You're a Blog.

COOK MY CHICKEN

2009-02-24T08:41:00.007-05:00

"Yeah, I shot a bunch of footage around the office, edited it together on my Mac. Was thinking about entering it in some festivals. Probably won't. You know, not what this is about.

-- Michael Scott, The Office

------------------------------------------------------

Each Oscar video's backstory is completely unique from every other effort. Oscar Sunday, which was released in 2006, was a bold step with the intent to take Oscar Party to the next level. After all, why should we celebrate film, year after year, without produce some film of our own? It was pop-relevant, it was well-executed, and it was a complete surprise to the score of people that filled the apartment at Random Run Lane.

2007 was the winter where our lives unfolded. Clara was born a mere 12 days before Oscar Party 4, which was to be a small group of cinematic soldiers that braved the snow to meet in the billiards room of Fairfax Corner. As for my partner-in-film, his hands filled up planning his proposal to his wife. As it turns out, wedding bells and baby rattles can quickly drown out the call to get back behind the camera. But thanks to a quick script, an obsession of Lost, and Jon Rogers' ability to improvise, the Oscarma Initiative was unleashed.

Last year was a departure of one of our initial rules: focus the video on the Best Picture nominees. Short of Spud and I filming ourselves busting in to area McDonalds and drinking people's milkshakes, there wasn't a whole lot of material inherently within that quintet. But it allowed us to expand production values and scope and actually act a bit. We expanded the cast (enter Julie, Katie, Clara, Nordberg, and some guy Spud works with) in addition to Rogers, and The Strike was minted. And should I ever find a way to edit it down from 17 minutes, it too will one day show up on YouTube.

Which brings us to this year.

In early December I pitched an idea to Spud, mere days before we were to see each other in Charlotte for our annual Guys Trip with Nordberg and Dave. He met the idea with acceptance and expansion. It was green-lit. However, while it was months before the release date of 22 February, all the filming for such an endeavor had to get done during the aforementioned weekend, while not completely monopolizing the time we had reserved for important things like video games and sports.

With such a premise, it was easy to write jokes. But a series of jokes does not make a film; it makes a stand-up routine. So these jokes would have to be worked into a coherent story and script emblematic of the concept I initially pitched. Three days before the weekend, I had almost shuttered the project due to work and other responsibilities. However, Spud proved to be the storyboarder we needed. And then the writing came easily.

The one thing I can say to anyone looking to make movies of their own is to expand your capability. With each new effort, you should try to expand the techniques and facets of filmmaking. For example, this year we included:

A dolly-shot action sequence
The use of lighting
Timely sound editing

So without much more waxing, I invite fans of The Office and Superhero Movies to collide in a little film we call "The Condo." Enjoy.

25 Random Things About Rob Harford

2009-01-30T08:58:00.003-05:00

The current Facebook meme that has swept the Interwebs is the "25 Random Things About Me." It allows all those who choose to accept this mission in minutiae to share a quarter-century worth of facts to all those who know them online, whether it be their spouse or some kid they punched on the playground in the third grade. I have found these exercises in creativity to be good reads, as it forces people to be at their most random.

And everyone knows that Comedy's address is the Random House.

I was prepared to pen one of my own a few days ago, but than a blogging confidant wrote a counter argument to spreading popularity of this effort. I quote Rob Harford:

"This is a slight overreaction, but someone needs to say it. Why do I keep seeing these stupid "25 things about me" or "random songs on my playlist" notes all over the place on facebook lately?!?!?!Do you really find it that hard to express yourself that you need to do one of these lists?"

Harford goes on to make the case for people to tell stories, write effective arguments, and use creativity and depth. In essence, he's writing a prescription for more blogging. And while YAB has subscribed to these Points of Rob, we can still see the need for random lists such as the ones that have spread like wildfire. We live in America, Rob, and America's busy. We have little time for your old-world values like "exposition," "story development," and "paragraphs." Damn it, we need bullet points. If you don't have bullet points, then the terrorists have already won.

But as a tribute to the man who is willing to speak out against conformity, I hereby give you:

25 Random Things About Rob Harford

(note: I made up 5 of them. Let's see if you can guess which ones.)

1. His name is an acronym for Harbor Ford, an auto dealer in Englewood, FL.

2. Once played the role of "Joe Brescia" in Shawnee Group's unfinished Mafia Movie.

3. His whereabouts are perpetually unknown to Jasen Andersen.

4. Once had (and may still have) calves the size of chickens.

5. His favorite John Cusack movie is Must Love Dogs.

6. Is just waiting for the perfect moment to propose to Jennifer Love Hewitt.

7. Is a better Black Friday shopper than you will ever be.

8. Sneezes uncontrollably anytime someone says the word "Portugal."

9. Insists I'm hoarding a Hi-8 videotape of a DE camping trip.

10. Has based his Mafia innocence on the premise that he once had porn on his person.

11. Once had to adhere to a work dress code that involved a Hawaiian shirt.

12. Once ran a 110 High Hurdle Race in 14.5 seconds against Cherokee.

13. Is a nationally-ranked speed walker.

14. Has been known to bail out Chris Smith when Chris Smith offers to buy breakfast for everyone and then realizes he didn't bring his wallet.

15. Cried uncontrollably when Louie's grandmother died on the 90's cartoon "Life with Louie."

16. Drove my sister to high school every day for a year.

17. Had Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat hair.

18. Went against my advice and once was a member of Blockbuster's crappy online rental program.

19. The worst movies he has ever seen is The Fountain.

20. One of the best is Shaun of the Dead.

21. Was an extra in Starship Troopers 3: Back to the Minors.

22. Beat a man to death in Reno with a frisbee at dawn.

23. Shares a birthday with Maggie Gyllenhaal.

24. This does not make him Batman.

25. Will likely exact his revenge after he sees this.

Cond-nominations 2009

2009-01-21T17:23:00.004-05:00

You know why kids want to play on travel soccer teams? It's not the competition from neighboring townships, nor is it the bragging rights of representing your town. It has nothing to do with playing for a squad with an official name instead of a number (suck it, District 5). Travel team perks start and end with one thing: uniforms.

Upon making my first team, the Medford Warriors, at age 11, I hoped at every practice that the evening would conclude with a post-scrimmage distribution of jerseys. Going into it, I planned on doing whatever it took to get my favorite number at time: 9. Don't quite know why I was a fan of 9 - I don't remember being a huge Von Hayes or Pelle Eklund fan. But I was determined to don that digit. When the time came, I reached into the box and pulled out my 9. Was it really that easy? It certainly seemed so. You know, until I held up the shirt and saw my 9...

...was up-side down.

Since that moment, the number 6 has been my lucky number. Let's hope that the case with my 6th Annual Predictions of the Academy Award Nominations. Last year, I ended up with an average 32 out of 40. Here goes nothing...

Best Picture
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Frost/Nixon
Milk
Slumdog Millionaire

Best Director
Darren Aronofsky, The Wrestler
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Christopher Nolan, The Dark Knight

Best Actor
Clint Eastwood, Gran Torino
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Best Actress
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Sally Hawkins, Happy-Go-Lucky
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Meryl Streep, Doubt
Kate Winslet, Revolutionary Road

Best Supporting Actor
Josh Brolin, Milk
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Dev Patel, Slumdog Millionaire

Best Supporting Actress
Penelope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marissa Tomei, The Wrestler
Kate Winslet, The Reader

Best Original Screenplay
Happy-Go-Lucky
Milk
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
WALL-E
The Wrestler

Best Adapted Screenplay
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Doubt
Frost/Nixon
Slumdog Millionaire

Drowning in the Baby Pool

2009-01-09T08:59:00.005-05:00

In my list of New Year's Resolutions, I have to admit that one of them begs for a a backstory:

12. Avoid any further wagers as to whether or not a friend or colleague is potentially pregnant. I'm folding my hand on that one for now.

You can stop your groveling, Number 12. For the backstory follows, in the form of an e-mail I sent to one Jasen Andersen shortly after the incident. Enjoy.

-----------------------------------

Jasen, I have a confession to make.

So at the beginning of November, I headed back to NJ for a funeral for Christina Toms' father. Much of my high school group also made said trip. As Christina is delivering her beautiful eulogy of her father, Kristen Morea (of DtK fame) teared up to the point where she had to sit down. Her husband tended to her, and after gaining the strength, she returned to the group.

En route to the burial, the topic of Kristen's self-excusal from standing arose. While Kristen's explanation was that she simply overheated (it was a tad warm in the church), one Karen Yelito opined: "Kristen's totally pregnant."

The skeptic and brother-sister rival in me immediately called Karen a heretic and explained that it was indeed what Kristen said it was - a mere moment of emotion and humidity colliding. While there have been a run of pregnancies in the Shawnee Group as of late, I felt that a mere need for some air does not automatically dictate a child in utero. Karen's response?

"Oh, you wanna bet?"

So we bet.

There's no point in betting unless you can win something you really want, so I called it: "If Kristen does not produce a child by 1 August next year, I win. You will have to buy me Wawa food and deliver it to my door in Virginia." Karen accepted. And since I was so sure of my correctness, I pretty much agreed to whatever terms she wanted. After all, it's not like I'd have a need to pay up. "If Kristen is pregnant, you need to visit me in Maryland and you must bring Jasen Andersen along." I accepted. Then Karen got greedy:

"And Liz Grimm."

"No." The bet was already final.

This week, we get an e-mail to our listserve:

So Kristen & I figured we'd follow the crowd and also let everyoneknow that Kristen is pregnant as well. She is due June 15th. Too soonto know the gender but everything is going great so far.

My immediate resply to Karen: SONOFABITCH.

Post-script: So Jasen has agreed to bail me out (with the help of Grimm) as we head to Maryland sometime in the New Year. In other news, I'm still craving Wawa.

It's the Final Walkdown

2009-01-06T14:52:00.004-05:00

Who names a band after a continent, anyway?

Welcome back to your place of work. Did you have a nice vacation? Lord knows I sure did. Get something good for Christmas? I know I did. Little did I know that when I asked Santa to bring me a "Massive Peter King Meltdown of Seismic Proportions," he'd come through in the clutch. I guess you can count on a jolly fat man this time of year.

Both of them.

But before we get to the results, let's rant a bit. As my Facebook status broadcasted the Monday following the season's end, "MERRY FOOTBALL CHRISTMAS," Week 17 was indeed a time for the stars to align. First and foremost, the Eagles made the playoffs because 1) they steamrolled the damn Dallas Cowboys, the 2) Houston Texans hosted an improbably victory over the Bears, and 3) the Oakland Raiders (?!?) went to (!?!) Tampa Bay and won (!!!), thereby sending Philly to the postseason. What's more - the Redskins lost to end 8-8 and the Dolphins defeated the Jets at the Meadowlands to send the Patriots unfairly home for January. Talk about a Christmas miracle.

The day following, Peter King let me down. Again.

After all, his favorite topics all backfired on that fateful Sunday: Brett Favre proved yet again that closing one's eyes and throwing deep rarely wins football games, the Patriots off-season speculation as to the rehab of Thomas Brady, and Peyton Manning played a series and then sat the rest of the game against the Titans. And somehow, King focuses his attention on how Rod Marinelli's a good guy.

But what is overlooked in all this is the fact that in a week in which the Predictorate AVERAGED a 12-4 week, Peter King goes 9-7. Hey everybody, here's a massive 3-game gift to close out your season. And boy did it help turn the tide.

Week 17 Podium
Everyone's a winner this week, but especially Greg Winsky, who went 14-2. Just like Charlie Manuel, this guy knows how to finish. Going 13-3? Just about everyone else.

Did I mentioned PK went 9-7?

Hey, We Dethroned the King!

JOSH STOCK (173-82) +11 over PK, -2 under 2007 -- Despite being 2 games off his 2007 mark, Stock took control of the top spot in Week 12 and never looked back. How can someone so good at picking winner not understand how to work the e-mail? Congrats, Josh. E-mail me your address for your wicked sweet prize.
ROB HARFORD (171-84) +9 over PK, punted in 2007 -- In his e-mails to me, Harford was always one to question the Vegas spreads and explain rationally how Sin City is trying to drive him mentally insane. Rob was a Top 5 stalwart all year and clearly the Mayor of Blogtown.
CHRIS CONDON (170-85) +8 over PK, +3 over 2007 -- Vindicated. Way to get your bronze on.
ALEX PYKE (168-87) +6 over PK, +19 over 2007 -- An improvement of nearly 20 games? Maybe you should have a child every football season, Pyke.
KATIE CONDON (167-88) +5 over PK, -14 under 2007 -- Who new picking favorites and home teams in close games could yield consistently stellar results? Also, Nordberg thinks she's a witch.
(5th) MIKE NORDBERG (167-88), +5 over PK, +3 over 2007 -- Nordbergs do their best when picking a week in advance when going on vacation with limited internet access. I guess Mike vacations a hell of a lot more than Chris.
(5th) LIZ ARSENAULT (167-88) +5 over PK, +1 over 2007 -- With every pick sheet, Liz is always kind enough to wish me well or ask how things are. For 17 weeks, I ignored her in the name of statistical tabulation. To which I now replay: I am well, Liz. Thanks for asking!
STEWART ROBINETTE (166-89) +4 over PK, +1 over 2007 -- No man has perfected the "My Out-of-Office Message is Up, but I'm totally sitting at my desk waiting for this week's Pick Sheet" better than Mr. Robinette
(8th) KRISTIN FISCHER (166-89) +4 over PK, -1 under 2007 -- Kristin always emails her picks to her husband via carbon copy when submitting. It's like she's taunting him.
STEVE PHILLIPS (165-90) +3 over PK, +6 over 2007 -- And what's more - he won our Condon Fantasy League this year. Welcome to the Club, Commish.
JIM CONDON (164-91) +2 over PK, Rookie -- Jim checks in at 11 as the highest ranked rookie of the year. He's our Matt Ryan, you know, if Matt Ryan lived in upstate New York and looked frightenly similar to my father.
JON ROGERS (164-91) +2 over PK, +13 over 2007 -- Don't Mess with Texas.
ROB THOMPSON (163-92) +1 over PK, Rookie -- Thanks to the Chargers Sunday night win vs. Denver, you came out on top. Congrats.

Here lies PETER KING at 162-93. Since Peter King follows professional football for a living, and you, well, don't, we give the tie to the Predictorate. This allows us to welcome these two into our Winner's Circle.:

T-14. JACQUES ARSENAULT (162-93), EVEN, +1 over 2007 and DAVE REIF (162-93), EVEN, Rookie

As for the rest of the field:

JOHN CONDON (161-94), -1 under PK, +5 over 2007
JASEN ANDERSEN (160-95) -2 under PK, -3 under 2007
GREG WINSKY (160-95) -2 under PK, Rookie
JEFF COLLINS (159-96) -3 under PK, -7 under 2007
DAN ENTWISTLE (158-97) -4 under PK, Rookie
TIM FISCHER (158-97) -4 under PK, -4 under 2007
DAN JENKINS (158-97) -4 under PK, Rookie
NORDBERG (157-98) -5 under PK, Rookie
MARK RITTER (157-98) -5 under PK, +1 over 2007
SPUD MELLOR (157-98) -5 under PK, -4 under 2007
KRISTEN MOREA (156-99) -6 under PK, -14 under 2007
MATTIAS CARO (156-99) -6 under PK, -7 under 2007
CHRIS SMITH (151-104) -11 under PK, Rookie
BROOKE JENKINS (149-106) -13 under PK, Rookie
JOE DUNKLEMAN (147-108) -15 under PK, Rookie

THERE'S NO I IN TEAM, BUT THERE IS ME

Congrats to the two-headed monster of Time Zone Rebellion, defeating Blogtown by 3.5 games. I guess it pays to have your score count 50% when you're in first place. Raquette Ballers placed third, followed by Hello McFly and DC United (tie), First Wives Club, Disciples of Chris, 36th and Asbury, Manhattan Transfer, Heels of Tar, and Renegade FC.

Congrats on a great season, and we'll see you all next year. I'll be in contact with our winners.

The Resolute 59

2009-01-01T19:06:00.004-05:00

Looking back in the archives, I haven't been one for New Year's Resolutions. I've been one for grammatical variances, I've been one for statistical reflection, and at a complete lack of ideas for novel change, I'm sure I've been one for closing the daily blogging gap. The Second Coming of YAB looks back at those efforts fondly, but finds them devoid of any actual commitment to change.

So for 2009, we stop hiding behind creative prose and comedic devices and actually lay out this list of New Years' Resolutions. Since we're only 19 hours into 2009, it's probably not too late to compile a compendium of wishful thoughts and pipe dreams. Let's get our list on.

Come up with a better name than the Second Coming of YAB. Writing is hard enough; I don't need a God complex on my watch.
Put up decorative shelving in the master bath and a dome light in the master bedroom. And thus, vanquish the dreaded "Punchlist Projects."
Wait. That was two. Ok, the dome light is number 3.
Go through my clothes and donate to a worthy cause. Or at the very least, an unworthy cause with convenient collection locales.
Prevent all people I know from using 0-Ten for a shortened version of the year 2010. That's not gonna fly.
Document on paper or blog something on witnessing the first Philly sports championship since I was 3.
Lose a total number of pounds that correspond with the jersey number of a kicker or single-digit quarterback.
Do my part to make Melt Your Face-Off a Top 3 Hockey Blog on the Internets.
Not break a single pair of sunglasses.
Retroactively get hooked on Friday Night Lights.
Retroactively watch every episode of The West Wing for the first time.
Avoid any further wagers as to whether or not a friend or colleague is potentially pregnant. I'm folding my hand on that one for now.
Own and read 4 biographies of former United States Presidents.
Cut together the funniest Oscar Video yet, leaving only emergency reshoots for Oscar weekend.
Document in every way possible the ever-evolving childhood of Clara Grace.
Make sure she's a lefty.
Lose a total number of pounds that correspond with the jersey number of a wide receiver too cool to wear a number in the eighties.
Finally watch Schindler's List and Chariots of Fire, two Best Pictures I've owned for years and never watched.
Reward those who have Dethroned the King over the last two years with proper prizes and accolades.
Drive an Audi.
Drive a Volkswagen.
Daydream about driving a Bugatti.
Expand my prowess in the sports blogging community.
Teach Clara Col. Jessup's "You Can't Handle the Truth" monologue from a Few Good Men.
Remember people's birthdays.
Buy Katie flowers for no apparent reason at least three times this year.
Organize my mp3s, and once and for all decide what my favorite song is.
Organize my DVDs, and once and for all decide what my favortie movie is.
See a Flyers game at the Wachovia Center.
Return some dinner invitations for once and host friends here in Centreville.
Abolish the phrase "cool beans" in all circles of communication.
Replace my cell phone.
In the spirit of Mookie, name my work laptop.
Lose a total number of pounds that correspond with the jersey number of a defensive back or running back.
Run a six minute mile.
Not die after running a six minute mile.
Teach Clara either calculus or how to ride a tricycle.
Begin learning German.
Not allow laundry to pile up in front of my dresser.
Go skiing.
Attend Guys Trip VIII.
Occasionally cross-post at The Virginia Condons.
Visit a new state.
Wear a watch.
Learn to cook ribs on the grill.
Make it to the CAN Final Four in softball come August.
Lose a total number of pounds that correspond a number greater than my age.
Take Katie out to a nice dinner.
Cook Katie a nice dinner.
Win some free food by throwing my business card in the fishbowls of local dining establishments.
Convince one friend or family member to drive a Volkswagen or Audi.
See Number 50, Mom.
Meet another member of our MYFO Staff in person.
Go to a concert at Wolf Trap.
Lose this number of pounds.
Keep my leased cars immaculate in presentation.
Find a Wawa within an 8 mile radius of my house.
Get paid to blog.
End this list on a random, unexpected number.

Rock Back and Fire

2008-12-31T22:46:00.001-05:00

In 101 minutes, 2009 will be here. The year 2009 will bring upon the 5th Anniversary of You're a Blog. Who feels old now? (Jamie Moyer, put your hand down.)

In the early days of YAB, my writing was constrained by many parameters. For one, I was leading a life that endured more repetition that your average episode of Scrubs. (Only with less life lessons set to the music of Jack Johnson or The Fray.) I had a regular office job, lived in a regular apartment, and drove a regular car in regular traffic. I rooted for above-average sports teams, shopped for a regular list of groceries on a regular basis, and had a regular sleep schedule where I slept regularly in the same place in my regular apartment every night.

Okay, scratch the last one.

In this blog's infancy, I aimed to be different despite all above the above regularities. And in most cases in this world, "difference" can be defined by an adherence to a bare minimum of rules and standards. And yet, it was the Rules and Standards that I set for YAB that forced my template for bringing the funny. Some of these rules included:

Blogging on a daily basis, meaning every single weekday including the occasional "observed Monday" holiday.
Missing one of these clearly defined blogging days results in working harder on a subsequent day, blogging multiple times.
A complete refusal to report or blog about something that the news media has already done the work on. If you want to know what's going on in the world, read CNN.
A complete refusal to achieve reader traffic by artificial means, such as e-mail blasting, linking to places for a free pingback, and skywriting. Oh, how I loathe the skywriting.
Posts must be at least 500 words. You know, because verbosity is the soul of wit.
Always strive to be funny.
Always strive to not be not funny.

You see how complex I made being "different?" With these many rules, I could probably put together an excellent romantic comedy script for the likes of Greg Kinnear and Sandra Bullock by now.

So now, a mere 92 minutes before 2009 is upon us, I've decided to return. What caused this? Bad Chinese?

(I'm no racist.)

You can attribute this second coming to two people, whether they know it or not. Let's review their casefiles. (Fictitious middle names have been added to protect the innocent.)

Robert Eugene Rockhound Harford - Of all the people who I led out of the darkness and into the blogging world, Rob has been the closest mirror image I've had. I'm sure somewhere in my archives I can pull that national anthem I wrote for his blog as proof. The nice thing about Rob is he never forgets. Whether it's a subtle jab at my inactivity or an incessant thirst for some Hi-8 videotape I have buried in a box from a 2003 camping trip, he remembers. He could be an almanac, you know, if almanacs had calves the size of whole chickens.
Frances Santana Moss Reynolds - (heck, just using her real first name has rendered her anonymous) It may have been a simple compliment at a Christmas party, but it meant more than you know. Thanks for reading.

So here we are. 83 minutes from an epic match between a giant crystal ball and gravity and I'm giving it another run. Gone are many of the rules that led to this blog's crushing demise. Here to stay are some new...guidelines.

Any time your color scheme matched that of an 0-16 football team, it's time to tweak.
I'll leave the Daily gig to Jon Stewart. Be prepared for exciting bouts of sporadic regularity!
I can't believe what I'm about to type: PROPER TIME AND DATE STAMPING.
Crossposting to Facebook, so random classmates from middle school can be in the know.
Did I mention the PROPER TIME and DATE STAMPING?

You know why Phillies' pitcher Brett Myers was so effective in the playoffs after a tumultuous season that saw him eating on a Triple-A per diem in July? He stopped thinking about how to pitch and what he had to do with each and every pitch. He stopped adhering to rules. He rocked back and fired.

Not a bad mantra for 2009. This is going to be fun.

A Vote and a Smile

2007-10-16T10:39:00.003-04:00

(originally posted 8/29/08)

Holy crap, it’s dusty in here.

As you may or may not have noticed, YAB has been on a sabbatical since, well, May. I’d like to say that it was because something awesome was going on in my life that prevented me from writing on a regular basis here in Blogspotville – but it’s just not the case. Work has been busy, despite every auto industry-related newspaper article would lead you to believe. But to come back now – on an idle Friday just before Labor Day – would give you reason to believe that I’m ready to return to entertaining family and friends on the nuances of married/parental/homeownered life. Any return to the scene probably means I’ve got something big to write about that warrants immediate publication.

Wrong.

You know as well as I do that I don’t write about politics much. I live in a region so saturated with Capitol Hillbillies that my neighbors in traffic do the work for me. But it’s an election year, and therefore, let’s consider this my quadrennial piece of punditry.

This week, the Democratic National Convention has been the story, what with their successful invasion of Denver and their subsequent displacement of up to three professional sports teams. (Meanwhile, the Rockies are bunkered up in their dugout, poised to take a Louisville Slugger to the knees of anyone who comes near them with a five-foot tall placard with their state’s name on them. I support political conventions.

It gives Jon Stewart all the material he needs.

But as the DNC has drawn to a close, the Republicans have taken the nation’s focus with the news that candidate John McCain has selected his running mate. Good for him. And while it appears that he’s in no hurry to reveal the identity of said running mate, rumors are that his chosen one has their mail delivered in the crucial swing state of Alaska.

Probably like you, I’m not one who just clicks through news links that are sent to me in e-mail. Therefore, I know not the name of the GOP’s appointed second fiddle. And like I said, I’m busy at work these days. So rather than do my due diligence – we’re just going to assume what everyone’s ready to assume.

The Republican VP candidate is a Polar Bear.

Like I said, there are probably several logical reasons why the above statement isn’t a valid one. Polar Bears may not actually live in Alaska. The life span of polar bears may be below 35 years. With migratory patterns between Alaska and Siberia or gasp, Canada, the US of A may not be their place of citizenship. But my fellow Americans, I assure you this:

This would guarantee the Presidency for John McCain.

Hell yes, I’ve got reasons.

Polar Bears are Bears, and thereby, score high in Adorability. Coca-Cola makes a point to remind us of this every holiday season. And just because a baby polar bear can't muster the dexterity in his paws to open a tiny glass bottle of cola, does NOT mean he can't step in the Commander-in-Chief role should something happen to his running mate.
Polar Bears can also be MEAN. There's something at the negotiation table about mauling that gets policy done. Polar bears are tough on crime, tough on foreign policy, tough on illegal fishing. Toughness is a good characteristic for a VP to have.
Soft and furry coat takes focus of whiteness off McCain's dome.
As good as a selection Joe Biden is, I don't like him in the Vice Presidential debate against a Polar Bear.
Polar Bears who are forced to wear a suit and tie, are by definition, hilarious.
PB and J - how's that for a campaign banner?

Hate Mail from Garden Gnomes

2007-10-15T09:01:00.003-04:00

(Originally posted: 5/29/08)

One of the things you have to do when you switch from one job to another is make sure you leave nothing behind. Part of this is obvious, and actual. When you close the door to that old office for the last time, make sure you have taken every last personal item with you. What if I had accidentally left my diploma from GW sitting on the shelf? The next person to fill the position may accidentally assume they have gotten their MBA and start managing things they are far from qualified for. Won’t you be sorry when you here your old office building has been trampled by a fleet of angry zoo animals because some lackey in your old job signed a spend approval above his pay grade?

Note: That would be the best spend approval EVER.

But not only are your personal belongings things you can load into a box and throw in the back of your car, you also have to deal with the virtual belongings. After 5 years, do you realize how many things can be tied to your e-mail address? Answer: Eleventy billion. Just think about all the automated bill statements you have. If you lose visibility into this e-mail address, you better count on bankruptcy court. Because you will never be able to pay another bill ever in the history of forever. Period.

(Yes, I know this seems like an ideal scenario. But so is running water and electricity.)

In order make sure this didn’t happen, I wrote an e-mail to just about every address of friend and family I could think of, to ensure that our interwebbian communication will not cease on account of me decided to work for a different firm with a blue logo. It follows…(wait for it)…now.

Dear Everybody I've Ever Met,

I am writing to let you know that after today, you will no longer be receiving e-mail from me at this address. After all, today is my last day at SAIC. I've accepted a new position with the corporate office of Volkswagen-Audi, which from their web site, seems to be a small German firm that manufactures road vehicles. I've always had an entrepreneurial spirit, and I look forward to contributing at a small enterprising start-up. I start Monday. My German needs work.

From this desk, I've written (briefly counts "Sent Items") eleventy billion e-mails in the last 5+ years. And if you're receiving this, you've probably been on the receiving end of at least one of them. Well, if you receive an e-mail from this address after today, it's not from me. Barring the unlikely possibility that this company hires someone with my exact name over the weekend, it probably won't happen anyway. But if it does, beware.

That e-mail would be from a Chris Condon imposter.

Chris Condon imposters can't be treated lightly. For one, they're shorter than me more times than not. If there's anything I learned in life, you don't trust short people. (I already have a list of 7 people in my head who will no doubt be e-mailing me to argue.)

AND SCENE!

And judging from the overwhelming response, I lowballed that one. Try 14 people. If their ringleader, whose name is an anagram for “MINI SHORT CATS” ever gets them organized, we could have one serious pint-sized rebellion on our hands.

Das Question?

2007-10-12T10:13:00.001-04:00

(Originally posted: 5/7/08)

I realize that yesterday’s introduction to working at VW left a lot of questions, considering it’s kind of major news that was casually slipped into a sporadically-written comedy blog. So in the spirit of full disclosure, here is a question and answer session that was recently held sometime recently somewhere inside my brain.(Note: This method of information was perfected by Rob Thompson back in our One Accord days. If you’re reading this, consider it a homage, rather than an obvious swipe of a brilliant idea.)

Were you looking for a new job?
Answer: Yes, I was, albeit passively. Forget soccer, the most grueling test of endurance in the world is coming home from one job and spending your evening on a computer looking for a different job. For the past two years since I had completed my MBA, this ultimately was always the plan. But as I described in my interviews, Life happened. We had a baby. We bought a townhouse. We painted a townhouse (We did not paint a baby.) So two years removed from grad school, I’m finally moving on.

Are you moving to Michigan? The Lions kinda suck.
Point taken. No, it appears that they’ve decided to come to me. Obviously, Detroit is the automotive capital of our country. Not only does it serve as home to the Big 3 (Ford, GM, Chrysler), their tiny German neighbor, Volkswagen, was nestled in the confines of Auburn Hills. (Note: not actually hills, nor the color auburn.) No longer wanting to be in their shadow, VW decided on a move. And because of this area’s surplus of tall, left-handed hockey fans, they decided to move to Herndon, Virginia. That’s where I come in.

Was this a promotion for you?
In terms of level or promotion, and in reference to my old position, I’m now my former supervisor’s supervisor. I jumped two levels, in essence. From my experience, I find that this is rather difficult to accomplish. Take Super Mario Brothers for instance. When you are little midget Mario (LMM), you can jump and barely land atop that low level row of mysteriously floating bricks. If you are fortunate enough to get a mushroom, you grow to be twice your size. That aforementioned jump just got a lot easier. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, Mario acid trips on a bouncing star and your athletic abilities heighten to the point where you can leap tall building in a single bound. That’s what an MBA can get you. It’s the Acid Trip Star of the Job Market.

Wow, that’s an unusual analogy.
Wow, that’s not actually a question.

Sorry. So what do you do now?
My official title is Financial Consultant for Corporate Group Functions. So I consult. Consulting is a magical term that features all the expertise with none of the chopping block. You provide the best financial analysis, reporting, and planning skills you can to the managers to which you are responsible, and then, disappear in a cloud of smoke. Of course, I’m still in training, so I haven’t had time to order a carton of Smoke Clouds from the Office Depot catalog. As for the Corporate Group Functions part, just assume it’s a set of a budgets of departments that are required to have a business. You know, like Marketing, and IT, and Pyrotechnics.

Where you workin’, homeslice?
Don’t get sassy with me, Inner Monologue. I now work in Herndon, VA, right on the Dulles Toll Road (not to be taken literally, I’m not in an insurance commercial with Dennis Haysbert.) It’s an easy drive in to the city from here, and it’s a better commute than to Tyson’s Corner. Besides, I was growing tired of Tyson’s complacency. Dude, Tyson, when are you going to get off your butt and try and annex more of a geometric shape? Corners are for slacker. I want to see you push yourself and annex a whole side. Oh, I love your chicken, too.

Condons Wanted.

2007-10-11T17:22:00.005-04:00

(Actual post: 5/5/08)

You see what I did there? I used the grammatical gift of parenthesis to let you know when I actually wrote this. That way, I can re-initiate my pipe dream of destroying the back dating whilst giving you all a timely reminder of when the below happenings were actually scribed. It’s the best of both worlds.

Anyways, this is more of an update posting than anything. Many things have changed around here since I last wrote. First off, the very nature of “here” has been, in the words of one William Smith, “all turned, flipped upside-down.”

Surely your remember the four-letter acronym contractor (that is, they are an acronym, they do not contract acronyms) that employed me for the past five and quarter years? As it turns out, I do not work there anymore. For I have moved on to my next position, which probably has a lot to do with the embedded graphic I’ve used.

Yes, I am now working at a new acronym, this time only two letters. And the current two letter and the former four letter are mutually exclusive, meaning I’ve now been employed by six of the twenty-six letters in the alphabet (how’s that for a career aspiration?) In full, my new place of employment is Volkswagen Group of America. From my research, it seems to be a small German firm that manufactures road vehicles. I’ve always had an entrepreneurial spirit, and I look forward to contributing at a small enterprising start-up. I started a fortnight ago. My German needs work.

Aside from talking Beetles, we’ve got other cars to. Some fast facts:

Audi: Audi is the official car sponsor of your current box office champion, Iron Man. You think Robert Downey Jr. is impressive? Go see this movie and tell me that the Audi Q7 (the SUV) isn’t unstoppable. Your mother’s SUV has 11 cup holders, how quaint. My company’s SUV RUNS OVER SUPERHEROES. I win.

Bentley: I figured by now I would have met P. Diddy. With all the free pub he gives this small English branch of our company, he’s got to have an office around here somewhere. Speaking of our office, the company is in the process of moving HQ from Michigan to Virginia. It’s still pretty empty here. Mo’ cubicles, mo’ problems.

Bugatti: Our annual sales target for this brand is 30 cars. That’s right. Thirty. When each car costs eleventy billion, it makes for a keen profit margin.

Lamborgini: The other night, I had to stop at 7-11 to pick up some drinks for a dinner party we were hosting. As I was about to leave, a candy red Lambo pulled into the parking lot. Something inside me questioned the need of a Lamborghini target market member to shop at 7-11. But I guess Slurpees have no need for class wars.

So, like I said, it’s been two weeks in, and I’m loving the new job. I’m out in Herndon now, which makes for a nice home commute but a trickier softball commute. That’s okay, though. The latter one allows me to swing an aluminum bat at other stupid drivers. I'm back, baby.

My Morning Prayer

2007-10-10T13:23:00.003-04:00

Dear God,

Much like a box of cereal insists, I wanted to let you know, Lord, that I have both a question and a comment this morning. First off, I want to thank You for allowing me to make it all the way to Clara’s day care this morning in the HOV-2 lane without the Virginia State Police pulling me over to do a passenger count. You have no idea how often this happens. (Oh wait. Omniscience. I forgot. You know exactly how often this happens.) Secondly, I would like you to mess with Susan Gibbs of the Archdiocese of Washington this morning. Can you make this happen? Nothing major, far from a smiting. You know, just something hilarious. How about when she’s in a staff meeting this morning and stops to take a sip of coffee, you’ve turned that coffee into mayonnaise. That sounds about right. Anyway, keep up the good work, what with all the management of the Universe and such.

In Your Name I humbly blog,
Chris

As I’ve no doubt touched on before, one of the central tenets of my belief structure about God involves Him having an incredible sense of humor. Not to reiterate, but there’s too much that happens in a coincidental uproarious way in life to think the contrary. He can appreciate a good joke/prank/rambling blog with a Detroit Lions color scheme. And what’s more? God likes Himself some good Capitalism. After all, if he decided to give humankind the Achilles’ Heel of Free Will, you better believe He’d subscribe to an economic system where man inherently is designed to act in his own best self-interest.

You know what an off-shoot of capitalism is? Marketing.

So when the worlds of comedy and capitalism collide, you know you’ve got a winner in God’s eyes. And a winner we had in the DC Metro (WMATA)’s commercial to encourage people to take public transportation to the Papal Mass that will be held in Nationals Park in a few weeks. Considering the parking situation over there, it’s a good idea, and if you’re going, you should probably adhere.

Check out the video….here.

The attention to detail in this 107-second only for the Internet's ad is truly excellent. The Car and Pontiff mag our first metro rider is reading is expertly crafted, the Latin chanting of all dialogue is nearly perfect, and even the appearance of the Arlington Catholic Herald in the background is a nice touch. Aside from the fact that the Metro is 238% less crowded than usual, it’s a spot-on pre-enactment.

(DELETED SCENE: Pope using divine intervention to solve the Sudoku in the Post Express paper.)

Now, the ads have been pulled, thanks to our villain Susan Gibbs. From the Post:

"Our concern is that this was a bad bobblehead," said Susan Gibbs, a spokeswoman for the Archdiocese of Washington. "You had unauthorized merchandise, and you had a misdressed pope."

To my knowledge, bobbleheads are incapable of sin. So what’s so bad about them? Ok, so apparently Popes don’t wear red skull caps, and their choice of cape color may also be misguided. But seriously?

Anyways, it shall live on in YouTube infamy, and more people will see it now then before BECAUSE of the controversy, so it appears God intends to have the last laugh. (Psstt…MAYONAISE IN THE COFFEE.)

In the meantime, be careful how you treat your Bobblehead Pope. Just because he can’t say no doesn’t mean you can ask for all the plenary indulgences you wish.

Where's your Gold Star?

2007-10-09T09:59:00.002-04:00

The following is a step-by-step instruction list on “How to Brag About Your Kid.”

Have a kid.
Make sure she’s awesome.
Brag.

See, with only three steps, you can be one of those people who always can proudly enter unrelated social conversations and somehow steer the dialogue towards the excellence of your offspring. The only problem? The market’s flooded with charlatans and other lying types. Not everybody’s kid is awesome. If everybody’s kid was awesome, that would mean that twenty years from now, all adults would be awesome. We would live in a world without problems, disease, depression, paparazzi, and crappy relief pitching. But we know this not to be true. In fact, this world is far from it. I can say this, despite being an optimist. So where does the formula not compute?

Most parents are liars.

If you’re going to tour your kid as awesome, you better have proof. Just like any court of opinion, hard evidence is required in order to substantiate your claim of youthful grandeur. Now me? I wouldn’t come to a knife fight without a knife, so the mere action of introducing this as a blog topic means I’ve got the dagger to back it up. That’s right, you Interweb skeptics.

My kid is awesome. And I have proof.

Every now and then, Katie and I need to rely on a back-up daycare program that my company provides. In case your regular day care option in unavailable, I can take Clara to Bright Horizons, a center designed for sporadic use. All you have to do is 1) provide a child, 2) give them feeding and sleeping instructions, and 3) pray to God that you don’t get a phone call during the day because she ate a crayon. All in all, we’ve used them about 6 or 7 times this year and we’re very pleased with the service. And what’s more, they’ve given us the proof that Clara is awesome. How?

She gets a report card.

That’s right, I’ve got awesome documented. Ok, sure, it’s for informational purposes mainly – listing feeding times, food choices, sleep schedule and all – and this is helpful as parents. But down in the “From my teacher” section, it’s an open-ended insight into the awesomeness of Clara. I’ll translate for you.

“Clara loves the stacking cups, balls, and shape pieces. (There isn’t a single geometric shape that Clara doesn’t dominate.) She explored all the toys in the room. (It’s a shame she wasn’t born 500 years ago, Africa would have been discovered by Vasco da Clara.) She played Peek-a-Boo through the tunnel on the crawler. (you know, after destroying all the teachers in a game of Risk where she managed dominate despite having to start in Europe. And by Peek-A-Boo, we mean “Strategic Recon”, a game she plays that her Uncle Mark taught her.) She also played hide and seek around the tunnel. (That’s right. Hide AND Seek. Not Hide and Take a Nap in your Hiding Place. Versatility, baby.) We read books and sang songs. (Simultaneously! That’s how she rolls. She also wrote a mini-musical featuring her stuffed bunny, and it was about man’s longing for social acceptance but at the expense of ethical decisions. She ran out of time, so it’s only two acts. But hey, if your kid drew some lines on a paper, that’s art, too.)”

I hope Timmy Eats Them

2007-10-08T14:35:00.001-04:00

Nice try, Visa. I’m onto you.

A few months back, I took your rival, Citi, to task on your egregious logic drain in your commercial by which a couple of wayward Swedes had to check a book of Norwegian genealogy to find out they were in fact, Swedish. I know that you’re behind the marketing 8-ball, considering MasterCard will long be remembered as THE ad campaign to end all credit card ad campaigns. As second fiddle, just trying to keep up, okay?

Now prior to MasterCard’s “Priceless” commercials took over, Visa’s “For everything else, there’s Visa” was considered the toast of the Madison Avenue credit division. They had people traveling the world, comfortable that they could always count on their little blue card to get them out of a financial jam. And since Visa’s omnipresence (more so than American Express and MC) remains true, there’s no reason to move from this campaign.

Life Takes Visa?

Ok, that’s decent enough. However, if you’re going to take your production values up a notch, let’s make sure you avoid the logic errors that botched Citi’s tour of Scandinavia.

I give you the Visa Cinema Card spot.

From a conceptual standpoint, it’s damn clever. Getting into a movie in time to see the previews is an oft-admired goal; however, the slowness of lines and idiocy of theatre workers often prevent you from achieving it. Therefore, the premise that paying with cash takes too much damn time, and a Visa card could prevent such a slowdown is clever. Throw in an action-adventure theme and original score, and you’re commercial should be a home run.

Should be…

There are two things I choose to highlight. One of them will be humorous. The other will be damning.

1 – The Humorous – As our heroic couple looks up to the clock shortly after purchasing their tickets, we get notice one of the names of the film this Futuristic Movieplex (FUTUREPLEX) is currently offering. I’m not saying that it’s their film of choice, but I give you – TIMMY THE GRIZZLY. Now, I’ve never had to name a grizzly bear in my current line of work, but I have to think “Timmy” isn’t on the top of my list. Are you afraid of a grizzly named Timmy? What, are you afraid he may do a little dance and make you a sandwich?

2 – The Damning – There’s one minute to go once our esteemed couple buys their tickets. However, since Mr. Cheapskate must have not taken his ladyfriend to dinner, they are destined to hit up the refreshment stand. Where must they go? Of course. UPSTAIRS. The Futureplex has 38 screens, multiple floors, and somehow, the only place to buy some Twizzlers is up a flight of stairs. I find this hard to believe. But hey, maybe there were budget cutbacks since the theatre builders spent half the budget on a life-size bronze bust of Timmy the Grizzly in the lobby.

HOWEVER…

I would like you to check out the background of the shot at two the shot at 24 seconds. As Captain Popcorn (who I might add, ends up with different food between leaving the concession stand and the balcony) swings from the rafters with snacks and girlfriend in hand, he lands on the ground. And for a split second, when the camera remains wide, there APPEARS TO BE A CONCESSION STAND ON THE FIRST FLOOR. Now, the evidence may be inconclusive, but I believe in the back right of the shot would be a perfect place to have purchased some snacks.

But hey, adventure’s fun, too.

Baby Einstein on the Beach

2007-10-05T10:51:00.000-04:00

Two posts ago, I mentioned that we, with Clara as a part of our Nielsen rating demographic, are a Baby Einstein family. For those unfamiliar with the product line of educational DVDs, let me clear up something that I wouldn’t had known had I not become a member of their frequent viewing audience.

Firstly, Baby Einstein does not feature smaller, miniature versions of history’s great minds and artists. It’s not like Muppet Babies, where you can throw on a diaper and dock some height so that we can all enjoy a smaller version of an established cadre of great characters. There isn’t a baby Albert Einstein running around saying adorable things with a German accent and trying to explain relativity to a puppy named Patches. It’s probably best that the designers decided to go in a different direction. After all, Einstein is known for his trademark wild, gray hair and mustache.

That would make for one creepy baby.

As for the content, for those unfamiliar with their work, Baby Einstein has a subject matter aimed to teach small children important words. You know, things like colors. Shapes. Numbers. It makes sense to start with these basic building blocks of our language. When I took Spanish I in high school, the fifth chapter of our books was about the environment. Apparently, once I had school supplies, places, colors, and family members down, it was time to protect our world. I kid you not – one of el vocabulario redacta was the Spanish words for “nuclear winter.”

Apparently, the outlook from one textbook publishing company for the next century’s a bit bleak.

But back to the programming. By method of repetition, and a combination of photography and puppetry, Clara is now reading on an 8th grade level. She found “A Separate Peace” overrated, longs to read other Shakespeare besides Julius Caesar, and can actually understand many of the articles in Financial Times. Who knew all it would take is a couple of hippo hand puppets teaching the horse hand puppets that if you have two of something, you can share.

And man, these things are addictive. I would rather watch Baby Noah teach me about the animals of the world than watch Everybody Loves Raymond. Do you know what they teach babies in Baby Noah? They teach you “wombat.” Yes, in the Outback chapter, you learn to identify kangaroos, koalas, geckos, and yes, WOMBATS.

This kid is going to know wombats at 13 months? I’ll clear some shelf space for her Fields Medal now.

One of the fun perks of working for Baby Einstein is crediting various historical figures as tops in their respective fields by naming their expertise after them, when it comes to children’s DVDs. To date, it appears that Einstein, Beethoven, Mozart, Wordsworth, McDonald, Noah, Monet, da Vinci, and many others. I’d like to take the opportunity to honor some other people with their own videos here.

Baby Nordberg: Learning Cartography
Baby Mellor: Learning Fantasy Sports
Baby Caro: Learning Colonial History
Baby Reif: Learning Automotives
Baby Harford: Learning Relationships
Baby Jester: Learning Cinema

And …

Baby Yelito: Learning Journey

Karen Yelito is Awesome! (For Now)

2007-10-04T20:05:00.007-04:00

You remember last year when I spoke of the glory of Lacey Smith concerning her exemplary prognosticating in the first two rounds of the NCAA tournament? No? Fine, here’s a hyperlink. After 500 words of explaining her excellence, she went on to…well…NOT WIN You’re a Bracket II. That honor was bestowed upon Mike Nordberg, who managed to get the LEAST amount of games correct, and then hit the overall winner, Florida in the final. His pick of the Gators gave him 32 points, which he miraculously used to overcome the 31-point deficit he faced. Amazing.

(Apparently, this was Mike’s One Shining Moment, as he chose to “ride on a fancy submarine” over “defend his title.” He is noticeably absent from this year’s festivities.)

So all I'm saying, is that just because you're in the lead for the time being, it doesn't automatically confirm that you will be crowned the You're a Bracket III champion. And of course, we would like to feature the excellence of those in the driver's seat, so we'll do it. Just keep in mind that this is far from a coronation.

I give you Karen "The Coffee Machine" Yelito!!!

With only the Final Four standing in her way, Karen has amassed an impressive 101 points to date. If she goes perfect in the last three games, she could end up with 165 out of 193, easily a record for the YAB tourneys of the last three years. Her secret? It's all in the method.

Sit down with an empty bracket.
Crank some Journey.
Let the music be your guide.

I have no doubt that the silky voice of one Steve Perry is what has propelled Yelito into our top spot. She never Stopped Believin' in Xavier. She welcomed Louisville into the Elite 8 with Open Arms. She rooted for Davidson Faithfully (at least for a round). Any Way You Want It, Karen Yelito had it this year. And with 3 of the 4 Final Four teams (sorry, Texas), she's got the right to brag.

Or does she?

With four teams, three games, and one championship left, there are 8 different scenarios that can play out next weekend. And while she may feel invincible, (what with her picks she made like 3 minutes before leaving for work that day), it's worth mention that Karen will be crowned thy champion in only ONE SCENARIO. For those of you scoring at home, here's how next week may unfurl.

If the final game is:

North Carolina over UCLA: The Coffee Machine is your winner
North Carolina over Memphis: David 'I Don't Want Your' Reif is your winner
Kansas over UCLA: Kelly "The Darkhorse" Liggett is your winner
Kansas over Memphis: Liggett's got the Jayhawk lockdown again
UCLA over North Carolina: Why, that would be CHRIS CONDON!!!
UCLA over Kansas: Tim "From 15th to 1st" Fischer comes out of nowhere.
Memphis over North Carolina: Greg "Just Winsky, Baby" is your man
Memphis over Kansas: Winsky gets the square.

It's far from over, kids.

3 Rites of Bachelordom

2007-10-03T14:52:00.000-04:00

Hello? Anybody here?

Of course, I knew the answer to that question. Since the women of my household were driven by yours truly to Dulles International Airport at the crack of dawn Saturday, there better well be no one in my house answering back to my rhetorical query. You see, as parents, we are aiming to instill our child with very important lessons that will help her grow and develop. You know, things like colors, shapes, numbers, going on spring break –

Yeah. You heard me.

So while Katie and Clara are livin’ la vida Pensacola for the next few days, I’m alone in the townhouse for the first time, well, ever. And while it’s big and empty, I need to make the most of it and do the 3 things that I’ve always wanted to do in our new residence and have yet to have the opportunity.

1. Take a nap.

You see, we set aside some money in our new house budget to partially outfit the place with some select pieces of new furniture. Now ever since I graduated GW, Katie had always said that she’s like to get me a comfortable chair. And after much deliberation, I found a leather recliner that worked perfectly. It came the day before Clara’s birthday – a day I spent painting the stairwell in both fast and furious ways. In fact, at day’s end, I informed Katie that I’m taking the next 11 minutes to “sit in my chair.” And while much sitting has happened, I had yet to take a nap on purpose in my vaunted throne du Chris. Sure, there have been plenty of “Condonaps” – those which go unplanned in every way. But never had I lied down with full intention of taking the next 40 minutes to an hour to rest. Well guess what? After a early gym session on the way back from Dulles, I grabbed a blanket and did exactly that. OBJECTIVE COMPLETE.

2. Take a bath.

Another nice feature about our place is the larger-than-expected master bath. In addition to having a double sink and a shower stall, it’s got a large bath tub. Now, I’m not exactly a tub guy – showers serve their function nicely, thank you very much. But perhaps I favor the shower just because I haven’t crossed paths with a appropriately-sized one since I was 9. But this tub is large, and there’s more than enough room to just lie back and relax. Now I’m not advocating the bubble bath – what with all the scented candles and such – but I am advocating the water nap. Endorsed by my own daughter who fell asleep the first time we took her in a swimming pool, the motion of water is enough to cure an insomniac. And since attempting such an endeavor in an ocean or deep end often ends with, well, drowning, a bath would be a perfect opportunity. OBJECTIVE COMPLETE.

Despite my disclaimer, Nordberg I’m sure will call me out as a woman for the last one. To counter that effect, I submit the third thing:

3. Watch Band of Brothers

Short of hanging drywall, I can think of no more manly activity than watching a mini-series about World War II. Since I’ve never had HBO, I miss out on great events such as this, and with Tom Hanks’ new John Adams feature out, it reminded me of my interest in seeing Band of Brothers. Now I am only halfway through, but it’s been absolutely fantastic so far. Even though I know how it ends (America wins, Nazis lose), I can’t wait to polish off the last five episodes.

Otherwise, I’m just going to have to imagine wartime dialogue whilst watching Baby Einstein.

Tip of the Hat, Wag of the Finger

2007-10-02T10:51:00.000-04:00

You see? That’s just not fair.

About a month ago, our company made a long-overdue strategic decision that kicked our existing maintenance vendor to the curb. Their contract had run out of options, and frankly, even if there were more, we probably would have said, “thanks, but no thanks” and given them the Heisman. In came a new firm, ready to take the torch of HVAC maintenance, landscaping of grounds, and janitorial duties. (Actual torch, however, was frowned upon. All three tasks probably involve some highly flammable material.)

The new guys are very different from the old guys. The subscribe to completely different values – ideals such as “competency, timeliness, and know-how.” It’s a refreshing change, to say the least, knowing that there’s a new sherriff in town – one that knows his way around an electrical outlet installation. The old guard has been run out of town, and while I do my best to clean up their A/R report, it’s unlikely I’ll invite them back for one more drink at the Corporate Real Estate Saloon. Over the last five years, there have been plenty of bullets flying back and forth, and it’s nice to see that the cavalry has finally arrived.

You may have notices a plethora of Old West analogies in the last ‘graph. Why would I do such a thing? Oh, that’s right. To provide an excellent segue to the point of this post altogether.

THE NEW GUYS WEAR COWBOY HATS.

Ok, not all of them. Just the one in charge of this building. But true to form, he walks around the property in a company issued windbreaker, workpants, and YES, a suede brown cowboy hat. Now the way I see it, there aren’t a whole lot of professions that you can get away with donning a ten gallon at work, but apparently being the one blue collar guy in a building full of white collars gives you that authority.

Am I saying I want to wear a cowboy hat? Of course not. That would look ridiculous with even the most casual of business casual dress. But it does bring up a greater point that I would like to address here now.

We need to bring hats back.

Look at movies from the 50’s, like The Apartment (okay, 1960). All the men went to and from work, in complete respectable suits. If it was cold, they were overcoats. If it was warm, they wore blazed. But no matter what, they wore HATS. Yes, hats that matched the suit, and kept their heads from getting wet. They were high-fashion AND high-function. So seriously, what happened?

BRING BACK THE FEDORA.

I would love to make this part of Corporate America’s required attire once again. Remember back in middle school when the teachers would arbitrarily declare one day a year “Hat Day.” Those days were awesome. It gave people personality. It gave them life. Now all we’ve got for that are ties. And half the time and those are a hassle you’d prefer not to wear anyway.

But a fedora? A fedora is cool. Custom-fit, one for each suit – that’s what we need to return to. Who’s with me? Who will wear a fedora?

Sure beats a cowboy hat.

October Madness!

2007-10-01T07:55:00.000-04:00

As you may have noticed, we didn’t get around to previewing half of the NCAA Men’s Basketball bracket last week. You see, once Siena knocked down Vandy, we got ecstatic with our chances that this just might be the year that we win it all. Any additional analysis went out yon window, leaving YAB Nation with only 50% of a preview, of which about 12% wasn’t completely fabricated in every way.

In order to make it up to you, we’re going to turn that Preview into a Review, by simply screwing with the space-time continuum further, and kicking the letter P to the curb. (Sorry, P. Maybe Sesame Street will throw you a bone and let you sponsor an extra episode someday soon.)

NCAA South Bracket Review

First Round

(1) Memphis 87, (16) UT-Arlington 63 – Why did it happen? Because God has made it clear to all 16 seeds that they’re not allowed to ever win a game. If they were allowed, they’d be called 16-4 seeds, as to give them the illusion of being dangerous 12 seeds. Plus, the Tigers have Chris Douglas-Roberts. Never trust a man with three first names.

(8) Mississippi St 76, (9) Oregon 69 – Why did it happen? Because Oregon spent too much time in the Nike “What Not to Wear Lab” and missed the pre-game shootaround.

(5) Michigan St 72, (12) Temple 61 – Why did it happen? Temple has a game named Dionte Christmas, arguably their best player. He didn’t score a damn point in the first half, completely my 3-team Philly screw up teaser (0-3 is not good). Somebody ruined…himself.

(4) Pittsburgh 82, (13) Oral Roberts 63 – Why did this happen? Because I mocked them openly over on MYFO. Sorry, guys. At least you have salvation still going for you.

(6) Marquette 74, (11) Kentucky 66 – Why did this happen? Because of brand name confusion. I blame KFC. For years, they were known as Kentucky Fried Chicken. In order to allay concerns from health fanatics, they dropped the unhealthy word (fried) from their moniker, hoping people would be fooled. Of course, no one expects the other side effects. In doing so, KFC lost its statehood altogether. The Wildcats have no fast food chain to call their own. Wandering from Arby’s to Taco Bell in the middle of the night, they are value meal nomads. That wears on the old treads, and makes it impossible to generate a surprising upset. The loss is on your watch, Colonel.

(3) Stanford 77, (14) Cornell 53 – Why did this happen? I have no clue. However, the media didn’t have a single shred of basketball analysis to add to this game, other than the combined SAT score would kill any other matchup. Real brilliant, guys. For the record, other tourney schools in the US News Top 20? Duke, Vandy, Notre Dame. Apparently, being smart isn’t a requirement to make the Sweet 16.

(7) Miami 78, (10) St. Mary’s CA 64 – Why did this happen? Because every year, one major conference team who has no business not getting upset holds form and beats a trendy underdog. Plus, Little Rock is so much more like South Florida than California.

(2) Texas 74, (15) Austin Peay 52 – Why did this happen? Because I dropped P from Preview. Sorry, Austin.

Second Round

Memphis over Mississippi State – Damn you, alphabetical order! You win every time!

Michigan State over Pittsburgh – Because the Big East hates me. Bane of my existence this year. I just can’t figure them out. It’s kind of like Eli Stone. For those who turn their TVs off immediately after Lost, you’ve been missing a highly entertaining law dramedy starring Johnny Lee Miller (Hackers!) and Natasha Henstridge. It’s a great show, but at some point, ABC’s going to decide it’s not their next hit and start screwing with the timeslot. It’s already been confirmed Lost is taking in April 24, so what becomes of it then? Oh, and Drew Neitzel was a rebounding machine.

Stanford over Marquette – Just because your name begins with M, it doesn’t mean you’re automatically in the Sweet 16.

Texas over Miami – Matthew McConaughey is a notable Longhorn alum. Humberto Reboredo aptly represents the Hurricanes. This game was decided by “Number of Movies Each Has Done with Kate Hudson.” Sorry, man.

You're a McBlog

2007-09-28T14:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-27T06:48:00.002-04:00

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!

2007-09-26T21:36:00.004-04:00

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?

2007-09-25T09:14:00.001-04:00

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

2007-09-24T09:12:00.002-04:00

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

2007-09-21T22:13:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-20T16:57:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-09-19T16:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-18T11:43:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-17T17:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-14T11:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-13T16:52:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-09-12T15:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-11T19:09:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-09-10T14:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-07T14:09:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-09-06T14:34:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-05T07:41:00.001-04:00

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!

2007-09-04T23:31:00.000-04:00

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

2007-09-03T22:53:00.000-04:00

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.

(99-97) Red Luftballoons

2007-08-31T16:16:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-30T07:37:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-08-29T07:50:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-28T06:42:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-27T07:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-24T06:33:00.000-04:00

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!

2007-08-23T07:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-22T00:22:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-21T07:49:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-20T07:47:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-17T12:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-16T22:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-15T07:57:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-14T19:16:00.001-04:00

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?

2007-08-13T07:34:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-10T07:46:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-09T11:34:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-08-08T22:07:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-07T15:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-06T11:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-03T17:20:00.000-04:00

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’.

Go Back to Canuckistan

2007-08-02T06:43:00.000-04:00

Clara currently has two CD’s in her collection. The first is a Baby Beethoven/Mozart/ABBA disc that plays a series of xylophone-centric lullabies. In true Pavlovian fashion, we can play this to help her fall asleep for a nap or for the night and it will likely work. Of course, that means we need to be very careful when this comes up in the CD changer’s rotation. What happens if Katie and I start to develop the same tendency when the dulcet tones of Rock-a-Bye Baby come over the speakers? What if we then take this CD on a car ride to help Clara slumber on the interstate? Hellooooo, median!

The second CD is a collection of silly sing-along songs from everyone’s favorite kiddie troubadour, Raffi. Growing I up, my sister and I LOVED Raffi. When I first heard this CD in my apartment a month back, I realized I inexplicably knew all of the words, despite it being decades since the last time old Raffi got a spin. Well, I did a little research on Raffi, and I hate to break it to all of you – I have some terrible news about the guy who brought you Baby Beluga. Prepare yourselves.

He’s Canadian.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Sad but true, Raffi is a Canuck. By choice. Yep, he was born in Egypt, and then voluntarily chose to call the Great White North his home. And we’re cool with him teaching our children? Hell, no.

After pondering seven different scenarios that all end with Raffi trapped inside an igloo forever, I decided to calm down and just listen to the lyrics of some of work. After all, Clara seems to be enjoying herself, so I can surely postpone my homicidal tendencies to a time more suitable. You know, like work. But by listening to the lyrics of children’s songs, I was reminded once again that the LYRICS MAKE NO SENSE. To prove my point, I have transcribed one of Raffi’s favorite nursery rhymes and added several additional versions for accuracy, content and modernization. Enjoy.

Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.
One for the master,
And one for the dame,
And one for the little boy
Who lives down the lane.
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.

Baa, baa, black sheep
You give me the creeps
Because you’re a
Talking Sheep.
Sure, in the movies
This would not be big
I’m sure that they C-G-I’ed
The words into that pig.
Baa, baa, black sheep
You give me the creeps
Because you’re a
Talking Sheep.

Hold up, Jerkpants,
Let’s roll back the reel
You asked ME to
Cut a deal.
How should I answer
Your ssupply request?
I go, and open my mouth
And now you protest!
Hold up, Jerkpants,
Let’s roll back the reel
You asked ME to
Cut a deal.

Sorry, Sheepskin
I mean you no harm.
You come from a
Unique Farm.
One where the horses
Banter through the night
And one where the ducks discuss
The time to make flight.
Sorry, Sheepskin
I mean you no harm.
You come from a
Unique Farm.

That’s okay, friend
Now can I move on?
Master and Lady
Need their wool by dawn
I must move quickly
Down to their address
We sheep carry our own wool,
Don’t use UPS
That’s okay, friend
Now can I move on?
Master and Lady
Need their wool by dawn

Not a problem,
Please go on your way.
Let me warn you
If I may
About that last kid
For whom you have wool.
He’ll just go into the town
And trade for a mule.
Not a problem,
Please go on your way.
Let me help you
If I may.

Always wondered
Boys don’t need textiles
Black market’s
Not Black Sheep’s style
I’ll tell you what, man
This bag is free
I cannot exchange my wares
For some lame donkey
Always wondered
Boys don’t need textiles
Black market’s
Not Black Sheep’s style

10 Mind Games or Less

2007-08-01T06:42:00.000-04:00

I suppose that the amount you spend at the supermarket is probably contingent on the frequency of your visits. I suppose you could make it your New Year’s Resolution to only shop for groceries on New Year’s Day, but you’ll have to resign yourself to eating non-perishable goods after about those first two weeks. Say good bye to salads and fresh meat there, buddy. While you’re at it, can you close those shades? It seems that the sunlight is starting to fade your lawn chair’s fabric in your nuclear bunker.

You could also do it like the olden days and go to the market every day. This would cut down on your storage costs – sell your fridge on eBay, why not? – and allow you to eat exactly what you crave every night. Of course, there’s a problem with living yesterday. You see, markets have become supermarkets, due to their one-stop shopping nature, massive selection, and reliance on you, the consumer, to pick up more than a milk, bread, and meat with each visit. Why would you turn down an opportunity to be super? Clark Kent didn’t have ordinary pajamas because he knew that there would never be a situation where he’d prefer them to his super suit. You should adapt business innovation and live in the now. (Although the good people at Wegman’s frown on cape-wearing in their stores. They get caught in the cart wheels easily.)

Our family’s happy medium between the two above extremes ranges from 7-10 days. Therefore, the amount we spend stays fairly consistent. Granted, our household contains a third mouth, and while her taste in food is limited, it by no means excuses her diet from making up a part of each grocery bill. She’s 7 months old at the time of this post, so we’re still a few months off from assigning her chores and giving her an allowance she can use to purchase her own groceries. After all, if we asked her to dust the cabinets, she’d probably just end up with a mouthful of feathers. Child labor laws, apparently, protect cleaning supplies just as much as they do children.

What was I saying?

As I patrol the aisles on my Wegman’s trips, mp3 player-in-ear, I have two goals in mind. The first is to finish as fast as humanly possible without forgetting a single item that I was sent to retrieve. Having the personal shuffle in-ear helps dramatically for one’s shopping speed, although it’s as if my mp3 player knows when I’m the supermarket – it queues up the same few songs. One such song is Breathe, by Fabolous. When that one comes on, it almost gives my meandering through the produce section street cred. Nothing says hip-hop tough like cucumber evaluation.

The second goal is to not go over $100 with the final tally of the bill.

I know that this goal is often not applicable, based on length between visits and amount of groceries required, but it has become the benchmark nonetheless. I’m not one of those who tallies the damage in their head, mid-shop. Fabolous won’t let me – he hates math in the middle of his joints. Instead, the moment of truth has to wait until the point where I’ve got my take spread out in front of me, conveyor-belt style. Now assuming that I bought between 25-30 items, the average price per item needs to stay between 3 and 4 dollars. Otherwise, the terrorists have already won.

Beep!

Cucumber-lettuce-tomato-apples-banana…$9.38…

That’s the nice thing about fruits and vegetables. Our economy actually rewards you for eating healthy.

Boop!

Granola Bars-string cheese-hot dogs-bread-jell-O-cereal…$32.91…

As you start to see a good amount of items off the belt and into the bag, this is when the tension ratchets up a notch. It just might be possible that for once, you’re going to make it! Huzzah!

Beep!

Cold cuts-ham-turkey-cheese…$54.50

Ok, wow. That one hurt. Apparently having a store employee wrap a grocery in a tiny plastic bag increases its value threefold. Next time I go, I’m bringing my old baseball cards.

Boop!

Assorted 10 other unnamed groceries at an average price of $4…$94.33

One to go! And I’ve got over 5 dollars left before the finish line! Sweet! This is finally going to happen! That’s right, people. I don’t have to buy generic cereal or Gogurt to hit my mark. Just one final swipe of this straggling item and we’re home free!

Beep!

Baby formula…$118.04

Damn.

Viva La Reservacion!

2007-07-31T22:03:00.000-04:00

Over the years, I’ve supported many causes, but led few. Supporting a cause is easy. If someone asks you if you believe in what they’re trying to do, you say yes. If someone thinks that you signing a petition will enhance a grass roots movement, you say yes. If someone would like you to wear a vulcanized rubber bracelet to broadcast to the world your inner values, you say yes. If someone asks you if you’re a god, YOU SAY YES!

/obligatory Ghostbusters joke

But leading a cause? That’s tiring work. I led a one-person letter-writing campaign for Comedy Central to cancel Strangers with Candy, on grounds of it “sucking like a Hoover.” (I wasn’t very clever when I was 17.) I promoted the most delectable new snack aisle fixture, the Reese’s FastBreak Candy Bar, to everyone I knew when I was 21, and my efforts inevitably caused market adaptation. There have been lesser crusades that had mixed results, but that won’t prevent me from taking the torch for the name of Camden Fairfax Corner Apartment residents EVERYWHERE!

(If not everywhere, at least the ones that live at, well, Camden Fairfax Corner Apartments.)

It’s time to put on the Revolution Shoes (which sound 91% cooler than they look.)

My apartment complex is a bastion of hope for those who wish to make their vehicles stationary in close proximity to Fairfax Corner. Yes, we no longer live in an age where one has to plan an extra 8 minutes into their schedule when arriving for a movie. The parking at FC has been a problem since inception, and it often prevents consumers from coming to this commercial haven. We had it up to here (this is where a webcam would help), and did the only logical thing.

We moved to Fairfax Corner.

Within the walls of the House that Lease Built lies a 5-level concrete parking garage. I’m sure I’ve blogged about this before. One can choose to park on the bottom level (so that you can get your mail on the way home), or the level on which your apartment is located (for the quickest access to your neatly-partitioned square footage.) Either way, it’s a gated garage, preventing those who have a hankerin’ for Rio Grande Mexican to score a free space near the cantina of their choice. Yes, only Fairfax Corner residents are let inside the parking dungeon, and spots were always served on first-come basis.

Now spots are served cold, with an icy side of entrepreneurship.

On each level now, up to 12 of the absolute closest parking spots to the exit doors have been knighted with signs that utter a simple word of dismay: RESERVED. Yes, unbeknownst to us, these spots now have a title, and the power that comes with that title is making me use my legs. Like a sucker.

When I signed up to live in this community, parking was deemed to be free and available. (Save the handicapped spots – those are deemed to be nearby and fine-able.) And by the letter of the law, it is true that parking is still free and is still available. There’s more than enough parking through the garage that displacing all cars 12 spots farther away from their apartments won’t have anyone crying no vacancy. But is this a fair thing? What does RESERVED mean, anyway?

RESERVED – adj. – (re-served) – 1. kept or set apart for some particular use or purpose.

Very funny, editor-in-my-head.

No, according to the Leasing Office, they will be offering these RESERVED spots to current tenants for a monthly add-on fee to their rent. While the amount is yet to be disclosed, it guarantees you of parking in a giving spot no matter how hard it’s raining or snowing. (Uh, this is an indoor garage, Condon.) And for those not willing to pay this tax of convenience, you’ll just be a little farther away from home, sweet, home.

Look, Camden, my baby just learned how to crawl. How DARE you MAKE HER CRAWL AN EXTRA TWELVE CAR WIDTHS? What’s that? Carry her? And use my arms like a sucker?

So, people of Camden Fairfax Corner who are reading this (hopefully more than just Katie – when you get a note on your door offering a primo spot at a price – just say NO! If nobody buys the spots, they’ll be forced to revoke the policy and let us park as close as we can to our homes, our families, our world. Don’t give in to unfair convenience. Do it for your bank account! Do it for your conscience.
Do it for my infant’s knees.

The View from the Mound

2007-07-30T21:08:00.000-04:00

It's a whole new ball game.

The difficulty of raising a baby enjoys a direct correlation to one's ability to be able to accurately locate the whereabouts of said baby. Despite the culture shock and sleepless nights that set in immediately when you get home from the hospital, raising your newborn is not so crazy a proposition. There's sleeping, there's feeding, and there's holding - lots of holding. And with two of you rocking the shiftwork, it's nothing impossible. Heck, before she can learn to wiggle (or watch The Wiggles, for that matter), plenty of subsitute holders can fill in at anytime.

It's like starting an inning against the 9-hole in the lineup. Congratulations, you got the pitcher to strike out looking - he didn't even take the bat off his shoulder. One down.

But then a month or two passes, and periods of you sitting and holding begin to wane. Time is spent with baby on her back, with various mobiles, toys, and dangling rings to reach and swat at. Perhaps, if you're feeling adventurous, you'll flip her over and wait for the wailing. The fact of the matter is, once you put her on the ground, it's making her familiar with the terrain that separate A from B. And for a little person who thrives on feeling new textures (sweet, sweet, carpet), this could be the catalyst of something bigger.

After retiring the pitcher, the lead-off hitter taps a slap single down the third base line, only to beat a great throw from your third-baseman by half a step. Good effort, nonetheless.

And then one day, she'll decide being on her stomach isn't the worst thing in the world. Her vision levels out; seems thing less upside-down. Granted, she's not thinking on inching forward at that toy duck anytime soon, but it's nice to see that the duck's bill is actually below its eyes. In fact, any attempt to motion forward typically results in a few steps back - Paula Abdul would be proud. But all this time, she's watching you. She's watching you glide easily from place to place in that spacious apartment of yours, taking notes on how easily movement can be. Better lace up those cleats, Mom and Dad.

With one on and one out, you work the count against the 2 hitter. There's lot of fouling off pitches on the full count, and while you're not showing signs of tiring, you can feel the batter's confidence building with each swing. Finally, you make a minor mistake and the 2-hitter knocks a ball by you up the middle. Runners at 1st and third, one out.

As fun as lying on one's stomach is, someone quickly realizes that they can get from A to B by means of rolling. It's not exactly travel by straight line, but it can get you from the coffee table and back much in the flight path "The Scrambler" takes at your local amusement park. But all this rolling - it doesn't get anyone anywhere fast. Situation is still normal, all systems are go.

And then Ryan Howard steps to the plate, and you're out of left-handed relievers. Your shoulders drop. You know he's got your number.

And someone learns to crawl.

Like I said, it's a whole new ball game.

Blame the Damn Cowlord

2007-07-27T21:02:00.000-04:00

Back by popular demand, here’s a second installment of On Location: The Wedding Reifmotsinger. Why? Because Popular Demand ganked my car keys, and he won’t give them back until I publish more tales of matrimonial hilarity that took place on a hill constructed entirely using chapels. Yeah, apparently they haven’t heard of “dirt and grass.” Weird.

(Who likes bullet form? You do. You like bullet form.)

· I totally wasn’t kidding when I said we played 6 games of Madden to get ready for the wedding. In fact, there was an instance where Dave and Alison wanted their photographer to take pictures of both sides getting ready for the ceremony. For a bride, this is easy. The adding of makeup and a dress, as well as getting one’s hair done, provides many an opportunity for a shutter click. But with guys, it involves putting on a suit. Done. In fact, it was a mere 34 minutes before our time to go when we realized that we need to get ready. Three of us (Nordberg and the Prodigal Roommate), showered, shaved, and donned penguinesque attire with minutes to spare. Heck, we even got to finish that goal-line stand that the Jets had worked so feverishly to prevent. So when the photographer was ready to snap, he, uh, kind of missed the moment. So we did the next best thing: MADDEN. Now, we wanted everyone to look like they were have authentic fun and smiling genuinely in the pictures of us playing video games in tuxes, so I ran the perfect play: 27 QB Vanish. John Madden never expects 27 QB Vanish. It when you snap the ball and then make sure the QB runs a minute off the clock by running in the complete opposite direction of the goal. The only danger with such an audible? 27 Groom Vanish at the time of the wedding.

· The Bouquet Toss and Garter Toss go hand-in-hand as the turning point in the wedding. The Bouquet toss always is full of anticipation, as many a young lady looks to snag the airborne flora from their nearest competitors. Those most aggressive in the reception attempt often win, and this group is often composed of 1) bridesmaids who REALLY WANT TO GET MARRIED AND FIND MR. RIGHT (NOW), 2) people actually scheduled to get married next, or 3) Carolina Panthers WR Steve Smith – he catches everything. That’s the bouquet. For the garter, it’s the goal of the guys to look cool while catching it, yet show as little actual enthusiasm as possible. This typically results in 5 seconds on complete non-action, followed by the closest proximity guy to the falling garter making a shoestring catch to save face for the entire group. Wedding tradition dictates that spiking the garter results in a 15 yard penalty, enforced on the ensuing kickoff.

·There was a sequence late in the reception where the DJ (whose name is actually B.J. I kid you not.) played the following sequence of songs. 1) Devil Went Down to Georgia. 2) Cotton-Eyed Joe. 3) Shout. It was at the point when we were gettin’ a little bit louder now that I realized something. B.J. the D.J. was out to kill us all.

·Ah, the Crazy Taxi Girl. Lemme explain. Many of the wedding guests were staying at a hotel a few miles away, but the bride and groom had arranged for an end-of-evening shuttle to transport them back there. The first one came and promptly filled up, leaving many a Monrovian behind to wait for it to return. Now assuming that the driver of said shuttle is not a member of the Andretti family, we could expect reasonably 30 minutes of downtime. For one in our midst, that was not worth losing in quantities of sleep, and decided to call for an independent van shuttle to transport the rest for a small fee. (I won’t say who, but his name may be awfully similar to Damn Cowlord.) 20 minutes later, the Tar Heel Taxi pulls up, with more than enough room to transport the remaining survivors off of Wedding Island. One problem, the skipper riding shotgun of their fateful passenger van was a drunk UNC girl who eschewed a traditional greeting like, “Welcome to the Tar Heel Taxi, where can we take you?” for the more festive “HURRY UP, BITCHES! I’M F’-ED UP!” (Censored for our family audience.) You see, the Skipper (as she will be known until someone comments with her actual name) isn’t on the Tar Heel Taxi payroll. But her friend and driver, Tyrone, is. And Tyrone can give the Skipper a free ride to a wicked party if he takes someone else for a fare in the process. How does the Skipper do her part? By passenger-wrangling of course. Meanwhile, back on our end, everyone’s a tad petrified over the Britney Spears on Red Bull hanging out of the van’s window. Would YOU admit you ordered her services? (Fortunately, the Cowlord was nowhere to be seen.) With each individual denial, she got feistier and (somehow) drunker. Liz claimed amnesia. Nordberg politely declined an invite to her raging kegger. I calmly explained that I was staying at THIS hotel and had no reason to go elsewhere. And while she stared at me trying to decode my Platonian logic, a 40-year old man wearing khakis but NO SHIRT walked through my vision in the lobby of the swanky Carolina Inn. And since the Skipper was wearing a dress that could be mistake for just a shirt and lacked much leg coverage, I did what any other tired groomsman at 1 AM would have done.

I told the Skipper that the Man in Khakis looks like he needs a taxi.

On Location: The Wedding Reifmotsinger

2007-07-26T23:07:00.000-04:00

Anytime you ask my old roommates and me to wear tuxedoes on the weekend, you know that some hilarity will ensue. After spending my Saturday serving as an official witness to the newly christened Mr. and Mrs. David Reif, I realized that the best part of weddings are the stories that you can treasure for years to come. Now Dave, the guy WM ResLife thought I’d be able to share clothes with back in ’98, doesn’t have the best memory, (he once left his brother Peter in his dorm closet for 5 consecutive months), so I thought I’d give him one more wedding gift. Candlesticks, you might suggest? Nay. The following is a re-cap of his truly blessed matrimonial event. I give you YAB’s On Location: The Wedding Reifmotsinger.

(now, in bullet form!)

As a means to relax the Groom, the Groomsmen decided to take the Groom on a leisurely walk around campus. According to Nordberg, one of UNC-Chapel Hill’s most famed landmark is something known as “The Well.” From name alone, this seems like a place where freshmen and star-crossed coeds can wish for good grades and love. You know, throw some of your parents’ money in the deep chasm of water, and take the easy road to success. Surprisingly, Nordberg sits on a throne of lies. The Well? It’s a frickin’ water fountain in a stone gazebo. I love Complete Opposite Day.
Following the walk, we played some Frisbee on a quad-like area not far from “The Well.” On a football day like Saturday, not many Tar Heels spend their day relaxing in the grass catching up on their P-Chem text reading. In a vast expanse of green, in fact, only one girl chose this to be her Saturday morning activity. And somehow, in the expansive green acres, we nearly hit her nine times.
Weddings are held later in the day for three main reasons. 1) So wedding guests do not have to get up at the crack of dawn to arrive, 2) So that the bridesmaids can spend 6-8 hours getting ready with hair, make-up, and dresses, and 3) So the groomsmen can get in 6 games of Madden football on Playstation 2.
If you are planning on having a wedding soon with more than 100 people in attendance, ask plenty of your buddies to be groomsmen. We worked on a 4-man rotation to usher everyone to their seats, and it was like running laps back in high school track. Forget the champagne toast; can we have Gatorade instead? (In return, we promise not to sweat orange on our tuxedos.)
When you’re a Groomsmen and not the Groom, taking wedding photography is WAY easier. Dave and Alison’s photographer was British, which somehow made him seem 41% more qualified to do his job. By the mere nature that you’re donning a tuxedo, you feel compelled to put on one of those “knowingly-vacant” stares into the distance. With our attire, you can also add an element of “I’m quietly content that Dave didn’t pick magenta vests.” Thanks, Dave.
A standard reception staple in the entrance/announcement of the wedding party. Typically, it’s a walk, stop, smile, continue walking procedure. However, the emcee mentioned the word “pose.” Uh oh. Nordberg and Meg opened the show with a Marilyn-Heisman duo, and then while I did not see Dan and Carol, Spud did what he does best and spun and dipped Jessica. Farid and Zoe, whose great idea this was in the first place, did not disappoint, and then that leaves Condon. Fortunately, Amy was quick on her feet to come up with a minor dance move that we could pull of in a no-huddle offense. You don’t want to end it like the Phillies bullpen is right now. (Apologies for mixing sports analogies.)
Later on in the wedding, Dave was wearing Alison’s veil as if it were a cape. Verdict: Massively dorky. However, there was an occurrence earlier when Alison’s 90-year old grandfather was dancing whilst wearing said veil. Verdict: Adorable. That’s the advantage old people have; anything they can do will come off adorable. Imagine an old man hobbling into a bank and robbing it – wouldn’t that be the absolute cutest thing on the evening news? Hell, yes.

I'm in the Gift Shop! Give Me My Gift!

2007-07-25T21:09:00.000-04:00

This weekend I am going to the wedding of my freshman roommate, Dave. Dave and I were randomly assigned to one another for our stay in Monroe Hall in the ’98-’99 school year. The means by which Residence Housing determines these dormitory pairings is via a simple form that they request every new student to fill out. This form is supposed to create a limited roommate profile – major attributes that you do (or do not) have. Poor Dave. After comparing our entries, it’s likely that he got stuck with me because for music, I put “Country.” (My reasoning was sound; I doubt a guy who listens to Alan Jackson in his free time would steal my electronics or eat my food.) Dave put “No preference.”

Yeah, that’ll teach you to be indifferent.

Just over nine years later, Dave is getting married. I wish I can say I had a hand in the coming together of he and Alison, but it’s a stretch. He knows how to dance like Nelly, deadpan jokes like Kevin Nealon, rehab like a Sherpa, and as my mom pointed out after my first-ever phone call with my new roommate, he can’t share my clothes. And what’s more, his fiancée refers to the other Chris as “The One Who Likes to Dance.” Chris Nordberg? Really?

I don’t even know who you are anymore.

But aside from my paragraphic animosity towards the groom-to-be, I am still planning to head down to the Tar Heel State to watch him say some flowery language in a fancy penguin suit. My only concern is that when the groomsmen are lined up along side Dr. Reif, I am standing in closer proximity to him than Nordberg. Nordberg freakin’ hates when he can’t see the movie.

However, I must be careful of taunting the Mighty Scandinavian One too much; he will be my roommate for the weekend in the luxurious accommodations that is the Carolina Inn. Now it’s not often I am able to stay in lodging of this magnitude (business trips make you check your swank at the departure gate), so I need to make sure to live it up to the fullest and take advantage of EVERY AMENITY they have to offer. Some of my ideas are listed below.

“Valet Parking (6:00-Midnight)” – Valet parking is only acceptable in the following situations: you are wearing black-tie level clothes, it’s blistering cold out, the parking garage is on fire, you are in a desperate hurry, you’re trying to impress a girl, or you want to play a prank on the valet guy. Need an example? Ok, fine. Set up your laptop at home, grab your acoustic guitar, and record a strumtastic original song titled, “This Valet Guy Steals Your Loose Change and Is Legally Drunk.” Crank the volume, and hand your keys to the nice gentleman in the white gloves.
“Complimentary wired and wireless internet access in all guest rooms” – This will probably come in handy for a guy who has two fantasy teams, runs a football pool with disdain for a major sportswriter, and is a write on three blogs, don’t you think?
“Complimentary Wi-Fi internet access in public areas” – For people who can’t make it to their rooms. It’s the dork equivalent of putting public restrooms in the lobby.
“Hotel fax and copying services” – Never buy a hotel before getting a Hotelfax report. You never know what goes on in those places.
Dry Cleaning Services (Mon-Fri) – Translation: Don’t eat anything with mustard on the weekend. You’re going to regret it.
169 guestrooms with…an abundant supply of jumbo pillows.” Sweet Mercy, we may not make the ceremony. We’ve got a fort to build.

Reading: It's Delicious.

2007-07-24T22:42:00.000-04:00

Unless it involves a young British wizard attempting to defend the world from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I can’t say I have a ton of time to read these days. It’s not that I don’t want to; I just can’t find the time to read anything that I can’t see on the computer screen before me. Books are too long for a 24-hour day; and after picking up a baby first thing in the morning, they’re too heavy as well. But blogging is just the farthest branch out of the family tree of literature, and we would be doing a disservice to our roots if we did not recognize the great works that have been gazed upon prior to our existence. Keeping in mind our refusal to exceed a page count of say, 11 pages, we make efforts to reconnect with English teachers past and present the first ever YAB Book Report.

Today’s selection: Pat the Bunny.

Now I know this may be an unusual selection to anyone well-versed in the classics, and you may claim that you have never read Pat the Bunny, but I assure you that at some point in the waking moments of your life, this literary beacon was read to you. Now I know it’s been awhile since you last pulled it from your shelves, so we promise to go page-by-page. Enjoy.

Page 1: “Here are Paul and Judy. They can do lots of things. You can do lots of things too.” Critique: Paul and Judy’s parents are enrolling them in every program they can think of so that they can go to an Ivy League school.

Page 2: “Judy can pat the bunny. Now YOU pat the bunny.” Oh dear Lord, the title of this book is not only the name of said rabbit, it’s a COMMAND! I think Golden Book Publishing just blew my mind. As for the bunny itself, this page actually contains a bunny-shaped patch of fur. And I’ve got to admit, if I put my head on it, I just might fall asleep.

Page 3: “Judy can play peek-a-boo with Paul. Now YOU play peek-a-boo with Paul.” Ok, let me set the scene. In both sides of this page, Paul is holding a blue blanket up to his face. On the left, Judy is the one lifting the blanket in order to see her brother. On the right, there’s a blue swatch of felt encouraging you to do the same. Moral of the story: Paul is lazy.

Page 4: “Paul can smell the flowers. Now YOU smell the flowers.” You know, I’m starting to think this book is getting rather pushy, don’t you?

Page 5: “Judy can look in the mirror. Now YOU look in the mirror.” The funniest thing is how Judy looks in the mirror. She has placed it on the floor and is crouching over it, mere inches from her own reflection. How unorthodox a method is this? Poor Judy. She’s going to see her first pond in a few months and just assume that the only place she can see herself is by looking down. And damn, that’s going to affect self-esteem.

Page 6: ‘Judy can feel Daddy’s scratchy face. Now YOU feel Daddy’s scratchy face.” Ok, this is a little creepy. The Daddy in the book has my haircut. But cut me a break, Golden Books. It’s late, and I haven’t shaved since this morning. You are trying to hold fathers everywhere to an unattainable standard: Nordstubble.

Pages 7-9: More of the same. Pushy children demanding you mimic their every move. Well you know what, Paul and Judy? Clara’s decided to one-up you punks. She’s added one more step to the great epic that is Pat the Bunny. How do I know? There’s a large chunk of book missing from the upper left-hand corner.

Page 10: Chew the Bunny, kids. Chew the Bunny.

The Oscarma Initiative

2007-07-23T21:48:00.000-04:00

Last February was a hectic time to throw an Oscar Party. Here’s why.

The biggest stars on the Red Carpet like to make an entrance, often passing up being the first limo in Hollywood traffic in favor of making a fashionably late entrance. Clara was no exception, decided to join the festivities some four days after her due date. When Katie and I had discussed continuing our Oscar Party tradition despite Clara arriving mere weeks before Ellen took the stage, we had not anticipated on the little one taking a long weekend in utero and compressing any last-minute plans regarding the annual tribute to friendly cinematic competition. Like Babel, the pregnancy was just a little longer than we would have liked.

With a new baby safely-in-arms, I glanced over my scratch sheet of “Things to Do Before the Oscar Party.” Some things were easily taken care of, others got scratched from the list as frivolous. Remember how we used to buy red poster board and create a red carpet into the main theatre? This year, gone. (After all, I’m pretty sure we were the only people ever to actually purchase red poster board, thus deflating the red poster board industry altogether.) In the end, I was confident that all of the core activities would be complete in time, and this was with operating on a newborn’s sleep schedule. Games? Check. Refreshments? Check. Overly complex scorekeeping spreadsheets? Check. Video?

Video?

Last year, Spud and I teamed to make the Oscar Sunday video that has graced YAB’s sidebar for well over a year. Now with over 38,000 views on YouTube, it may be my greatest contribution to the Interwebs, and that includes all 780 posts we’ve done here on this little site. Oscar Sunday was topical, funny, and had displayed editing skills I knew not existed in me; it was certainly something that was well-received and worth all the hard work. If another video were every to be produced in the name of Oscar, it would have to at least strive to be of comparable quality.

Babies make terrible camera operators.

With our new addition and Spud’s own planning for an upcoming secret engagement day for Julie, the script we had worked on for a month or so was inevitably shelved. It’s just too hard to do script rewrites whilst sleeping in a chair in a Neonatal recovery room. This decision, while hard, was probably for the best at the time. The ultimate product would have been rushed, unfinished, and nowhere near the quality Spud and I are known for. Hopefully, we’ll have the time this year to renew that creative relationship.

We have an old family adage: Condons (named Chris) never say die.

In the back of my head, I had a second idea as to how to creatively present the Best Picture winners in a topical, comedic, and videographic manner. Of course, with Oscar Sunday a mere 10 days away after a week of hardcore baby raising, chances were slim that it would be possible.

But I’ll tell you, kids, Jon Rogers stepped up to the plate.

It’s no secret ‘round these parts that Monrovia is obsessed with the best show on television: Lost. I had a two-part plan in mind. The first part could be filmed with relative solitary ease, assuming I got 1) a wife’s permission to rearrange some furniture, 2) a sleeping baby for a 45 minute window of filming, and 3) luck. The second part was written on the fly, with only a framework in place as to how it would play out. But Jon Rogers was prepared to bring the funny, film the funny, and set decorate the funny – all on a night when his wife and closest neighbor least expected it. (Coincidentally, it was a Wednesday – Lost is on Wednesdays.)

So if you are familiar with Lost, you’ll get a huge kick out of the video we now present. And if you’re not, we hope you enjoy nonetheless and insist you get caught up on the best show on television prior to January 2008.

Without further ado, I give you The Oscarma Initiative.

Dick, The Send Receipt Master

2007-07-20T21:03:00.000-04:00

Two quick points before we get to today’s funny.

Thanks for putting up with all of the football over the last (gasp) nine posts. We here at YAB find the Dueling Previews to be a challenging assignment, as well as one of our better works of the year. If you aren’t a fan of television or football, thanks for sticking with us. As the great Ed Rooney of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off once exclaimed. We will do it. We will do it NINE TIMES.
I know that for those reading this on IE that you’ve seen some crappy code in several of the more recent posts. My apologies; we just switched to Firefox and Microsoft Word isn’t playing nice. Way to stick up for dear old Microsoft Father, Kid Word. We’ll get that resolved soon.

(Thanks for the great segue, Intro Chris. Not a problem, Column Chris.)

99 out of 100 of you are sitting at your desk right now in a corporate environment that lives and dies by Microsoft Office. It’s not that you don’t have a preference in your productivity software; it’s that the powers-that-be for which you work does not. Microsoft grow so fast and so large that soon it became clear that those trying to make it in today’s working world would crash and burn the first time they sent a proposal to their customers in WordPerfect format. It’s like showing up for a pick-up basketball game wearing Converse Chuck Taylor’s – you may think it looks cool, but ultimately, they will be rupture your Achilles heel.

(As for that other 1 out of 100, you’re not a Microsoft rebel. We just assumed you’re standing at your desk.)

One of the nicest features in Microsoft Outlook is the Read Receipt. Of course, it’s a bit of a misnomer. By practice, the read receipt is meant to indicate to you when the recipient on the other end, has in fact, read your e-mail. Of course, there are a few preventative factors that Microsoft fails to consider. First, it registers receipt to you only when the e-mail has been opened; not necessarily read. Second, your recipient may not know how to read. Regardless of literacy, Microsoft will send you that note that your e-mail has been read. You then pick up the phone to call your colleague on his newfound ability to process words and sentences, only to insult his heavy burden of illiteracy. Jerk.

‘Course I will Rob, no problem.

But today I’d like to educate you all about the opposite of the read receipt. In my office, its converse is alive and well, in the form of one of our junior staff members. People, I give you the send receipt. You’ve been warned.

No problem at all. I’ll tell him the next time I see him. Definitely.

The send receipt exists in the computers of only the most proactive and naïve members of our workforce. You see, e-mail operates differently from regular U.S. Mail. When an e-mail is sent, the e-mail arrived in the recipients inbox at a near instant clip. This inbox is located on a computer screen, likely within 18 inches of the face of the recipient. By this clever means of proximity, the recipient will likely know that they have received your e-mail, at that same near instant clip. The U.S. Mail is delivered into a mailbox out by the road, or on the first floor of your apartment building. You don’t know for sure if the mail has come, and if a certain letter is or is not in that daily mail run. You’ll have to wait until you feel like checking it, or some pen pal calls you on the phone to direct you to your nearest correspondence collection depot, that metal box that oncoming traffic comes dangerously close to destroying on a daily basis.

In e-mail, that pen pal phone call is a send receipt.

I've ah... got some other stuff to tell him anyway, so it's no problem.

So when my junior staff member sends me an e-mail, he gets up from his chair and walks the 20 feet into my office to tell me that he has sent me the e-mail (which I just read) and explains its content and intent to be in purpose. Aren’t we defeating some purpose here? And the thing is, there’s NOTHING I can do about it. I can respond really quickly, sure, but he’s already halfway to Chrisville when I hit send. I could meet him halfway in the hallway and explain, “Hey, I just sent you an e-mail. It’s to thank you for the information you just provided me in your e-mail.” Instead, we meet at my desk, and I am trapped.

I’ll just tell him about, you know, Laura, when I tell him the other stuff.

And as you may have guessed from the interspersed Todd Louiso dialogue from High Fidelity, each of these send receipt conversations ends with a recap of everything we had discussed in the past 12 seconds. It’s painful. Phillies bullpen painful. Jose Mesa with the bases loaded painful. Navy Seals painful.

So I ask the Microsoft gurus in the audience: how do I turn off Send Receipt?

Dueling Previews '07: The NFC North

2007-07-19T23:29:00.000-04:00

Finish Line! I see you!

Chicago Bears and Chuck (NBC, Mon, 8:00) – Of all the new shows coming out this fall, no show has had more intriguing or aggressive promotion than Chuck. It’s really a combination of elements that has brought Chuck about, and I think I’ve figured out the exact ingredients. First, you have Chuck – played by Zachary Levi – who looks like a bit like a “Jim-from-The-Office - plus-some-J.D.-from-Scrubs” hybrid. He’s a Best Buy-like store tech support officer, not unlike the very funny comedy setting from the 40 Year-Old Virgin. Finally, the plot has Chuck accidentally doing his job, opening an e-mail that decodes all of the government’s secrets, and now he’s a secret agent with a sexy partner. And as everybody knows, the world of sexy secret agencies is no place for a guy who knows how to hook up your printer. Meanwhile, in the Windy City, Rex Grossman (a man who was most impressive against the Vikes last year, throwing for 34 yards and 3 picks) remains the quarterback of a team with a sexy defense, an established running game, and a strong offensive line. Rex, meet Chuck. EDGE: Chuck

Detroit Lions and Kitchen Nightmares (FOX, Wed, 9:00) – Last year, the Detroit Lions were placed in this Dueling Preview Grid in the biggest mismatch ever, as an unknown show that I though had ZERO chance of survival was paired with it. The unfortunate series’ name, coinciding with the Lions’ news that one of their coaches drove through a Wendy’s naked, made it seem like a heavenly match. The Lions were awful, as expected, holding serve. Its projected failure of a TV rival? Some show called Ugly Betty. (Damn it.) This year, we hope to find a show to match with the Lions that will rival its levels of sucktitude accurately. And by gum (by gum?), we’ve found it. That show is Kitchen Nightmares, Fox’s extension of their moderately successful Hell’s Kitchen. Look, I’ve watched Hell’s Kitchen, and unless you like caustic criticism from a red-faced Brit, there’s not much to see. Cooking fans should tune into Top Chef, where the focus is more culinary, less casualty. Now, Gordon Ramsey will be coming into OTHER people’s restaurants and yelling at them. What if a boss from the company across the street came into your office and starting yelling at you? Not fun. As for the Lions, they have the right ingredients to improve by a few games this season. Assuming the only ingredient you need for said recipe is wide receivers. EDGE: Detroit Lions

Minnesota Vikings and Women’s Murder Club (ABC, Fri, 9:00) – The Women’s Murder Club is based on a series of James Patterson novels, although I’ve always noticed something screwy with them. Patterson is one of this authors who inexplicably churn out something like 20 novels a year. Of course, this is a clever rouse on behalf of the publishing company. By using James Patterson’s seal of approval, a publisher can try out new authors, and if their story sells well, maybe they’ll get a contract of their own. All in all, the WMC is a decent read – however I have no idea how it will translate to television. Women have proven their crime-fighting abilities time and time again on the various CSIs, but this will be their chance to make their mark. In a related story, Vikings quarterback throws like a girl. EDGE: Women’s Murder Club

Green Bay Packers and Pushing Daisies (ABC, Wed, 8:00) – According to the show’s synopsis, the main character, Ned, has a unique ability to bring people back to life simply by using his touch. However, if he touched them again, they would die forever. So Ned’s childhood sweetheart was murdered, and you know the Nedster went to the graveyard to rectify things – only now, any relationship they plan to maintain will have all the intimacy of a 6^th grade dance. He’s also a detective (though not a vampire), to complete the storyline. If I were the writer of this show, I would spend the first episode having Ned go to hundreds of cemeteries and touching every dead body he can dig up. That way, he’s released thousands of bodies back into the human population, resuming life as if their various illnesses/homicides/age-related deaths never happened. In Episode 2 and going forward, we resume the story arcs the original writers intended, only every now and then, Ned will touch a random stranger (the cashier at Starbucks, some businessman on the overcrowded Metro), and they will just drop dead on the spot. What an element of surprise! Hilarity would ensue. So why did I make this show the Green Bay Packers? I can’t remember. Oh, that’s right. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. Brett Favre is old. EDGE: Pushing Daisies

Dueling Previews '07: The NFC South

2007-07-18T15:42:00.000-04:00

I'm posting this while there's football on the television. If Trent Green completes his next completion, I will force myself to write an introduction to this column. Of course, this is a strong possibility, as long as Carlos Rogers is still on the field. But Trent Green isn't fazed by such under achievement. Let's wait and see...

Screen pass complete to Ronnie Brown for 2 yards? That shouldn't count as a completion. I'm overruling the cheating exploits of Trent Green. Let's go.

New Orleans Saints (0-1) and Big Shots (ABC, Thu, 10:00) – Surely you remember the less-than-kind words we had for Cashmere Mafia, also on ABC. Apparently, ABC has written the same show twice, but in the latter, is replacing 4 women with 4 men. The question will be whether or not this can capture the replacement male audience. If it plays like a relationship-driven drama – good luck. Your male viewing audience is busy watching CSI. But if the combination of the four actors can grab a viewing early, it has a shot with Grey’s Anatomy as a lead-in. The four actor portraying these Big Shots are Dylan McDermott, Joshua Malina, Michael Vartan, and Christopher Titus. And while their day jobs are currently unknown, we’re putting money down in Vegas that they’ll be a snarky lawyer, an energetic producer on a 3^rd-place sports news show, an agent for a highly clandestine national agency, and a smart-ass in a bowling shirt. In New Orleans, there’s room for 2 big shots on a team, and according to the league office, 3 applications were submitted. The first is Drew Brees, who came over from San Diego last year to make a star out of Marques Colston, throw clutch TDs, and almost lead his team to the Super Bowl. The second is Reggie Bush, a jack-of-all-trades back, who while electrifying at USC, has yet to find how he will leave his mark on the league. The third is Jason David, the cornerback from Indy who – what’s that? Application revoked? Oh. EDGE: New Orleans Saints

Atlanta Falcons and Samantha Who? (ABC, Mon, 9:30) – A long, long time ago, Christina Applegate proved she had comedic timing, enough to belong in any supporting cast of a major network sitcom. As a lead player, she did just okay on her own show, Jesse, in the late nineties. After that, she broke into movies in a big way, as the only woman in the testosterone-laden cast of Anchorman. Hence, it’s time to give her another shot, as a woman recovering from amnesia who’s realizing that pretty much she’s an awful person (for source material: rent 13 Going on 30 with Jennifer Garner.) Sure, amnesia is a convenient way to forget that past, but will it lead to ratings in a 9:30 time slot, often the death knell for comedies? As for the Atlanta Falcons, it might be nice to claim amnesia now. That way, they could claim no recollection of the biggest off-season story, not to mention the signing of Michael Vick’s heir, one Joseph Harrington. “Hello, sir. And you are? We signed you to what? For how many years? You must be mistaken. Maybe you’re thinking of the Carolina Panthers. They’re a big fan of giving unqualified quarterbacks second chances. EDGE: Samantha Who?

Tampa Bay Buccaneers and Journeyman (NBC, Mon, 10:00) – It’s amazing what playing your cards right can get you. Jeff Garcia, despite being a Mexican-American, headed north of the border after college spends 5 years shredding the Canadian Football League. The 49ers notices said shredding, and signed him to a multi-year deal where he paid them back with 3 Pro Bowl appearances. However, the 49ers tanked and ran out of money, and Garcia was forced to bide his time in two disappointing seasons in Cleveland and Detroit. Certainly, he questioned his ability to start in the NFL. His wife, the 2004 Playmate of the Year, is a wise sage of a gal, and told him to take a backup job for the Eagles in 2006. Once Chunky Soup 5 went down with a torn knee, Garcia led the Eagles into the playoffs, including a win over the Giants. Now, because of that card, he’s starting once again – in sunny Tampa. However, I don’t anticipate the journeyman who wears #7 faring much better than NBC’s Journeyman, which seems to be a carbon copy of Quantum Leap, but with 41% less Bakula. EDGE: Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Carolina Panthers and Life is Wild (CW, Sun, 8:00) – Do you remember when Lindsay Lohan was not crazy? The last movie she made during that time was the Tina Fey-penned “Mean Girls.” I enjoyed it at the time – but now that TBS has gotten a hold of it, it will be beaten dead by the end of 2007. Do you remember why Lohan’s character was new to the school? Very good, it’s because her parents just moved to the U.S. after spending years in the African grasslands. Life is Wild takes that brilliant screenplay exposition and flips the script on Fey and Lohan. In the CW’s replacement for 7^th Heaven, a high school girl also named Katie and her family leave the States to live on an animal preserve in South Africa! That’s brilliant! Now they can draw parallels between the interaction of wild animals with Katie’s struggles to adapt to her new family (new stepmom) and surroundings. Now I’ve never been to Africa, but I’ve seen what their native animals are capable of. Take the Panther, for example. Panthers are ruthless. They don’t have to answer to anyone and can make smaller, skinnier, dumber animals pay for their idiocy. This past April, ESPN had current Carolina WR Keyshawn Johnson sit center stage as a part of their draft coverage, having an empty seat for “Loud-Mouth Receiver” since they fired Irvin. When the Panthers spent an early round pick on USC WR Dwayne Jarrett, (Johnson’s alma mater), Keyshawn praised the move and spoke about how excited he was to teach his fellow Trojan the ropes. The next day the Carolina Panthers released Keyshawn Johnson, to make room on the depth chart for Jarrett. Man, Life in the NFL is Wild. EDGE: Carolina Panthers

Dueling Previews '07: The AFC South

2007-07-17T10:06:00.000-04:00

As with last year's previews, the NFL managed to launch their season a few days early, preventing me from having a completely unbiased view of the season pending any actual results. On Thursday night, the Indianapolis Colts defeated the New Orleans Saints 41-10 at home in the RCA dome. So just when we thought John Mellancamp could fade into oblivion, his hometown team had to go and win the first every world championship for the Hoosier State. This no doubt led to Chevrolet renewing their deal with the Coug, as it seems we're in for more of the same commercials this year.

This is ourrrrrrr country.

Now onto Peyton and the teams he gets to beat not once, but twice this season.

Indianapolis Colts (1-0) and Cavemen (ABC, Tue, 8:00) – How did Peyton Manning not get a slot on the new fall primetime schedule? Peyton Manning, whose laser rocket arm endorses Sprint, was brilliant on Saturday Night Live last year. He, who was born from a rain-soaked Gatorade football, turned in the best commercial sketch in a decade with the United Way spoof. Manning, who thinks you should switch to DirectTV, did a ridiculous dance in the locker room sketch and got many laughs in the process. And yet #18, who never thinks it’s a bad time to use his Mastercard, is a Super Bowl MVP without a new pilot on any major network. But you know what? The Cavemen, who think you could save money on your car insurance by switching to Geico, have a prime comedy slot on ABC on Tuesdays. I tell you, Peyton Manning (who wears Reebok and wants you to as well), will find a way to get his revenge. He always does. EDGE: Indianapolis Colts

Houston Texans and Life (NBC, Wed, 10:00) – Life is about a guy who spent considerable time in jail for a crime he did not commit. (And it’s likely Martin Lawrence’s next great script idea.) Once he gets out, he does the completely logical thing – he becomes a police officer in the very precinct that threw him behind bars. He turns out to be a good cop, and yet nobody really trusts him or gives him a clean slate in their minds. No matter how much good he’ll do the Force, he’s going to have that reputation of being a criminal despite doing nothing to deserve that title. That guy is Matt Schaub. Matt Schaub spent last year as a quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, a position that’s not exactly on the Best Jobs to Have list for 2007. He spent three years in the shadow of a man that felt the wrath of his actions weeks ago. But Matt Schaub didn’t stick around – he got traded to Houston. Hopefully the Texans will not falsely relate him to Vick’s misgivings. Also, hopefully his new offensive line will block a little better than the last guy who took snaps behind them and wore the #8 jersey. EDGE: Houston Texans

Tennessee Titans and Nashville (FOX, Fri, 9:00) – When we starting writing these previews a year ago, we looked for clever ways to link a group of 53 guys playing a sport with a program that has little sports content. We’ve paralleled actor’s careers with that of new free agents, found similarities in the plotlines, used plays-on-words, words-on-plays, and everything else in between. Well, guess what? The Tennessee Titans play in Nashville. BOOM! Be careful where you step – the literary magic is falling from the skies as we speak. Anyway, Nashville is brought to you by the people who produce Laguna Beach, as they refocus their view from the West Coast of Orange County to the country hot spot of Tennessee. We’ll follow a bunch of aspiring musicians who are likely prettier than they are talented, including Terry Bradshaw’s kid. (Ok, in that case, she’s like more talented than pretty, if she didn’t fall far from the tree.) I will only watch this show if they cast Vince Young. As he proved in the Rose Bowl two years ago and last year in the latter half of the season, this man can do it all. It’s just a shame that LenDale White frequents the Krispy Kreme near Dave’s old apartment a little too much. EDGE: Tennessee Titans

Jacksonville Jaguars and Cane (CBS, Tue, 10:00) – Who doesn’t love a good Bible story? (Answer: Osama bin Laden.) CBS has decided to kick it Old Testament with a modern-day adaptation of the story of Cain and Abel. Hector Elizondo, whose name is 38% more fun to say than mine, overlooks his elder son (played by the guy who was Richard Alpert on Lost) in favor of Jimmy Smits. Smits’ spoils? Why, he’s now in charge of the family business, a rum and sugar operation. Of course, it’s an operation on the up-and-up, since Smits no doubt has old pals in the NYPD up the coast. However, you have to feel bad for the Nestor Carbonelli (read: Alpert), who has remained in his father’s good graces for the past few years, working through injuries, showing immediate resolve, being a team leader, and agreeing to run for his life when his protection has broken down. Tough luck, Nestor, I mean Richard, I mean Frank – what should we call you, anyway? Screw it; for now on, Hector Elizondo’s two children will be called David Garrard and Byron Leftwich. And we hate to break it to you, it’s not called rum friends; it’s called rum business. EDGE: Cane