BYO-Lyrics

(This is the second of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

When it comes to nightly entertainment at an all-inclusive vacation resort, it is up to the staff to design and lead events that will keep the clientele from either going to bed at 8:30 in the evening or wandering aimlessly on a foreign beach in a foreign land. When said clientele has a majority base of newlyweds, it really doesn’t take too much. Participatory games in the sports bar. Dancing out under the stars. I even heard of a spirited match or two of Shuffleboard and Lawn Chess. But those in charge, dubbed “Playmakers” by their management, know very well that the best way to break up the monotony of a weekly schedule with the same shows and events on tap, is to leave the entertaining up to the guests.

Talent shows are intimidating by nature, and this is for two key reasons. First off, a talent show is like an open-ended invitation that doesn’t tell you what time the party is, at what locale it would be held, and what guests should plan on bringing. No, it’s just a statement for having a party, no details attached. That way, no one quite knows what to expect, and more importantly, what is expected of them.

Secondly, most people’s true talents can’t be showcased in an amphitheater in front of dozens of blissfully happy strangers. Hey man, I can quote line-for-line every line of dialogue from Cool Runnings, but I wouldn’t on stage. (You don’t have 97 minutes to give me, and the staff will roast me for my weak Caribbean accent.) Hey, I also have an eerie knack for asymmetrical book stacking, but this isn’t a library, now is it? (Name the reference, cinephiles.)

The talent show came and went with little fanfare from the Condon camp. But that doesn’t mean that my time to shine had come and gone. While a talent show gives you little insight into what the people want, there’s another audience participation event of which there is NO confusion whatsoever. And lo and behold, look at what the Friday night activity just happens to be…

Karaoke.

(And I didn’t even need spell check for that.) (Nordberg.)

Sitting at a table with my wife and another couple we had met at dinner, there I was minding my own business. Up on stage, some guy from Indiana was tearing Bust a Move to shreds – so much that Young MC was heard crying himself to sleep on the mainland. In my chair, I looked forward to a fine evening of mocking those who can’t and keeping it to secret that I contain not one but both of the crucial ingredients to a fine karaoke performance. And it is with no further fanfare that I present the 5 Keys to a Money Karaoke Performance.

1. Have the tools AND the talent. As I mentioned above, it would behoove you to have two key elements of karaoke under your belt. First, it certainly helps if you are able to carry a tune. The crowd will thank you later. Second, be a general fan of song lyrics. Before you hit the stage and grab the mike, make sure you know your subject material. It’s not copyright infringement, pal.
2. Know your song. Pick a song you’ve, uh, heard before? The first time I ever rocked the karaomike, it was with my freshmen hallmates to Everclear’s Santa Monica. Didn’t know a lyric. Felt like a tool. Look. Don’t pull a Santa Monica.
3. Know your range. Hey, I like singing Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer at a wedding with all my friends too, man. But have you ever sang it by yourself, without anyone else, not even Jon Bon himself? It’s a little higher than you think. Karaoke is the ancient Japanese art of making people look stupid, so find your comfort zone and don’t leave.
4. Don’t follow the showstopper. That night, there was a guy who belted, and I mean BELTED, Like a Prayer in full falsetto mode. Had there been a roof on the place, he would have brought it down. You don’t want to be waiting on deck. I know there’s not a whole lot of control here, but if you could slide behind the guy singing some ballad no one’s ever heard for his girlfriend in the Key of Ouch, that’s a good place to go.
5. Instrumental Block – Many of your favorite songs, even if you don’t notice, have a fair chunk of music sans vocals. Be prepared with a joke or a dance to kill the dead air. My personal favorite is to read the words “Instrumental Break” off the screen like you had no idea they weren’t part of the song.
   

And it is with a triumphant following of the 5 Keys that I, Chris Condon, not only brought the Devil Down to Georgia, but to Saint Lucia.

(PS – If you are unable to master the 5 Keys, just drink heavily. You won’t remember it in the morning, anyway.)

A Matter of Life and Locked

(This is the first of four stories from YAB Editor-in-Chief Chris Condon’s “Island in the YAB” vacation. Enjoy.)

Yes, it’s true. Watersports were included in the Sandals all-inclusive package. Water skiing, kayaking, paddle boats, catamarans, snorkeling – yeah, all fine choices. However, it wasn’t until one fateful morning where I chose to indulge in the greatest Caribbean water sport of them all: deep sea diving. But fish and coral were not the focus of such an excursion. Nay, this particular sightseeing mission was for a far more beautiful vista. That’s right.

Our missing room keys.

The water was, well, okay fine, warm and quite pleasant that fateful Thursday morning in the pool at the Bluff. This aquatic spelunking locale is not unlike most other standard swimming pools – well, except the aforementioned swim-up bar. As Katie and I spent the morning relaxing and floating our way around the premises, lying on floatent floatables (yep, making up words, just like old times), the bottom of the pool held only feet and mosaic printings of ancient Greek icons and astrological symbols.

Until, of course, I carelessly let our room key slide out of my pockets and become a captive of Davy Jones’ locker.

It wasn’t until I had exited the deep and was about to head down the hill to lunch when I did my standard cargo pocket check. On such a vacation, my pockets ran a little thinner, having no need to truck my wallet, car keys, and cell phone everywhere I went. But that did not mean it was acceptable to reach down to my side and pat my pocket to only find air. No, there should have been something there to find. Namely, a set of dark golden metallic keys on a neon green bungy designed to be stored on ones wrist.

I’d store said keys on my wrist, but let’s face it. Kind of hard to bring that rum and coke to your mouth without getting a housekey in the eye.

As I scrambled through the dining area and back down the steps, I knew exactly where I had left my treasured amulet of entry, in a precise generality sort of way. The only thing between me and lying down in my hotel room was four feet and six inches of the Sea’s finest. And to make my excursion a fraction of a league under the sea exponentially harder, God decided now would be a fun time to open up the heavens and drench those below with a St. Lucia-patented 12 Minute Rain Storm.

Crap.

As Katie kept watch from the balcony above, looking, hoping, and praying for just a glimmer of metal at through the driving splashes of rain, I launched head first into my adversary. The fun thing about searching for such a variety of key was that while keys no doubt sink, I had to consider the possibility that the neon green phone cord they’re attached to just may float. This means that my bounty could quite possibly be residing at any vertical depth of the fifty-four inches of rain-pelted water I now found myself surrounded by.

Don’t I get a treasure map or something?

I was methodical at first. After checking the poolside filters (those things have traps like sharks’ mouths), I began my sea-bed patrol of the outlying points below. Most of my time had been spent around the edge of the pool, anyways. As that phase of my search turned up no more than a leaf and somebody’s discarded beer bottle peeling, my heart decided to kick into the second gear. I came to the surface, dismayed and ready to regroup.

Did I mention it was raining cats and…island goats?

The scene up on the balcony had turned far more frantic, as dry diners noticed the weird kid patrolling the pool’s floor. Katie had set out to get a temp key in the case that I return to no avail. The current of the pool had since picked up, as if it knew it had an audience. Needless to say, gale force winds that would toss a tiny ship persisted, while I remain below the surface, feeling my way for both keys and now, for hope.

About to give up (had I been underwater for hours? days?), I plunged to the depths for one final scouring of where humans should not go. Now criss-crossing the pool, my search pattern had grown erratic and desperate. With one final stab out with my left hand, I grasped and like choir of angels had opened their hymnals to Handel’s Messiah,

I found them.

Am I a hero? No. I’m just a guy who likes his all-inclusive watersports.

This Blog is All-Inclusive

As I sit here crammed so close to my American Airlines window in Seat 28F, two things come to mind. First, it’s amazing how collected I can be when giant puffy white clouds of frightful doom are hurtling a mere eighteen inches from my head. If you stop to think about it, if my seat was installed on the other side of this industrial steel, it would be like Roger Clemens launching cotton candy from point blank range.

I was never a fan of carnival food.

Secondly, it occurs to me that in the whirlwind wedding weekend, the YAB Office has been a tad…empty. We’re talking tumbleweed empty. Yes, as the last five workdays transpired, and you made your way over to the best blog written by a guy whose name ends in –Hris Condon, nary a new post was to be found. Heck, I can’t even tell you what topic has been enjoying top billing for the fast week. Hope it was something earth-shatteringly important.

Who am I kidding? It probably was something as important as my musings on who would in a street fight between Captain Crunch and the Lucy Charms leprechaun. (Answer: military training is good, but it’s no match for the Fightin’ Irish.)

No, I was far away from YAB’s office with Katie on the sunny Caribbean island of Saint Lucia. Now I can’t recall studying much about St. Lucia, as I’m pretty sure she wasn’t around at the time of the Bible. But when it came to the meeting up in Heaven where God assigned who would be the patron saint of what and so forth, little Lucy must have gotten there early. After all, how else would she get to become the namesake of such a dazzling tropical destination?

Our resort of choice was Sandals. Perhaps you’ve seen their commercials on TV. There the ones for beachfront dining, picturesque swimming pools, lapping tides at sunset, and EVERYBODY IN NEON CLOTHING. First off, this is not why I picked this resort. Don’t get me wrong – I, like the rest of Medford Memorial Middle School, wore enough fluorescent apparel to blind oncoming drivers in the early nineties, but it’s safe to say I’ve outgrown said phase. No matter, really. Upon arrival, it was a relief to see that all other guests of the Sandals Regency in St. Lucia were not dressed to be seen from space, either.

Now here’s the reason you (assuming you are soon-to-be-married and have yet-to-confirm-your-own-travel-destination) should choose Sandals. A-L-L-I-N-C-L-U-S-I-V-E. Upon booking, I put my wallet away.

The meals were included, and they were quite good. The hotel room, and its fully-stocked bar was included, and short of some icy Gatorade, was more than satisfactory. Three-times-a-day room service for linens and cleaning – included. Drinks at every bar – yes, including those at which you must swim up to in the pool – were included.

Watersports? Yep.
Tipping the staff? You bet.
Complimentary pen and pad by the hotel phone? Oh, yeah!

Katie and I had a wonderful time on our honeymoon and would like to thank all of you for your friendship and support of our newly christened marriage. Who knows, maybe she’ll chime in from time to time here on the blogwaves. Well, it’s time to go – the flight attendant is coming by with the drink cart…

…and it’s included!

No disrespect to Christina Toms...

But it is the little things that make you laugh…

Today, being my last day at work before I take a much-needed vacation, started as normally as it always does. I got to my desk, knocked out an issue or three, left some phone messages for those on the West Coast who feel that “time zones” give them an excuse to still be sleeping, and then I got hungry.

Even though I’ve lived in the new apartment for two weeks, and said apartment is immediately next to Wegman’s, I haven’t found the time or need to go grocery shopping yet. Who knew planning a wedding was so hectic?

Oh, that’s right. EVERYBODY.

And thus, my stomach informed me it was time to go down to the cafeteria for a mid-morning breakfast snack. This trek is often uneventful, and this particular instance was proving little exception. I’m on the second floor, so I feel guilty taking the elevator to go down one lousy flight. Total Overkill. That would be the equivalent of me hailing a Boeing 737 to get to class in Alexandria. And had I taken an elevator, I would not have found the inspiration for today’s blog. After all, Blog works in mysterious ways.

Turning instead to the stairwell, I did what I often do going down winding stairs. As long as there isn’t anyone coming, I am known to put my hands on the handrails (makes sense) and take Grawp-like bounds down the steps. I can literally cover one floor in one swing. It’s impressive. But kids, don’t try this at home. Or at work. You’ll get caught.

I, with my cat-like intuition, never get caught. But today, I almost sounded the alarm when I practically landed on one of those hazard yellow caution stands. Narrowly avoiding it, I read the “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” warning with a sigh of relief, firm footing, and out the door I went to get my bagel and Mt. Dew.

But on the way back is where it turned…odd. As I re-entered the stairwell, the yellow warning stand was still there. However, there was something strange about it, now that I was looking at the back side. Most of these tents can be depended on to have the same words of caution on both sides – mirror images benefit both directions. But not this particular stand on this particular day. On the flip side, it imparted these words of warning to yours truly:

CAUTION ________ FLOOR

Ok, people. One of two things is going on here. It is possible that the B side also at one point displayed the word “WET,” and had merely been scratched off for reasons unknown. But then again…

CAUTION: FLOOR!

That’s right, stair users. Beware of the floor! We don’t want you to be nervous about you final step to the bottom level being wet, hot, slippery, or cracked. We just want you to know that you have no more steps to go – for you have reached the FLOOR! You will not, I repeat, WILL NOT, fall to the center of the Earth, for we have installed a FLOOR! You should feel safe in the knowledge that the architecture of this particular location comes complete with a lower horizontal plane. Just be conscious!

Okay, fine. No more morning Mountain Dew for Condon.

Jersey Pride!

Q: What did Della wear?
A: A New Jersey.

The above, as much as it pained my fingers to type it, very well could be the worst joke I have ever heard. Granted, with all of the cornball artists out there on the comedy circuit, there may be material out there that makes the above look like Monty Python – caliber, but for the time being, we’ll continue on believing that it does not get worse than this. Even I enjoy a good play on words, but let’s face it. I don’t know Della, don’t care much for her tastes in fashion, and she sure isn’t worthy of supporting her local sports team with such a lame sense of humor.

(Perhaps I’m reading in too far.)

The art of the new jersey is no laughing matter (not that the aforementioned joke has any of you rolling on the floor or doubled over in glee). For I am here today to give those less informed about the intricacies of purchasing, owning, and wearing athletic jerseys. There’s a lot that goes into such a bold fashion decision, and as always, YAB is here to help.

(Or to distract. Get back to work.)

With little exception, there are five major sports from which you can wear their uniforms as part of your everyday wear. I am not selecting them out of disrespect for other sports; it’s just that I have yet to see anyone walking down the street in an equestrian jacket, a speed skating suit, or a synchronized swimming cap without getting a bizarre look from passersby. Let’s run down the big 5, shall we?

A football jersey is likely the most popular choice for a jersey. It wears like a t-shirt, stays cool like a t-shirt, and can be slid over shoulder pads for some full contact grocery shopping. There isn’t anything like cut blocking a tower of paper towels, let me tell you. A baseball jersey is the ultimate in casual wear. Throw on some old jeans, a white t-shirt and PF Flyers with it, you’ll be right out of the Sandlot. Soccer jerseys are trendy in Europe, I hear. Can substitute often for a collared shirt, and can serve as nationality identification at an airport if you forget your passport. Basketball jerseys are glorified tank tops, and I personally stay away. But hey, that’s your call, Shaqdaddy. Finally, the hockey jersey is the pinnacle of the sports apparel world. Perfect for classes that come way too early on Saturday mornings. As long as their “shiny” nature don’t catch the prof’s eye and get you called on. (Damn you, Doc K…)

Now customizing a jersey goes a long way in terms of gaining respect from your fellow fan. When you decide to take a generic shirt from your favorite team, in any sport, you can take one of two paths. On one path, you’re an imposter. It is fine to wear a jersey with a favorite players name and number – AS LONG AS you don’t look like said player. It is crime in the United States to impersonate someone purposely, and they don’t let you wear your new gear in jail. On top of that, you’ll probably let your favorite team down. Wearing a A-Rod jersey is all well and good until Joe Torre tells you to get out to third base. One hot liner off the bat of Manny Ramirez that flies by your glove later, Yankee Stadium hates you.

Also, be careful who you emblazon on the back. Their tenure with the team is guaranteed to be shorter than the life of your jersey. (Why? Chris Gratton? Why have you forsaken me, former Flyer?)

The second option in the customization route is to fool no one – put your own name across your shoulders. Be proud of your family heritage by making your own identity part of the team. But be very careful – while the former route makes you an imposter, the latter could brand you a wannabe. If such is the case, do not stick your name on a team who is last in their respective league. For example, if the Pittsburgh Penguins see you sitting in the third row of their twenty-seventh consecutive losing effort, the coach may tell you to lace ‘em up. Here’s the problem – you’re probably better than some of the other guys on the team. Great, just because you have a jersey and marginal skill, the rest of your hometown team is in therapy with self-esteem issues.