Bust a Move

The month of July has presented me with more than a few challenges. Blogs won’t write themselves, which means I’ve got a few to catch up on before we hit the one year YABiversary. I’ve got that pesky “reschedule your exams” and even peskier “do well on said exams” issues. And both of those stem from the big day in August, whereupon two will become one and Pepsi and Coke will be forced to co-exist in a fridge. But all of these take a back seat while I deal with a far more massive task: moving.

Come August, YAB’s home base will be operating no longer from The Random Run in Falls Church, but from an undisclosed location in Fairfax, VA. I currently am holding the keys to the new place in the ‘fax, and from the limited time I’ve been there, it’s going to be a great place to live. (By the way, I’m not literally holding the keys, that would make typing difficult. Here, I’ll show you. THLjs si what is iut us l;ike to type witj akeys in your haand. See? It looks like Mattias’ spelling…)

So here’s my master plan for Operation Relocation. Over the course of July, transfer all worldly possessions (except for those Star Wars and Legos claiming residence in my family’s attic) 9 miles due west. Seems pretty simple? For the most part it will be. I hope. Gulp.

The first step to a successful relocation is reduction in force. While it may be nice to have some of those old keepsakes, it’s time to the face the music, and the song of choice is Steam’s biggest hit. I have come to grips with this reality, and have since bid adieu to such sparsely-regarded items as the 2003 collection of Sports Illustrated, a keepsake candle-in-a-glass from SHS’ 1997 junior dinner dance, a back-up pair of soccer cleats, and my entire DVD collection.(Ah ha! Had you there for a second. Come on, you thought I was serious? I’d never throw out a candle-in-a-glass.)

Once you’ve reduced in force, it’s time to be organized about the way you move things. Now since I am cohabitating two spaces for the month, I can’t just pack all my things up in a box and send them to the ‘fax; I have to order the move wisely. The essentials (computer, clothes, big jar of pickles) need to stay as long as I need them. And despite my storied history of making the couch my nightly resting place, I should leave the bed where it is.

Like Jim Carrey’s run through his dreams in Eternal Sunshine, various objects have begun to disappear from my apartment. Every time I take a trip over, I try to bring something substantial with me. Stuff I won’t need. First, it was the second TV, the one from my bedroom. Then, it was my big bag of skiing gear. Last night, a TV stand that will go in the office. Umm…ok, so that’s all so far, but it’s a start right? Rome wasn’t built in a day. (It was built "next to" a river!)

Saturday night, after delivering the TV to the ‘fax, I sat against one of my bare walls, taking a break. That’s when I realized the Achilles’ Heel. Other than the aforementioned items and some bridal shower gifts, I was sitting in a completely empty apartment.

Can’t watch TV – I haven’t turned on cable. Can’t make a snack – have no food. I do laundry, but the only clothes I have with me are the ones on me, and that would require me to wear a towel for 90 minutes. Hmm, no. Maybe I’ll put on my ski-boots and go stand in the shower to test their waterproof abilities. (Sound familiar, anyone?) I guess I could rearrange the utensils in the utensil drawer. Again. Maybe if I can mooch of someone’s wireless connection I could write a blog. Or eight.

There’s only so much you can do in a completely empty apartment.

Sara Throckmorton, Do NOT Read.

It’s always better to hear it from a friend.

With the tragedy in London, Hurricane Dennis, and continuing coverage of the missing girl in Aruba last week, last week was not a pleasant one at the news desk. All three of the aforementioned has done permanent damage to human life, and YAB’s thoughts and prayers are with the victims. We are not of the mindset to be able to report on these developing stories, as we aim not to mock that of which is serious. Bringing the funny isn’t necessary there. However…

Late Friday night, one more news story that has left some saddened appeared. Someone over at the Associated Press apparently decided to blow off Friday happy hour and work late into the weekend, as the following hit YAB’s news wire just before 10 o’clock.

Read this.

For those too lazy to point AND click at the above link, here’s the skinny. Just outside Istanbul, Turkey, a wayward sheep, either as a measure of stupidity or depression, took his own life by turning his body towards a several story cliff and promptly walked right off, falling to his untimely death. Normally, one less sheep, no one would know the difference. Except, 1,499 of his closest friends saw what this loner did and followed suit. While 1,050 survived, (due to the ever-decreasing distance between the cliff and the landing pad), 450 sheep have now taken their final walk caused by the stupid action of just one.

It’s a shame none of them were Serta sheep. Talking sheep could have avoided such a massacre.

Yes, from this story it is clear that the Associated Press has set out to make the following point: Sheep are dumb. I’m sure there are science-types out there who can vouch for their slow-functioning brain waves or their predilection to run into fences, but this is what the AP wants you to believe. Regardless of the science, it’s pretty clear that if you’re diffusing a bomb and the clock is counting down, you don’t want a sheep at your right hand helping out.

But wait…The story also mentions the following: “The herd of 1,500 sheep were grazing while the shepherds went to breakfast.”

Granted, I don’t think that the shepherds spend their time on-duty yelling at sheep to rethink their lives and stay away from the cliff. However, we know the facts of the case. There was not one, but MULTIPLE shepherds on duty that fateful day in Turkey. And yet, against the best interest of the sheep, all shepherds broke for breakfast at the same time. What did they do, put their favorite sheep in charge? Look where that got them. Hope you enjoyed your Egg McMuffins, fellas.

I would love to be in the room when these shepherds have to go in for their annual performance reviews. Generally in performance reviews you try and focus the conversation on your achievements and skate by places you have come up short.

Managing Farmer: So Erdal and Nesim, I’ve been reviewing your past years’ performance, and for the most part you’ve performed quite well. The pasture shows no areas of overgrazing, you keep your shepherd staffs polished and strong, and your tunics are always crisply pressed and professional. I would even go so far as compliment you on your ability to count your sheep without falling asleep. That is not an easy task.

Erdal and Nesim: Thank you, sir.

Farmer: But I see on your record here that is says you allowed 1500 SHEEP TO WALK OFF A CLIFF. That’s going to be a bit of a problem. You see, here at Consheeptinople, we like our sheep to be alive. Many of yours are dead. This seems to be counter to our company’s values and mission statement. You leave me no other choice. You’re so fired.

Erdal (to Nesim): I told you it wasn’t time for a healthy breakfast!!

Cameraman's Lament

Yeah, I’m late to the game, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a late inning at-bat. Two weeks ago, Texas Rangers pitcher went Artest on a local Arlington, TX news cameraman and has been suspended for 20 games, appeal pending. Here’s a link for hard facts from a real reporter.

Everybody knows Kenny Rogers for different things. Some know him for his tremendously solid pitching career in the majors. Some know him for his previous career as a country music legend. And some of you know him for his delicious chicken. I’ve decided to combine all three in yet another grand re-write of a song that was probably better off in the first place.

(Ok, I forgot to combine the part about the delicious chicken. Read YAB over lunch, and have some then. There, problem solved.)

Cameraman’s Lament
A Parody of the Gambler
Music by Kenny Rogers
Words by Chris Condon

On a warm summer’s evenin’ in a ballpark in Texas,
I met up with the Rogers; he was stretching ‘fore the game.
He’s having quite the season, he sees Cy Young in the distance
A Ranger for the third time, and he’s still throwin’ flames.

He said, Chris, I’ve made a life out of clippin’ wings of Angels,
And tracking down the Tigers, game hunting Rays and Jays.
Out to dry the Sox I’m hangin’, where the color doesn’t matter.
When I come knockin’ I’ll greet the O’s and A’s with K’s.

So I picked up my own weapon, a news crew video camera.
Then I hit the power switch, on came a flashing light.
And K-Ro got deathly quiet, and his face gained an expression.
Said, if you’re gonna take my picture, Chris, first we’re gonna have to fight.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

Now all reporters know that with jersey thirty-seven
Is knowin’ not to ask the guy anything during games.’cause Kenny doesn’t like you and though he seems a nice one,
He’s a wild man with the temper of the great Jesse James.

A true-blue Texas Ranger, he came in with that roundhouse,
Crushed my poor camera, and kicked it to the ground.
An image of Chuck Norris, the Rogers, he’s suspended.
But in his final pitch I found advice that I could keep.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

You got to know when to show’em, know when to throw’em
Know when to walk away or feed him the mic.
You never film a pitcher when he doesn’t like the camera.
There’ll be no time for duckin’ when he’s throwin’ strikes.

I don't play poker. Well.

After recently watching Rounders and reading Robboblog, I’ve learned that the game of poker isn’t about the cards you have been dealt. It’s about reading those who play against you. Your luck, especially in Hold’Em games, is just as good as anyone else’s’ (assuming Edward Norton isn’t feeding you prime face cards).

As for reading these opponents, I’ve yet to craft a foolproof procedure. The problem is that there is no foolproof procedure. Every foe is different. Sizing up a person will get you nowhere unless you can crack his code. And it is then, and only then, when you get your answer without having to ask the question. If you learn how to do this, please tell me how.This method can apply to life even when you are not sitting at a gaming table. In fact, I dealt with reading another’s poker face just last night.

As my summer semester of grad school plows on, I am coming to the ever-clearer realization that my schedule come August is a trainwreck in the making. Paramount in this web is my wedding day, August 13. Generally speaking, conventional wisdom says that you it would be best to not have anything else scheduled for this day.

Conventional Wisdom just boarded a bus for the coast.

I just had two new classes start up, and sure enough, the syllabi have foretold my doom again. Scrolling down to the class schedule, I see that August 13 will have no ordinary class scheduled. Instead, in all caps, it reads: CASE COMPETITION. Uh oh.

So, it’s clear that I have a graded assignment, for which I should be present, the day of my wedding. This just won’t do. Yeah, yeah, I could slip it in the morning, but enough people would kill me before I even could suit up for the ceremony. Now I have already taken the precautionary steps to avoid such a conflict by telling the program dean (Hello, Dean!) months ago about the wedding. He said the professors will be happy to work with me to make other arrangements. But until I ask said professors, nothing is set in stone.

Here’s where being a poker player comes in. As I sit in the back of my first class last night, I am doing everything I can to read my professor. Even though I have the dean’s assurance, the professor is the one who must grant Plan B. I e-mailed him earlier in the day with the dilemma, but I’m sure he hadn’t read it yet. This leaves me listening to his opening lecture and course rules trying to decipher how helpful he is going to be. I’m reading a poker face.

On a scale of 1 to 3, where 1 is “Not Accommodating” and 3 is “So Accommodating,” I’ve got to start my initial analysis at a middle-of-the-road 2. I’ll be weighing some of the professor’s comments carefully, and at the end, let’s see what my chances are of getting that stupid case moved. Got it?

“Good evening, I am your Professor for Strategic Management” READ: 2. Short greeting, playing his cards close to his chest.

“I honestly feel that I have the best job in the world. I live 75 miles away from DC, but know that there’s nothing out there better than teaching.” READ: Up 1 = 3. Wow, this guy is in it for the love, not for the paycheck. That’s a good sign.

“I have trouble dealing with authority. I was in Vietnam and left the service pending a court martial.” READ: Down 1 = 2. Whoa. That’s guy’s tough, and he probably doesn’t care what the dean said.

“It is not my responsibility if you learn anything. That’s your responsibility.” READ: Down 1 = 1. Trouble. Can’t learn if I’m not there.”

“Shortly after getting out of the service, I went back to get my teaching PhD via the GI Bill at Penn State. My wife was pregnant, so free education sounded pretty good.” READ: Up 1 = 2. Dude, he’s married! Sympathy points!

“I am no longer married to her, though. We didn’t communicate very well. It’s important in your group projects to communicate.” READ: Down 1 = 1. Ok, so maybe a little less sympathy than I thought.”

I am now happily married and my wife and I are both professors. All we do is teach grad course. READ: Up 1 =2. He must understand the demands of working full-time as a grad student. Reprieve.

Final READ = 2. Looks like this exercise was a wash.

(Epiblog: Even though I couldn’t read the guy any better than I can a Dostoyevsky novel, other arrangements will be made to do some extra work to make up for missing the competition. I rule!)

In a Holidaze

Owww.

The week immediately following a holiday weekend can be remarkably difficult to get through. Sure, your body is used to having 2 days off, back-to-back, but it’s that third one that throws you all out of whack. Suddenly, you’ve gained LM, lazy momentum. LM will cause you on that first day back to oversleep, drag your feet on the way to work, and spend the first hour at your desk wondering how you burned through three days of leisure so quickly. You can also blame LM for pressing the wrong floor in the elevator, spilling your morning beverage, and accidentally calling your boss dude. There’s no transition period in your triumphant return to work either. Just a stack of paper as tall as Christina Toms waiting for you. (After all, you did leave work early on Friday telling yourself it all would still be there when you got back Tuesday. Well, you were right.)

While the workload is there on that first Tuesday back, the energy to battle it may not. Do not be alarmed if you’ve been working for five hours and it feels like twenty-seven. This is perfectly normal. Since the 4th of July was a national holiday, everyone around you feels the same way. Expect the afternoon to be slower than The English Patient. Yawn.

Now my personal plight is a little more severe. Because of the insane amount of traveling I did two weekends ago, I took off that following Monday to rest and unglue my hands from the steering wheel. At the time, that seemed like a wise decision (it’s very hard to type on a computer with a steering wheel affixed to your palms.) In retrospect, I am now the recipient of two consecutive four day work weeks.

I know what you’re thinking. Stop complaining and bring some funny about paper clips or something. I will eventually (Paper clips? Is that the best you can come up with?), but I’ve got a bigger crisis on my hands. With two 4-day weeks in a row, I know that next week is going to be absolute torture. Why?

I am going to have to work five days. In a row.

I work 5-day weeks for a living. But once you pair two 4-day weeks in a row, this is when your LM kicks it into high gear. By next Friday, LM will so be ready to fall asleep on a couch somewhere that I may start uncontrollably running into things and not feel the associated pain.

Granted, this particular instance is my fault. I was the one who took off two Mondays ago. But there are other times in the working year where LM gets to overrun your productivity due to overkill. Something must be done to prevent this, and YAB is just the blog to do it.

Three day weekends are a wonderful thing. The occasional shortened week can really pick you up from the throes of repetition. My company provides us with 9 holidays a year and most of them do fall on Mondays. But here’s the problem, of these nine holidays, five of them fall between November and January. That leaves ONLY four for the other nine months. That’s why Presidents’ Day Memorial Day, 4th Of July, and Labor Day are so important. They are isolated on the calendar, far away from their holiday brethren.

So I am proposing a more even spacing of the nine given holidays. There’s 52 weeks in the year, and even spacing would place one holiday every 5-6 weeks. Doesn’t that seem better. Now this may mean you need to work on some important days, but you can thank me later when you have off on some different days while the rest of the world works.

Condon’s Holiday Schedule…
November 24 – Thanksgiving Day
December 25 – Christmas Day
February 2 – Groundhog Day
March 14 – Mothers Day in the Russian Republic of Georgia
April 19 – Venezuelan Declaration of Independence Day
May 30 – Memorial Day
July 4 – Fourth of July
September 5 – Labor Day
October 10 – Anniversary of the Foundation of the Korean Workers’ Party

Happy holidays.