Call it a Hat Trick

Now that Oscar Sunday has been out on the internet for three full weeks, and has been watched an amazing 5,019 times, downloaded another 27, and even caught the attention of one of the writers at Ain’t It Cool News, it’s time to see what we’ve all learned from this little lesson in video parody.

Editing is hard.

Not so much the process, I guess I have to say. I gave myself a crash course on some software, and the end product turned out okay. They key to good editing is even better storyboarding. Fortunately, Spud (who has watched even more movies than me) had the knack for this, and while filming, we laid out much of the final product. It’s also good to not complete restrain yourself so rigid that the editor gets no room for creativity; had that been the case, little stuff – like the subliminal urinal shot – would be on the cutting room floor. However, no matter how much of a neophyte of an expert one is with the editing business, no one makes a perfect movie. Don’t believe me?

Many of the DVDs that have found a home in my collection can be pulled out and popped in to highlight a crucial and often hilarious movie editing mistake. Maybe it’s that the filmmakers are so caught up in their grand opus that they don’t catch those silly oversights. Or maybe it’s just that they know we’ll be talking about their movie for years to come, even if it’s a terrible flick. Regardless, here is a highlighted sample of my film collection, and the movie mistakes that are certainly worth slowing down and taking a second look. In ascending order of excellence:

PIRATES of the CARIBBEAN – When Jack Sparrow is getting his crew together in the middle of the movie, and utters the line, “On deck you scalabrous dogs,” more than just the crew is ready to sail. To the left of Sparrow’s head, in the corner, is just crew member in shades and a cowboy hat just staring vacantly out to sea. Shortly thereafter, he was surely fired. And by fired, I mean he walked the plank.

GLADIATOR – One of the most remarkable scenes in the flick comes when the gladiators are first challenged in the arena, to the tune of arrow-slinging, spear-chucking, Carthaginian chariots. Maximus leads the slaves into military protection formation, figuring their shelter of shields can hold up until the chariots’ horsepower runs out. Lucky for them, the chariots don’t wait that long, as one-by-one, they collide and flip over. When the second one tips and sails into the wall, check out the gas powered cylinder in the back of the cart. They could have gone all day.

STAR WARS – The ultimate movie mistake. While Luke and company are stuck in the garbage compactor, their only hope (no, not Obi-Wan) is the two droids hidden in a command room elsewhere in the Death Star. A set of Stormtroopers march in with their expressionless helmets leading the way. Now the door opens from floor to ceiling, and much to the chagrin of the Stormtrooper on the right, it doesn’t quite go all the way. There’s a reason the Imperial Army had a height cut-off – that one on the right bangs his head on the door something fierce.

OSCAR SUNDAY – Yes, even rookie editors don’t learn. When Spud and I went for a final day of shooting at Potomac Yards, we met over a lunch break. Since I don’t normally wear jeans and a ski coat to work, I had to change clothes for filming. One thing I forgot? The omnipresent green Eagles cap I had worn in every other scene. No time to retreat for props, I hit up Sports Authority for a cheap 4 dollar replacement. Close, but not a replica.

Which is why when I question the abilities of the security guards, and subsequently broke in the back, my hat has gone from green to blue.

Oops.

The Cock of the Balk

Forget Jimmy Rollins’ hitting streak. We’ve got a whole new reason to get excited for this year’s Fightin’ Phils.

For professional sports franchises, selling tickets to their games is the lifeblood that allows rosters of grown men to play games for a living, for millions of dollars. Sure, there are sponsorships, TV contracts, and ridiculous memorabilia sales, but putting fans in the seats is what makes the sports world go ‘round. The most lucrative type of sale is the season ticket – whereby a fan agrees to pay for a ticket to every game in advance, regardless of other obligations, weather, and if the boring Kansas City Royals are in town. Generally speaking, season ticket holders are creatures of habit. Renew now, find a way to pay later.

The Philadelphia Phillies, in their 3-years young Citizens Bank Park, go that extra mile to convince those still trying to decide whether another year in Section 208 is worth that second mortgage on your home. What is the magic sales pitch? A DVD! (Right now, Chris Smith is salivating on his keyboard.) It’s a marketing-glitz, optimism-fused, look at this year’s team’s prospects, predicting World Series championship moments – which you’ll miss if you don’t renew. Effective? Maybe. But only if this promotion is managed well.

Philly’s own Channel 6 (shout-out to Jasen’s dreamgal, Cecily Tynan) is reporting that one Phillies Phence-sitter was a little shocked when he popped the 2006 Fightins’ DVD into his DVD player. Did he see Chase Utley turning a double play? Ryan Howard launching a moonshot into the right field seats? David Bell icing his chronically injured back?

NO! He saw Spanish cockfighting!

As lore would have it, the company the Phillies contracted with accidentally forgot to change the tapes when switching from one job to another. A few fans around the Delaware Valley are a little confused to see the sport of fighting roosters, which is banned in 48 states and DC playing instead. For the record, the two legal states are New Mexico and Louisiana. Neither have baseball teams.

This was clearly a mistake, but it does beg the question: does the fierceness of a team’s nickname serve any function in prognosticating and predicting? From our count, there are eight MLB ballclubs whose nicknames have their home in the animal kingdom. (We actually have no idea what a ‘Phillie’ is.) If we put each of those eight mascots up against an angry Gamecock (as featured on the Phillies’ 2006 promo DVD), can we predict who will win this year’s World Series? We say yes.

Let’s start with the easy comparisons: Birds. In one corner you’ve got a gamecock, probably hepped up on enough BALCO substances that Barry Bonds might rethink that retirement option. In the other corner you’ve got a Cardinal, and Oriole, and a Blue Jay. Not exactly Murderer’s Row. Maybe the NFL has the right idea. Falcons, Eagles, Seahawks – those are fowl with fangs. Not these three cuckoos.

Then you’ve got two water-logged entries from Florida. Putting up a much better fight, the Tampa Bay Devil Ray can sting this rooster (hereafter known as “Cock of the Balk”), but lack of mobility out of water will make this a short battle. And while the Florida Marlin has that wicked sword for a nose, they are disqualified. A team starting 5 rookies in the field is simply too young to cockfight.

And no matter how big that kitty can roar, we’ve said it once and we’ll say it again. The Detroit Tigers suck.

That leaves the Chicago Cubs. I think a bear can take the Cock of the Balk, assuming Steve Bartman is not in attendance. So mark YAB’s words, 2004 was the Red Sox. 2005 was the White Sox. And now, after much too long a drought, the Cubs win the Pennant.

Because a little cockfighting birdie told me.

Leaving the Barn Door Open

How do they keep finding me?

Ok, a few minutes ago, Erik dropped off my daily mail from the morning delivery. In my job, I can’t say I receive the prime cuts of the mail run. No interesting packages, no ridiculously cool deals for free stuff (HR gets all those), not even super-important memos that will impact corporate policy. No, my mail is pretty much composed of invoices to pay, cost reports to analyze, vendor letters to laugh at, and billing statements to discard immediately. (Vendors looking for money that I owe them not. Waste of paper.)

But today, Erik had to laugh when he handed me my stack, For tucked behind the envelopes and cost reports, I had something new to not only analyze, but on the spot come up with a valid answer for my receipt:

A Pottery Barn catalog.

Speechless, I flipped over the magazine to reveal the address. Sure enough, there’s my full name, my business address, complete with 4-part mail stop number. This was no mistake. I grinned sheepishly as he walked away cackling. Somehow, the Barn was onto me.

But how did they find me?

Granted, we registered for our wedding at the Barn, but I can’t imagine they traced my work address from the home address of my wife’s parent’s house. This is not the NSA – it’s a mall store that specializes in candles, glassware, home décor, and stupid fake grass. And I don’t recall having any gifts for friends shipped to my office, which I often do to avoid leasing office headaches. (Although it may be possible – I’ve been to a lot of weddings in the last year.) And Lord knows I don’t have a whole lot of Pottery just lying around my desk. So there’s no magnetic homing beacon they could be using. Face it, I have no idea why I just got the Spring Collection catalog in my morning mail run.

Wait a minute, this has potential. Unlike stupid magazines that you have to dig through 17 pages of ads to find the table of contents, the Pottery Barn catalog prints them prominently right there on the back cover. And sure enough, pages 38-51 of this very magazine feature items titled “Good Ideas for Small Spaces.”

If my office isn’t “Small Spaces,” I don’t know what is.

Why hasn’t Pottery Barn thought of this before? America must spend millions upon millions each year buying home furnishings. And there are companies out there who furnish to the executive crowd, to outfit their luxurious offices. But what the workforce lives in these days are cubicles, and the People of Cubeville deserve to work in comfort and style if they so choose. So why not send catalogs to offices everywhere to unveil Cube-Décor (or Cubecor for short). I guess I’ve been selected to be part of a test market. Sweet!

First thing I would do is put up one of the Barn’s massive clocks. I could slowly pull myself away from the digital reliance in the bottom right corner of this computer screen and save my eyesight for years to come. Then I would get this picture frame hook. There are too many days that I sit in traffic because I’ve buried my car keys under paper, so this would alleviate that. Then I would hang some ridiculous chandelier from the ceiling, to appear more ominous. There’s nothing scarier to a construction manager than an ominous looking dude who is back lit by candlesthat controls his money. And because I can, I’m replacing my office chair.

I’ve never been in Pottery Barn without sitting in it for at least 15 seconds. I have witnesses.

Burger King Faces the Music

YABNews has been quick to monitor the shifty dealings of the one known as the Burger King in the past. Rob Harford over at Dante’s Fourth Level was the one that brought this shifty character’s operation to the forefront almost a full year ago, and this zany monarch keeps finding ways to make news. With the NFL looking to crack down on next year’s touchdown celebrations, this will no doubt tick off the fleet-footed crowned one, as he looks to continue to push his burgers by burning the secondary and leaping into the stands. What a year it has been for the Burger King.

But I ask you this, what has accounted for his rise in fame?

For years, he was silent and no one knew what he looked like. Kids could identify the goofy red-haired clown, as his mug was plastered in every McDonald’s from Medford, NJ to Medford, OR. Wendy found a way to get her face to be part of her chain’s corporate logo, and most middle school students might actually think Colonel Sanders was an officer in the Civil War. But little was known of the Burger King. Sure, he had a Kids Club. And he was cool about distributing cheap replicas of his regal crown. But through the nineties, no one had a clue what he looked like. (And to be honest, his actual appearance is as freaky as Rob has described so well.)

The chain did well, financially-speaking, throughout the last decade due to its new sandwich creations, including its international chicken sandwiches, rodeo cheeseburgers, and introducing a breakfast menu. And all of this was possible, without the help of the reclusive leader of the kingdom of grease. Was the throne vacant all these years? Has this guy we see everywhere shown up to usurp the throne? Might he have been promoted from a lower post, say maybe … PRINCE?

The Burger King is a modern-day Prince John, and I have proof.

YABNews is reporting of a Palmdale, CA man who recently went through the drive-thru, and the King’s tax collectors nearly bankrupted him. He ordered 4 burgers – two Whopper Juniors and two Rodeo Cheeseburgers – and the “drive-thru attendant” rang him up to the tune of $4,334.33. That’s nearly $1,100 per burger, and last time I checked, the Whopper Jr. was the latest addition to the Burger King Everyday Value Menu. Some value. He could have bought a 43” plasma for that kind of cash.

No wonder the monarchy is alive and well.

His Majesty’s Damage Control Guild tried to pass it off that the $4.33 total cost was entered in twice accidentally, but we’re not buying it. This is just the new administration trying to pull a fast one on the peasants of Palmdale, California. This man almost defaulted on a mortgage payment because of this “accidental error.” (Why he was ordering 4 burgers with no mention of anyone else in the car remains a mystery. Maybe he was striving for a Friar Tuck physique.)

So, ultimately, that’s our theory on the crazy Burger King. The King wasn’t reclusive for years – the throne was empty! (The previous ruler must have had too much of his own food and had a heart attack.) And this guy, paired with the Sherriff of Drivethruham, has managed to usurp the throne, and launch a high-stakes publicity tour to win over the people he screwed over to get to the top.

Now THAT’s good investigative reporting.

It's a Super Model

Like death and taxes and UConn in the Final Four, looking for an apartment has become an annual event, and so -

Ok, scratch that part about UConn. Go George Mason.

- and so we hit the streets with our floor plans, our measuring tapes, our hopes and our dreams in order to find where the Condons will call home next. It’s not the living practically on top of Wegman’s has been a bad thing, and other than our neighbors, the Pindrops, we’ve really enjoyed living in a relatively new building with high ceilings and great sets for Oscar Sunday. But as Mark and Roger so eloquently put it – how we gonna pay next year’s RENT?

As per most standard lease agreements, the leasing office reserves the right to increase or decrease rent at the time of renewal. And while we may have this place through the end of June, we got served. With a renewal letter. Of Impending Doom.

The only time I’ve ever stayed in the same place for two consecutive years was at Random Run, and the dreaded renewal letter was practically a joke. Nervously removing it from its ominous envelope, I could hardly believe my eyes – when they raised the rent 14 dollars. Why even bother? The funnier thing is that with a roommate, that makes it 7 dollars for my residential troubles. Man, I guess I’ll really have to cut back on my spending to soften the impact of this massive hike. Like go to Taco Bell one less time each month. Sheesh.

I wish this letter was remotely that funny.

Since our leasing office has dialed into raising the rent $130/month, and I haven’t won the lottery in the past, eh, eleventy billion years, it looks like it’s time to hitch up the wagon and move 1.4 miles down the road. (We haven’t picked a place yet, but there’s 37 apartment complexes within that radius, so I’m sure we’ll find something.)

Going in to check out a new suburban apartment complex is the same no matter where you go. You walk in to a ridiculous club house that houses the leasing office. Clubhouses could quite possibly be the largest waste of real estate there is. It’s big, it’s spacious, and other than potential residents mulling about, it’s COMPLETELY VACANT. They put things in these clubhouses like full kitchens and big televisions, but in my four years of apartment living, I’ve never thought to myself: “Hey, let me call up some friends and meet them down at the clubhouse to watch the game. Maybe I’ll cook up some hot dogs on that stove over there that may or may not be plugged in. And at the most crucial down of the game, I could field questions from strangers about how often I use the pool, or is the visitor parking ample?” We might as well convert these clubhouses into covered parking garages.

With monkey valets.

And from our latest round of apartment tours, I’ve decided one thing for certain. No matter the availability, or the floorplan, or the amenities, or the monkey valets, I would like to live in the model.

Think about – you don’t have to worry about moving your old stuff, because it already furnished. Granted, it often is in the décor of West Africa or Cajun New Orleans, but hey, I can deal. In addition, the model is always very close to the front of the complex, so you have easy access in and out. The newest features are always in the model first (think appliances), and they have it professionally cleaned. During the day, leasing agents may bring people through to see the place, but that’s okay – I’m at work. Oh, and one other key point: no one pays rent on the model. Free.