Dihydrogen Oxide

Call me a dreamer, but…

When You’re a Blog’s editor-in-chief gets his act together and catches our little backdating problem up with the rest of the working world, the blog will be able to truly compete for your ocular attention. And once that happens, the next logical step is that some up-start entrepreneur with a Money Bin and extra cash-on-hand buys YAB out and the site gets some much-needed corporate sponsorship. Once we go corporate, the first thing I’m going to buy is a Headquarters.

YAB HQ will have the finest fringe benefits that (Insert Giant Media Conglomerate)’s financial backing can buy. The writers’ chairs will be leather recliners. The writers’ desk will be made of peppermint. And the staff kitchens? You guessed it. Not a coffee machine in sight.

Heh, heh, heh…

No, YAB HQ will only provide free beverage refreshment in the form of the glorious water cooler. Now this isn’t a cheap-o move; it’s a move of preference. And while (same Giant Media Conglomerate) can save a bundle by denying my staff Starbucks, they will take some of that savings and invest in a personal water carrying device for every employee. Now why is this such a big deal, you ask? Easy.

Current water containers are atrocious.

While most office kitchens are found in coffee-dominated terrain, it is likely that the room also maintains a water cooler for those who like cold liquid or have wizened up to Juan Valdez’s wily ways. That’s good news for me, who drinks about 160 ounces of H-2-O on a daily basis. That’s a lot of liquid to take in one day, so much to the point that on the weekend I feel dehydrated. But for such a massive intake, I’ve needed to improvise. Because standard kitchen options for “Things to Drink Water Out Of” are so ill-conceived and prehistoric that I’ve decided to reveal them for the petty inventions that they are right here. A sampling are picked up and tossed out below.

Exhibit A – “Plastic Cup” – The plastic cup, by nature, should be a pretty good match for the water cooler. The material is thin so that you can feel the coldness of water inside. Lip on the cup is also narrow, which plays a crucial role in water intake. Its durability can also go unquestioned, as it should withstand one day’s worth of wear and tear in an office environment. But despite what Yoda says, size matters. Any time I’ve seen plastic cups stocked at the cooler, they are of the shot glass variety. Each cup has about 5 ounces of water in it, and that’s gone by the time I reach my desk again.

Exhibit B – “Conical Cup” – Wow! What a great idea for a cup. It’s, it’s – shaped like a cone! So, it’s cool that it fits into this clever cup dispenser on the side of the cooler. But there’s more! It only has half the volume of an ordinary cup! And what else?!? When you get back to your desk and set your water down, it instantly makes all your documents transparent! Best invention ever!!!

Exhibit C – “Styrofoam Cup” – This type is most often encountered when the Coffeenese have thrown their weight around a little too much. Originally intended for those looking for roasted morning brew, the Styrofoam cup often finds itself being used at the water cooler. There’s a problem here, and his name is Texture. Drinking cold water out of a Styrofoam cup is like brushing off a snowy windshield with your sleeve: it gets you to your goal, but you hate every minute of it.

Exhibit D – “Cupped Hands” – Yes, I suppose you could go old school and not use a cup at all. Seems simple. Take left and right hands, combine them, and hold them under the water cooler nozzle. One small problem, Sherlock. Who’s going to hold the lever to make the water start?

You see what I mean? USELESS. That’s where YAB HQ will rise above its competition. Personalized YAB Nalgene bottles for all employees. They don’t break, they don’t spill, and they could crush the competition.

Even cupped hands if you’re not careful.

Rockie Mountain Low

When the week opened this past Monday, America’s workforce returned to their respective places of business to kick off another enthralling five days of attempting to make their outbox height tower over their inbox’s. Most people are greeted with a standard classification of things to do: stuff that didn’t get done on Friday. It sat and simmered for two days, but other than that, it’s the same unsurprising work that you knew you left when locking up three days prior. Most jobs don’t have to fear something urgent happening over the weekend, adding to the stack on Monday and taking Priority Numero Uno. But then again, most jobs aren’t managerial roles for professional sports franchises.

Poor Clint Hurdle.

Clint is the manager of the MLB’s Colorado Rockies. Well, at least he is for now. His 19 win, 39 loss ballclub have taken up residence in the basement of the National League West despite Hurdle’s best efforts to make a young ballclub find ways to win. Now even though managers work weekends, their daily work is pretty standard. Come up with a lineup. Sit in a dugout. Yank pitchers when A-Rod blasts their 2-2 offerings onto the upper deck. It’s pretty simple. Well, when Clint got to his desk Monday morning, he had one of those immediate attention tasks waiting for him.

Poor Clint Barmes.

Turns out one of the bright spots on Hurdle’s squad, rookie shortstop Clint Barmes, is going to be sidelined for three months with a broken clavicle. Two things probably came in to Manager Hurdle’s head when he learned the devastating news. 1) How in the world are there two people named Clint working for the same team? 2) What happened? Barmes played in the win against Cincinnati Sunday afternoon, even belting a solo homer in the eighth. He was fine then!

Still a rookie, bachelor Barmes hasn’t quite yet earned the palatial Denver estate he will someday get. Like any other entry level employee, he currently maintains an apartment near his job. Also being a rook, he has yet to hire servants and monkey butlers to do his errands and chores. No, Clint goes to the supermarket like any other recent college graduate. He unloads his car just like any of us. He slips on the stairs while carrying his groceries, something we all do. He breaks his clavicle and is collecting workman’s comp – well, ok, maybe that’s unique to just him.

So while Barmes kicks back in his easy chair waiting for his clavicle to heal, Hurdle has to scramble to make some sort of damage control move. Desi Relaford becomes the starting shortstop for the Rocks, and once Barmes goes on the Disabled List, Hurdle will call up an even greener rookie to man the utility infielder role. Heck, he could probably crash at Barmes’ pad (but take the elevator, of course.) Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention one more person whose Monday morning went to panic mode because of this mishap.

Poor Chris Condon.

Condon also manages a ballclub, and for the past nine weeks has consistently penciled Clint Barmes in as his shortstop. The NL Rookie of the Year has just been one of the reasons that Igfield Fly Rule has maintained its throne atop the Colonial Yards Fantasy Baseball League for countless weeks. But now, with Barmes sitting at home watching cartoons for the summer months, that left a hole just to the left of second base. I beg season ticket holders to IFR’s home games to not fret. I picked up last year’s Rookie of the Year Bobby Crosby to take his place, and we’ll continue to seek Condon’s first ever fantasy title. But while this transaction may do a world of good, I’m not stopping there. In the fantasy clubhouse, over the shower door, I am getting a plaque made and hung with my club’s official Fantasy Team Rules.

1. Fantasy baseball players will not carry their own groceries. The team will e-mail them to you.
2. Fantasy baseball players will not require sleep. They shall hibernate when the manager's computer does the same.
3. Fantasy baseball players, despite playing for many different pro teams, will maintain a healthy atmosphere in the virtual clubhouse.
4. Team meetings will be organized and planned using Evite. Failure to not respond to an Evite results in a one-day benching.
5. Fantasy baseball players do not play for money. They play for pride, love of the game, and good press in the manager's blog.

All the News that's Fit to Mock

And you thought I was just a financial analyst by day, grad student by night.

There are long stretches of time where from a blogreader’s perspective, my actions are completely unaccounted for. Now that you think of it, it’s kind of ridiculous. Unless I’m posting, you have NO idea what I’m up to. Well, I feel that it’s time to pull back the curtain and reveal what else I accomplish on a daily basis. And since we don’t have the capital funding to buy a YAB WebCam, it looks like I just going to just have to describe it to you. Hey, we’re on a budget, people…

Actually, now that I think about it, trying to relay my more mundane daily happenings may cause me to sensationalize a bit. With a few keystrokes, I very well may turn eating a bowl of Captain Lucky Pops into a quest for the Holy Grail. That’s not fair to those who believe in “journalistic integrity.” Instead, how about I get some outside reporters to let you know what I’m up to. (This is by no means phoning it in, N-Berg.)

All news stories from found by typing “Chris Condon” in Google News.

Chicken Holiday plucks Beer Garden
- While this may have been the marquee match up in the Staten Island men’s softball league, the real action happened in the Good Guys-Secret Squirrels tilt. I should know; I was there.
Kyle Aaman's gamer and back-to-back homers by Kevin O'Neill and Chris Condon lifted Good Guys to an 8-7 South Shore Softball Association win over the Secret Squirrels.
Ok, I admit that my blast just made it over the fence, and could have been caught by an outstretched outfielder's glove. But let's face it. Squirrels aren't that tall.

Down with the Carnival
- After my NYC softball games, I usually hop on a jet - to Australia. You see, to make a little extra money in the summer, I serve as the Townsville Show Secretary. Most of the tasks are administrative, except for that whole "Planning a 200k person summer Carnival...apparently not everyone is pleased with my work.
Like him or loathe him, Townsville Show secretary Chris Condon firmly believes he is doing everything with the interests of the public as his sole concern. And if that means getting up the nose of the Showmen's Guild over ground rates, so be it.
Look, I'm just trying to save the good townspeople of Townsville some cash. Ok, if the whole thing falls through, I'll just invite them all to the wedding.

Danger assessment system targets domestic violence
- On my plane ride home to the States, I often have some time to do some number crunching. I'm no John Nash, but I like to think my work (for which I sacrifice sleep) is making a real difference in the world.
"I envision us definitely using her assessment in our work but at what point and to what extent, I don't know yet," Condon said. "I'm very interested in finding out how this will help us better determine a chance of re-offense on the part of abusers."
I suppose if I was John Nash, I'd probably have some excellent hallucinations. I was constantly be visited by people no one else could see. Personally, I'm hoping for Ferris Bueller and Terry Tate, Office Linebacker.

News about upside of coffee pours out
- According this study, coffee (once again) has been ruled by scientists as having some benign health effects on those who drink it. Guess who threw his two cents in to prevent the masses from rushing to the local Starbucks. (Oh, by the way, I'm the Director of the United States Training Institute.
Most disquieting to Condon, whose business provides wellness education, products and services, is the uncontrolled consumption of coffee and its addictive properties. "If you don't mind being a drug addict, then drink your coffee."
Wise beyond my years...

I'm Terribly Vexed

Russell, Russell, where did we go wrong?

CNN.com is reporting today that Hollywood actor Russell Crowe has been arraigned on assault charges stemming from an incident at a New York City hotel late last night. As the story reports, Crowe was brought into custody after throwing a hotel telephone and striking the concierge in the face. He doesn’t deny the account, and will be fully compliant when it comes to the legal proceedings later this year. As a read yet another story that IMDB news will be sure to blow out of proportion tomorrow morning, I have the following four quick-hit thoughts.

1. A Note to all Concierges of the world. If an irate hotel guest picks up a lobby telephone and throws it directly at your head, MOVE. This will avoid you getting clocked with a airborne receiver, and it will also prevent Chris Condon from making fun of you on You’re a Blog, the Internet’s next big thing.
   
2. Furthermore, Russell Crowe is not to be messed with. Let him make any phone call he likes. He’s a GLADIATOR. Rule #1 of Hotel Industry Ettiquette: Don’t tick off a Gladiator. Just wow.
   
3. On behalf of Russell Crowe, I would like to personally apologize for any misunderstood feelings that the telecommunications and hospitality industries may endure in the fallout from this altercation. I assure you Mr. Crowe has used hotels and phones on many an occasion where a fracas has not broken out. This was a one-time event, and neither industry should be the bearers of ill will. Although, if Vonage was a smart little start-up telecom, they would use him for the “unpredictable” advertising campaigns.
   
4. I must say I find RC’s behavior a tad bit surprising. I thought my influence on his life had held greater impact, but it turns out my powers were limited to only one life-changing event. Had I known, maybe I would have tried harder. Wait a minute – what’s going on? What are those wavy lines?

Uh Oh. Flashback.

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You see, I have long held a guiding power over the biggest thing to come out of Mystery, Alaska. For once, in a chance encounter, the mighty Condon spoke, and his will was done. And for this act of foresight and awe, RC owes me. Big time.

In the spring of 2001, while on my epic quest to turn hockey-watching into an educational experience, I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee. Being in the Music City (sorry, Detroit) for two nights with no plans allowed me to shoot from the social planning hip. On the first night I grabbed an extra ticket to see Sister Hazel and Vertical Horizon in the original site of the Opry, Ryman Auditorium. Pleased with my music-going experience, (as well as the Preds’ dismantling of the NY Rangers that afternoon), I decided to catch a little bit of country while still in the city. Picking the first name I had heard of out of the city event guide, I saw a twinbill of emerging country acts Rascal Flatts and Jamie O’Neal.

But it was the unannounced act that got my attention.

I would read later in the paper that Oscar nominee Russell Crowe attended that very same concert in order to catch up with Miss O’Neal. Both from the far side of the world, Crowe and O’Neal shared the stage once in a Sydney musical in the early nineties, and he chose this night to stop by and see her. He was in town to pick up a custom Harley he was having built, and had some free time in the evening. Which he spent doing two things: Johnny Cash cover songs and talking to Chris Condon.

After performing the former, he did the latter as different members of the audience (60 people, tops) approached his table to get autographs and the like. Lacking my trademark ear-pencil, I figured I could at least say hello and shake his hand. And that is what I did, ending our brief dialogue with a prophetic wish: “Good luck at the Oscars.”

And the rest is history, Maximus.

I'd Like to Teach the World to Bling

Idle summer weekends are few and far between. Other than my Saturday morning 4.5 hour brain drain that is Corporate Governance, this past weekend had no other events penciled in. This is probably good, considering the sheer strength required to lift Harford’s image of a gigantic pencil off of my ear perch may have put me out of commission for a few days. Therefore, penciling in things on Condon’s calendar is not just an obligation; it’s a safety hazard. Egad.

Unfortunately, in this age of Time Management Suicide, discretionary schedule gaps often result in the completion of TYPOs (Things You Put Off). It’s not that you don’t WANT to get miscellaneous errands and tasks done; you just can never find ample time to complete them. This was such a weekend where I got motivated and eliminated so many TYPOs from the agenda, that I guarantee there won’t even be a single keyboarding error in today’s blog. Yeah. What.

As a working class, young professionals share many of the same TYPOs that hold more intention than attention. Haircuts, oil changes, bank visits – these all would be grand things to do on the way home from work, but there’s some magnetic force on your route home that prevents you from veering off the homeward path. Which leaves you shaggy-haired and cashless in a squeaky vehicle (squeakichle?)

Well, as the Smiths, Jesters, Rogers, and (future) Thompsons can attest, TYPOs are multiplied by a factor of threeve* when planning a wedding. As the big day approaches, more and more things will pop up to make the big day a flawless success. This past weekend, Katie and I did our best to knock some of these wedding TYPOs out of the matrimonial park. Heh, matrimonial park has a nice ring to it. Speaking of, this weekend we bought the wedding rings.

In a Christian wedding, there are many things one can forgo to maintain simplicity (swans meandering in the aisles?), but a cornerstone symbol of the joining of man and woman are the wedding rings. Without them, there’s a gaping hole in the phrase “With this _______, I thee wed.” Accept no substations, unless “hilarity” will “ensue.” Some random things that cannot fill in the blank: “circular saw,” “flank steak,” and “chimpanzee.” You see? You’ve got to buy a ring.

Ring shopping is not as easy as radio commercials make it to sound. Nor are all people buying rings black and white silhouettes, as DeBeers would have you believe. A jewelry store is actually a very normal place, with normal people looking to purchase jewelry. The staff is often very well-dressed and well-informed regarding the merchandise. NOTE: do not buy from a store with a salesman named Gem Diamond. He’ll rip you off big time.**

Again, pick a nice jewelry store where normal-looking people shop. We selected Jared. They had some nice features that really make shopping there enjoyable. There was a play area for kids, a free coffee bar, a security guard, and a courtesy umbrella bin to get to your car, and all of it was just part of the shopping experience. But since it was a sunny day on which I wasn’t planning to rob the place, and I am childless guy with a distaste for coffee, none of this was particularly helpful.

All that aside, it was still a pleasurable shopping experience. A woman named Alexa helped us pick out the perfect rings. While other salespeople have been overbearing, this woman knew how to kick back and watch as the sale fell into place.

Anyways, it looks like we finally had some success. Katie had a pretty good idea of her ideal in mind, and as luck would have it, they had the perfect ring. As for me, I was looking for a classic band, with my number one requirement being the ring should be “round.” Square rings can be murder on your knuckles. Not recommended at all.

*Threeve is NOT a TYPO. Name that reference, jerkpants.
**It had been too long since a SBTB reference. Just too long.

Do Your Song!

I spent my Memorial Day weekend down in North Carolina at le Monde du Nord enjoying a relaxing vacation on the shores of Lake Norman. When the sun was out, I was out on the boat taking in the good weather and laughing at people when they got bounced from their inflatable tube seating. When the sun was in, I challenged friends to be foes in a couple rousing rounds of William and Mary Duels (or WMD, for short.) And when the sun went down, (sorry, no Chesney joke here) we hit the mean streets of Charlotte. And we went to rock.

(Nordworld? My French is terrible.)

Going to rock is a simple premise, really. One must look forward to the rock. One must be excited for the rock. One need not have rocked before. A love for music is essential for the rock. Both riffs and beats are ingredients for the rock. If funnel cake is purchased, sharing it with friends enhances the rock. Oh, and most importantly, if you have come to receive the rock, someone else better be well-equipped to bring the rock.

It wasn’t that the 12 of us spent good money for the rock, either. Free rock always allows more to enjoy, and the city of Charlotte, Nord Carolina was presenting us with such an opportunity. Along the main drag lay a festival of massive proportions. Apparently, NASCAR was behind it all. Part of race weekend in this sport is to make it a full party atmosphere, and this is not limited to the raceway itself. The hosting city puts on a three day “Speed Street” where fans, non-fans, and those who just like to rock can come Thursday through Saturday night to hear music, eat carnival food (can you say giant tukey leg?), watch movies on big screens, and be bombarded by NASCAR’s corporate sponsors. (Helloooooo, Nextel!)

As for that music part, they do their best to bring in a varied array of acts to perform for the pit row faithful. Unfortunately, two acts I would have liked to see, Jo Dee Messina and Three Doors Down, played on the prior night. But we were there Saturday, which surely means that they’d save the biggest name for last, right?

At 10 PM, the options numbered three. To our left – Three Days Grace. Not a bad band, but a distant third in this heat. To our right – the Charlie Daniels Band. In Carolina country, they were the overwhelming crowd favorite, but we chose to decline. Not because of they were an insufficient option, but because they were neighbored by some monsters of Rock.

“Race Fans, put your hands together for….STYX!”

Now I haven’t listened to a Styx album since I got off the phone with Woodward and Bernstein, but I remember a few tunes, no doubt. So when I saw Styx was on the docket for Saturday night, I was certainly ready to rock. This band of six guys may not be their full original line-up, but they’re pretty close. Styx is still churning out the records, too, which must mean somebody’s buying them. (And it can’t be their mothers, since they’d be 187 by now.)

But this wasn’t an audience of hardcore Styx fans. It was an audience of hardcore NASCAR fans. In order for this to be a good show for Styx, not playing to their dedicated fan base, they must adapt to the venue and to the gig. NASCAR (and its many sponsors) paid good money to get them here, so they would be wise to follow the rules of Post-Spotlight Rock. Your day may have come and gone, rockers of yore, but with these guidelines, we still welcome your rock.

1. New Stuff = BAD. If you’re still around like Styx, your musicianship must still be at a very high level. I understand that you’ve gotten better with time and probably have master more complex instrumentation. You probably even wrote some new songs in the process. It’s just a shame the those who have come to rock don’t want to hear them. Come on! You guys are Styx!

2. Old Stuff = GOOD. We came to hear your old stuff, the stuff you’ve played a thousand times by now! And doing a new record of covers of other people’s old stuff doesn’t count. We want Come Sail Away! Do it! Do your song! Where’s the high-pitched melody? And the antemic chorus?

Needless to say, we heard no “Come Sail Away” At least when I saw a Huey Lewis (AND the News!) show in 2000, he indulged us.

3. No medleys. If you do decide to play old stuff, Monsters of Rock, do not string your many hits into a 12-minute compilation song. Because at Minute 7 when the guitarist goes to the special mike to utter “Domo Arigato,” I’m expecting another 5 minutes and 24 seconds of Rock. Not a clever transition to “Lady” or some other song paling in comparison.

No thank you very much, Sir, Mr. Roboto.

Can You Ear Me Now?

Finally, the gang here in Finance is getting some reprieve. In a span of six days, we actually have hired two additional employees to join in the number-crunching chaos. I got to personally interview both of them, yet I declined to ask pertinent questions like “What happens to Peter, Karp, and the Duncans between The Mighty Ducks and D2?” Instead, I stuck to the script and found out that these two will be excellent additions to our team.

Forging an identity in a new workplace setting is far from easy. Aside from having to spend time setting up system accesses and ordering office supplies, one has to jump right in to the office culture with two feet and do their best to blend. Otherwise, you’ll be labeled with a title without even knowing it. You’ll most often be branded “New Guy” or “Quiet Guy,” but these are commonplace. Because other than an additional new hire coming on board or you yelling at the top of your lungs to announce your daily arrival, these things aren’t going to change for weeks.

Here are three easy ways to make your identity at work more than just a picture ID on a lanyard.

1. Decorate your cube. You just started, so it’s improbable that your walls are already covered with documents and post-it notes. Take this opportunity to make it your home. Pictures of loved ones and sports team allegiances are essential, even if not original. Put something out that makes a good conversation piece. Like a mailpenguin in captivity.

2. Have a catchphrase. If for no other reason that getting rid of the “Quiet Guy” moniker, a catch phrase will get people thinking about your presence in the office and wondering why they don’t have a catch phrase of their own. I can’t say that I have one, but I have considered breaking out “Peace Be the Journey” for quite some time.

3. Be unique. There are other people in this office that got here before you, and they have strived to fashion an identity of independence and individuality. Don’t cramp their style. This includes other people’s preferences in fashion, writing utensil, work schedule, desktop wallpaper or e-mail signature. Be an original dude.

The reason that Office Style is the Topic du jour is because one of our extremely talented newbies isn’t following that aforementioned third rule. In one aspect, and one aspect alone, somebody is all up in my grill. And it’s not my clothes or my catchphrase, either. This man has copied my W.U.S.A.

No, not my defunct professional women’s soccer league, people! It stands for Writing Utensil Storage Apparatus. Or to the monosyllabically impaired, my ear.

Like an architect wannabe, I keep my pen or pencil not in a pocket or even a protector of said pocket, but rather behind my left ear. I have no idea where this started, but I know that it dates back at east through college when I could be sighted doing the very same thing with my straw at mealtime. This brazen move aims to draw attention to the pencil, despite the fact there’s nothing important about it. When someone sees me, they’re going to notice ol’ Dixon Ticonderoga simultaneously with any other facial feature I’ve got.

This method of implement transportation has its pros and cons as well. Pro: I always know where I put my pencil, thanks to consistency and the fear of poking myself with a lead harpoon any time I utilize peripheral vision. Con: I often go long parts of the day without removing the pencil from its perch. I have been accumulating a lovely selection of pens and such at home, all because I leave the office without checking myself. Not cool, especially in the morning when I get back to my desk and my ear is empty.

I’m the only one in the whole office that employs this carrying method. That’s my level of distinctiveness on the floor. That said, I’d like to welcome our new guy to the team, but kindly instruct him to remove that black ink dispenser from behind his ear. That’s all mine, man.

This is how I roll.

Coming Clean

Ok, I guess it’s time. Out with the truth.

Ladies and gentlemen of the blogosphere, I feel that I must take today’s column to make a confession. You see, I have not been entirely honest with my readership in my ten months of being an online journalistic force. What you get on a daily basis is commentary on the issues and events that shape our world. From hard-hitting election coverage to kitchen appliance wars, from taxtime advice to stories of puppy salvation, I use my corner of the web to report in such a way that the editors at my grand archrival CNN.com would throw a hissy fit. It’s unconventional at best, incoherent at worst, and often with the funny in tow.

Well, friends, I was once interested in taking news seriously. I once had the inner motivation to leave the funny at the door in the name of something greater. Hard-hitting investigative reporting. But at that time, I didn’t have a forum to report from. I needed to lend my talents to those with a greater voice and circulation. I was a behind-the-scenes guy. People, I guess what I’m trying to say after all of these years is, well.

I’m the guy they call Deep Throat.

Ok, I know you’re a little shocked. That’s why I’m allotting the next eight seconds of your day to collect yourself, clean up your spilled coffee, and return your chair to an upright position…

…

…It’s been extremely hard for me to keep this a secret all of these years. But I felt that in the name of journalistic integrity it was the right thing to do. Bobby Dub and CB did nearly all of the work, and as the actual writers for the Post, they deserve the credit. I chose to remain behind the scenes not out of cowardice, but out of humility and patriotism. In 1974, I was the one who filled in the gaps in those two reporters’ stories, using my astute inside information from working in the FBI and as a part of the administration. I had always had an excellent knack of sensing when ethics were being breached, and I often found myself in situations where it may be in my best physical interest to keep quiet. For example, there was this one time when I walked into the breakroom and saw G. Gordon Liddy leaving without refilling the coffee pot. I didn’t say anything about that either. Until now.

Oh, what? You want a motive?

In 1971, I was invited to the White House for a social gala. White House galas, if you’ve never been to one, involve a lot of hand shaking, a lot of smiling for the camera, and making fun of French diplomats. But when the cameras aren’t watching, President Nixon was known to sneak away with senior officials through a secret door just off the ballroom. Very few people know about the Calvin Coolidge game room, but it’s quite the layout. Long story short: at one of these galas, I schooled the President in a winner-take-all air hockey match. But when I went to get a drink from the wet bar, Nixon told everyone he won because crossed the blue line before the puck did, making my winning goal offsides.

There’s no offisides in air hockey.

Well, that set me off. I read some documents, I made some phone calls, and I read all about the crumbling of the Nixon administration in the paper. It was that easy.

Oh, and one more thing – the name Deep Throat. That wasn’t my idea. That was all Bernstein. Apparently “You’re a Leak” would have turned every press conference with them into a Who’s on First routine. I also would have been totally cool with Captain Awesome, but that’s what Woodward was called around the office. Cis Chrondon was apparently “too obvious,” as was “Chris Condon Number Two.” Ultimately I gave up on picking my alias, as I had to get off that infamous pay phone. Besides, I had a foosball match against Kissinger to get to.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Living in Geekdom

Well, it’s official. This world views me as a geek.

Never mind the fact that over the course of my life I have been caught in the act of many a thing that pundits would rule as geeky. When I was little, I considered a fun afternoon to be taking an encyclopedia and trying to hand draw all the national flags of the world so that I had my own collection, “just in case.” Just in case of what? I don’t think the UN would be satisfied knocking on my door in times of a flag shortage. After all, when you use green construction paper as your background, places like Japan, France, and the U.S. are going to have a bone to pick with you.

Aside from my Betsy Rossish ways, there was more that I can think of that has occurred that has put me dangerously on the line of the geek. Going to band practice voluntarily, smart-kid classes, an unusual interest in state capitals, my computers having identities, wearing my white socks high around my knees when I was six, finding Sports Night to be hilarious, and did I mention I write a blog?

But now it’s official. Hand me my identification card and I’ll pay my dues. And, as anyone this side of the Outer Rim could have predicted, it was Star Wars that played the card that forced me to fold my hand of cool and confident. Who likes back story? I do! I do!

It all started with a game.

The Statler and Waldorf of the William and Mary circuit, one Jon Rogers and one Jasen Andersen are those who must be held accountable for this craze. I don’t know of its actual origin, but like most things that deserve tall tales, it’s not all that important. All that needs to be known is that Mr. Rogers is the proud owner of the Star Wars Epic Duels board game, and it is as addictive as Condon is wordy. Here’s what you need to know for the summary challenged. It’s a SW themed game that’s a cross between Risk and Magic. It goes on for hours. It’s never the same game twice. Greedo is terrible.

But wait, there’s more…

While most people seeking recreational fun would be content with playing Epic Duels ad infinitum, the Jedi Council of Andersen, Mellor, and Condon had other plans. Continuing to eschew original thought, a parody was in order. Names like Count Dooku and Boba Fett quickly took the identities of Sara and Nordberg. Attacks like “Jedi Mind Trick” or “Thermal Detonator” morphed into “Throckmosis” or simply “Phone It In.” Game boards were redesigned, game pieces were forged, and anticipation mounted. All we need are some character decks of playing cards, and it’s blastoff time.

Oh. Right. The cards.

And here’s why the world sees me through geek-colored eyeglasses. The cards that we needed essentially were digital photographs of the WM alums being used, and some templates provided my the Geeks of the Internet. After this, Microsoft should anoint me the High King of MSPaint. Yes, they turned out THAT good. Ctrl + P and I’m done!

Here’s the problem with that. My 2.5” by 3.5” works of art would not be done justice by my stupid printer, Pongo 2.0. Looks like I’m going to have to involve another human being. Great.Going to Kinko’s should be an enjoyable time. One should feel completely comfortable about walking through the door with their document, handing it over to the capable reprographic team behind the desk, and returning hours later to find said document professionally produced and ready to go. But there’s a problem here.
Most documents aren’t weirdo cards that assign attack and defense values to normal looking photos.

Regardless, I played it cool. Walked up to the desk, calmly explained that I have two documents on this flash drive that I need one color copy of each. The guy said that wouldn’t be a problem, could have it done in an hour. Sounds like I am home free, eh?

WRONG.

He then continues by saying that he needs to get the two files off of the drive and put onto one of the Kinkomputers. I was kind of hoping that I would have been long gone before he saw what freakygeek thing I was trying to print. And as he opened the file, I was kind of hoping a locomotive would drive through the storefront, ending this awkward encounter ASAP.

You know it’s bad when the guy called over some co-workers just to show them your work. Don’t mind me, I’m the guy who would blend in if I were standing in front of the Kool-Aid Man right now. When he returned to the counter, he came with my flash drive, a smirk, and stamp – officially declaring Condon a geek.

Longest 10 minutes of my life.

I have a fever...

...and the only prescription is…

I’m pretty much sold on the theory that if you work in a traditional office building setting, and if you brought in no outside food with you or money to purchase food, a person could easily survive. For an office worker, physical activity is at an all-time minimum, as e-mail has replaced getting up and walking to the fax machine. Ok, I guess you could burn some calories if your fax machine is terrible and you soccer-dribble it up and down the hall, but that’s not exactly management’s favorite utilization of technology, is it? With such a low level of caloric expenditure, an equally low level of intake needs to be maintained.

Judging from walking around my floor this morning, I can’t see reaching that intake being much of a problem. Everywhere you turn, there are free munchies that could get one through the day. There’s a plate of brownies by the mailboxes with a cute “Try Me!” sign. That guy over in the corner cube keeps a readily-stocked jar of peppermints. By the boss’ office is a gumball machine full of M&Ms (yes, including Communist blue). I even think I just saw someone walk by with a Friday communal bagel run. Yeah, 1200 calories for free? Piece of cake.

Oh, did I mention it’s somebody’s birthday today? Make that 1800 calories.

However, I have withheld from indulging thus far. First reason being I brought money, and am willing to spend it on a lunchtime meal far finer that Peppermints and mustard packets. Second, I have a serious craving, and the product required for the quenching of said craving is nowhere to be found in this office. You know what I could go for right now?
A Pudding Pop.Oh, MAN. The thought crossed my mind when I was running this morning. I have no idea what sparked this culinary contemplation, but now I’m hooked on the idea. It’s not like I’ve had one recently. I don’t think I’ve seen one in a fridge I’ve had access to in the past 14 years. I don’t even think they exist anymore. Well, other than in my Daydreams of Craving Miscontent.

This is why the Pudding Pop was such an excellent dessert option. Let’s break down the product shall we? First you got your pudding. As it is known in some circles (ok, my roommates and Allison and Sara), I am a pudding fiend. Of all my kitchen specialties in the apartment, I may best be known for my snack time perfection “Big Bowl of Pudding.” It’s easy and it only has two ingredient. Bowl. Pudding. Ok, three if you need a spoon.

Second, you’ve got Pop. Pop is short for Popsicle (at least I’m guessing). This puts us in the frozen dessert aisle. There are a lot of other options out there on the market, but none can pull off the understated grace of the Pudding Pop. Klondike Bars put you to work just so that you can have one. Ice cream sandwiches contain frozen cookies that make stellar hockey pucks. Ice cream involves getting a bowl, a spoon, and a frozen headache. Regular popsicles will drip faster than you can say “Fruit-flavored frozen goodness.” But hark – Pudding Pops! It’s pudding (already been deemed cool.) and it’s frozen (without drippage). And I want one.

But do they even still exist?

Looks like they made a comeback tour stop last summer, but yet again, have disappeared from the shelves. You know the type of appearance. They come out, thank everybody for coming and buying their merchandise and indulging in their art form, they play their hits – “Vanilla,” “Chocolate,” “Swirly McSwirlington” and then vanish to their palatial estates with new revenue. Gone again.

Pudding Pops, why have you forsaken me?

While I wait for them to answer, you must click this link and scroll down. You can thank me later.

YAB Blows a Gasket

And despite Condon’s efforts to continue with the daily blog in one of his busier weeks in recent memory, it seems that many of you were denied last night of your everyday funny bringing. From around 8 o’clock on (or roughly after the last Nordcomment had been filed), anyone who came to visit this site was greeted with a Blogger page that provided no useful information as to YAB’s whereabouts. I’d complain to Blogger, as I know the nightwatch readers are many in number, but that would fall in the realm of ungratefulness. It would be like getting invited to a party and then harping on the host that the Doritos are only Cool Ranch, when you really have a hankering for some Cooler Ranch.

Yeah, like there’s a difference.

Not only were you force to spend your Internet diversion time elsewhere, even the Grand Master Blogger was unable to access his own site. Nope, no chance of catching up a day last night. Blogger had stolen the keys to my creation and took it for a joy ride, it seems. But I guess when I store the YAB Mobile in their garage, it’s likely that was going to happen. But why last night, of all nights? I decided to find out.

Dude, where’s my YAB?

After a good, ok we’ll say three minutes of super sleuthing, my blog’s disappearance was explained. It wasn’t a joy ride at all. Had it been a joy ride, there would have been more posts than before, racking up the blogodometer. I would have found scuff marks on the tagline, the links would have been soot-covered, and my comment-counting fluid would be at a record low. This blog wasn’t out cruising the Information Superhighway! It was in the shop!

Turns out every 200 posts, the Standard Blog Operating Manual suggests you take your journal-vehicle in for its tune-up and preventative maintenance. What does this service prevent, you ask? After so much day-in, day-out wear and tear, a blog has the tendency to not run as well as it did when you first drove it off the lot. Nothing may necessarily wrong with your baby, but you can be sure that the blogchanics will find something that could use a little tweaking. Well, this morning when I woke up I was delighted to see that the inspection and service has been completed, and YAB was sitting back on my homepage, where it comfortably belongs. So, uh, what’s the damage, doc?

As I sat down in the blog chair this morning, I wondered what the diagnosis was for this freshly-tuned funny machine. And there it was, as clear as a convenient plot device: my bill. Sitting on the dash, (the bill, not Condon), I picked it up and read to my horror what I owe.

First, the invoice says that my funny gear is stalling. What the heck does that mean? Turns out the blogchanic’s couldn’t find the comedy in the E-mail post – missing a punch line belt. As for the Star Wars summer movie preview, YAB was apparently the victim of a clogged funny valve – this causes an otherwise good idea to operating slower and to a lower level of effectiveness. Well, that’s no good. That’s no good at all. The engine typically produces finely-tuned blog ideas, but a cloudy valve hinders the execution. Good thing they fixed that.

Apparently, I had no idea that my tagline blades needed replacing. Last week’s involved a chicken, a train, and playing one with the other. The blades had become dull and a little to obscure. The shop insists I help those uninformed with music on the cutting edge, and let them know that Cowboy Troy is THE man. Check him out. Ok, I hope this week’s music reference is a little more obvious.

It also says here that YAB’s prize tank is overflowing! Due for an seeming inability to work in the news you’ve been waiting for into my ramblings, the second YAB Century Quiz has been up in the air since, well, the presentation of the second YAB Century Quiz. With a tank full of swag, maybe that’s what’s been slowing me down. So let’s get on with the awards. Since “Mr. C” took the first quiz hands-down (and sadly unopposed), he’ll also be a recipient of this prize. But the second quiz victory shall be declared in two names. And those names are: Jasen Andersen and Anne Pretz. Both were able to answer all 20 questions correctly, without mis-spelling a single thing or insisting that an answer was “too long to type out” and give me a “here’s the link instead.” Congrats to the both of you. Please e-mail me your shirt size, and you will receive a YAB t-shirt (coming to a CafePress YAB store near you.)

So that’s the work that was done on the blog. Maybe I’ll take it back in to the body shop around July. Definitely could use a fresh coat of paint.

Give me a D.E.E.

Let’s knock this one out before I got swallowed up in work today. Gulp.

There’s nothing more frustrating in the world of finance than knowing you did everything on your end to ensure a project goes smoothly, only to find that some unnamed person elsewhere was careless on their end and allow the whole process to spiral chaotically out of control. In my job, time management is what makes the world go ‘round, and discretionary time between projects is a rare resource. So when I have to do extra work even after I’ve ensured my part by getting it done in advance, this error can throw my routine into a tailspin and my stapler across the room. I suppose it’s the equivalent to witnessing a car collision on the way to work. Totally unplanned for and there’s now nothing I can do to get back on schedule.

Since no one is in this game to maliciously slow me down, or in the words Matthew Wilder, gonna break-ah my stride, we must attribute this to carelessness. Welcome to the wonderful world of Date Entry Error.

Data Entry Error is a product of have too much to type and too little time to type it in. There is no additional thought process that need be applied, so very often this administrative task can be completed by someone not related and uninformed of the project. The only thing they have to do is turn this information on this paper into that data on that computer. It’s a simple job, and can be fun in short doses. But the instant that short dose becomes long, beware. The fingers keep moving at the same speed, but the thought process does not. And just like that, Chris Condon is sitting at his desk staring at a recent financial calculation that needs to return to Square 1 faster than Ice Cube’s movie career.

But can I chastise the unknowing data entry clerk for his faux pas? Nay. For that would be hypocrisy, which is something YAB cannot stand for. Yeah, my typical “Aim and Mock” approach would be great for blog fodder, if I wasn’t one of them.

Yes, I was once guilty of a crime against data entry.

Now no one was injured or affected adversely because of my typographical oversight, but I was very close to shooting myself in the foot because of it. My D.E.E. took place in the bitter month of January, the year was 2001. The scene – the Philadelphia International Airport. The hilarity – ensued.

Backstory: The best part of being a Monroe Scholar at William and Mary was the opportunity to embark on an independent study venture called a Monroe Project. It was pretty straightforward. Write up a proposal, an itinerary, and once it becomes project greenlit, go forth and learn (all on the College’s dime). Some people discover sculpture in Italy. Others tour the great castles of Scotland. But then there are some who take the project so seriously that they are compelled to tie in their marketing major in the name of higher learning. So that’s what I did – I researched sports marketing in four NHL different cities, and watched a fair share of ice hockey along the way. Yeah, I’m learned alright.

But if I was ever going to get to Columbus, Nashville, St.Paul, or Atlanta before gametime, I was going to have to take an airplane. (Sorry Volvo, my old friend.) In order to take an airplane anywhere, you need a ticket. In order to get a ticket, you need to use an online engine like Travelocity and purchase one. Hopefully, your purchase will be data entry error-free.

Airline Desk Attendant: “Hello sir, may I see your ticket and drivers license, please.” (scans documents) “Um, sir, I don’t believe you are in possession of your ticket. This is a ticket for a Christopher Cpmdpm. Do you know him?”

(I still can’t believe she tried to pronounce my new last name. It was classic.)

Chris Condon: “No, my name is Christopher Condon, I’m sure that’s a mistake.”
ADA: “Well, that’s going to be a problem, because this is not your ticket. This ticket is for a Mr. C-P-M-D-P-M.” (spelled it this time)
CC: (pauses and thinks). Wait. I know what happened. Look at your keyboard. The P and the M keys are directly to the right of the O and the N keys. When I bought the ticket I must not have been paying attention. I assure you this is me.”
ADA: “I don’t understand. (asks manager to come over) Roy, this gentleman is claiming to be the name on this ticket. His name is close, but I’m not sure of his identity.”
CC: “Look, I screwed up typing my name online. I can tell you everything about this flight and what credit card I used. I assure you that my hands were on the wrong keys!”
Manager: “April, let him go, we don’t him to miss his flight to Columbus. Story checks out. Sir, please be more careful next time. We’re not detectives here.”

And yes, those were their real names. I’m that good..

It's All Overflow

I have a new class to go to on Saturdays. It’s a Public Policy course mainly, but at some point should shift its focus to corporate regulation and governance. But as for right now, we’re keeping our focus on the Constitution and all those crazy federal agencies and branches that make their home just down the road and across the Potomac (it doesn’t go underwater. There must be a bridge of some sort.) Much of what I’ve learned thus far has been beneficial and a worthwhile output of my first four hours of every weekend, but until my professor sings the “I’m Just a Bill” song from School House Rock, I will remain unsatisfied with my graduate education.

Getting up on Saturday morning, all in all, isn’t too bad of a task. I have to be at class by 9, which allows me to actually sleep in a little bit. Everyone kicks it pretty casual, which is a nice change from Wednesday nights when we all come from work. There’s always one guy in the class that will wear his tie all the way through the four hour block on those nights, and no one is quite sure why. If I had the time in my schedule, I’d be changing into shorts and sandals before I hit the door. But not that guy, who looks ready for a job interview at any moment. Sometimes I feel the urge to start firing questions and grilling him for his qualifications, but I refrain. They’ve got cookies to placate me.

The first hour and a half moves a pretty good clip, and at about the two hour point we take a ten minute break. But once we return to our respective notes-laden desks, a new mentality sets in. Something changes in the demeanor of the class. Interest in knowledge gain? Gone. Attention spans? Diminished. And trace of inflection in the prof’s voice? Thing of the past.

I suspect there’s tranquilzers in the bagels.

So, as we review and recap for the second half of class, I find myself looking for additional tasks to occupy my time. I’ve got my laptop, but there’s only so much one can do without an internet connection. I’ve got a wireless card, but it doesn’t play nice with GW’s server. They’re like the Kornheiser and Wilbon of the IT circuit. But even though it doesn’t work, I bring it every week, hoping that a prayer has been answered. After all, I can only sort and organize my digital photos in so many ways. (We’re not talking baseball cards here.) And I’ve written my share of catch-up blogs there, but only by typing in a word doc and pasting at a later date. Man, the INTERNET would be nice right about now.

Wait, a minute. Why do I have IM right now? That would mean I have –
HOLY SOCKS, BATMAN. For reasons that will go both unexplained and unknown, I had the Internet on Saturday. It was at my fingertips. (Where else?) This sudden rush of additional multitasking resources parallels few experiences I’ve ever had. It’s like staring in the window of a Toys ‘R’ Us, and then for no reason whatsoever, somebody tells you that you can go in and play with anything you like. Even the PogoBalls.

Now let’s not get carried away here. We are still in class and we still have notes to take. Let’s keep use of the Internet fairly professional-looking. I leave my fantasy baseball team on the bench for a few hours, as well as checking the latest of Brian’s road journal entries at www.guster.com. That stuff will have to wait. Let’s check the e-mail.

I’m sure none of you received an e-mail from me that Saturday morning. Let me explain why. My plan to catch up on some correspondence went disastrously awry the millisecond I opened up my inbox.

The ability to send e-mail is based on the principle that there’s enough space on the server to store it. As an employee, I am granted 45 MBs of server space. Because of an overflowing inbox and a dire need to file some older e-mails away, I normally flirt within a meg of the overflow point. If I go over the 45, then nobody hears from me. Ever. But it’s okay, I left work with some room to spare. Hey two new e-mail messages!

Message 1 – 9.6 MB. Message 2 – 6.5 MB.

Well, not only have I eclipsed my server limit, I’ve blown it out of the water and waiting for the debris to fall back down to the earth. A typical email is about 4kb, or .004 MB. It’s like I just received 4025 e-mails at once. Even Star Wars isn’t that popular. I would like to thank the person who sent me 15 MBs of pdf files after I left work on Friday. You’ve completely ruined my Internet discovery. I guess I’m going have to actually take notes on how appropriations work in the Senate. Hopefully the Internet Gods will smile upon me next week…

Epiblog: Over the course of the weekend, the IT server sent me a “Your mailbox is over its size limit” E-mail every 3 hours until I cleared it out this morning. 7kb a piece. Does this seem a little counterproductive to anyone else?

Intergalactic Screenwriting

Unless you’ve been living under a space rock on Tatooine, you should be very aware of the Star Wars saga charging back into theaters this past week. I, for one, have yet to see it, but plan to do so in the near future. Without raising the bar to unreachable expectation, I am looking forward to a movie that should reveal the origin of one of the best cinematic villains ever created. Heck, I won’t even be disappointed is Jar Jar Binks doesn’t get slain by an errant lightsaber swing. It should be a good show, and I’m ready.

Part of my Monday morning routine is to check the box office totals of the weekend, and read seemingly endless lists of articles how the box office has been slumping in 2005. It’s been twelve weeks in a row since a weekend bested its comparable rival from 2004. Call it what you will. From other entertainment options to a lower quality of flicks to way too much Ashton Kutcher, all of the theories have been, well, theorized. What this year in film needs in the summer blockbuster to sweep in and rescue its fledgling ways.

Enter George Lucas.

It’s a YAB guarantee that the slump will end with Episode III hitting the silver screen. In Wednesday midnight showings alone, it took in a cool $16 million. I’m estimating an opening weekend of 136.3 million, but that’s just me. (I used the Force, btw).

Hollywood is simply salivating at the returns they expect to see from the latest in Lucas’ space opera. This has some serious potential. Being the savvy Hollywood producers that they are, in order to prolong this hot weekend into a hot streak, they put a call into Mr. Lucas. Here’s the transcript.
Producers: “Hi Mr. Lucas. Do you like money?”
Lucas: “Why yes, I love money!”
Producers: “Well have we got just the plan for you!”
Lucas: “Do tell!”

In order to stretch the profitability of the movie business, Lucas struck a deal with all of the studios to launch the Post-Production Film Initiative. The Skywalker Ranch, for four straight days, have been granted permission to insert Star Wars characters into the plot lines of every single big movie that will come out this summer. More times than not, hilarity will ensue. Since I put the Connect in Connect Four, I’ve pulled some strings to bring you people the inside scoop on the summer movies of 2005. Enjoy.
5/27 – The Longest Yard - While they both serve time at the same prison, pro quarterback Paul Crewe and former college coach Nate Scarboro are tasked with forming a team to play against the guards. The cornerstone of their defensive pass rush is defensive end Chewbacca, who’s serving time for Grand Theft Tie-Fighter.

5/27 – Madagascar - At New York's Central Park Zoo, a lion, a zebra, an Ewok, and a Stormtrooper are best friends and stars of the show. But when the Ewok goes missing from his cage, the other three break free to look for him, only to find themselves reunited ... on the Millennium Falcon en route to the planet of Madagascar.

6/3 – Cinderella Man - The story of Depression-era fighter and folk hero Jim Braddock, who defeats heavyweight champ Jabba the Hut in a 15-round slugfest in 1935. The bout takes all 15 rounds because the referee cannot discern when a Hut is knocked off his feet, due to a lack of them.

6/10 – Mr. and Mrs. Smith - When John and Jane Smith discover that they both lead double lives as assassins -- and that they have just been hired to kill one another -- the once-bored couple catch a spark. Comic relief is provided by Mr. Smith’s wise-cracking partner Boba Fett, who keeps insisting that this is just like what happened with Greedo and his wife.

6/17 – Batman Begins - A revelation of the origin of Batman, and his emergence as a crusader against evil in Gotham City. Since this is a prequel, it must pass the Prequel Rite of Passage: inserting Jar Jar Binks into the script and pray the whole thing doesn’t implode.

6/17 – The Perfect Man - Reeling from her recent divorce, Jean Hamilton moves to Tucson, Arizona, with her daughters Zoe and Holly, played by Hillary Duff, who secretly plan to find their mother a new guy. The part of Hillary Duff will be played by Mace Windu.

6/24 – Bewitched - In the updated version of the TV series "Bewitched," lead actor Jack Wyatt unknowingly recruits a real-life Sith lord, Darth Maul, as his counterpart. Hilarity ensues.

7/1 – War of the Worlds - As Earth is invaded by Martian war machines, one family fights for survival. It’s a family of Tusken Raiders. Hilarity ensues some more.

7/8 – Fantastic Four - A group of astronauts gain superpowers after a cosmic radiation exposure and must use them to oppose the plans of their enemy, Doctor Doom. An all-star ensemble quartet includes R2-D2, Lando Calrissian, Aunt Beru, and a Jawa.

7/15 – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Young Charlie Bucket wins the chance to tour the most magnificent chocolate factory in the world and meet the man behind it all, the eccentric Willy Wonka. At the end a magical glass elevator containing Charlie and Wonka blasts off and makes the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.

7/22 – The Island – A man (Ewan McGregor) who discovers that he is actually a "harvested being" looks to escape from the utopian facility where he and others are kept. His only ally is a woman (Johansson) who's pregnant with her "sponsor's" child. Obi-Wan Kenobi runs the facility and creates a serious identity crisis for the man.

8/5 – The Pink Panther - Inspector Jacques Clouseau (Martin) is tasked by the duplicitous Chief Inspector Dreyfus (Kline) to solve the murder of a famous protocol droid and the disappearance of the construction plans for a new Death Star.

See you at the movies.

12 Oz. Blog

And as the comment board gets riled up again, I see that it's the trivial things in life that gets one's goat. Yeah, there's a realistic cliche. Like we all have personal friendgoats, and they remain solely our property until something as minimal as soda wars or candy-coated candy colors comes along and swipes our barnyard friends. Of all the people I've ever met in my life, I have never once been introduced to their friendgoat. Looks like the trivial world has gotten the best of the entire human race, and there's some big goat warehouse somewhere that is managed by Insignificant Industries. I demand to see this warehouse, Or on second thought, I'll forgo the tour in order to finish this post. Yeah, I'll let sleeping does lie.

You do realize I have another 'graph in me to blow apart that one too, but we've got more important fish to fry.
Damn. Did it again.

Ok, enough with the animal idioms (animidioms?). Let's talk soda. Despite what looks like is going to be a divisive split that will rival the toaster issue, choice of cola is not one of those allegiances I hold that close to my personality. Do I have a preference? Of course - the blue can. There's a slight edge and taste, and a major edge in "scrumtrilesence." I must admit I originally welcomed Pepsi as a Supreme Cola Chancellor potential candidate thanks to their cunning promotion with Star Wars Episode I back in the summer of '99. And much to my parents' dismay, still in my room at home is a 24 can display case, proudly revealing two dozen soda cans with character faced emblazoned on them. Call it worthless memorabilia if you want, but it solidified Pepsi as my Emperor in the Cola Wars.

Oh, and if you think I'm overusing Star Wars terminology, just wait until tomorrow. George Lucas will be serving me with a copyright suit. Three piece.

So everyone's got their favorite soda, there's no doubt about that. And I weren't so price-conscious when purchasing soft drinks at the supermarket, I may be able to be on one side of the fence or the other. The general rule of thumb is to face the side of the yard that has 12-packs on sale for $2.99, regardless of aluminum color. I’m a lot happier if it happens to be Pepsi products, but I’ll deal otherwise (much like my lunch yesterday.)

In the Soda World, it’s the Hatfields and the McCoys. There’s two large families that have bitter enemies across town and people are choosing sides. Now the bizarre thing about these two clans is that more times than not, each side has a near-exact rival. And it is in this direction we take the blog today. A tale of the tape, Coke vs. Pepsi.

COKE vs. PEPSI: I think I’ve already said my piece on this battle of family figureheads. EDGE: PEPSI.

DIET COKE vs. DIET PEPSI: I’m not a fan of either, really. If you want something with no calories and no taste, drink water. But even though Smith will cry bloody murder on this one… EDGE: COKE

C2 vs. PEPSI ONE: My mom used to buy P-1, and I recall a specific summer when we tried to film that movie that we used a whole box of it as a prop. That case went unused on Boblitt’s back porch for about 3 years before it eventually got deep sixed. EDGE: COKE

SPRITE vs. SIERRA MIST: Sprite has such a bland taste to it, at least Sierra Mist has some flavoring. On top of that, Sprite is pushing their product with a Lil’ LeBron that shouts Lil’ Penny rip-off. Recycling a marketing campaign gets you nowhere. EDGE: PEPSI

CHERRY COKE vs. WILD CHERRY PEPSI: Coke’s strongest product wins in a mismatch against a Pepsi product that just revamped its formula. Apparently, they added extra suck. EDGE: COKE

BARQS vs. MUG: Neither of them are A&W or Stewart’s, but I’d much rather go with Mug, considering I once got pulled over for drinking a Barq’s in a car. Long story. EDGE: PEPSI

DASANI vs. AQUAFINA: It’s water, stupid. It’s the same stupid water. PUSH

FANTA vs. SLICE: I really detest the taste of Slice orange soda. In fact, Diet Slice almost made me want to never drink soda again. Like citrus-tinted seltzer. Fanta got me through two weeks in Europe. Oh, and that Fantana song has been stuck in my head since 2002. EDGE: COKE

MINUTE MAID vs. TROPICANA: After reviewing the selection in my grocer’s juice aisle, one of these two is clearly juice, while the other is clearly an imposter. EDGE: PEPSI

And Finally:
MELLO YELLO vs. MOUNTAIN DEW: Come on! This is the series clinching game?!? I think we just found our carbonated equivalent of Kansas City Royals vs. the New York Yankees. EDGE: PEPSI

It’s a 5-4 win for the boys in blue. Meanwhile, apparently Dr. Pepper has no friends.

A Little Twist Off

Drink Coke. Play Again.

What? Oh, that’s it. Now I’m ticked. Apparently, without even knowing, not only have I been a participant in high-stakes game of chance, I’ve come out a loser without even getting a chance to rally. I’m headed back to the bench with the bat on my shoulder on a called third strike. And if anyone has seen me play baseball before, you already know I don’t like to let the pitches pass me by. If I have a chance to go for the W, I’ll swing at a knuckleball four feet over my head, just to make sure the pitched doesn’t rack up the backwards K. But this time? Didn’t even see the pitch. Damn.

The at-bat started off all so well. As the middle of the workday crept across my desk and reminded my stomach, I knew it was time to push back from my spreadsheet and round up the team. Since there’s a fair share of upper management in town this week at the office, our catering vendor has stepped it up a notch and are offering an outdoor patio barbeque option in addition to the usual cafeteria fare. Always looking for a passable reason to bypass a sorry-looking salad bar, I jumped at the opportunity to dine on grill food and potato salad. After collecting my picnic cuisine, I found out that I was also entitled to a 20 ounce beverage with my meal. I normally dine with my water bottle, but I figured I’d make the most of my mealtime investment and grab a soda. And while I was dismayed that they were all out of Pepsi, I settled for Coke,

”Steerike One!”

Eating at my desk is not a rare occurrence during my tenure here. There’s always much to do, and I find myself to be productive when trying to balance the tasks of expense consumption and food consumption. Don’t get me wrong – we’ll eat away from our desks occasionally, but it’s been much too hectic a week to entertain a meal on the patio today. As I sat back down, I saw an urgent e-mail (you know the ones – with the big ole’ ! by the name) and jumped right back into my job. This explains why I didn’t see that on the label of my drink there was a contest to be played. Retrospectively, I’m sure I never saw it on account of being dejected on account of there being no Pepsi. Retrospectively, I would have done a lot of things differently. (Like no potato salad – eech.)

“Steeriiike Two!”

And then it happened. Completely unaware of the 0-2 count that had brought against me, I stepped into the batter’s box and gripped the cap of the Coke bottle. There’s the windup, and the twist. As I nonchalantly pulled the lime green cap off of the bottle and it flipped in my palm, I saw it. Failure.

”Strike Three – You’re Out!”

From the four words laser-inscribed underneath the cap, I now have a complex. I’ve been proclaimed a loser by the Coca-Cola Company and I didn’t even ask to play their silly game. Had I known I was going to play, I could have done so much more! Looks like I had a 1 in 12 chance of leaving the plate a big winner. I could have practiced pulling bottles off the shelf, and used my sixth sense to predict the winner (or see dead people.) I could have twisted the cap off in one fell swoop, and maybe the letters contained underneath could have changed. Maybe I could have inspected underneath the cap by holding the bottle to the sky and used my fighter pilot vision to see my fate without opening altogether. At least then I wouldn’t have won OR lost.

Well now that I’ve been declared a sucker by a Fortune 500 international company, you would think my day spiraled into a maelstrom of woe. But no! Coke yells a few comments my way as I head back to the dugout. “Drink Coke! Play again!” It’s like some messed up taunt where the victor encourages the victim to come back for another lashing. No, thanks, Coca Cola. I’m not going to play anymore. I’m going home, and I’m taking my bat, my glove, and my potato salad with me. Oh, and Pepsi’s waiting for me in the fridge.

Maybe that’s why I like Pepsi more than Coke. No inferiority complex, just ice cold refreshment.

The Backtrack Scale

It’s been a while since YAB has printed something useful. I mean, it’s nice to how to fend off stupid deer in the mountains of Pennsylvania, but honestly, what are the chances that you, the reader, will need to put this method into use anytime soon? So in the name of reader education, we take today to unveil a useful tool that YABLabs has developed with the time-crunched individual in mind. And after you read this, we hope that word-of-mouth publicity spreads so far and so quickly that people will be knocking down the doors of Palm and Blackberry. This is, what they call in the software business, a “killer app.” (Well, I don’t know if they still use that term, but I heard it on some video in CP class in high school. Who knows.) I present to you “The Backtrack Scale.”

First, some background on the Backtrack. No invention should ever be created unless it fills a specific need in human society. Well, I have found the problem that this invention has been created to solve is a recurring one, and for once, affects more than just me. Let me use the following example to illustrate the very plight The Backtrack Scale aims to eradicate.

This past Sunday, at the tailend of the Weekend of Driving, I was blazing down the homestretch. Soon we would be at Katie’s in Manassas, and I could finally detach the gas pedal from the bottom of my foot. The final stage of the trip had been moving at record time, and I was pleased with the time I had been making. But then, almost intentionally inserted into the placidity as a clever plot twist, my busted-up cell phone rang. It was a call from home, thanking us for making the trip up for the graduation party and to inform me that they had forgot to send my packing with the leftovers to conquer all leftovers: Buffalo wings from Pic-a-lilli’s in Medford. So here I am, my serenity dashed, now knowing that I could have had wings for dinner all week.

But then hope entered the picture – what if I turned back and got them right then and there? Is that a good time management move, or just crazytalk?

What a quandary that experience can be. You’ve left something behind, and with each additional minute of decision making you grow farther and farther from where that something has been left. Time is of the essence here – only a spontaneous in-the-moment decision will do. Let’s rule at magic, emotion, thought, and logic. This leaves us with, you guessed it, The Backtrack Scale. It’s math, stupid!

f(BT) = (D x AQ)H

Function of Backtrack Score equals a calculable number that should be referenced with table that would be part of this software program. The general rule is that the higher the score, the more likely you must return to your point of origin to retrieve the item. It’s a simple enough equation, but you must decide how much each of the factors is worth.

D – Distance – This one is pretty simple. Using a scale of 1 to 5, decide how far away you’ve gotten from the thing you forgot. The higher the score the closer you are to home, the lower the score the farther you have already strayed. A 5 is within 10 minutes of home. A 4 is within 10-20. A 3 is within 20-1 hours. A 2 is within 1-2 hours, and a 1 is more than 2 hours. Simple enough, right?

AQ – Awesome Quotient – This measures how much better your life will be if you go back and get the thing you left. Again, it’s a 1-5 scale, and the higher the score, the more awesome your backtracking was.

A 5 is something you can’t live without, a real need. Example: keys to get into your apartment when you get home.
A 4 is something you feel you need, but it’s just something you want very badly. Example: your pants.
A 3 is something you want greatly, and would be very happy if you had it with you. Example: wings from Pic’s.
A 2 is something that you could find very useful if you had it, but will get by without it for the time being. Example: your mp3 player.
A 1 is something that you remembered you forgot, but you know you have an acceptable substitute to tide you over. Example: A DVD, CD or Frisbee.

H – Hour Factor – This is a multiplier to take into account the time of day. Returning to the scene of the miscue is a better idea when it is still light out, as you will have more time to finish up the trek before midnight. If it is already nighttime, going back will result in a superlong night. If it is daytime, multiply your product of the other two by 1.25. If it is nighttime, multiply by .75.

Ok, now for the most important number. 9. 9 is the score the Backtrack Scale must clear in order to make your pull a U-Turn and head on home. Below 9? No, man, it’s just not worth the extra gas.

So here’s my current example: At this point I am more than 2 hours from my starting point, so that’s a big 1 on the Distance Factor. But I do like wings, and I’ll give them a 3. Multiply them together, you’ve only got 3. Compound that problem with the fact it’s nighttime, and that 3 becomes a 2.25. Not even close to 10. Looks like I made the right choice after all.

What did I ever do to Bambi?

I didn’t play the role of “Man.”

759 miles later, I have returned to the YAB Desk ready to pull at least something from my frenzied weekend into a reasonably funny column. Last time I wrote, I had yet to have my first Public Policy class of the semester, to have driven extensively through four states (and less extensively through Delaware), to have played Frisbee in the mountains of Pennsylvania, to have started a food fight where the only ammo is “bagel”, to have perfected the related game of “Throw the knife across the room into the Cream Cheese”, and eaten enough graduation cake to, well, feel guilty about eating so much graduation cake.

But as stated, it took me 759 miles to pull off all of these activities in 48 hours. But while a bagel whizzing by your ear at the speed of Lou is a surefire wake-up call, nothing threatened my life more than my latest encounter with the animal kingdom. I mean, I’m friendly to animals, despite the controversial scandal Puppykick, which I assure you, is entirely fictional. Heck, I even spare animal crackers if there is a non-creature-inspired cracker alternative nearby.

But do the deer care? Hecccccckkkk, no.

Apparently, deer are very egotistical forest dwellers. Ignoring a deer could cost you your life. I don’t know what I did to deserve their ire, but I’ve traced it down to two events in my life. The first occurred on the way home from recording One Accord’s first CD. After a long day of recording and performing, the caravan was heading to a group member’s No. Va. home for a well-deserved home-cooked meal. I totally expected to be exhausted while driving there in John Stephens’ van. I totally did not expect to watch Michael Morrison hit a deer (with his car, not his fist) at 65 mph. If the deer survived the impact, not to mention the 40 yard airborne joyride, he’d probably have told his friends about how cruelly he was treated. Word would spread that I was at the scene of the crime, and then I’d be blacklisted by deer everywhere (Would my mug shot be at the local Elk Clubs?).

Hmm…that was in VA, and this life-threatening event happened PA. Now since only reindeer can fly, I doubt word traveled that far. I therefore conclude that my weekend run-in had nothing to do with this event.Which leaves me Cause #2 to ponder. It makes a helluva lot more sense, since it took place the very night at the very neighborhood of the woodland confrontation. You see, as the men of Shawnee Group spent the weekend playing paintball in the Poconos in honor of James Maugham’s fast approaching wedding, we took some time after dinner to locate a local field to toss the disc. In the name of economy, we took 6 of us in one car to and from the designated clearing. There’s a problem with this scenario. If you didn’t catch it, let me repeat it. WE PUT 6 GUYS IN A CAR. And in some sort of crazy coup, I was not automatically granted shotgun.

With a diminished freedom of movement, I was pretty much forced to look straight ahead for the entire car ride. Turning my shoulders to look out the window very well could have knocked Rob Harford out cold. And while I stared at the back of the seat in front of me, the rest of the group gawked at the many deer that casually lounge around the front yards of the neighborhood cabins. Had to have been at least three deer per yard. Not that I would know. But this is what I’m told.

So what does this all mean?

When I left Sunday morning to make the trek over to Jersey, I thought I had accounted for everything. I remembered to pack all of my things. I had already targeted the Wawa I would stop at for fuel. I even charged my Dell DJ for hours of uninterrupted mp3 goodness. Careful planning should ensure a quick trip.

Nobody told the deer.

As I made my first right turn off of Pine Knoll, I was greeted with overcast skies, a threat of rain, and 5 deer grazing in the middle of the road. I assume this is the equivalent of teenagers hanging out in parking lots of stores that have closed for the evening. There’s no real benefit of selecting the location, therefore giving off the aura that they’re there just to be cool. Anyways, after finding out that honking, yelling, flailing, and slowly rolling towards were insufficient methods of deer disbanding, I was forced to do exactly what would have worked on me if I were in their position. Sunroof and windows opened. Radio turned on. Channels scanned. Song found. Volume blasted. Cover my ears.Turns out deer hate the Celine Dion song “I Drove All Night.” I guess that makes two (or six) of us. They scattered before Celine made it to the first chorus.

Am I proud of what I did? No.
Did I treat myself to a donut at Wawa for my ingenuity? You bet.

Political Game Theory

While I don’t keep up very well with the day-to-day happenings in Washington, I do know that when the United States Government isn’t fleeing their offices in the name of homeland security, a lot goes on. I have many friends who work on the Hill, another in the White House, and I like to think I’ve always been very polite to the hot dog vendors in the Federal Triangle part of our Nation’s Capital. Couple those connections with a undergrad concentration in “Government,” I like to think I could skate by in a political conversation over cocktails (or Lemon-Lime Gatorade.)

One thing I did catch wind of over the last few weeks is that President Bush is looking to nominate a John R. Bolton to the post of American Ambassador to the United Nations. As an idealistic governmental mind with no real political experience (I’ve got what they call book learnin’), I have a lot of faith in the United Nations. And after taking a recent jaunt down academic memory lane with a World Economy class, I continue to believe that the UN in time can carry a big stick. But what do I think of John R. Bolton as our Ambassador? I have no idea, since I spend most of my internet time looking for stupid Hoosier legislation that I can make fun of. This much I know, I think John R. Bolton will make a much better UN Ambassador than Michael Bolton would. John would be keeping peace and taking names, while Michael will keep asking the cute Ambassador from Sweden just how is he supposed to live without you.

Turing my attention away from nominations and Grammy-nominated crapballads, I’d like to focus my attention a little further on my working knowledge of the United Nations. I know that with Switzerland and East Timor’s entrance in 2002, they have a roll call of 191 nations. (Switzerland, welcome to the party! Did you guys print the directions off of Mapquest, or did you just circle the block for 57 years?) I know that of the 191 nations, all are entitled to chiming in with their 2 cents. I know that Nicole Kidman overheard an assassination plot and she’s the only suspect Sean Penn has got. I know that 15 nations make up the UN Security Council, where the real global diplomacy magic happens. 10 of these nations come in and out the swinging door every two years, as if the jocks invited them to sit at cool kids table, only to copy their social studies homework (That Argentina is a whiz with geography…)

I also know that since its inception and founding in 1945, there have been 5 permanent member nations on the United Nations Security Council: China, France, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the United States. They all sit there glued to their seats, well-aware of the single-vote veto power that they can wield. Just imagine if France got up to use the bathroom. The other 4 would quickly vote to abolish berets, Gerard Depardieu, and put a whoopee cushion on his francoseat.

What, you thought the UN was a civilized operation? No. Seeing how pointless public debate and discussion has been serving the national governments of the world since the Age of Ancient Greece, the UN has tried a new innovative negotiation strategy. Yelling back and forth across the table in English and Chinese gets nothing done. Well, YAB knows. (As usual.)

They play Risk.

Yes, the game of World Conquest is played by the five countries who are sitting in the seats that could executive exactly that objective. The rules are pretty simple, and are listed mostly in the directions in the box. But the winner gets to take home more than just bragging rights of winning a six-hour board game – they get their way on a debated issue. (Why do you think nothing’s been done in the nation of Georgia? Russia turned in cards and plowed over the UK by rolling a streak of sixes.)

Here’s how UNRisk typically plays out. Each of the five nations take turn placing armies across the board on randomly distributed territories. Each nation also is guaranteed to start with the territories held in their current real-world borders. This means the US gets three territories right off in North America, the UK starts in Northern Europe, France gets Southern Europe, and China and Russia get first crack at taming the mighty Asia. Knowing Russia’s might, China retreats and fortifies in Australia. France moves in and takes the crapshoot that is Africa. And the UK, in pure colonialistic style, abandons their homeland to put together a block of territories in South America. The stage is set for some negotiation.

Russia, not ready to take Asia (knowing they’ll becoming an American shooting gallery, chips away at the French faction in Africa. After a valiant struggle in the Congo and Madagascar, the French Ambassador (and whatever his stance on the issue-at-hand), are eliminated. China, quietly building up armies in Papua-New Guinea, team up with the U.S. to whack away at the Russian Empire, taking Mongolia, Japan, and Kamchatka. The British, now seeing the French aren’t around, engage in a maneuver (mad-cow influenced, no doubt) of reclaiming the homeland. The U.S., however, have already made the sea trip from Iceland, and are waiting at the gates. A second offensive by the Stars and Stripes knocks out their South American position.

Then nothing of any real importance happens for 13 hours.

When it is all said and done, the U.S. took an Army of Chaos route, only seeking to annoy China and Russia by switching alliances back and forth. What do they care? We’re only talking about trade routes in Turkmenistan, anyway. They eventually gave up when they saw that England booted up the Xbox for some France France Revolution. As for China and Russia, YAB will report on the outcome once there is an outcome.

You, uh, got any gum?

Yes, Mr. Letterman, we most certainly do.

When taking a break from class last night to stretch my legs, I wandered into the student lounge area of GW’s Alexandria building, and I had to laugh. Tucked away in the corner of the lounge sat two vending machines that I had never noticed before. One was stocked with Minute Maid fruit juices, so I didn’t mind so much that I had never seen it before. But the other was a snack machine, and I know there’s been many times that while sitting in the computer lab, I could have really used a FastBreak bar.

During my leave from my top row seat in Classroom 07, I didn’t actually purchase anything from my new discovery, and I pretty much attribute the lack of transaction to two reasons. First, part of my “Alexandria Campus Fee” for the semester goes towards class being catered with acceptable dinner options. If I wanted something to eat, I had the option of walking down to the front of the class (during the lecture, of course) and heaping a few forkfuls of pasta and salad onto a plate. Second, in order to directly prevent me from spending money on vending machines (I didn’t know about these two, but I do know of the Coke machine in the hall), I leave my wallet in the car.

Anyways, on the bottom row is the gum that nobody ever notices is actually there. Well, as I was sopping up every last second before I headed back in to learn more of the ways of six sigma, I noticed. Usual assortment, that’s not the peculiar part. Dentyne, Carefree, Icebreakers, Trident. No amateurs in this row. But it looks like Trident, out their in the 4th post position, has a little something extra awaiting any potential purchaser. The label reads:

Trident – With Xylitol!

Huh?

Here’s the deal with chewing gum. They are really only two differentiating characteristics on which a gum company can base their product composition on. The first is flavor. There’s bubble gum, about 5 mints, and any flavor those wackos at the FruitStripe factory conjured up. If you want to be successful and compete, you better stick to one of these flavors. The second is taste. Once you select a flavor, you must individualize it enough that people crave your brand over your competitors. Finding a niche taste can make your gum sink or swim. Dentyne Spearmint has a clean, refreshing taste. Orbit Bubble Gum tastes like a medicine cabinet.

Compete on these two characteristics and you’re in the hunt for the almighty gum chewer’s dollar. This begs this question, “What the heck is wrong with Trident?” Their differentiation strategy is to inform the customer that there’s a chemical of some sort in their gum that others don’t have? This better mean that this is a chemical so awesome that by including it not only in the chemical make-up but also on the exterior packaging that I have no other choice but to buy it. I’m talking “sticks of gum individually wrapper in dollar bills” awesome.

So I did a little research.

According to Xylitol.com (who knew?), this is what this gum chemical brings to the table. “Noncariogenic - This term implies that the food item involved does not cause dental caries. Therefore, such an agent is not cariogenic and does not cause caries indirectly either. Dietary xylitol clearly meets these requirements.” It’s amazing how science-types can dissect a word to its parts, only to leave you more confused then before. Thanks, guys!.

We continue… “Cariostatic - This term can be interpreted to mean a food or ingredient that causes cariostasis. This evidence comes from the long-term clinical trials carried out in Turku (Finland), Hungary, French Polynesia and Ylivieska (Finland).” Furthermore, not only do I not know what the term means, I apparently am supposed to regard French Polynesia as the leading scientific experts on the subject? That’s like trusting David Arquette to star in Francis Ford Coppola picture.

“Anticariogenic - can be regarded as a therapeutic quality or effect of a food constituent.” Ohhh…Assuming gum qualifies as a food constituent, it appears that Trident with Xylitol is easy on the gums. Gum for your gums. Brilliant! Now why couldn’t they have just put that on the label? Sounds a lot nicer than a chemical which begs the postscript: “Be sure to ask your physician about…”

Maybe I should go back to my class now…

Run CPC

Ever since my spring semester’s finals concluded this past Saturday, I’ve felt as if I have had a ridiculous amount of free time on my hands. Like several minutes a day, often in consecutive fashion. Who knew that not going to class after work would have such a positive effect on my post-office life? I’ve done some crazy things since Saturday – opening my mail, making my bed, making dinner instead of being sucked in by those fast-food jerkpants on the commute home. (This, mind you, will grow tougher once the Five Guys opens in Merrifield.) Yep, I’ve been living the good life. It’s been a nice break between semesters, and I certainly needed some time off after mind-numbing exams in Information Technology, Managerial Accounting, and Managerial Economics. And I’m going to ride this wave all the way until the beginning of the next semester. Which reminds me, when the heck is that anyway?

Summer Semester Starts: May 11, 2005

Well, so much for that, it looks like I’ve got a pesky four hour class this evening. Joy of joys. Well, before I go back into MBA warrior mode, let’s type a little bit about the other crazy thing I’ve resurrected in recent days. Condon’s been going to the gym again.

My recent attendance records down in the Fitness Center falls somewhere between sporadic and occasional. Turns out there ARE only so many hours in the day, and gymtime got the ax in a close match-up with sleeptime and blogtime. The thought is always there, but the hours are not. Because going to the gym requires a much greater time commitment that simply stepping on the treadmill and running for 20 minutes. No, it requires packing my bag with work clothes to change into. It requires leaving work at a reasonable hour in order to get any semblance of a workout in. It requires 20 minutes of retracing steps to the last time I wore my running shoes. As you can see, a trip to the gym requires roughly 14 hours of your day.

The bullet has been bitten and for the last three days I’ve been back in the saddle again. The schedule is pretty standard: run before work, do weights after work. And so far, both my alarm clock and my desk inbox have complied to said schedule, not preventing me from missing any cardiovascular appointments. If you’re going to have a successful outing to the old gym, you need to have a routine. If this routine is broken, you might as well stand by the water cooler or flop down over one of those giant rubber balls, ‘cause you’re not going to get anything done.

When I run, I need two things to make it a successful run. They’re crucial elements that help make up my personal routine. The first is music. Music is essential to a great run, especially if you’re aware of the fact you don’t run great. Running in silence will only remind you of the tedious act your feet and legs are engaged in and currently loathing. Something must break up the monotony. And when the song selection is left to the shuffle feature on your Dell DJ portable mp3 player, you sure better hope you catch a streak of up-beat, hi-tempo cuts. Otherwise, you’re running too fast to grab the thing and hit next, so it’ll be 3 and a half minutes of running fast but listening slow. Need an example of mp3 letdown? Here’s how yesterday’s run played out…

Zebrahead – Subtract You – Second only to Linkin Park in the rap-rock genre, Zebrahead started the run off with soaring guitars, catchy lyrics, and a breakneck pace. Perfect for this run.Fabolous – Breathe – I don’t have many rap singles on the DJ, but this is one of them. It’s one of those rap songs that makes everything mundane seem oddly important. Also took the run into a nice groove with the downbeat. Everything is going fine…until…

Heights – How Do You Talk to an Angel? Ladies and gentlemen, early 90’s wuss rock at its finest. My drive to run fast just took the off-ramp to Stop-and-walksburg.

But hey, at least I have a magazine rest here on the treadmill. Even though I can’t make out the words and read the articles, it does give me one more thing to keep my mind off running. Now the only three mags I’ll pull from the rack are Time, Sports Illustrated, or Entertainment Weekly. They each have enough features and interesting graphics in their articles to keep me from thinking about counting steps. Today I grabbed an SI with the NFL Draft recap on the cover. A pick-by-pick breakdown surely will make this 20 minutes fly. Unless…

Unless somebody, for a completely inane reason has wrapped the latest issue of Shape Magazine within the confines of the outer SI cover. So rather than finding out Peter King’s draft grade for the Eagles, it looks like I will soon find out what carbs are friendly carbs and how to slim down for that great summer sun dress look.

Worst. Run. Ever.