Hero Shirt!

The title is what my first name would be without the dynamic duo of P and C. Confused?

PC, often paired to abbreviate the tenet of Political Correctness, is everywhere you look these days. Christina Toms isn’t short – she’s vertically challenged. Chief Justice Rehnquist isn’t elderly – he’s a senior citizen. Terrell Owens isn’t holding out – he’s withholding service for just compensation. The movie Stealth won’t be awful – actually, I got nothing. Yes it will. Horribly horribly awful.

For the most part, a societal insistence on the use of euphemisms doesn’t bother me that much. Mainly because I don’t pay attention to most of this silliness. There’s no way Toms is getting me to call her vertically challenged – she’s a little person standing tall. Rehnquist isn’t going to ask me to call him a senior citizen – he has no idea who I am. Political correctness only shows up when you say something wrong. And I do not believe I have committed any major crimes against the English language, so I’ve got a clean rap sheet.

While those who can put their PC-feet in their respective mouths are subject to mockery and ridicule, we here at YAB feel that America is a land of equal opportunity. Not only should those who stomp all over sensitive grounds be made fun of here at YAB, but even more so, those who try and make the world overly politically correct should be put in front of the firing squad. Well, friends, it’s time to lock and load.

This story may be a few days old, but it hasn’t escaped the HAL9000-like eye of the YABNews Desk. Perhaps inspired by the activism of Sir Bob Geldof, it appears now that many teachers in the UK have decided to champion a cause. But instead of eradicating poverty in Africa, the cause is far more foolish. According to the newswire, the Professional Association of Teachers will very soon have to debate whether or not British boys and girls will ever fail again.

Well, that’s not entirely true – it’s not that kids across the pond or going to get “wicked smart” at the drop of a hat. It’s just when they put that two plus two equals threeve on their next math test, teachers won’t be able to assign a mark of failure. Instead, in place of such a heinous word, the activists would like the phrase “deferred success” inserted. So when your kid comes home with an exam where he claimed the capital of Australia is “Outback City,” you can’t chide him for failing. He has instead opted to defer success.

Huh?

“Defer success” is probably the most overly formal term I have ever heard in my history of utilizing the English language. Even more so than the “upside of anger.” Not only is it uppity, it also makes a few assumptions. First, it assumes that all pupils will ultimately achieve success. Even with their ban on the word fail, there’s still going to be the kid who has no interest in academics whatsoever. Secondly, deferring success implies that each student who would have failed under the current nomenclature is making a conscious choice to hold off on doing well, delaying the inevitable shower of passing grades. “No, no thank you Ms. Wilcox. I appreciate the offer of success on this spelling test, but I have opted to spell “giraffe” with a j and a silent t in hopes that I may put off the success coming my way. Thank you, now may I have some tea and Fig Newtons?”

In other news, the Phillies open up a 3-game stand in Houston tonight. I am hoping that they do not “delay victory.”

Too Hot to Handle

In this nation, we have a highly evolved system of financial management and monetary regulation. The banking world exists to let everyone, from Poor Richard to Richie Rich have an alternative to stuffing their life savings under the mattress. Now it does not matter, for the most part, which bank you choose to do business with. In fact, I’m pretty sure most people just use the bank with the most convenient ATM (you know, for some fast cash for a late night T-Bell run). Maybe some people like to say “Wachovia.” I know I do.

Regardless of your financial institution of choice, banks have been created for two things. And it is these two things that we, as American citizens should be able to rely on. First, banks are responsible for your money. Their job is to hold it, not lose it, and hopefully incrementally add to it on your behalf. Secondly, if it weren’t for banks, how can the world expect me to know the day’s time and temperature?

As I was driving to work today, I joined most of the commuting world and tuned in to some 24-hour newsradio. Granted, it wasn’t the format I prefer, but there was a bus crash on I-95 this morning and I wanted details. In my brief stint on the AM dial, I found out the Washington DC area is going to be stifling hot for the next few days, as the heat index will easily climb to the 110 mark by tomorrow. Wonderful. It’s a good thing I’m not attempting to move this week.

(Please stand by. My keyboard just exploded in a sarcastic fireball.)

But just because I heard the prophecy of heat does not mean that I have any idea what it is like immediately outside my vehicle. And since WTOP doesn’t broadcast such detailed weather facts, I realize that I’m just going to have to rely on that bank on Leesburg Pike to fulfill its second of two duties and tell me how hot it is right now. The has not fully risen of the new PriceWaterhouse HQ building yet, so I’m at least hoping for a balmy 81 or 82. I sit at the traffic light waiting for their big digital board with the red letters to switch from the current time (7:08) to the temperature.

(blink)

333.

Now I know that while carrying everything to my car this morning, I was breaking a minor sweat across my brow, but I had no idea it was THIS hot. 333 degrees – and I’m just praying that’s only Fahrenheit. Either over the weekend I developed some sort of genetic immunity to heat so hot it could boil ketchup, or a nuclear heat wave rushed into the DC metro area in the twelve minutes since I closed my car door at Random Run, just four miles away.

Both seem unlikely.

But can anyone come up with another reason for the bank on the corner to be telling me that the temperature currently is 121 degrees above the boiling point? I know what you are thinking, the thermometer must be broken. Well, I am here to defend against such a crackpot theory. If the thermometer doesn’t work, and thusly making the banks of America unable to perform one of their two primary duties. And what happens to their credibility then? If that temperature is a product of malfunctioning systems and miscalculation, what ELSE is malfunctioning and miscalculated? Financial statements, account balances, even the number of lollipops in the teller’s jar – none of this data can be trusted. We’re talking major treasury meltdown here. So if you’re going to come here and tell me the thermometer’s busted, I’m withdrawing all my money and putting it under my mattress.

With that said, who wants to help me move my bed this weekend?

From the Cojubuvech

Now I realize why Ikea furniture is so inexpensive. No labor costs.

Unless, of course, you include the countless hours Katie and I spent last night putting together a trio of cabinetry for the new apartment. Ok, maybe I could count them. But that defeats the need to blog, doesn’t it? Whatever the duration, I spent last night turning efficiently packed cubes of wood and screws into furniture. Who knew I was a carpenter? (Quiet, Walrus, nobody asked you.)

I have to say, the Ikea furniture retail system has got to be the best export from the fine nation of Sweden that I’ve ever encountered. (2nd place Volvo, 3rd place Nordbergs-who-don’t-phone-it-in.) The instant I’m about to complain about the work involved in making a simple television stand, I’m reminded of how reasonable the price was for said stand. Sure, I could have shopped elsewhere, carted home a finished product, but then I wouldn’t have been able to stop on the way home for that huge steak dinner, where I paid for everybody in the place. Mmm.

(Sure, I’m exaggerating.) (Or am I?)

However, for all you future Ikea shoppers, I fear for you. I have seen the future and I have no need for shades. In years to come, the Ikea business model will take drastic turns, and they will not be for the better. And what do we have to thank for this ideological slide? Simple. Continental cooperation.

The European Union (EU) is a group of European countries that work as one unit in order realize the benefits of cooperating on a political, economic, and social scale. Great advances have been made in the last decade to unify the continent, making its collective voice just as strong as the United States in world matters. To achieve such a voice, each country had to sacrifice something that was synonymous with their national pride. Currency is one such casualty (well, for everyone but England.)

Guess what Sweden has to give up? Yep, you guessed it: Ikea. It’s not that the big blue and gold buildings are going to go away; it’s just that from now on, they need to incorporate some business trademarks from other nations in the EU. The following are my top seven favorite changes resulting from Ikea becoming an EU-corporation.

1. Germany – Improvements in supply chain management can be expected, as a new plant in Hamburg is so efficient and serious that all existing facilities are closed down. Nobody smiles.
2. Slovakia – Thought brand names at Ikea were weird before? Slovakia has taken on the task of adding random J’s, B’s, V’s and U’s to product titles. The Swedes used to call it a couch, now it shall be known as cojubuvech. Comfy.
3. Greece – A new brand will hit the shelves in 2007, labeled Athos. You will be able to construct your very own towering Ionian columns using only an Allen wrench. Amazing!
4. Czech Republic – Barely beaten out to the naming job Slovakia got, the Czechs have instead opted to improve Ikea by supplying manpower. You see, with the NHL back in town, the New York Rangers are about to give Jaromir Jagr his walking papers, and I hear there is a vacancy in the Scarsdale store for “stockboy.”
5. Hungary – Will oversee management of the in-store concession areas and kiosks. Will promise not to devour the merchandise.
6. Netherlands – In order to deal with expansion within Europe, raw materials are at an all-time low. The Dutch have struck a deal with Nike to outfit the nation in Air Jordan’s, while all their previous footwear is recycled to mass produce end tables.
7. Italy – Italy promises not to invade rival furniture galleries and suffer embarrassing defeats on behalf of the EU.

Great Expectations

Writer's Block? You have no idea.

Writing a daily blog isn't too hard, assuming the ideas of how to bring the funny are continuous. As long as the Post-it of Knowledge still has an uncrossed word on it, and it doesn't sound like a Seinfeld monologue topic, I've got a lead on a column. Granted, not all of them are Holy Puppy blogs, but it doesn't take much to get me to churn out a page and a half of funny. That said...

While blogging may come fairly easy to me, there are other areas of the written word that absolutely leave me in fits. Such a classification can be summed up with three horrifying words.

Forced. Personal. Sentiment.

It's not that I don't know how to put emotion into words; when I take it upon myself to convey feeling to someone by means of putting it to paper, I feel fairly proficient. Think you cards, notes between friends, personal e-mail - any recipient of such a document is receiving genuine me. Hopefully, if I play my words right, I will have captured the Essence du Condon. Sounds like a cologne. (Silly wordsmith, cologne doesn't talk.) (But if Cond was able to be captured in a cologne, I guarantee you the bottle would be very tall and would never break when dropped on the ground.) (Ok, too many parenthesis.) (I'll move on.)

The difference between such correspondence and writing that leaves me with a dried-up quill is that pesky "Forced" part. Personal sentiment is when Condon voluntarily conveys his feelings. Forced personal sentiment is when Condon has a proverbial gun to his back and is required to write. A set amount to write, a set time period to write it in, and my wit turns to mush.

A perfect example of an F.P.S. that just about everyone has to endure occurs in the waning days of your high school career. Once you have taken your finals with all the impetus of a sponge, there are a final few days of the school calendar to wait out before that mythical diploma is yours. Will you be staring at the minute hand until your name is called? Nay. You and your fellow seniors have a call to arms. And what is your issued weapon? A yearbook and a pen.

Being asked to sign somebody's yearbook is an F.P.S. This is not a writing exercise you have most likely applied for. No, you've been handed a pen and pointed towards a blank space. And did I mention that this ink will be immortalized in that person's yearbook, oh I don't know, FOREVER?

Yeah, no pressure.

You do your best to throw in a common memory you would have forgotted three weeks later otherwise, some sage advice for the future, and perhaps some contact information. But let's face it. Shakespeare and Hemingway didn't write their best work next to "Student Activities," and neither do I.

Modern day example - at a going away party for a co-worker, the department created a very nice framed caricature of said employee as a going-away gift. I thought this sounded good, until I realized we were all to sign this outer frame with some sort of send-off or thank you. Ack! F.P.S. rears its ugly head again. And since my office has come to expect the funny from me, I feel like eleventy billion sets of eyes are drilled into the back of my head as I grab the Sharpie and approach. Writer's Block. Again.

At last, inspiration! You've all left me with no other choice but to write the antinote.

Dear John,
Insert generic good-bye and well wishes here.
-- Chris Condon

Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes

To each their own, but let it be known. People notice.

The office workplace is a locale of professionalism. Every day, men and women walk into their respective places of business dressed to impress. Whether it is a power tie, a sharp blazer, or some other article accompanied by an intimidating adjective, you would be well-advised to look the part. All day long, people pass in the halls in their Sunday best, praying to God they don’t spill coffee/soda/Danish on them. If they succeed, they shall make it through the day maintaining this upper level of style.

Until…

…until they realize their company-owned building has a fitness center on the first floor. As an added perk to working in the regional HQ, employees can avoid paying ridiculous membership fees at WSC or Bally’s and get their run on without even getting in their car. I, for one, have been a member for over two years, as evidenced here, here, and here.

Once the workday is over and it is time to hit the gym, all fashion sense goes out the freakin’ window. Gone are the intimidating sounding adjectives and the color coordination. In are the clothes that you wouldn’t be caught dead in sitting at your desk, or for the most part, out in public. But now you’re in the Gym Zone, where everything is in play.

Now I ran track outdoors prior to my treadmill days, and from my experience, everyone can still have their style. Lou Jester rocked “The Flash” look. Chris Bromily made it hip to run in ugly high-tops. Scott Lightfoot insisted on skin-tight apparel. (Not actually Scott Lightfoot in picture. Just a replica.) I kept it real with standard l-sleeve t-shirts and athletic shorts. And I still do.

However, I wish I could say the same for my colleagues downstairs in the gym. I present to you the 5 Biggest Gym Zone Fashion Errors:

- Spandex. As the esteemed philosopher Matthew Lillard once proclaimed in the movie Hackers: “Spandex – it’s a privilege. Not a right.” I can’t agree more.
- Formal Lifting – These are the guys who come into the gym with no plans to ever work on their lower bodies. The only area of fitness they are interested in maintaining are the, and I quote, “the guns.” They’ come in half-changed, with a tank top, but managing to leave on the dress slacks and fancypants shoes.
- Short-shorts – Most-often a crime perpetrated by older men, let it be known that the checkered UMBROs are now as helpful as trying to cure a fever with a medicine ball.
- Layering – I kid you not, there’s this one woman who often uses an adjacent treadmill who gets on wearing no less than four layers of clothing. As her run (read: leisurely stroll) progresses, she strips down to match the “increasing” intensity of her exercise. By the end, she’s down to a t-shirt and shorts (like the rest of us normal people at the room temp of 72 degrees), but there a mega-mountain of clothing at the end of her ‘mill. Very strange.
- As for number 5, I confess I am the reason that this should be added to the list. Two nights ago after work, I headed down to the gym for my workout. Astonished, I opened my bag to find my shirt, shorts, socks, Dell mp3 player…but no running shoes. Rather than call it a day, I threw on the shirt, my running pants and hit the weights…in black loafers. No, I didn’t do my run, but I did do a circuit of machines.

Did I get half my workout in despite the packing error? Yes. And did anyone notice? No.