina comes in as the top seed. I recently watched them fight off Duke in Durham at a sports bar, accompanied by Nordberg. Unfortunately, my last shirt was a Tar Heel blue polo. How can you wear a UNC-colored shirt to a bar and claim you aren't supporting the team? Answer: by buying Nordberg enough beer to keep him quiet.
• Mount St.Mary's, the 16 seed, had to defeat Coppin State for the right to be slaughtered by the Heels. On top of that, they made them go to OHIO to play said game. What prayer didn't St. Mary answer from the NCAA committee to warrant such abuse?
• Indiana's season has gone to hell ever since former Head Coach Kelvin Sampson was fired for texting his BFF, Jill.
• Arkansas has a senior guard named Sonny Weems. I did not make this up.
• Notre Dame promises, at no point in this tournament, that they won't even mention college football. That includes references to Rudy.
• George Mason beat William and Mary to win the Colonial. Their mascot, the Dreamcrusher, will be making the trip to the Big Dance.
• Washington State has had it with the Pearl Jam and coffee references, thankyouverymuch.
• Winthrop cried at the end of Atonement.
• Oklahoma can't get over the face that all of the hybrid vehicles are so damn ugly. What do you mean the Honda Element is not a hybrid?
• St. Joe's has a mascot who refuses to stop flapping his wings. Ever. That'll come in helpful should the gym bleachers catch on fire.
• Louisville is in Kentucky. Better luck next university founding.
• Boise State has developed a space age wood that shall be installed on their home court for next season. It's Smurf blue.
• Butler has banned the game Clue from all road trip activities.
• South Alabama has been granted a home game of sorts, getting to player Butler in Birmingham. It's near Greenbow.
• Tennessee's head coach Bruce Pearl has appeared at women's games shirtless and painted orange.
• American has seen the tape and should be in therapy shortly.
  

Just No Rob Schneider, Alright?

EW.com, the web version of Entertainment Weekly, provides plenty of online content to keep yourself enthralled while listening to boring conference calls whilst on mute. Sure, they’ve got breaking entertainment news and the latest on casting decisions for the summer blockbusters, but the real time wasters are the photo gallery montages of Hollywood’s best. Often, it’s stuff like “The Roles of Will Ferrell” or “Greatest Football Movies.” That’s fine. But every once in a while, they do something about things you, the reader, isn’t familiar with.

This is why I was excited to flip through today’s: 20 Movies We Can’t Wait to See.

By using a still from “Leatherheads,” I was hooked into flipping through the album of 20. After all, Clooney’s directing, it’s got Jim from the Office, and it has a screwball comedy vibe that’s admirable when proper actors take these sorts of projects. I have to agree, Leatherheads is marked on my calendar, and I hope to see it when it comes out on April 4. But what of the rest?

Sure, there are some that are definitely worth a watch. Drillbit Taylor and Forgetting Sarah Marshall are Judd Apatow comedies, so likely will be entertaining. And I’d be remised if I didn’t mention Harold and Kumar 2 for the sake of Jon and Jasen. And on a more serious note, it may be good to remember that Funny Games rolls out on March 14. But then there are others on the list, which seems to only be movies from March and April, that aren’t quite as promising. The Ruins? A Lohan flick? What is this?

Then I thought to compare the list to the major releases on the calendar for the next two months.

March 7:
College Road Trip
10,000 B.C. – ON THE LIST
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day – ON THE LIST
Married Life – ON THE LIST
The Bank Job

March 14:
Doomsday
Horton Hears a Who! – ON THE LIST
Funny Games – ON THE LIST

March 21:
Drillbit Taylor – ON THE LIST
Meet the Browns

March 28:
21 – ON THE LIST
Stop Loss – ON THE LIST
Run, Fatboy, Run
Superhero Movie (you’re kidding, right?)

April 4:
Leatherheads – ON THE LIST
Shine a Light – ON THE LIST
Nim’s Island – ON THE LIST
The Ruins – ON THE LIST
My Blueberry Nights – ON THE LIST

April 11:
Prom Night
Smart People – ON THE LIST
The Brothers Bloom

April 18:
88 Minutes
Forgetting Sarah Marshall – ON THE LIST

April 25:
Harold and Kumar 2 – ON THE LIST
The List – ON THE LIST (AND REDUNDANT!)
Baby Mama – ON THE LIST
Deception – ON THE LIST
Big Stan – Rob Schneider is in this. That’s all you need to know.


Apparently, EW can’t wait to see over 70% of all movies ever. Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, a bit high? For March and April?

They could have had an 8-movie list of “8 Movies We Think You Should Not See.” Seems more efficient.

The Honduran Post Paradox

I call this current lack of blogging the Honduran Post Paradox.

Shortly after college, when my classmates and I were scattered by the winds of future employment (if CareerBuilder.com wants to trademark that, I demand a cut), we entered into it confidently that we’d all keep in touch. After all, thanks to the Internets, we had it EASY. There wouldn’t be letter writing, there wouldn’t be outrageous long distance phone charges, and for the love of all things postal, there wouldn’t be hand cramps from the writing of lengthy tomes. Our parents may have had to struggle with such hardships, but not us. No, sir. We are living in the age of the Computer, and the Computer remembers where everyone is FOR you. Good computer.

Everyone went their own directions and acquired new e-mail addresses. Some included domain names for impressive-sounding companies. Others had migrated to a new .edu address. And yes, some chose to rock this fledgling new startup called “gmail.” Regardless, if you got two people stuck in front of a computer during the day, with not a whole lot to do, you could exchanged upwards of 30 “letters.” Postage-free.

And then Jasen moves to Honduras.

As you may recall, one Jasen Andersen decided to spend his first two years of post-graduate life helping the people of Honduras via the Peace Corps. He probably spent 24 long months making Survivor references that nobody would get. The people of Honduras were eternally grateful for Yaz’s contributions, considering he had to leave all his family and friends back in the States.

As friends of Jasen, all we could do to support his cause was the keep him abreast of the goings-on in our lives as well as the news here in the States. Many of our friends rose to the challenge, including some who even went and visited him in his tiny jungle hamlet. I’d like to say that I was one of these friends – a trip where Grimm and I were to invade the ‘duras in the summer of ’03 nearly happened, if it weren’t for some last minute work obligations. (Or Grimm had to drop a couple grand on the Grimm Prix – can’t remember.) Alas, it did not happen.

Of course, I could always write the lad. After all, I had free time on my hands looking for a job and making sure the walls of my apartment didn’t fall down. But here’s where the rub lies. The longer I took to write him, the more monumental (in my head) the correspondence had to be. What started as a simple note to say hey steamrolled into a full letter, and then a chapter, and then a book, and then a parody, and then a play, and then a full journal. That’s the Honduran Post Paradox. The more you want to write, the more you get crushed by heightened inner expectations. Ultimately, I never wrote him, and as they say in Slapshot –

“You go to the box, and you feel shame.”

Some would say that we’ve gotten to the point on YAB with the backdating that it’s time to write a full journal in order to get back on track. It’s not that nothing has happened in the last couple of months. It’s just that energy to kick things off once again that has prevented me from writing. Yeah, I’ve been busy, but no busier than July 04-now, during which the blog has flourished. Well, instead of trying to write something epic to get back on track, let’s just start with a post. A simple post, like this one. ell, consider this a return.

It’s not grand yet, but it will be.

Welcome back, YAB. Welcome back.

Cond-nominations 2008

This time last year, I was on an excellent movie-watching pace. Because of the impending child, Katie and I saw lots of movies. Call it a last gasp of cinematic freedom; I felt well prepared to beat my previous best 0f 36 out of 40. Hell, I even saw Letters from Iwo Jima? Did you? DID YOU?

No, but it didn't matter much.

Because of my hollow faith in Dreamgirls, I took last year on the chin and moved on to watch my partner-in-Academy-crime become the Oscar Party 4 champ. So what could my chances possibly be this time around? I haven't seen much, read even less, and as I sit here stomaching my way through Hairspray, things aren't looking too good.

Before I get to the picks, a lot of you have asked me, "Will there even be an Oscars?" I'll take the time here to answer that, considering what will follow is probably going to be more false than true. The answer? YES. While I don't believe that the WGA Strike will have concluded, it is in the best interest for the writers to sign a waiver to write for the show and allow their guild-alliances, such as SAG, to have their day to shine. After all, their biggest bargaining chip is the clout of a supportive acting branch. Cancelling the actors' big night will likely wash away any sympathy they've got. So, I look forward to a written Oscars.

(Hairspray note: Seriously, is Travolta trying to ruin this? It sounds like he's been doing a Dr. Evil impression for the last ninety minutes.)

Best Picture
Atonement
Juno
Michael Clayton
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood

Best Actor
George Clooney, Michael Clayton
Daniel Day Lewis, There Will Be Blood
Johnny Depp, Sweeney Todd
James McAvoy, Atonement
Viggo Mortenson, Eastern Promises

Best Actress
Julie Christie, Away from Her
Marian Cotillard, La Vie en Rose
Angelina Jolie, A Mighty Heart
Keira Knightley, Atonement
Ellen Page, Juno

Best Supporting Actor
Casey Affleck, Assassination of Jesse James
Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Charlie Wilson's War
Hal Holbrook, Into the Wild
Tom Wilkinson, Michael Clayton

Best Supporting Actress
Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There
Ruby Dee, American Gangster
Laura Linney, The Savages
Amy Ryan, Gone Baby Gone
Tilda Swinton, Michael Clayton

Best Director
Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood
The Coens, No Country for Old Men
Tony Gilroy, Michael Clayton
Julian Schnabel, Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Joe Wright, Atonement

Best Original Screenplay
American Gangster
Juno
Michael Clayton
Ratatouille
The Savages

Best Adapted Screenplay
Charlie Wilson's War
Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Into the Wild
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood

Ok, let's see if I can get at least 31.

The Cutting Return of YABNews

It’s been a while since we’ve contacted the YABNews Desk for a lead on a story. All this time, we’ve been getting memos from them as to how they support the Writer’s Strike and refuse to produce any material. Then we realized that the royal “we” is a fictional writing device, and since I’m not part of the WGA, then neither are they. Hey, I don’t member authorizing the purchase of a foosball table for their break room.

You see, YABNews doesn’t know how to cover the big issues that consume today’s press. Primary elections? Not interested. Israeli-Palestinian peace talks? No thanks. The Writers Strike? Ok, maybe. No, over the years YABNews has focused on the truly unique in breaking media coverage.

If it should break residential architecture in the process, so be it.

Today we bring you the story of a hunting enthusiast in the great state of Michigan. I can’t say I’ve ever felt the real need to hunt. It’s not the primal longing that so many people claim it to be. Of course, I may have been turned off to the practice when I was young. I remember as a young lad attempting to snipe water fowl as they flew diagonally across my range of vision. If I missed, a neighborhood dog would inexplicably arise from the weeds to mock me. Stupid dog.

So while I can’t speak from experience, I have to assume that hunting supplies are expensive. Why? Because it can be considered a niche sport or game, and all supplies for niche sports and games are expensive. For some reason, those who enjoy their athletics on the fringe have more cash to burn. They buy things like snow skis and road bikes and rifles to fill that need. Of course, one has to wonder why so few people get into these sports. Maybe it’s because as kids we don’t have the kind of allowances to skeet shoot or ice climb. And because of this, these sports lay on the fringe. Like I said, it’s a vicious cycle.

Back to our YABNews report. According to the article:

A man who hid hunting knives in his pants to try to steal them from a western Michigan store tripped while fleeing and stabbed himself in the abdomen, police say… The man had put about $300 worth of hunting knives in his waistband, police told WZZM-TV. Police say he tried to leave the store, but Meijer employees confronted him and a scuffle
followed. The man then fell and was stabbed by the knives he had
hidden in his clothing, police said. They said it happened about 5:40
p.m.

Ok, I have a few thoughts about this real man of genius. And in honor of our hunting theme, you’re going to get them…IN BULLET FORM!!!

• Now while I haven’t had to price them lately, I really have no idea how much a hunting knife costs. Did the guy steal 1 $300 knife? Or maybe 25 $12 knives? We just don’t know. Regardless, a waistband isn’t exactly my first choice for knife concealment. Hey, buddy, ever heard of pockets?
• I take that back. My flag football league requires that all shorts or pants worn cannot have pockets. It prevents people from reaching for a flag and dislocating a finger on an errant stab. I’m cool with that. You know, except for the fact that every single pair of pants in Dick’s Sporting Goods now comes with pockets. I find it hard to imagine that our Knife Thief managed to shop around and find a pair that came pocket free.
• The fact that you are stealing knives gives us a good idea of where your morals rest. That said, why didn’t you steal some blankets or pillows, too? Hell, this is a camping store. They’ve probably got marshmallows in the back you could have ganked.
• If you have knives in your waistband and you’re going to trip or fall, you should probably do everything you can to not land in a position so that they may stab you. This is called the Kyle Williams Postulate. It’s named after a famous hurdler that in warmups tripped over a hurdle. Rather than further injure his thumb – which was in a cast from football season – Williams went into the track favoring his hand. Instead? Collarbone first. Had the Knife Thief listened to Kyle, he’d have a broken collarbone, but non-lacerated abs.

Dethronified!

Longest dramatic pause. Ever.

I give you the FINAL RESULTS OF YAB’S DETHRONE THE KING ’07!

Wow, what a season. The nice thing about running a pool such as this one is the fact that even if first place is out of reach, mediocre beat writers keep everyone in striking distance of glory. And this year has been no exception, as Peter King failed to deliver accurate predictions on a weekly basis and proved me right yet again. Can a casual football fan outpick a man whose job it is to analyze and dissect the great fame of football?

Yes. 13 times over.

13 of you ably bested the King in our 256 game Pickdown. Some did it by the narrowest of margins, like Mattias Caro – who rode a 12-4 final week to overtake Pedro Rex. And some did it by DESTROYING ALL LOGIC WHATSOEVER. Katie Condon outlasted King by 17 games. That’s right. If this had been a competition between just the two of them. She could have rested all her picks in Week 17 and still clinched with ease. In fact, in the SI.com competition, where there are over 50,000 entries, Katie would have finished in a tie for 8th.

Even I can't make that up.

Peter King ended the season at 162-84, good enough for a 14th place tie in a 26 person pool. My, that’s average. And considering we lost four valiant Shawnee Groupers over the waning weeks, that makes his efforts far less impressive. That said, I award the SAV ROCCA BETTER LUCK NEXT YEAR AWARD to those who punted – Karen Yelito, David Kull, Rob Harford, and Joseph Brescia.

To our champ, Katie Condon, goes the YON MIGHTY THRONE AWARD. She has won herself first place, a wicked sweet NFL prize (TBD), and folklore. Lots and lots of folklore. (Clara, when you were very little, Mommy should have gone to Vegas a lot more. She didn’t, which is why you’re stuck in your room writing college scholarship essays.) (179-77)

Second place goes to Josh Stock, as well as the HACK THE PLANET AWARD. Stock, came on very late in the year to break up the ladies’ tea party on the podium. Of course it should be noted that his two best weeks occurred when technology failed him. A returned e-mail and a Blackberry botch coincided with two weeks totaling 29-1. To avoid skepticism next year, Josh, get some training on these newfangled gadgets. We hear great things on the radio about Computer Learning Center. (175-81)

Third place and the MIGHTY PARADOX AWARD goes to Kristen Morea. Not only were her picks worthy of a mainstay locale on the Podium, they often were sent to me with an e-mail that said something like, “I’m totally going to suck this week” or “Man, these were hard ones!.” Liar. (170-86)

In a tie for fourth place, we have Kristen Fischer and, yes, Me. Let’s see, what do we have in common? We don’t hold spousal superiority, since I got housed by mine. Hey, we like musicals! Yeah, that’s it. So Kristen, join me in accepting this HOW WE GONNA PAY LAST YEAR’S RENT award. Cash prizes rarely fall off the podium, and that’s precisely we’re we’ve landed. (167-89)

Who likes a sixth place tie? Jeff Collins and Liz Arsenault. Liz gets the PERFECT 10 Award – which isn’t necessarily good. It just points out that she got exactly 10 games right in a week 7 times. Collins gets the SNEAKY FAST Award, for distancing himself from the Ocean City contingent in a matter of weeks without anyone realizing it. (166-90)

All alone in 8th place is Stewart Robinette. Somebody give him a hug. And a symbolic award. (165-91)

A three-way tie for ninth finds Eric Goldman, Jasen Andersen, and Mike Nordberg huddled together, two games ahead of Peter King. Goldman wins the RETURN TO SENDER Award, for emailing me his picks within 40 seconds of the email going out, Andersen gets the HAIL TO THE REDSKINS Award, as he boldly went where no one else dared – Washington over New England – and Mike Nordberg gets MOST IMPROVED. He rebounded from dead last early on to dethrone the King. Mike, can you please get your slacker brother in on this action next year? (164-92)

12th place – the DOUBLE CUTTING IT CLOSE Award – goes to the aforementioned Mattias Caro, as well as Christina Toms. Along with Jon Rogers, Toms made compiling the picks highly enjoyable, as she provided insights and vignettes on every single game. (163-93)

And finally, in 13th – the TIE GOES TO THE FISCHER Award is bestowed upon Tim Fischer, who picked up a game on PK in Week 16 and hung on in 17 to maintain pace. (If it helps, Tim, it was the Eagles over the Saints that got you caught up.) Because of your worthy effort and homerism, we will count you as a winner. While you may not have dethroned him, you probably were the one who hired the court jester to annoy him from here to the Pro Bowl.

For those who fell short, my condolences. There will be next year, and Peter King will be fatter. The full standings are posted in the side bar, and will be there until March Madness. Thank you all for participating, and we will see you next year! For those who did in fact Dethrone the King, I’ll e-mail concerning your slightly less wicked sweet prize.

One Last Cup of Joe

Joe Gibbs is retiring this afternoon.

I’m no Redskins fan, so you may be surprised to find me writing a post that eugoogilizes the career of a rival head coach. However, as a sports fan who has recently purchased real estate in the heart of Redskins Nation, I feel qualified enough to write a quick post about Coach Gibbs and what he’s accomplished in his second stint in Washington. Hey, if nothing else, I’ll probably piss off Mattias enough into getting a comment, right?

And before I begin, let me assuage the tension and inevitable comparisons to my team, the Eagles. The Eagles are not without their problems, and this off-season in particular could have a enormous impact on the next five years. (My thoughts? Keep Donovan McNabb, pay Westbrook for what he’s done, eat the cap space and cut Kearse or Howard, let L.J. Smith walk, sign a FB in free agency, pick a DB with your 1st rounder, and OT with your second, and replace the word “Lewis” with “Machine” on all of #83’s jerseys.) But enough about the Birds. Onto the ‘Skins.

Joe Gibbs’ second tour of Washington lasted four seasons. He inherited a team that had gone 5-11 under Steve Spurrier, and had approximately 37 University of Florida Gators on the roster. And we’re not just talking quarterbacks and speedy D-linemen – I swear they had 4 white wide receivers on that team (remember Chris Doerring?) From that last Spurrier team, only Ethan Albright, Randy Thomas, Chris Samuels, Jon Jansen, Rock Cartwright, and Ladell Betts remain. All are worthy, even if Ethan Albright is the worst player in the NFL. Aside, from some stalwart linemen, the team you’ve been enjoying under Gibbs for the last four years has been Gibbs’ team.

Or at least the one Dan Snyder got him for Christmas.

Regardless of what Gibbs was capable of on the field, his return to D.C. is a reflection of the players that owner Dan Snyder insisted on overpaying. Take this analogy. All Joe Gibbs wants for Christmas is a necktie. He got a mustard stain on his last necktie, and he needs to replace it in the rotation. Dan Snyder asked him what he wanted, and he asked for a necktie. It’s not asking for much – it’s a practical, sensible, respected gift.

“Hey, Joe! I hope you like this shiny Segway! Merry Christmas!”

The Redskins have never really had a chance to compete during Gibbs’ second tenure because of the terrible personnel moves that they have made. Insistent on making a splash, Snyder has thrown major cash and some players who have become decent (Springs, Carter, Randle El) and some disasters (Lloyd, Archuleta, and yes, Brunell.) They’ve had no regard for the importance of the draft, which is a shame. Because when they DO draft, they actually do a nice job (Campbell, McIntosh). But because of poor team management, draft picks are squandered. This team has no middle class. Because of Snyder’s ways, you’ve got a bunch of marquee stars and undrafted free agents. When you pay the big guys the big bucks, there isn’t much money left for, I don’t know, RESERVES. Under this plan, the Redskins will never go deep because of a lack of depth. It’s like the Sixers with Iverson. Until Snyder goes, they’re not going anywhere.

But what of Joe 2.0? 31-36 isn’t nearly the 140-65 of the good old days. I feel he never really figured out the new NFL. It’s a different game than in the 80’s – a game that Gibbs owned – and I don’t think his coaching style fit. That’s why so many new rookie coaches are finding success – they grew up watching and playing the new-style NFL. This team’s inability to hold a halftime lead haunted Gibbs, who got overly conservative when he was up a few. Sometimes he threw challenge flags because he liked to see them fly through the air. And man, are timeouts fun! In succession. Inducing 15-yard penalties. To lose a game.

Dagger.

Goodbye, Joe Gibbs. We’ll see you at the next Bee Gees reunion tour. A moving truck will be by your office shortly to haul of Al Saunders’ freaking play book.

Didn't See That Coming

After an enjoyable trip to the Great White…err…Mid-Atlantic, we’re back and settled in our new home. Granted, there is still plenty to accomplish, as the list to get the place ready for living seems to grow longer by the day.

Case in point: have you ever tried to install a baby gate? No, I’m not talking about the old wooden ones that your parents put between you and the Super Fun Washing Machine when you were a kid. Baby Gates of the Future (read: Now) have advanced with such technologies so that we adults can thwart the determined minds of infants for years to come. The one that I just put near our main landing screws into the wall in six places, requires two NSA-grade keys and a special launch code just to open. Did I mention the motion sensors? Yeah, there are motion sensors. It took me three hours to install.

Like I said, you rush to get all these things done, even though you have eons of time to get them done. We’re signed up (technically) for 30 years. That’s a procrastinator’s dream! Of course, if I’m living in this house and I’m 57, something went horribly wrong. You know, like I sold the place but couldn’t leave.

Stupid baby gate.

No, you rush to get the place into a fine working order because you’re PROUD of what you’ve just done. This is a place you can call your own, and you want your friends to come over and be proud of what you’ve just done. And if friends are going to come over, you want things to look nice. Get those boxes unpacked, furniture put together, cobwebs de-cluttered, and throw open the door. Visitors are welcome.

Human visitors, that is.

Because of the holidays, we didn’t anticipate having anyone stay with us until we got back from New Jersacuse. There was just too much going on in those final days of Advent to provide room at the Inn. With all the painting and moving out, we didn’t even have much time to celebrate Christmas. Figuring that there would be plenty of merriment and decoration up I-95, we decided to forgo putting up a tree. There are two reasons for this. 1.) Clara won’t remember it anyway. 2.) Bright blue edging tape makes for terrible garland strands.

But a wreath? A wreath we can do.

So while running some errands a few weekends before the Big Day, we bought a wreath. It’s a Target wreath, and it looks nice on our door. There. Now our neighbors know that we are here to stay and we anxiously await the coming of the Christ Child. That’s multi-tasking people.

One of the topics I will get to later this week comes into play here. Even though we now own a townhouse with a two-car garage, the garage part has been lightly used. Because the previous owner failed to turn in garage door openers, most of our daily parking takes place in the driveway. Therefore, our point of entry is all-too-often the front door, as opposed to the one in the garage. Yeah, there are stairs, but I can deal. Plus, I get to look at our new Target wreath with each trip home. ‘Tis the season, indeed.

In fact, I remember one evening’s entrance in particular. It was December 22nd, and we were returning home from two Christmas parties. As Katie worked to get a sleeping Clara out of her car seat, I played the role of Anticipatory Father and bounded up the stairs to unlock the door. After all, the quicker we get Clara in the house, the less of a chance she wakes up and insists on catching Letterman. As I fumbled with the lock, I remember thinking that it would have been a damn good idea to have left the external light on. That would have made getting in smoothly so much easier. As ten seconds pass and I’m still trying to get the key to work. I hear a slight rustling to my near right. Geez, I thought. Katie sure was fast freeing the baby from the car-

Just then, a small black bird ROCKETS out of the Target wreath, nearly killing me of shock whilst clipping my ear.

Like I said, human visitors are welcome.

Zaky Attack

Two of the last three nights, I have been responsible for making sure Clara calls it a day and goes to sleep in her crib. On most nights, Katie does this, as she’s become the real pro with the bedtime routine. I, on the other hand, always introduce the possibility of falling asleep whilst holding the baby, which is precisely the opposite desired result of such an exercise. But we’ve had company over the last couple nights to see Katie, so I’ve gladly taken a shift or two, even if I’m not nearly as good.

It’s kind of like the end of an NFL season in this way. With one week left to go in the season, some 10 teams had already punched their tickets to the postseason and were locked into their respective seeds. In essence, they had nothing of importance to play for. Look at the Colts. The Patriots already have home-field etched in stone, and Indy is good enough to earn a first-round bye. San Diego couldn’t catch them in the standings. So what did they do? They rested their starters. Sure, Peyton Manning could have played the whole game in order to obliterate Tennessee (while making us all MasterCard holders in the process), but there were other options available to Coach Dungy. Similarly, Katie could have put Clara to bed while her houseguests waited patiently in the kitchen making small talk (my guess would be loosely-constructed parenting-football analogies). However, I could have lost their interest and they could have left before Katie even made it back downstairs. Instead, we played the back-up. Me. And while it wasn’t a Pro Bowl-caliber performance, I got Clara to drink her bottle and go to bed.

I’m the Jim Sorgi of parenting.

After much rocking, holding, swaying, moving, bouncing, swinging, and holding, I decided that the poor kid was ready to be put in her crib. As she winds down, she makes this grumbly humming noise that signifies that the end of the day in near. (humbly?) When that starts to wind down, she’s probably using her last few ounces of energy just to keep me from leaving the room. Putting down a baby without upsetting their newly calm state is an artform. It has to be one sweeping motion, and any hiccup in the flow will earn you another 10 minutes of pacing in a pastel-colored room. If you can pull it off, good for you.

You’ve probably been a parent for one more month than me.

My final move is to let baby settle while putting my hand on her back. That way, she knows I’m still here. It provides a sense of security and warmth, and my ability to move as she does gives her the impression that she’s still being held. But let me level with you.The hand on the back is tiring.I don’t know what it is about teetering over a cribrail that makes it feel like you just finished a hard track practice, but dear God. Seconds feel like minutes. Minutes feel like hours. Your extended arm is now purple as your circulatory system has now re-routed all blood to that one lonely appendage. If there was only a baby product that could be substituted in for you. Yeah!

This link will take you to a webpage promoting this very product. With a simple Raiders of the Lost Ark switch-out, you can be on your way downstairs while your baby thinks you are still hovering.

That is, if you don’t mind leaving her in the care of the severed hands of a Muppet.

Electoral College Dropouts

How did I not know this???

I was a Government major, man! I should KNOW this stuff. Ok, it was in my master plan to become a government major, but you need 120 credits to graduate college and when it came time to plan out my final four semesters I realized that I could just take a bunch of courses in the same department for a second major. It worked, didn’t it? No, I don’t have any interest in running for office or working for a government (American or otherwise), but I have the degree to prove my capability, don’t I? And besides, I’ve forgotten more about the politics of Nigeria than you’ll ever know.

Ok, that might not be saying much.

It has come to my attention that today Iowa has kicked off the Election 2008 proceedings by virtue of their famed Caucus, an event that helps pare down the playing field to only the serious (read: wealthy) contenders. I figured that a caucus was a simple affair. People go before work to their civic institution of choice, tell the magic voting machine who they would like to represent their political party come November, leave and go to work, and then knock off early to watch a bunch of deceased baseball players scrimmage in the middle of a cornfield. After all, caucus is just a fancy work for primary election, right Government Major?

Apparently, the future of our country will be determined by a game of Farmboy Four Square.

CNN.com has a lovely article that unearths what a caucus actually does. Thanks to this article, I fear for the future of Democracy.

In order to choose a political party’s frontrunners, all the (not-busy) people in each of Iowa’s 99 districts get together and sit, likely in folding chairs. When the time comes, the election officials instruct the Iowans to stand up and gather in a corner of the room the represents the candidate they’d most like to see be degraded by the other party in commercials next fall. The cattle mull about, and eventually end up in claustrophobic tight packs, and the folding chairs are left lonely in the middle of the room.

If you would like to vote for a Folding Chair to be our next Commander-in-Chief, please stay seated.

So then the Iowans are counted, and somebody breaks out the calculator on their cell phone to help with the math. If your huddled mass yearning to Vote Hillary comprises less than 15% of the room’s populace, an intimidating bouncer from the local bar comes into your section and makes you scatter like liberty in a hurricane. You don’t have to leave, though – you have to listen to loud people explain why you must join their groups to help their candidates’ causes.

Confusing? Picture it this way. Everyone in your elementary school is waiting on the blacktop in orderly lines for the school buses to arrive. At the last minute, one of the teachers announces that Bus #4 got four flat tires and will no longer be coming to pick up the children to take them home. They’ve also called your parents to inform them, and your parents said it’s cool to go home on any other bus you like and they’ll get you later. Suddenly, the oldest kid from each respective bus explains why their bus is the best. Promises like, “Our bus driver listens to rock music!!!” and “The air-conditioning works in Bus #5!!!” sway the bus-less to their vehicles. On Bus #3, little Johnny Edwards just smiles at all the girls, and they swoon on over.

A final tally is taken, and because of this, several career politicians now have to go back to their regular jobs. What?

One final postscript – why does this take place at 7PM? Can’t Iowa take the day off and get this done earlier so that the networks tonight can show me the Writers’ Strike re-runs I demand? Come on Iowa! Play some hooky! It’s not like you have to harvest the corn – it’s January. It’s frozen. And even if you did, frozen corn isn’t terrible.

Hello, Saddle.

So this is what my office looks like.

Going on vacation over the Christmas holiday is both good and bad. Any time away from the commute, the meetings, and the water cooler is of course a luxury worth taking, but it makes the inevitable return to the office a mixed bag. And unfortunately for me, everything bad in the mixed bag far outweighs the good.

It’s like trail mix. Trail mix should be awesome. 2 of the 3 main ingredients – M&Ms and peanuts – are excellent snack foods. Unfortunately, they are forced to share that bowl on the end table with raisins – a food that I loathe. Raisins were a mistake on God’s part – they are defective versions of other foods that are successful and delicious. However, they’ve stuck around because some yokel ate a few once and didn’t die. I can’t blame God for ruining trail mix because he didn’t say “Eat the shriveled ones” to his Creation. But he did give us free will, which is what allowed us to eat shriveled waste. That leaves me with an untouchable, albeit healthy, snack mixture by the lamp.

Like I was saying, the first day back from any vacation is full of surprises. Most you can account for – thanks to the Blackberry (decidedly more delicious than raisins), you didn’t miss a single email. But there are the unexpected things that you can’t read on a helpful handheld, and provide excellent fodder for a comedy blog that took December off. Let’s recap.

• My mouse feels weird. Yeah, I know. I put my hand down on it, and the ergonomics just didn’t feel right. I actually looked around my office to make sure I sat down in the right place. I don’t have a mouse that is superfancy or anything – it’s your basic Dell Microsoft rollerball mouse with that tracking wheel that only works 47% of the time. That should be a sign that you should go home. What if you picked up your toothbrush after a week and instead of being smooth plastic, it was the sure-grip rubber material? Sure, it’ll get the job done, but you’ll question its whereabouts from the past 7 days. (ADA Note: You should brush your teeth more than once per week.)
  
• Who stole my trash can? Since I have an office, it is my responsibility to place the trash can outside my locked floor at the end of the day. Having last left my office 9 days ago, my trash can has been sitting in the hallway, apparently for the taking. Because it’s gone. It’s not that my trash can is anything special – I didn’t buy it and it looks like every single other one in this office – but man, oh the time we had. For reasons unknown to me, I had the Chili’s trash can. It was a black rubber receptacle like any other, except for the minor fact that it had a giant Chili’s Bar and Grill bumper sticker emblazoned across one side. Now I do my best to maintain a professional visage, so I made sure that the Chili’s side was always facing me and not the passers-by. Now, it’s gone.
  
  On the bright side, I am no longer constantly craving baby back ribs.
  
• In a very nice gesture, my West Coast boss got me a gift card for Christmas. That was extremely thoughtful, and now I feel like a bit of a doof for not reciprocating. But hey, that’s why she makes the big money and I don’t – to appease the underlings with shiny plastic merchandise vouchers. You see, you really can’t go wrong with getting me a gift card. I’m going to open it (this one was in a standard business envelope), and I’m going to be happy. Why? Because I have now been given the green light to go to a store and buy whatever I want for Christmas. My East Coast boss got me an iTunes gift card that I promptly turned into a stellar mix CD for all the interstate driving we just did. So what will this card be? Target? Best Buy? iTunes (again?) Really, I’m going to be happy with anything, since I’m not picky.

Starbucks. Figures.

Back After These Messages

70 days. Damn.

If I recall, I had cut the backlog to 20 (20!) a mere month after the birth of Clara. At the time, the backlog had slipped considerably – apparently hospitals frown on “wireless internet connectivity” around “million-dollar medical machinery.” I can understand that. Besides, in-hospital blogs probably would have read in a “you have to be here” vein – I suppose describing the couture fashion of hospital gowns can’t really hold any attention if you aren’t there to witness it. But despite the sleepless nights and the new addition to the family, I somehow managed to cut the back log from 42 to 22 in around a month.

70? Can I have a recount?

2007 will go down as one of the busiest years in my life. Aside from, you know, PROCREATING, Katie and I went through the excruciatingly long process of becoming homeowners. For every ten minute window during the day that one would previously wax poetic on which types of bagels could survive a nuclear holocaust (or something like that), one has to re-direct their efforts to browsing new home listings, making lists of wants and needs in a new property, and trying to guess the dimensions of your existing furniture from memory. And as you can see from recent posts, we have finally secured our goal by purchasing a townhouse out in Centreville. This allows me two liberties as a writer. First, I have yet another chapter of comedic material from which to draw. Secondly, I am now allowed to reverse e’s and r’s at the end of words, because that’s how you roll in Centreville.

Oh, how I love witty homeownre bantre.

And as of late, my goal is to not leave a single wall in said townhome white. We’ve adopted an ambitious painting schedule, and despite my insistence that the basement should be “midnight green,” more stylish heads have prevailed and I spend my nights high atop a ladder with a bucket full of latex floor ruiner.

But, good YABbers, hope shall soon return.

Tomorrow my wireless network will once again re-establish itself in our new place, meaning that I can post to YAB once again. (This very post you are reading was published from the vacant confines of my old pad in Fairfax Corner.) Other things will occur – like updated DtK standings, and the finest meats and cheeses for all my subjects.So I implore you, good readers. Hang in there. It’s the Christmas season.

Both Jesus and YAB are coming soon.

I Need a Dress.

When you buy a place of your own, you spend a lot of time evaluating the pros and cons of a given property. Things like total square footage, types of flooring, can I put a roller hockey net in the garage consume your every waking moment until you finally settle on the place you plan on calling home for the next several years. Lost in the shuffle is one major detail: the address.

When Katie and I first started scoping out the town home communities of Fairfax County, I used that opportunity to regale you all with tales of the stupid addresses I’ve called home to date. And while we did not end up on Ruddy Duck Road, we’re about two miles due north of it. (assuming ruddy ducks can fly straight.)

Setting out earlier this fall, I had totally intended to rule out potential homes because of their stupid street addresses. I figured that there would be so many perfect properties for us, with our exact specifications, that it would actually help to have an arbitrary scythe to swing to pare the list down. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I mean, sure, there is plenty of inventory on the market right now, and many of them had many of the things we were looking for (everything except the aforementioned Condockey Indoor Arena).

It’s not that easy.

When you’re getting ready to write the biggest check of your entire life, you realize quickly that EVERYTHING needs to be perfect. You need to find THE home with a complete package of features, location, and price that will warrant kissing your savings good bye. The inconsequential, such as your actual address, gets filed away with hopes that everything works out for the best. All you can do is pray that when you look up from signing that deed that the road on which the house is located isn’t named Redskins are Awesome Boulevard.

Since this is essentially the second post I’ve devoted to street addresses, you may be wondering what I would name streets had I been granted this magic cartographical power. That’s easy. Characters from the Mighty Ducks Trilogy. If you need me, I’ll be sitting in my mansion at the end of Guy Germaine Lane.

So I’m in the new place this past Saturday, in the company of friends who had come over to celebrate our new home, and I quickly realized that these people are hungry. And since the cupboards are bare, the fridge only has light refreshments, and Nordberg demands sustenance, I acted quickly and dialed up my local pizza vendor.

But on this night, he’s more than just my local pizza vendor. After all, whoever picks up the phone at Domino’s will be the first person to ask me “what’s my address” and I can then respond with the location of a place that I own. The pizza guy has unknowingly assumed a symbolic role, and all he really wants to know is where he can deliver 5 pizzas. So when I proudly I announce, “I LIVE at 5229 Jule Star Drive,” I’m mildly disappointed that his response was “that’ll be 53.50” and not “Congratulations, sir.”

Yes, I live on Jule Star Drive.

It’s not the best of addresses, but it’s not the worst either. My one quibble is this: why did we have to spell it “J-U-L-E”? No one spells that sound that way. For the rest of my time there in Centreville, I will have to spell out a word that someone else has written down J-E-W-E-L. And yes, I had to spell it out for the pizza guy. The dialogue is below.

“5229 Jule Star Drive, that’s J-U-L-E.”
“I’m not seeing it my system. All I have is JULIE STAR Drive.”
“I assure you it’s JULE. I suppose you may have it as JEWEL?”
“Nope, only JULIE STAR Drive.”
“Fine. That’s me."

Yes, I live on Julie Star Drive.

The Snow Princess

Something big will happen in the life of Clara Condon today.

How do I know this? The girl likes to make an entrance, and for some reason, she’s tapped “driving snow” as her entrance theme. I have no problem with this – she’s just showing me that she has daddy’s sense of humor. She’s being raised in a town where people go DEFCOM RUN FOR YOUR LIVES at the mere mention of fluffy, white precipitation. There will come a time in elementary school where Clara will have to give a book report (probably The Polar Express) in front of the class and she’ll find a way to make it snow inside the classroom.

That’s the difference between an A and an A-plus, kiddo.

As I sit here typing up this post, my window reveals that we’ve got somewhere between 1 and 2 inches of snow on the ground. I can’t imagine it’s going to accumulate much more than that, but I assume anything is possible when your local weather people are less for the nerdy and more for the pretty. Schools will probably begin closing prematurely shortly. You know, because there’s nothing better for snow traffic than working parents rushing out of their places of work in order to be home when their kids arrive in 40 minutes, and it’s going to take Mach 1 speed to ensure a smooth delivery.

Clara’s just biding her time.

You see, the girl has a history of using snow to mark important milestones in her life. On the day she was born, DC received a solid 4-6 inches of snow. Of course, I didn’t have to drive in it – our 2:30 AM arrival time to the hospital JUST preceded the impending flurries, and our 72 hours stay gave Mother Nature just enough time to defrost the highways and melt the snow off of our car. The storm came and went, and all the while Clara spent her time inside a hospital wondering why it’s so much colder on the outside, and who’s the tall freak who insists on rocking her like she’s on a Viking ship.

Even before that, many of the womenfolk in the area wished to celebrate Clara’s arrival by throwing Katie a shower. The venue was in Manassas, and true to form, the snow and ice came down mere hours before the festivities were to begin. Many had to turn back that day and miss out on the party – the vehicles of this region are ill-equipped to drive in Zambonied conditions. (I spent the day slip-sliding in Caro’s Civic.) Why did this happen on this particular day? My guess is that if left people show up, that’s more cake for Katie. And more cake for Katie means more cake for Clara. I’m onto you.

But even for those who missed the shower, surely they’d be able to attend Clara’s first big public party: Oscar Party IV. Putting together an Oscar Party in 10 days is not easy, and having an 8 pound, 12 ounce baby in one arm whilst coordinating the rest proved to be a challenge. Fortunately, Katie granted me the leave to film this year’s video. But when it was time for the curtain to go up? Snow everywhere. Apparently, Clara didn’t this year’s films. I can’t blame her. Babel was overrated.

So as the snow continues to come down, I can’t help but think that Clara’s at home right now planning something huge. Walking across the room, at this point, seems too simplistic, based on the amount of white falling from the sky. Knowing her, it’ll be a show-stopper.

Like conversational French.

Mi Casa es, well, Mi Casa.

Houses come in many forms, comically speaking.

You can name a fictional character House. You can make him a doctor and give him a limp. You can get a British comedic genius name Hugh Laurie to play him. You can have writers come up with inventive diseases that manage to baffle a hospital’s worth of medical professionals for 52 minutes worth of an episode, only to have the title character solve the case with a last minute revelation. You’ve got to hand it to Fox for sticking with and promoting House as a show. It’s not in the safe zone of a CSI, a Law and Order, a reality show, or a 24 or Lost-like serial series. It’s just a comedic drama about a doctor – quite possibly the most interesting on television. This one could have folded like so many other shows that start off with little support. Instead, it’s the best thing Fox has got right now. Let’s just hope the writer’s strike doesn’t screw with the plot continuity too much. I would hate for studio heads to do the writing: House would end up with a wisecracking sidekick (either a turtle or a lemur) named Chris McAleer or something.

You can work with a guy named House. Unlike the genius of Laurie, my House was far from a rocket surgeon (or is it brain scientist?) And fortunately for me, his nickname was a common enough word that should he ever decide to search for himself on a computer (rather than sleep in front of it), it’s unlikely that he’ll ever find the tales his tall co-worker spun about him. Looking through the archives, I find that they are largely devoid of stories centering on the man who wore a 60 XXXL suit coat and coined ridiculous phrases like, “Boo-Ya, Grandma!” It is likely because that his tenure in close cubicular proximity only lasted from April 2003 to May 2004 – a mere two months prior to YAB’s founding. But it’s scary the legacy he has left us. After all, not every co-worker you’ll ever work with will fall for the old “alphabetize one’s keyboard” prank. House, wherever you are, I raise my Nalgene bottle to your added workday hilarity.

(Of course, you can’t see my tribute. You’re asleep in your desk chair. Again.)

You can mock Under Armour. Yeah, Under Armour – the apparel company that sells the tight shirts that come with six-pack abs already built in. They’ve become part of the marketing fabric that is professional sports, and all it took was one catchphrase-laden marketing campaign. I can imagine back in 2003 the UA sales team in an eleventh hour pitch meeting.

Director: Ok, we’ve got like 12 minutes before they shoot the commercial. What’s it going to be, team?
Sales Exec 1: How about, “YOU CAN’T CUT THROUGH ARMOUR!”
Sales Exec 2: I love it!
Director: Ok, not bad, not bad. What else do we have?
Sales Exec 3: That sucks. Lots of stuff can cut through armour.
Sales Exec 2: I hate it!
Sales Exec 1: “WE MUST PROTECT THIS ARMOUR FROM THINGS THAT CAN CUT THROUGH IT!”
Sales Exec 2: “I love it!”
Director: It’s a tad long.
Sales Exec 3: “WE MUST PROTECT THIS ARMOUR!”
Sales Exec 2: “I love it!”
Director: Armour should be able to protect itself, even though we’re using the flighty British spelling. What’s a more important thing to protect?
Sales Exec 1: “THIS HOUSE!”
Sales Exec 3: “THIS HOUSE!”
Sales Exec 2: “WHY ARE WE YELLING??? I LOVE IT!”

In the 814 posts to date, the old Blogger StatTracker has revealed that the word “house” has appeared in 125 of them. That’s one in eight, people. I had no idea that an abode could produce so much comedy. And now I’ve gone and done it – I’ve opened up a brand new chapter from which many funny vignettes and comedic situations shall tumble out. You ready for this?

We bought a house. Oh dear Lord.

(more to follow)

My Daughter, Aroku Saki

Thank God for the Internet.

Because of the Internet, homes have fewer and fewer periodicals delivered to their door. The only time I’ve ever been part of a newspaper subscription service was when we used to get the Washington Post in the apartment sophomore year, and that was only because we liked crosswords and needed kindling for the grill. And as for magazines, it’s been over a decade since I got SI for Kids, A Boy’s Life, and Nintendo Power.

Those rags were AWESOME.

Sports Illustrated for Kids was the adolescent installment of the athletic flagship, but with 100% less Peter King. Features included tear-out playing cards that you can trade with your friends, who of course got the same exact magazine and had the same exact collection. But perhaps he’s a huge Oksana Baiul fan and can’t get enough of him. Of course, there was also the famed pull-out poster that was used to decorate my childhood room. Behind my door I hung the glossy visages of Shawn Kemp, Jaromir Jagr, and Michael Chang.

Those three would have made an excellent sitcom.

A Boy’s Life was a magazine for Boy Scouts, by Boy Scouts, and rumored to be made of Boy Scouts. You could follow the adventures of other scouts doing awesome things like white-water rafting, rock climbing, and international espionage, while you take a break from building yet another poorly conceived birdhouse. The highlight of ABL? The page in the back with all the jokes. Those were hilarious. That is, until I realized how much puns made by head bleed sadness.

Nintendo Power was a great read back when you could still name all the games Nintendo had in one breath. It would have tips and codes as to how to actually beat Maniac Mansion, and previews of future games sure to appear on your next Wish List for Santa. “There’s no way they can make a Super Mario Brothers 3! The first 2 are so awesome! How will they top them – what’s this? A 47 page spread? A Giant Kingdom? Flying Hammer Brothers on the move? Dear God! I must rent The Wizard for further research!”

But those subscriptions have long expired, and the little reminder cards you get in the mail have stopped coming. It’s probably for the best I suppose.

Clara Condon HATES magazines.

At least this is the impression I’ve gotten over the last few months. Even though my Childhood Reading is long gone, that doesn’t mean my mailbox isn’t a haven for catalogs from various furniture and fashion chains. Part of my nightly routine is to scoop up the little mag-wrecker and head downstairs and get the mail. For catalogs we have zero use for (Wine Enthusiast? Really?) they get pitched immediately. But for the ones that Katie may want to peruse, they get brought up to the fourth floor.

And promptly shredded.

That’s right – any magazine in reach of our daughter becomes ribbon fodder once she gets a hold of it. We’re not quite sure why it’s so much fun to rip sensibly priced furniture out of a greater marketing record, but she loves it. Conventional wisdom would say that magazines are well-constructed, and should be able to withstand the feeble attempts of a mere baby to part paper in half.

Conventional wisdom just got its butt handed to it by a nine-month old.

So as this holiday season approaches and the Condon household could use some extra scratch to buy presents, we’d like to offer the services of Clara, who for a small fee will gladly take your old copies of Redbook and produce some delightful packing material for all your shipping needs.

Operators are standing by (and likely have the phone in their mouth.)

Surprise! Live Blog!

There’s 1:34 left in the third quarter.

Originally, I had a plan to live blog the Eagles-Patriots game this evening. I figured that live blogs are at their funniest when the writer is at their absolute bitterest, so when the battered Green and White went to Foxboro, there’d be plenty of material. No one wants to read about how awesome your team is. This is why Bill Simmons has become unreadable as of late. With the Celtics atop the NBA, the Patriots being hailed as the best team of all life, and the Red Sox as your current World Champion baseball team, life is good for a fan. But when your columns are reduced how the refs sucked in a game you won over the Colts, maybe it’s time for a break.

End of the third quarter.

I was incredibly excited to watch Philly tonight. You know why? NO EXPECTATIONS WHATSOEVER. The Eagles have been a team of heartbreak and heart attacks this season. Every single game has come down to the waning minutes of the final quarter, win or lose. Every team they’ve played have been about as good as they are on paper – meaning no blowouts for better or for worse. My nerves can’t take this. I can’t hold Clara whilst watching a game – I don’t want her to grow up thinking I’m a psycho that yells at the colorful people on the moving picture box in the corner. So with the Patriots on the sched, all I had to do was sit back and watch the impending gridiron carnage.

Yeah, they’re going to lose this game. That’s been pre-ordained since God blessed Tom Brady’s parents with a son. Every analyst out there has spent nights trying to come up with a new way to verbally adore New England. The line at gametime was 24 points! Oh, and our franchise quarterback is sitting in his Delaware Valley house watching the game on television. Just keep it close, guys. Just keep it close.

12:02 left in the fourth quarter.

Hell, for the first half-hour I wasn’t even glued to the game. We were watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Why? Because on my Sunday nights I like to get in my weekly cry. But when commercials roll, I switch to the Foxboro telecast. You know, just in time to see backup quarterback A.J. Feeley giftwrap a pick-six for Asante Samuel. 7-0, Patriots, and Tom Brady hasn’t even been on the field. Nice work, A.J. But then they get the ball back and tie it up on an efficient drive. Sure, Brady gets a chance to make the lead seven once again. However, the Eagles are playing aggressively and keeping pace. 15 minutes have gone by, and the blowout is still being kept in the shed. Reid calls for a surprise onside kick, and it freakin’ works. (Of course, if Feeley had worn cleats tonight, maybe it wouldn’t have been for naught.

9:37 left in the fourth quarter.

Go to hell, Jabar Gaffney. Seriously. Yes, you had a nice TD catch right before the half, but do you really have the resume to pull out the taunting-flap-the-wings thing towards the Philly sideline? For those unfamiliar with Gaffney, he was cut last season by the Eagles during training camp. He was a complete failure, couldn’t learn the playbook, and rookies like Hank Baskett and Jason Avant blew by him on the depth chart. Yes, you latched on to the Pats and just scored a nice TD. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t suck when the Eagles cut you loose.

7:20 left in the fourth quarter.

So now I’m lying here on the floor with my eyes glued to a game I whose outcome I was not planning on sweating in the least. I’m live blogging a game that should have been won by 24 points…or more. And yet, the Eagles are down 3 and about to get the ball and they have a shot to shut up every analyst in the country at once. Granted, they’re losing and there’s not much time left, but it is still a possibility. You know, this is one of the reasons I’ve gotten so jaded with ESPN. A couple of years ago, the Leinart-Bush USC Trojans were obliterating everyone on their schedule, and they had a date in the National Championship Rose Bowl against Texas. Since it’s been eons between the end of the season and the major bowl season, Sports Center had to find a way to fill the time. So what did they do? They put USC in a fictional bracket against the all-time great college football teams and had their analysts – even the respectable ones – debate their way through a hypothetical playoff system. USC was eventually crowned the winner of this stupid exercise…

…only to lose to Vince Young and Texas the next day.

4:53 left in the fourth quarter.

And now, A.J. Feeley is marching the Eagles down the damn field. The nerves are back. If I wasn’t type to you all, I’d be pacing back and forth in this otherwise quiet apartment. I’d be knocking back Yuenglings. I’d be laughing maniacally with every time Reid calls Westbrook’s number on a screen.

Interception. Of course.

3:33 left in the fourth quarter.

The play of the game, as Al Michaels has put it, has come on a 3rd and 1. It’s true. Let’s actually live-blog it. YES! It appears that Matt Light was so excited about the notion of a live blog that he false started. It’s 3rd and 6. This doesn’t change much, but it helps. My heart has slowed to 190 beats per minute. And of course, it’s a first down to Jabar Freakin’ Gaffney.

2 minute warning.

So if this game ends in the loss column, as it appears it will, the Eagles go to 5-6. But you have to be optimistic about the rest of the way. 5 games left – Seattle, the Giants, and Buffalo at home, Dallas and New Orleans on the road. All winnable games. And we can at least count on the one thing – the NFC sucks.

31 seconds left.

Westbrook’s going to return this punt. For a touchdown. Blindfolded.

Or he could fumble that. 19 seconds left. I hope that laminated playcalling sheets have a play called “The Play that Wins the Game.” I would recommend running that play.

Interception again. Oh well.What did we learn tonight, boys and girls?

1. The Patriots are beatable.
2. Al Michaels wears a girly scarf.

In the Scandinavy

A good commercial can catch my eye and appreciation just like any television show. However, the truly elite ads are so few and far between, the only real feature commercials have earned on YAB are the annual Commies that immediately follow each Super Bowl. However, we’d like to take this webspace to promote, analyze, and ultimately, horribly discredit the latest effort from our friends at Citi.

(By friends, we mean current creditor in my wallet.)

I’m a Citi cardholder not out of advertising merit, but out of default. When I was in college, my dad filled out an application on my behalf, and it turns out that the company he chose is the one in line to hold the naming rights to the next Shea Stadium. You’d be surprised what naming rights can do for a sports fan. I like to think that being a Wachovia customer somehow helps out the Flyers from afar, and if not, I’m at least entitled to an orange foam finger. Am I happy with Citi as a credit card company? Sure, why not? Am I happy with their advertising accuracy? Read on.

First, there were those Citi Identity Theft commercials where normal looking people used creepy sounding voices to explain how they were victims of online fraud. (Especially disturbing is this one, where some guy details his shopping spree at the mall.) But hey, these were clever, and not a bad start on the road to making a name for themselves. After all, with the watershed campaigns enjoyed by MasterCard and Visa, it’s hard to be memorable. However, Citi took a wile step backwards when they decided that “hard-to-understand-European-business-guy” proclaiming the ease of earning rewards is the best way to generate new cardholders.

If it weren’t for what it would have done to my credit history, I almost switched thanks to that travesty.

I haven’t shopped at Old Navy in 9 years.

But, hey! It looks like Citi has turned the corner! With their latest ad, a son narrates a trip he and his father took to their homeland of Norway. For this commercial, Norway is an excellent choice. Why? Americans don’t know a ton about Norway. If it didn’t happen in the Lillehammer ’94 Winter Olympics, we don’t know about it. Norway doesn’t send us elite athletes, pop music, or affordable modular furniture. There is no Muppet culinary expert from Oslo. Norway is an open book, which is why we pay close attention to this commercial. Here’s the link. I’d watch it before proceeding.

Ok, so back to the commercial at hand. During this 30 second spot, the father and son do the following:

• “We drank a pint at Ibsen’s favorite pub.” Ah, Henrik Ibsen. I definitely went on a class trip in high school to see “Hedda Gabler.” What did I think of the play? If I had spent as much time thinking about the effects of anti-Victorian didacticism as Ibsen did, I would have had several favorite pubs.
• “We sampled the local fare.” The local fare includes fish heads. Note to chefs everywhere: there’s a reason God tried to make fish faces so damn creepy. Maybe we should take a hint, and I don’t know, not serve fish heads as food.
• “We saw the fjords.” If I ever went to Scandinavia, this is what I would want to visit. But I must confess. I’m a Chjevy man.
• “We got new sweaters.” This might be a good time to ask Karen if she plans on hosting her 3rd Annual Ugly Christmas Sweater party next month. Eesh.
  

And now, where it all comes crashing down for the commercial.“Until we went to the Hall of Records to trace our family tree. And discovered we we’re actually…Swedish.”

Ok, here’s my question. Did they look their family name up in the Norwegian Hall of Records and next to it, the book read, “Please see Swedish Hall of Records”?

That’s nice of Norway. Keeping tabs one everyone’s lineages, not just their own.