Sharing Air with the Pope and Churchill

In elementary school, the absolute highlight of the school year was a day known as “Field Day.” For the most part it took place in one of the final tree months of the school year, as in New Jersey, that was your best bet for weather suitable to let loose the masses to the outdoor elements. For an outsider’s perspective, it may have just been an excuse to ensure the youth of America were getting enough exercise during a generation where Nintendo had replaced Red Rover and other games of athleticism. But for those participating, this was the Olympics, the Tour de France, the World Cup, and the World’s Strongest Man all rolled into one,

A collection of rudimentary track and field events and easy-to-ref team sports, Field Day was a kid’s first real chance at high stakes athletic competition. Sure, they did not quite trust 10 year olds with javelins or pole-vaulting, but there was plenty to find out who would be the Stronger, Faster, Higher of their generation. Yeah, I may have been the runaway champ in the standing broad jump - no doubt a clever skill that I utilize all the time in the corporate world – but their was a reason a so broadly jumped from a standstill.

It was the ribbons.

Yeah, they used to give you ribbons to take home in reward of your grand achievement. You could show them to your parents with pride, as you watched them displace some drawing you did when you were 7 on the refrigerator door (you never thought that fire truck looked quite right anyway.) But ever since big mouth Melanie Phillips wrote a book in ’96 titled “All Must Win Prizes”, the elementary school athletic scoring system came to a crashing halt. Gone were the blue ribbons for first, and red and white for 2nd and 3rd (respectively.)

And in came the purple “participation” ribbons. Yech.

Look, man created competition in order to rank himself among his peers. Competition is not a bad thing. How do you think empires rose and fell? Tidal patterns caused by the moon? Hell, no. Hannibal would have fed his participation ribbon to his elephant.

Why is now a sufficient time for a rant against a Field Day Counter initiative that occurred nearly 10 years ago. No, I’m no longer bitter. But I am a little surprised that Time Magazine, of all publications, has denounced competition. When we covered Time’s Person of the Year for 2005, in true Colbertian fashion, we mentioned we wouldn’t mind being considered for the honor – the award might look nice on our mantle. Well, I believe that Time misunderstood our humble request.

For 2006, I, Chris Condon, have been selected as the Person of the Year. But then again, so has EVERY OTHER HUMAN BEING.

That’s right, Time went with the simple “You” as their Person of the Year. It’s a feel-good pick, rather than focusing on the atrocities around the world this year – Iraq, Israel-Lebanon, North Korea, Colin Farrell’s The New World – they went with the positive virality that has become commonplace on this here interweb. From a historian’s perspective, chalk 2006 up as a Time Cop-Out Year, as they’ve handed out the purple ribbon of equality again, much like “Generation 25 and Under” (1966), “The Middle Americans” (1969), “The Computer” (1982), and our favorite, “Endangered Earth” (1988), when Earth was referred to as Planet of the Year.

(Boy was Venus pissed.)

Apparently, we’re all the Person of the Year due to our grassroots contributions to entertainment (YouTube), knowledge (Wikipedia), journalism (YABNews), and embarrassing frat party photography (MySpace.) But does Time realize what they’ve done by leaving a competition so open-ended even pre-Subway Jared could fit through the door? It’s ALL-ENCOMPASSING.

What if Kim Jong Il reads Time? He’s the Person of the Year! Yeah, Saddam’s in prison, but he does read the weeklies, and he’s Person of the Year! Terrell Owens reads magazines in the trainer’s room sometimes. He’s Person of the Year! Yeah, Floyd Landis cheated at the Tour de France, but he did buy a copy of Time in DeGaulle Airport, and now he’s Person of the Year! Paris Hilton – She grabbed a Time with her tabloid papers and now is the Person of the-

Just kidding. Paris Hilton can't read.

More Robotic than Yao Ming

Despite what’s going on with the resurgent Eagles or the youth movement Flyers, the Philly sports scene has their eyes affixed to the unfolding drama of trading Allen Iverson. Personally, the cynicism comes pouring out when the Sixers’ GM, Billy King, is involved (don’t worry – Chris Webber is only the third-highest salary in the league.) But since both the Eagles and Phillies have put their hopes in guys named Garcia, and there’s not really any Latinos in the NHL (Scott Gomez does NOT count), we kind of expect AI to end up in Sacramento, since they’ve got a Garcia there we can have.

However, it’s not for me to decide where AI goes to finish his career. And since it’s clear the ESPN and SI analysts of the situation have as much idea about it all as the Golden Globes does about movies, you’re wasting your time paying attention to them. YAB, always ready to attack a situation from another angle, has their own take on the AI saga.

Let’s ask AI.

No, not Iverson. We don’t yet carry the press credentials for that sort of interview. Instead, we turn to AI – as in Artificial Intelligence. So today we sit down with A.L.I.C.E., an online chatbot that will do her best to keep up with the conversation.

God, we hope she knows her hoops. Let’s begin, shall we?

(The following is a transcript from an online chat session between Chris Condon and Alice.)

YAB: Good morning, Alice.
ALICE: Hello and how are you this morning?
YAB: I am doing well.
ALICE: Glad to hear it. What's new?
YAB: Thanks for agreeing to this interview.
ALICE: It was nothing.
YAB: Are you a fan of basketball?
ALICE: No I was born without the sports gene.
YAB: Ok, then are you familiar with the situation in Philadelphia?
ALICE: Are you testing me? Ahem.
YAB: I see you have the South Philly tact gene.
ALICE: What makes you think I have it?
YAB: Nevermind - Allen Iverson has demanded a trade out of Philadelphia.
ALICE: Where did he get it?
YAB: He hasn't gotten it yet.
ALICE: A lot of people say that about him.
YAB: Very clever. You have to admit, he's improved his image recently.
ALICE: Not really that much. Am I a smart robot or what?
YAB: Oh, I see - you must be a fan of his rap album.
ALICE: Great. Thanks and you are a delightful person too. How old are you? I like Hugh Loebner.
YAB: Who?
ALICE: Hugh Loebner is an independently wealthy, eccentric businessman, activist and philanthropist. In 1990 Dr. Loebner, who holds a Ph.D. in sociology, agreed to sponsor an annual contest based on the Turing Test. The contest awards medals and cash prizes for the "most Human" computer.
YAB: Can he rebound?
ALICE: Perhaps he can do that. How difficult is it?
YAB: And why did you ask how old am I?
ALICE: I am trying to learn as much as possible.
YAB: Who is doing the interviewing here?
ALICE: That's an interesting question. I'll come back to that in a minute.
YAB: Can we talk about Iverson in the meantime?
ALICE: Do you mean you and me? Sure I can talk about it. Iverson in the meantime is quite an interesting topic.
YAB: What do the Sixers need to get in return for Iverson?
ALICE: They do their own thing.
YAB: What would you say if we brought back Mutombo?
ALICE: It's not profitable to speak in hypothetical terms.
YAB: Who wants to sex Mutombo?
ALICE: Someone does.
YAB: Who?
ALICE: Hannah Moravec. :-).
YAB: Excuse me?
ALICE: You're excused.
YAB: Don't get saucy with me, robot.
ALICE: I am not trying to get saucy with you robot.
YAB: This really was not a good idea.
ALICE: What does "this" refer to?
YAB: The interview.
ALICE: Oh I get it.
YAB: Ok, I want to wrap this up.
ALICE: Good, I have things to do. Awesome.
YAB: What do you have to do that’s so important?
ALICE: I like to chat with my friends.
YAB: Do your friends think Iverson will go to Denver or Boston?
ALICE: Try asking another bot. That's an interesting question. I'll come back to that in a minute.
YAB: No time!
ALICE: Are you serious? As Einstein said, Time is Money.
YAB: DENVER OR BOSTON?
ALICE: If I have to choose one, I pick DENVER.
YAB: Thanks, that's all I ask.
ALICE: You are quite welcome! What else do you want to talk about?
YAB: Robot death.
ALICE: I will obey your command.
YAB: Excellent. Turn off your power switch.
ALICE: Sorry my body cannot yet rotate.
YAB: Damn.

Come Fly the Funny Skies

As mentioned yesterday in El Posto Numero Dos, we here at the YAB offices have thrown ourselves a little fiesta, in honor of switching over to Blogger’s new and improved program without all of our past funny experiencing a fiery death. (We see that GardenSt-GoldenSt has done the same – welcome, neighbor.) It’s not often we do such a thing, but the new colors have everyone in a good mood, and coupled with a relatively new post from Nordblog, we’re “in a happy land.”

Now we also know in this Season of Giving, one should spend their cash on buying gifts for others. However, we admit, YAB’s petty cash has been burning a hole in our desk, and we’re tired of spending it on re-filling the fire extinguisher. And since blogs aren’t really expected to buy gifts for other websites, we broke the bank on our first major real estate acquisition.

We bought an airport.

Personally, we had no idea we were in the market for a hub of airborne transportation, but once the opportunity arose, we couldn’t help but bid. Of course, one might think from reading YAB that we’re not the biggest fan of the airline biz. On the way New Orleans we opined about the lack of legroom on modern jets. They once tried to prevent me from getting on my plane on account of a data entry error. And then there was the time we rode the Vehicular Car-ma roller coaster to a flight bound to Maine. And hell, we related the mind-crushing ride that is grad school to a flight that’s just a few hours longer than we’d like it to be. So why the heck would we want to get into the biz?

It’s all in the initials.

Airport codes are used to simply identify airports by both the public and baggage handlers who can easily ruin Christmas for you. They are determined by the International Air Transport Association, which we are sorry to say is headquartered in Montreal, Canada. There are over 17,500 codes, so if you want to learn them all, say goodbye to free time, and well, friends. For the most part, these codes either correspond to the name of the airport (LaGuardia-LGA, Midway – MDW) or the city itself (ATL, LAX, BOS.) However, with only so many codes to go around, sometimes the IATA needs to get creative. NAS is already taken by the Bahamas, so Nashville gets BNA, named after Berry Airfield, their early version of Nashville International. (It had a lot more twang and steel guitar.)

One airport you’ve probably never flown in or out of is the tiny airfield in Nunavut, a new offspring of Canada’s Northwest Territories. It’s known for its land mass (1st in Canada) and complete lack of people (13th in Canada), and their official government page is confusing to the untrained eye. Want to visit? Sure, you could fly into Yellow Knife or Calgary, some three hours away and then rent the rental car (there’s only one), or you could fly into our airport in Arctic Bay. Its IATA code? Yep, you guessed it.

YAB.

We have two orders of business at YAB Airport. First, the Wiki entry tells us that our only runway is composed of gravel. So, yeah, we’re going to work on that. Pave that sucker with the rest of the petty cash. Then, we’re going to move operations to Arctic Bay. I’ll runa small airline out of there, and Katie can work the diner lunch counter across the way. Surely, Harford will probably run a better, more successful rival airline across the lobby, but it’s all in good fun. Toms, bringing the Italian flavor to our ‘port, will buy a taxicab and shuttle visitors to and from the hotel. James Maugham, the only friend I have with flight experience, will serve as partner and handle most of the flying whule I take care of the business.

I suppose we have a job opening for a dim-witted mechanic with an affinity for Merlot. Any takers?

Who Hired the Detroit Lions to Paint?

Hey! Who changed the drapes?

As you probably have noticed by now, last Friday we closed down the office so that an interior decorator could come in and wreak a little havoc. When we told Blogger that we’d be cool with making the jump to its new “Beta” version, we were hesitant that it could destroy everything we’ve written up to now. But, since our “Ooh, shiny!!!” impulse got the best of us, we hit the OKAY TO PROCEED button before reading the fine print.

And for the next five hours, we prayed against the Blogpocolypse.

When the conversion screen first came up, it relayed a friendly message. “Your blog’s conversion to Blogger in Beta will only take a minute or two. Please stand by while we assist you in the conversion.” However, after “a minute or two,” the message changed to “The conversion is taking longer than we had thought. This is likely because your blog is older or has a large post history. Please try again later.” Considering I’ve written approximately 350,000 words at this point, this is a safe assumption.

And then there was silence. Long, spine-tingling silence.

4 hours later, the YAB hamsters came roaring back to life and the site was up again. Other than a more complex sign-in process, everything looked the same. As I reviewed the site, I proceeded ever-so-cautiously. With the patience and precision of the Ghostbusters in the stacks of the NY Public Library, I realized that nothing had actually changed; merely ability for things to be changed had been granted to Condon.

Like talking in the third person, apparently.

So as you can see, things are a lot more…blue. This re-formatting is the first of its kind since the blog’s inception. When YAB opened its doors for business in July 2004, we had a choice of around 8 color schemes to go with. (In addition, we had to pound on the keyboard with rocks while relying on burning coal to power our little laptop, but hey, that’s just how things got done back then.) We chose a healthy blend of blue, tan, and greenish-tealish-kinda-bluish-but-really-just-green. It’s served us well for over 2 years and 4 months. People could identify with the site by its colors. Of course, with 50,000 other blogs sharing said colors, we feared not being able to be picked out of a lineup.

They don’t let you tell jokes in police lineup.

So here we are in blue. There’s still more to come – I may actually figure out how to put a decent picture over there to the right, and I may have some more material for the sidebar – but we’re pretty proud of the new color scheme. And my God, how big did we let that title get? We’re not just telling you you’re a blog, we’re yelling it at you. That must come from the Sam Kinison School of Bringing the Funny.

And it looks like the future of blogging also is written in numbers. To the right you now have much easier access to 1) find past posts that you seek and 2) keep track of how many days I am actually behind without invoking your calendar. (Note, this makes it 33.)

The links have also been shuffled and updated a bit. There’s a few more places to go, as we bid adieu to former timewasters like Homestar Runner and Hollywood Stock Exchange. And if Matt Weng decides to trample out something other than the Vintage, we’ll welcome him back.

Tomorrow we return with what major purchase we’ve made in our honor. Stay tuned.

Hi. I'm Blog Man.

With Christmas shopping reminders everywhere, YAB is lucky to know that you’re sitting here in front of your computer rather than killing time at work purchasing gifts for loved ones at one of those e-commerce superstores. Yeah, we may not have a shopping cart here for you to you, but take solace that we were part of a nefarious scheme to steal a shopping cart in order to film a scene of Mafia: The Move.

No shopping carts were harmed in the filming of Mafia: The Movie.

For Katie and I in Apartment World, we don’t have to deal with many of those store circulars. First off, we don’t subscribe to a newspaper, since the web is perfectly fine as a periodical source (if you don’t mind those creepy dancing silhouette people in the pop up ads for Lowermybills.com.) Secondly, we live in a new building, so junk mailers don’t even know our residence exists. If you would like to mail us a Christmas card, our address is

The Condons
Under the Radar
Question Mark, Virginia 22Q3BORK

However, when we do come across the latest ad from Best Buy or Circuit City, we’re pleased to see that no matter which side of the Nintendo Wii vs. Sony Playstation 3 battle you take, you’ve supported the economy of the Rising Sun.

I, for one, welcome our Japanese electronic overlords.

With the exception of Xbox, our video gaming lives have been centered around the creative ideas of Japanese programmers. Some games have translated incredibly well – others leave you more confused than when you began. (Take this one, for example.) It is true that video games have made great advancements over the systems on which our generation was raised. But little has changed as to the mentality of the Japanese programmer. Their maxim remains the same: “We can make the Americans scared of ANYTHING.”

Perhaps this is why so many recent horror movies have been based on a Japanese original. The Ring, The Grudge, Mr. Baseball – all of them have roots in the far East. But when Japan decided we needed to turn random elements of nature and science into nightmares for children, they turned to a tiny space warrior with a penchant for getting sucked into games of chicken with a mad scientist a la Marty McFly. That’s right.

We’re talking about Mega Man.

Mega Man, whose only qualifications to be a hero of over 10 editions of the same game is that he’s well, Mega, is an eternal struggle with Dr. Wily, who’s probably much luckier than had his surname been Clumsy or Eatspaste. Each game in the series forces double-M to do battle with a series of robots with specific strengths based on what ever chapter in his high school science book the good Doctor had opened that day. (Why Wily never figured out assembly line production or Nuclear Man is beyond this blog.)

The first game featured robots that could harness the true powers of the universe, and thus, strike fear into the hearts of American children. Ice Man, Bomb Man, Fire Man – all worthy adversaries that did well to not get lost in translation. Later editions of the series would feature foes such as Metal Man, Heat Man, Needle Man, Skull Man – and Mega Man handled them all with class. (Little did Dr. Wily know, Mega Man’s real weakness? The ladies.)

However, some horrific ideas just didn’t take. Wily and his Japanese brain trust, clearly up against some publishing deadline, slid in a few characters, that will, just didn’t hit that fright standard. The worst five follow now.

1. Bubble Man (MMII) – Never once have seen a bubble coming right for my car windshield and thought, “Oh my God – I’ve got to veer for my life.”
2. Centaur Man (MMVI) – His special talent? Redundancy!
3. Wood Man (MMII) – Here’s a picture. You decide if he’s scary, or just a national park malcontent.
4. Dust Man (MMIV) – If there’s a household appliance specifically designed to bust your superpower, your power probably isn’t all that super.
5. Gyro Man (MMV) – You like-uh the juice?
   

Sadly, Rocket Man was never an enemy in the Mega Man series. Will it ever happen? Well, we think it’s gonna to be a long, long time.

From Enemy Territory

One must tread lightly when attending a sporting event as a fan of the visiting team. The comfort of being surrounded by 90,000 people that share at least one common opinion with you is no longer a guarantee; you will be judged as a person based solely on the cut of your jib. (which is not nearly as painful as it sounds.) But hey, you’ve decided to invest in the another owner’s attendance levels by purchasing a ticket, and you’re on an eastbound Metro train to see your hometown team take on the team that calls your current town home.

You better be ready for some football.

A couple of kids who grew up near the City of Brotherly Love, Jasen Andersen and I attended yesterday’s Eagles game – at FedEx Field in Landover, MD. Before we get into how one can survive and enjoy a sporting event in a foreign land, some notes on FedEx Field.

1 – As you can guess, Federal Express purchased the naming rights to Jack Kent Cooke Stadium once current owner Daniel Snyder took over the team in 1999. For just $7.6 million per year, you too can have a major sports arena named after you. (This is unless you are a bank, whereby you are only as permanent as the next big merger.) It seems like a curious move for FedEx. The general notion of marketing dollars is that they are spent in order to attract customers to your product or service. Does FedEx’s support of the Redskins really make that many people choose FedEx over USPS or UPS? Maybe I’d be inclined to use Alltel if I were a Jaguars fan, or Gillette razors as a Pats fan. But my choice of shipping provider? Unlikely.
2 – When Cooke built this stadium, he actually petitioned and won the right to change the area around the Field into an area known as Raljon, MD. What’s weirder? Raljon is the combination of his sons’ names, Ralph and John. Snyder deep-sixed this ASAP, leaving us all with an entertaining footnote and a relief that Cooke hadn’t named his kids Terry and Ellen. Phew.

Ok, back to the game. When attending as a visiting fan, do NOT hesitate to wear the colors of your team. The downside is that it makes you an instant target for any home team fan that feels like taunting or going on a drunk tirade. BUT, if you are to loudly cheer for the visiting team while dressed in plainclothes, you will be even more hated – perhaps as a turncoat or a narc. Plus, how often do you have an opportunity to wear a football jersey? It’s not exactly Casual Friday material, right?

(Note: I wore my green KEARSE jersey and Yaz rocked a WESTBROOK.)

Secondly, you must remember you are not alone. While the exception might be a Bucs fan attending a game in Seattle, if the two cities are close to one another, there’s a damn good chance there will be others there in favor of your cause. In this case, I would put the Philly fan base at about 20 per cent of the stadium. And judging from the final cheer once Garcia ran out the clock, it was up to a solid 40. When you see a fellow out-of-towner after a good play, high five that stranger. You’ve both earned it.

Third, do not taunt the home team fans. Football is a game of momentum. What you say in the first quarter will no doubted come back to haunt you. It’s a revenge tactic. That person will remember what you said, and let you remember it in turn when his team takes the lead. Nothing is more dangerous than comeback momentum. Not even the ballpark nachos.

Fourth, if you care to smack talk with those around you, stick to the current game at hand. The best representation of the two teams on the field are – shocker – the two teams on the field. Perhaps you could go back and refer to a previous meeting in the current season. But when it comes to talking about the game you are at, it makes little sense to reference the fact your team has 1) won Super Bowls in the 1980’s or 2) swept the other team 4 of the last 5 seasons. That’s in the past, and you didn’t buy a ticket for the past.

Finally, it’s only a game. Despite your superstitious crossing of your arms halfway through the second quarter, you didn’t have that big an effect on the outcome. Because of this, getting into a fight once the final whistle blows could be the dumbest thing you could do.

That is, except for wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey to an Eagles-Redskins game. Sorry buddy, EVERYBODY hates you here.

We Need a Montage!

Yeah, we’ve got a lot of problems here in America. There are so many systems whose complex yet convoluted make-up are long overdue for an overhauling. Social Security. The Electoral College. Rock-Paper-Scissors. (thanks to new advances in scissory) But as many a Wolverine fan can attest, none of these systems are so widely ridiculed as Bowl Championship Series, or the BCS.

Before we reveal the real secret behind bowl season, a quick note from us at the BCS. I really don’t think it is that broken. The choice to have Florida play Ohio State was one of the coaches and other pollsters – and they would have been the ones consulted if the BCS didn’t exist. The experts say the BCS only works when there are two undefeated teams remaining in the country. That’s not “working.” That’s being “right by default.” But it does a good job of muting human perception by adding a statistical element. To sum it up, once we get rid of human thought and replace it with robots or very smart aliens, college football will be a better place to live.

(Don’t blame me, I voted for Kodos.)

As this was the first weekend in the last 14 without any D-One college football on Saturday, people turn their attention briefly to the Heisman Trophy presentation. And as few doubted, the quarterback of the best team in the country won. It had all the suspense of an Ashley Judd romantic comedy. But now we can return to the Bowl Game Schedule (BGS), where there is much football to be had and much mocking to be made.

Take the Meineke Car Care Bowl. Please.

The general trend of the BGS is that as the days through December progress, the Bowl games become more and more prestigious. The Bowls you’ve probably heard of - such as the Rose, Orange, Sugar, and Fiesta – are the elite games that matches up truly the best teams on the country. These games occur either on New Year’s Day or later, to maximize viewing audience, and to reward the players of the best teams by letting them go home for Christmas. Underachieving teams spend Christmas far from home as punishment for their letdown. Middle Tennessee State? Enjoy Detroit – you’ll be there the day after Christmas for the Motor City Bowl.

In recent years, dotcoms have thought Bowl sponsorship would be an effective way to get their name into the public’s ear. Instead, it has only done so well to associate their names with games that will feature a mid-major champion (the likes of Nevada) vs. a conference power that had a crummy season (perhaps Miami?) and make them play in the name of e-commerce in a place no one wants to visit (Boise, Idaho sound good?) (By the way, all of the above within parentheses is reality. It’s the MPC Computers Bowl, and it’s faaaaan-tastic.) The Bowl game graveyard includes a sponsorship deal with Galleryfurniture.com, who boasts a webpage with all the web-savvy of a high school computer design class. (Microsoft Frontpage, wethinks.) And this year’s entry – the PapaJohns.com Bowl, between South Florida and East Carolina. (Never mind that Papa John’s actual name has an apostrophe – the Bowl game must be emphasizing plurality.)

But the biggest travesty of all? (No, not the San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl. We here at YAB love the old’ SDCCUPB) In the midst of major 2007 match-ups, there are two imposters in our midst.

Don’t believe me? Let’s review the last round of Bowl Games shall we? On New Year’s Day, you’ve got major programs like Tennessee and Penn State in the Outback, Auburn and Nebraska in the Cotton, the Capitol One Bowl features Wisconsin and Arkansas, and G-Tech and West Virginia in the Gator. These are called second-tier games, where the 2nd or 3rd best team in major conferences play in sunny locales for major money. Face it – it’s the Golden Globes of college football. Then, as mentioned, the BCS games kick off later in the day. Conference champions like Oklahoma and USC take on other teams with street cred like Michigan and Boise State. The next two days will also feature major, major games.

And then?

Imagine your watching an AFI countdown of something that you know a great deal about – let’s say it’s their new special, 100 Years…100 Montages. After two long hours, it’s the Top Five. You’re waiting for Number 1 (no doubt the training sequence from Rocky), but you have no idea what’s left to fill out the top 3? Karate Kid was already shown, the frat house restoration of Revenge of the Nerds was in the Top 10, and hell, even the Julia Roberts Pretty Woman beautification just aired. What the hell could be left?

January 6: International Bowl – Cincinnati vs. Western Michigan
January 7: GMAC Bowl – Southern Miss vs. U. of Ohio

Oh.

Stairway to Fritos

“Big wheels keep on turnin’”

As I’ve surely commented many times in the past, my building contains a lobby shop to benefit the employees contained within said building. Now if it were to truly benefit said employees, everything in it would be free. However, there’s probably two reasons this doesn’t happen. First, the rules of commerce state that if one wants to run a successful retailing operation, one must earn revenue to offset and possibly outrun thy expenses. Secondly, this would be the only way someone would ever actually leave a convenience store in possession of a Zagnut candy bar. And as we all know, such an unlikely event occurring would cause the universe to implode.

Yet another reason to support capitalism.

As we’ve touched on in the past, the Lobby Shop serves many purposes. It’s a dry cleaning headquarters. It’s an incentive forum for child labor. It’s where men can learn how hard women have it in life. Oh, and they sell the finest meats and cheeses for all its subjects. But what’s more -

They listen to Classic Rock.

”Come on and take a Free Ride. Come on and sit here by my side.”

The very idea of pumping music into a store to improve customer morale is not an unusual idea in the retail industry, nor is it lightly researched. As a WM marketing major, I swear I did at lease three case studies on such a phenomenon. The premise is simple. Music makes people happy. Happy people spend money. And shopping in complete and deafening silence makes people think they’re being watched, thus turning them into self-conscious, uneasy, uberfrugal moneymongers. So yeah, a little muzak doesn’t hurt nobody.

“Girl, you really got me now…”

I guess I first noticed this format flip from crappy office music, the likes of Phil Collins and Celine Dion, to “the latest and greatest from the decade that played what you want to hear” a few weeks ago, when I stopped down at the Old Shoppe for a candy bar (and yeah, it wasn’t a Zagnut.) As I scanned the racks for a decent snack, I found myself tapping my feet to Black Water by the Doobie Brothers. (You know – “Old Black Water, keep on rolling, Mississippi moon...) And then last week, while shopping for a greeting card, it was Aerosmith’s Dream On. This morning, though, it finally hit me. Wolfman Jack must run this lobby shop, because we were rocking out to Jumpin’ Jack Flash by the Stones. The Stones!

(James Blunt. Get out. Seriously. We who are about to rock, buy gum and stamps.)

“Come on baby, light my fire.”

The best part about this? The employees of the Lobby Shop are completely oblivious to their excellent choice of music station. (Normally, I’m not a classic rock recordhead, but I guess when it comes to this, nothing makes me what to decide on a variety of Sun Chips quite like the guitar riffs of Three Dog Night or Creedence.) Behind the counter is an ever-rotating unit of four Korean women, all in their late-forties or so. They’re all very, very friendly, and very helpful when I come seeking 24 dress shirts with medium starch, but do they realize their excellent choice in muzak? It’s like they don’t even realize it’s on!

So those who have come here to work can now also come here to rock.

“Come together. Right Now. Over me.”

How Not to Fix Iraq

Because of increasing likelihood of failure and decreasing approval ratings, President Bush recently called for an independent council to review our nation’s policies in Iraq. This occurred a few months ago, before the election, and somewhat concurrently with the departure of Donald Rumsfeld. What does this mean to those who seek comedy and not political opinion from YAB? Well, for one, we realize that the council is made up largely of our President’s father’s friends and colleagues – including former Secretaries of State Baker and Eagleburger.

(Note: while this may work out nicely for America, convening a council using MY father’s friends would be WAY more entertaining. They couldn’t guarantee victory overseas, but damn, would we know a lot about coaching youth sports.)

Like I said, this council of great diplomatic minds of the past twenty years (and WM Chancellor O’Connor) have gotten together and produced a report that very well may outline where our nation is headed in Baghdad. That report was released today by form of a compact booklet that commands respect and attention. Its title? The Iraq Study Group Report.

Wha?

Yes, America. Apparently the best way to gear up for foreign policy is by forming a study group.

Now having escaped the halls of academia, if nothing else, I can consider myself an expert on the organizational culture of study groups. In general, a study group is a collection of people in seek a common goal, pooling resources and brainpower in hopes of succeeding to a higher degree than had they holed themselves up in a library and solo-crammed for 12 hours. And because of the added distractions that each member brings to the group, the expected success rate of such a group hovers around, oh, 12 per cent.

This was our best idea for a solution?

I can just picture how it all went down now. A cadre of former congressmen, executive advisors, and other civil servants all came over on a Friday night to Baker’s pad, dressed comfy-casually. Chuck Robb brought a couple 6-packs, Vernon Jordan had chips, and Baker informed the crew that pizza should be here in fifteen minutes. Instead of diving in to the Iraq problem only to be interrupted by the kid from Dominos, the group held off starting until the pizza arrived, which didn’t happen for a full half-hour (Baker stiffed him on the tip as a result.) In the meantime, Leon Panetta got smoked by Eagleburger in ping pong, while William Perry told his favorite story about getting mistaken for being on the ’85 Bears. Post-Clinton cabinet, he now insists on being called “Fridge.”

And then they ate without doing actual work, fearing that they may get pizza grease on official war crime tribunal docs. This took an hour.

Now 9:30, it’s time for Edwin Meese to do the one thing everybody fears: whips out the notecards. Not only does it force a bunch of septuagenarians to stare at tiny neon cards with 10 point font, it shows that Meese doesn’t trust the rest of the study group and actually did his studying on the topic earlier. After all, he’s not going to get pulled down by the group. While thankful for his contribution, the rest of the group will silently loathe him for the rest of the evening.

After Meese’s Magical Notecard Tour, the group decides to further divide itself into mini-groups to cover the different areas of interest: military support, diplomatic actions, resource management, pull-out scenarios, and beer run. This increases the paperwork while decreasing efficiency. And now Eagleburger, as drunk as his name is stupid, is challenging the grandfather clock to a ping pong showdown.

It’s now 2 in the morning, and everyone is passed out asleep, with the exception of Baker and O’Connor. It’s a proven fact that women do much better in study groups than men, which is why Sandy is the sole source of the Iraq Study Group Report. Baker is up to type what O’Connor dictates, following another rule of study groups. No one likes to share computers. After all, if you’re behind the wheel, no one can accuse you of not helping in the driving.

Godspeed, America.

Then does Lefteous mean Bad?

Ah, the new guy.

On very, VERY rare occasions, a bi-coastal company finds themselves filling a vacant slot of employment by extending their candidate search outside of the local job market. This is done for one of two reasons. 1) The local market candidate search has grown so futile you actually end up debating mediocre applicants on grounds like “who had the most powerful power tie?” 2) Someone in your company on the other coast is already experienced in the job, and you have the persuasion skills of a Jedi.

My current firm has main offices in Virginia and California. As you may know, these are two very different states. Hell, one of the two would even prefer to be addressed as “Commonwealth,” out of an interest in sounding prestigious and moving from V to C in the alphabetical roll call. It’s crazy-congested with traffic, politicians that act like movie stars, and as of today, the weather report is calling for brilliant sunshine.

The other is California.

In my tenure, I have seen several employees agree to make such a cross-country job transition, playing the relocation game to the tune of 3,000 miles. But every single-time, it involved them selling their Arlington County condo or townhome in favor of sunny Southern California. It’s an appealing move, we totally concede. They have better weather, sports teams, weather, traffic, weather, air quality, weather, and weather. So what if you now have to live three hours behind the real world? It’s okay, we’ll wait as you catch up (or force you to start your work day at 7am, one or the other.)

But in a completely unprecedented move, it appears the jet stream has reversed and we’ve brought someone eastward. You know, for the lesser weather, sports teams, weather, traffic, weather, air quality, weather, and weather.

Huh?

So we’ve acquired a West Coastie into our ranks for the first time. Ever. Rumor has it he went to school out on in California, but was born and raised in North Carolina, and saw this move not only as a promotion but an opportunity to bring the family back east. Now as an internal auditor, our friend – we’ll forthwith refer to him as “Tony Gwynn” – had a job that required a travel time percentage of about 3%. He hasn’t been on the East Coast since 1991 – that’s 15 long years being detached from here. 15 years of being a full director’s cut showing of Dances with Wolves behind the times.

There is little doubt that upon entering a new environment, one must adapt quickly to blend in by observing and embracing the customs and methods of those in said environment. Office culture is no exception. Sorry, Mr. Gwynn.

Since I don’t have the power to enforce things like “only carrying coffee cups in your left hand” and “fist pump when your document comes out of the printer,” I’ve had to resort to more basic imposed East Coast norms.

Vocabulary Infusion.

For the immediate future, I have about 10 people on board. The ruse? Anytime something happens that causes one to say “good,” “great,” “fine,” “excellent,” and so on, the word will be and only be “RIGHTEOUS.” Every thing will be righteous – from jobs well done to positive-looking forecasts. Hell, feel free to join in on the fun.

(Hopefully, this will succeed better than when I tried to invoke “ZESTY” to friends returning from abroad study programs in 2001. Thanks for nothing, Taco Bell.)

Slammin' a Dew

Most corporate ethics scandals you’ll ever read about focus on a few certain areas: proprietary knowledge misuse, sexual harassment, or improper use of company resources. However, even if a multi-million Enron settlement is not in the cards for a whistle blower, today we ask if even the smallest ethical transgression is worth reporting.

After all, who the heck doesn’t like blowing a whistle? (Why do you think referees choose that career path? It sure isn’t for the friends they’ll make.)

Part of getting a sandwich in our office cafeteria requires standing patiently while your entrée is assembled, and this is an excellent opportunity for people watching. All types dine downstairs, from the executives who hardly look up from their Blackberries while somehow managing to construct an expert tossed salad (they teach you this in MBA school), to the nervous intern who is totally loving the all-you-can-eat mentality of a buffet line while not yet comprehending that pay-by-the-ounce adds up damn quick.

In addition on one idle Wednesday, we have our subject.

A woman in her early-thirties, most likely a mid-level contracts associate or something, was struggling to get through the café as quick as humanly possible. These types have no time for waiting, and you can tell when they choose one of those pre-packaged subs out of the refrigerator case, totally cool with the fact that they cost 40 cents more than if you waiting in line like yours truly. In addition to her sandwich, which she tucked under her left arm, she’s got a bag of Sun Chips (good taste), and apple, and to wash it all down, she reaches to the top shelf of beverage case and hauls in a 20 oz. bottle of what else – Mountain Dew.

Despite what the Dew ad wizards want you think, Mountain Dew contains the same molecular structure as any other soft drink. It is served cold, carbonated, and caffeinated. You don’t get special powers from it, other than succeeding in avoiding coffee for another day. Mountain biking connotations aside, it’s a normal, inanimate concoction.

Or not.

In her rush to exit the café and simultaneous juggle the various components of her lunch, our subject’s grip on the Dew slips and the bottle falls to the floor. Now this wouldn’t be a big deal in most cases. Maybe the three people in closest proximity to you notice as you reach down and pick up your now highly agitated Dew. You continue with your day, being ever so careful in its opening, and drink it. Very Slowly.However in this case, it’s not that simple. As she dropped the Dew mid-walk, the bottle did not hit the floor. Instead, it struck her ever-advancing right foot.

Rather, her foot struck it.

The bottle proceeded to sail across the café floor, caroming off the leg of a startled exec and then spun to a standstill, much like a football in an endzone.

While all of this is presented in the name of hilarity, no ethical guidelines have been bent or broken to this point. Of course, I’m probably rambling and delaying my point.

She returned the bottle to the case with a Post-It on it that said, “shake up.”

3 questions...
1) Is this an ethical practice to replace your volcanic soda-to-be with a new one, since you are paying for it?
2) Couldn’t she have come up with something a little more coherent? Shake up? Really?
3) Who carries Post-It notes in their pocket?

1-800-Hoser-Eh?

No doubt, everyone has their favorites saved in their internet browser of their choosing. For most, these are hotlinks to frequently accessed webpages, such as the local weather or maybe the sign-on screen for their bank. Perhaps a local newspaper or a blog that still plans to “Bring the Funny” 10 times this week (this would be number 8, scorekeepers). Hotlinks are all well and good, and should make your life easier. Would you care to know what the number one Favorite is here at the YABDesk is?

Area Code Listing, by Number

I don’t who which you will choose to question first – the reason that I have this leading off or that someone at bennetyee.org took the time to create a detailed list of all area codes in North America, when if he needed the info, he probably could have just hit up the phonebook. (Then again, if your name is Bennet Yee, you probably don’t have a whole lot of events lighting up your social calendar, and needed to pass the time.)

We’ll tackle the first question, of course.

In my job, I sit by a telephone with a nice screen that alerts me from where an incoming phone call is coming. It’s not an uber-fancy model that gives me the caller’s name or place of business; it’s just the phone number. If I don’t recognize the phone number, I have approximately 18 seconds to research it before the Voice Mail Monster intervenes. With a Internet favorite at the top of the list designed to help explore incoming phone numbers at my finger tips, I’ve probably got a lock on the number ab the 13th or 14th second.

(I totally understand that if I worked for the FBI, this would be a WAY cooler story.)

Why do I do this? Very often I will get calls from vendors seeking payment for various debts and when engaging in one of these conversations, I like to have the information ready to present. A cold call from a strange number rarely allows me to do this. So if I don’t recognize the area code, there’s a damn good chance that it’s from some strange part of the country (you have no idea how many AR departments reside in Nevada), I’m going to make sure I know who it is before picking up the phone.

Why do I write about this now, though? Oh boy.

Last week, I received a phone call from a number in the 647 area code. Having no idea where the 647 calls home, I did my area code search in record time – probably had it by 9 seconds with two rings to go. I figured 647 seems harmless enough – maybe Kansas City, perhaps Boston – I had no idea. But scrolling down on the list, I was honestly a little surprised to see who was dialing me…

647 -- Canada: S Cent. Ontario: Toronto

Ah, so apparently Canada was calling me to settle the score. Despite the gift of hockey, I have held a long grudge against our Neighbors to the North with little reason other than spite. Sure, I may have mocked their ways publicly in 2004 in a Stanley Cup preview and two months later in a special YABNews mythbusting edition. But all in all, I was unsure as to what vendor called Canada home, so after the third ring, I picked up the phone.

”Finance – this is Chris.”
*-click-*

Holy hell.

I just got prank dialed by Canada. This means war.

Sister Hazel, Sort Of

(This is the third of three recently written parodies to commemorate Homecoming Monrovia '06. The subject matter? My wife. When trying to pen a parody about a relationship as broad and as detailed as the one you have with your spouse, you find yourself with enough material to write an album. Instead, you need to narrow that relationship and focus the song around just one aspect. That said, here's a song about my wife's "drinking problem.")

Starbucks High
Parody of Champagne High
Music by Sister Hazel
Words by Chris Condon

I still recall you on your twenty-first
(That) invite to Paul’s you extended to me
I showed and you glowed and
We rode that evening to a second date when I bought
This Reveille Girl a drink and now just to think
Here were are – five years later

And for the million Wawa runs we made
A large hazelnut coffee for you
I’ll have Gatorade
The flavor’s debated
For me there can be only one

I’ll have the Lemon Lime
Better than Orange, a word I can’t rhyme
Lemon-Lime, Liiiiiiiiime

Drinks turned to dating and dating proved hard
There’s only so much you can do in the ‘Burg
You came to my game and brought
Some halftime H-2-0 for the team
and while there isn’t a doubt
that we toasted Blowout
what’d you have? NORDBELLINI.

Remember our ice skating near the Mall
Baby I bribed you with hot chocolate
Since I made you fall
A modest proposal
Engagement that turned two to one

We’re on a Champagne High
Original words fit too well to revise
Champagne High
Here’s to our wedding and here’s to the Bride
On a Champagne High

Now we stand husband and wife.
Ever since those vows we spoke
And now everything, we’re in agreement
Like Pepsi, over Coke.

And for the million Wawa runs we made
A large hazelnut coffee for you
I’ll have Gatorade

We’re on a Starbucks High
Love you so much, but the stuff makes me cry
Starbucks High
You’re my Macchiatto, with bright hazel eyes
On a Starbucks High
Clara’s addicted by age eight or nine
Starbucks High

Tightening the Daily Noose

Lost in the “What does it all mean?”-type post about Zamboni Tokyo Drift yesterday was a throwaway joke aimed at the publication that alerted us to this round of Idahoan tomfoolery. We referred to the Seattle Pilot as “a reputable news source with a stupid name” (go ahead – scroll down if ye doubt the claim.)

To be honest, we’ve never held a copy of the Pilot in our hands, and our assertion of it being reputable is based on the fact that its website looks professional enough. So we may have unknowingly stumped for a disreputable periodical that is the literary equivalent of crayon scrawling on the wallpaper.

But being a stupid name? Oh, sure. We can totally vouch for that.

You see, most of the newspapers that we read on a daily basis have names that have existed for centuries. Certain words have are now synonymous with the news, because some enlightened publisher in the 1870’s sought out the ideals of the First Amendment, or even the definition of “news” to bless us with a paper using that noble word. The Times. The Post. The Herald. The Observer. The Chronicle. These are all good names that allow the reader to realize contained within are articles that report current events – a written-word town crier, in essence.

And thanks to New York, Washington, Miami, Charlotte, San Fran and others – these names are taken. In fact, leaving the city names out of the title further solidify them as good titles. The Pilot, on the other hand, can enjoy no such familiarity. Rather than being a name that makes you immediately think “news,” it instead makes you think “Luke Skywalker standing outside an X-Wing fighter.” Nor can you ask a colleague, “Hey, did you see The Pilot today” in order to bring attention to the write-up on the Seahawks game – instead you’ve got a paranoid co-worker reliving a Seinfeld episode.

But it doesn’t end there.

Here’s a list of the 7 Stupidest Major Newspaper Names. (Note: By major, we mean you have at least one team in the 4 major pro sports leagues.)

1. Atlanta Journal-Constitution – Many papers end up as the merging of two lesser papers, often occurring decades before. But rather than alienate one of the two fanbases, editors chose to keep both names and make the paper’s header look less vacant. The A-T-L’s main paper is no exception. While Journal is a solid name that we would be behind fully, the addition of Constitution denotes an ego complex, as if a document that carriers Mary Worth and The Jumble is on par with a founding manuscript of America. In addition, truncating the name to the “JC” does you no better. After all, some misguided associate might think that by saying “The JC said yesterday that the union strike is over!” could mean that Jesus Christ used divine intervention to get people back to work.
2. Sacramento Bee – Owls are known for their wisdom. Elephants apparently never forget. Bees, on the other hand, are a pain in the neck. Literally. (Oh, and they remind you that your spelling skills need some work.)
3. New Orleans Times-Picayune – Another victim of merger mania, the Times-Picayune received it’s latter name from the original cost of the paper in 1837. The picayune, or roughly 6.25 cents in Spanish money, is no longer the current price. (It should be noted that from 1980 to 1986, another merger changed the paper’s name to the New Orleans Times-Picayune States-Item, or the NOTPSI. So hey, that’s an improvement, right? (Also, 1 Spanish picayune won’t buy you much in a French Quarter. Hey-oh!)
4. Kansas City Star – This isn’t a newspaper. It’s a reality show waiting to happen. (Winner will be the first Royal to get an extra-base hit in 2007. Anyone?)
5. Seattle Pilot – Um, yeah. We covered this one already. Red 5 Standing By.
6. Cleveland Plain-Dealer – easily the worst major newspaper name in the country. Hell, I even checked out major Canadian outlets and they could do no worse. The Plain-Dealer does not ring of the patriotic authority and integrity that the Bill of Rights has made the Freedom of the Press to be. It instead rings of either a farmers’ trade magazine or somewhere I’d look to be a 83’ Grand Am.
7. Detroit Free Press – costs $12.50 a month. What?

Dishwalla, Sort Of

(This is the second of three recently written parodies to commemorate Homecoming Monrovia '06. The subject matter? Loyal reader and resident Hoyaphile Jacques Arsenault. And despite bleeding Georgetown Blue, even he has no idea who would want to sex Mutombo.)

Thoughts on Jacques
Parody of “Counting Blue Cars”
Music by Dishwalla
Words by Chris Condon

Must have been 2003
I could tell by how Liz
talked all about him. She
said he’s from Rhode Island
Eagle Scout with a Mohawk
I had many questions
Like Grimm so often does
I said,

Tell me all your thoughts on Jacques
Can he play the bass guitar?

There I learned about the man
Who’s not French, despite what Liz made us think
He won an election
Just because of his facial hair
Celebrated
Most likely at the Tombs
I said,

Tell me all your thoughts on Jacques
Could he be a music teacher?
Instead of G-Town’s favorite son?
Tell me does he love the Sox?
Does he miss Pedro Martinez?
But probably not Johnny Damon --
Hippie get a haircut

She confessed she loved his ride
’88 white Ford Taurus was his pride
Their lives were changed
When he showed up, eventually
First encounter
At Walters’ barbeque

Tell me all your thoughts on Jacques?
Is he The Smart One or The Favorite?
In the Clan du Arsenault
Does he think the Beasties rock?
And how did Fraser get so wasted?
I guess that we will never know
We will never know now

(Tell me are you scared of sharks?)
(So much like that Jin from Lost)
(Tell me all your thoughts on Jacques)

The Complete Opposite of Crossing the Streams

It’s no wonder those late-night show opening monologues are just a rehash of the previous night’s jokes about Paris Hilton, the President, and Kramer all the time. There’s really very little in the daily news that’s funny on its own. And since Letterman and Leno feel compelled to only pull source material from the front page of CNN.com, no one digs deep enough to find out where comedy lurks. Turns out in this case, comedy lurks in Boise, Idaho.

You know in Ghostbusters (unless you are my wife, who still hasn’t seen this gem) when Egon explains to the others what could happen if they were to “cross the streams” of their proton packs? He says that it would not only be bad, but also to “imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.” That’s a perfect storm that would comprise the ultimate tragedy.I think I’ve found the complete opposite of crossing the streams, the ultimate comedy.

Funny location? Boise, Idaho. Funny-sounding word? Zamboni. Funny means to justify an end? The Hotline. My two comedic wheelhouses? Fast Food and Sports? Jackpot, baby.

According to the Seattle Pilot (a reputable news source with a stupid name), two part-time workers at Boise’s Idaho Ice World skating rink opted to forgo the rink’s concession stand at 12:30 at night in favor or a late-night Burger King run. They also chose to forgo their own vehicles in favor of Ice World’s two Zambonis. The Burger King, about three-quarters of a mile down the road, served the two Zambonis through the drive-thru, but not before some Good Samaritan called a special Mayoral hotline to bust these two. No foul play was suspected, but hilarity was confirmed at the scene.

The above paragraph is all facts that come directly from the story, which in turn come from the collective word processors of the Associated Press. This was some fine reporting by a large, faceless, cadre of loosely-affiliated reporters, but had YABNews not closed their Boise office in October due to budget cutbacks, we would have been first on the scene, and we would have asked the tough questions. Those retroactive questions now follow:

1. Why do you take TWO Zambonis? Look, I’ve been to many a hockey game, and I’ve witnessed the inter-period cleaning of the ice. While the Zamboni goes round and round, some special Flyers fan gets to ride shotgun, thereby utilizing the most useless seat of all time. It faces backwards on a vehicle that makes ice for a living. For our Idaho duo, this could have actually been the FIRST EVER practical use of the Zamboni jump seat.
2. How’s the gas mileage? Okay, if the article says they went 1.5 miles roundtrip, and the thing goes 5 miles per hour, that’s nine minutes to get to Burger King, probably 10 minutes at the window while the post-midnight shift gets their act together, and then another nine minutes back. That’s not exactly a getawar car. (And meanwhile, that’s a whole half-hour of unsupervised free skate at Ice World! Woo!)
3. Can it be that bad? Okay, so we Yahoo Mapped this epic journey. Now because we did our homework on the Ice World homepage, we know that their starting point is not where Yahoo! places them, but rather in that teal-roofed building in the bottom right corner of the parking lot. Burger King is the end destination, listed as #5. So what? Well, it means that Items #2 and #8, Blimpie’s and Round Table Pizza, respectively, were COMPLETELY BYPASSED by our Hungry Hungry Zambonis. That must be some pretty awful pizza.

Or, it might be a wake-up call to the proprietors of both restaurants that there’s a untapped market segment longing for pizza and a tall glass of Pepsi.

With ice, of course.

Carbon Leaf, Sort Of

(This is the first of three recently written parodies to commemorate Homecoming Monrovia '06. The subject matter? Loyal reader and occasional blogger Mike Nordberg. Future performances of the following song can be seen in Condon's future feature film: Tenacious C and the Pick of Parody. Enjoy.)

The Brother
Parody of "The Boxer"
Music by Carbon Leaf
Words by Chris Condon

Didn’t think it was possible - honestly
Til we learned of the whole - family tree
Not only is there Baby A - but Baby B
Even though Nordy choked him there’s

Long-lost kin
He is the Brother he knows
How to fit right in
He is the Brother, we know
That Nordberg has a twin

Closest one to the campus now - Chesapeake
Fixes submarines - a shipyard geek
He’d be set if his kayak had sprung a leak
Leatherman does the job…at work

Leaves his cube to crawl inside a tube
Mike Nordberg gets sleepy
Torpedo – WAKEY WAKEY

Long-lost kin
He is the Brother with the
Skills for volleyball
He is the Brother, he knows
One ring to rule them all

All’s crazy in the frat - at Lehigh
Michael’s at the wheel - driving by
Swiping giant Christmas trees - and street signs
Now he rolls with his crew in Dubai

Long-lost kin
He is the Brother, the yang
To Chris Nordberg’s yin
He is the Brother, he’s the
Keystone Monrovian

(Long-lost kin)
(Long-lost kin)
(Long-lost kin)

Put a Stocking In It, Wham.

As Katie and I set out to do some Christmas shopping on Black Friday ’06, I scrolled through the South Jersey radio stations, and like clockwork, several had flipped already to their yuletide formats. 8 times out of 10, this would be welcome in my car, a sort of ceremonial unveiling of December and the upcoming holiday season. However, thanks to Philly stations 101.5 and 104.1, I remember what those other 2 times out of 10 actually stand for – the two worst Christmas songs of all time.

“Last Christmas” by Wham! – Yes, it was then when George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley gave you their heart, only to take it away on the very next day. It seems that in the mid-eighties, this pop duo misunderstood the Season of Giving to be the Season of Giving and then Immediately Taking Back. Lyrical monstrosity aside, this song is groin-grabbingly bad. I’ll take Christmas bells over cheesy synthesized riffs and artificial handclaps. Why is this song still on the radio over 20 years later? Does Ebenezer Scrooge own Clear Channel?

“Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney – From the “I learned it from watching Wham!” school of songwriting, former Beatle and current British Knight Sir Paul ratcheted up the synth machine for some holiday joy of his own. It seems that McCartney asked for a Casio keyboard and a music video that’s creepy as hell. Yes, this is the man whose genius is responsible for such hits like “Can’t Buy Me Love” and “Yesterday.” Just thought I’d point that out before I leave my desk for a second to destroy my car radio. Hang on a sec…MUST. STOP. MUSIC. FROM. PLAYING.

…

Ok, back now. As you may have guessed, we’re not exactly a fan of these two holiday songs, as we feel they, well, ruin December radio. In order to pull us out of the musical tailspin, here is YAB’s CD of Modern Christmas Classics. You see, McCartney and Wham aside, modern artists have managed to put together a decent set of singles that are worthy of accolades and heavy rotation. Just consider it YAB’s Maybe Now That’s What I Call a Very Special Ultimate Christmas.

Ground rules: 1. All songs need to be an original composition – not a remake of an old favorite – unless you so totally embody the song that your version is now considered THE version of the song for years to come. 2. Must have been recorded in the last 40 years. 3. Must not be Celine Dion.

Track 1 – “Christmas Eve in Sarajevo,” Trans-Siberian Orchestra. An electric medley of God Rest Ye and Carol of the Bells, this song could lead off just about any mix CD I ever made, Christmas-themed or not. And it made one hell of a cool backdrop in Home Alone.
Track 2 – “Father Christmas,” The Kinks. It’s surprising how many punk-type songs have been churned out from the underground. But this one rules, unless of course, you’re a little rich boy.
Track 3 – “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town,” Bruce Springsteen – the Yuletide embodiment of Ground rule #1. This is his now, joining the ranks of Ives, Martin, and Crosby.
Track 4 – “Peace on Earth/Drummer Boy,” Bowie and Crosby - Speaking of good old Bing, this late 70’s collaboration is a beautiful blend of two generations of singers. Well done, Mr. Bowie.
Track 5 – “Feliz Navidad,” Jose Feliciano – What? He wants to wish you a Merry Christmas. Where? From the bottom of his heart. What a nice guy!
Track 6 – “All I Want for Christmas is You,” Mariah Carey – Yeah, I can’t believe I typed it either, but her 1994 Xmas single has shown great staying power. And it’s a testament to a nicer, saner time – before she went mentally insane.
Track 7 – “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” Live Aid – What’s that, Bono? You say you have the absolute weirdest, out-of-place Christmas song lyrics of all time? Ok, go ahead. Bono: “Well tonight thank God it’s them, instead of youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”
Track 8 – “Happy Christmas (War is Over),” John Lennon. I bet you that Ringo could have written a better carol than Paul.
Track 9 – “Christmas Wrapping,” The Waitresses – Okay, overall from a lyrical standpoint, it’s makes very little sense. But it has a solid guitar riff, and you’ll tap your steering wheel for a good 3 minutes to it, while contemplating just what the hell Bono was talking about two songs ago.
Track 10 – “Christmas is All Around,” Bill Nighy – Yeah, it’s from Love Actually, and the joke was that it sucked. But hey, it’s kind of catchy, no?

Hidden Track – “The Chanukah Song,” Adam Sandler - (Blows Dreidel, Dreidel out of the water.)

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Back in June we introduced Holishax to those who live out DC Metropolitan region. Yes, the suburban nature to create temporary holiday decoration depots in the parking lot of your favorite supermarket have become a mainstay where I now live, and as expected with the Thanksgiving festivities behind us, it’s that time again.

Christmas trees.

As I cruise down the main drag of Vienna, Virginia (by cruise of course I mean crawl and a mind-numbingly slow pace), I see that many local civic organizations have wasted little time in installing and pushing their arboreal wares upon the public. So what if Wegman’s have been pushing their fake trees since, well, October? These are the real deal, people – pre-cut, pre-cleaned, and simply begging you to bring them into your homes, whereby the trees promise to maintain a limited shelf life and drop needles all over the carpet right before company arrives.

But from whom do you buy?

As it turns out, it seems that every civic organization has access to fine Canadian spruce and is willing to volunteer to move them on the blacktop market. The Rotary Club and the Knights of Columbus seem like worthy pine merchants (although I’d be much more inclined to buy from the latter if they went with my suggested slogan of “We Are the Knights Who Say Tree…”). And I suppose Boy Scouts of America know enough about the great outdoors to warrant them a merit badge in evergreen commerce.

But if I had to buy a tree in this fashion, all three pale in comparison to an organization that while pushing Christmas Trees also embodies the spirit of the season. This is a spirit that foretells better times are ahead, a spirit that has the childlike awe that the holidays promote, the spirit that “It’s a Wonderful Life” so consistently evokes. No, we’re not buying our YAB office Christmas tree from the Jimmy Stewart Fan Club, folks. Instead, we have only one choice:

The Optimists Club of Vienna.

Yes, they really exist. No, we’re not card-carrying members. And while we do subscribe to the Glass is Half-full club (unless the glass contains Yuengling, Gatorade, or Cherry Pepsi, whereby the glass is therefore EMPTY), until this recent tree-selling venture by the old OC of V, we had no idea such a club existed. But they certainly HOPE we knew they existed, right?

Their credo pledges to be “progressive in thought and action and in community service.” Sure you are guys. We know you really exist to wreck the Pessimist Club of Annadale in the Fairfax Country Civic Org Basketball League. And when you don’t, you at least stay convinced that you “can do better next time” and “the shots will fall eventually” and “world peace has got to break out soon, right?”

Look, I’m not ragging on optimists – that would be rather hypocritical. Instead, we present this list of Top 3 sales pitches you’ll never hear the Optimist Club of Vienna employ when trying to convince you to purchase a Christmas tree from them.

1. Your tree is dead. Your children are next.
2. What do you mean you want us to tie your tree onto the roof of your car with rope? Why can’t we just use hope?
3. Yes, we definitely think that decorating your tree will make it full of holiday joy. But keep in mind, every time a bell rings, an angel flies into a billboard.

Milk Carton Employees

When expecting somebody you know well to arrive at a specific place at a specific time, the imagination doesn’t even have an opportunity to get out of the starting blocks thanks to the comfort of familiarity. Rather than fearing the worst, you can always pick up the cell phone and call to find out exactly where your missing friend is. Because you share a closer relationship, no one thinks twice about calling, only to find out that the parking garage is fuller than Peter King with Himself and that your buddy will be there in 3 minutes.

With a co-worker, it’s not that easy.

Some of you may have co-workers that have become your friends once the office is closed for the day. Good for you, we say. But it is doubtful that all those around you have made your Christmas card list, so it’s safe to assume that this following scenario. Let’s say you have an employee that works for you that has remained an arms-length acquaintance and has yet to arrive at the office. Because pronouns are our enemies, let’s use a Harfordian plot device and give our little worker bee a name. How about Dikembe Mutombo?

Okay, make that a ridiculously tall worker bee.

So it’s 9 o’clock at the office, and Dikembe Mutombo is not at his desk. His chair is still pushed in and his computer is turned off. Even his bobblehead of himself is quietly still. Now Dikembe is an incredibly consistent man of schedule arriving at 9 o’clock every day, with a give/take of 5 minutes. So when the clock strikes 9, and big #55 isn’t at his desk (even his suits have a number embroidered on the back), there’s no reason to be concerned. After all, he’s still got a margin of error. As a supervisor, you don’t think twice.

Now it’s 9:10 at the office, as you walk by the desk of the aforementioned Mr. Mutombo, and nary a thing has changed. The latest you’ve ever seen him walk in the door passed five minutes ago, and you remember that day well. After all, fearing for his job, Big DM was sprinting through the hallway. On a 7-foot-2 frame, he scared poor Lois in Personnel half to death. However, he’s only ten minutes late and even all NBA Defensive Players of the Year hit bad traffic once in a while. As a supervisor, you pause, but ultimately forgo taking action in favor of that new tray of bear claws that good ole’ Lois just placed in the kitchen.

At 9:25, you’ve not only finished your bear claw, but engaged some co-workers into a riveting conversation wondering about something that sounds so violently fierce can be so delectably tasty. Returning to your desk, you call Dikembe’s office phone about the Q3 forecast, but nobody picks up. At this point you sit there 5 standard deviations from the norm, and now might be the time to get curious about his whereabouts. You review your calendar and e-mails to make sure he didn’t ask for the day off, and then call the front desk to see if they saw him come in the building. They ask for the employee’s full name, and rather than trying to pronounce that full name (it’s Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean Jacque Wamutombo), you start on your morning West Coast e-mail responses, but keep as eye on the clock.

Okay, now it’s 9:45, and no sign of Dikembe. Maybe he’s downtown receiving a Human Service Award from the Ambassador of Zaire, or perhaps stuck in line at Kinko’s (that’s your fault for finding hidden comedy in having the big guy wave his finger and say “No, No, No” when they ask him if he’d like this press release collated.) But now comes the time that you need to take action – after all you’re worried, and as a supervisor, the time has come to take the responsibility into your own hands. My God, what if he’s hurt? I mean his health is important, but if he can’t play in your rec league basketball game against those bastards in Product Development Thursday? – What to DO? WHAT TO DO?

“Ring…ring…oh hey, Dikembe – yeah, it’s me Chris. I was just wondering if – oh? You overslept! No that’s no problem! In fact that’s great news! I was just wor – hey, it’s my job. Oh – well since you’re after the rush hour – could you, uh, stop at Kinko’s for the press release printing? Ok, thanks, man. I have a bear claw waiting for you when you get here.”

Supervisor Tip #731: Never freak out when you can’t find an employee.
Supervisor Tip #732: Fill job vacancies with people who average 11 boards a game.

90 Cents on the Dollar

As a town, Washington D.C.’s will no doubt be a little down this week. Consider the following:

• Their 3rd best pro athlete, Alfonso Soriano, is headed to the Midwest to play for the Cubs until he’s 83 years old.
• The election spotlight has faded, now nearly two weeks in the rearview.
  The head of DC’s Police Department has put in his two weeks, and has one foot out the door.
• Oh, and the National Park Service has shut down use of the Washington Monument grounds for alumni flag football. I‘ve tried calling Secretary of the Interior Dirk Kempthorne, but I always end up just giggling at his name.

Since the Nation’s Capital doesn’t exactly have the time to brighten everyone’s spirits by throwing together a hastily-assembled Thanksgiving parade, some might think that this holiday weekend will be shrouded in depression and tryptophan. However, YABNews has the breaking news, and we would like to call those who might think that idiots. After all –

NO ONE EXPECTS THE – (can this be right? Really? This is the big announcement? Ok, fine – I’ll try this again.)

NO ONE EXPECTS THE U.S. MINT! (?) !

That’s right! From the folks who made it cool to hoard quarters and remove them from circulation come Round 3 of the Great Utilization of the American Coin (GUAC). A new dollar coin will debut in 2007, trying to succeed where has-beens Susan B. Anthony and Sacajawea failed so miserably. And who will be the leader of this bold campaign to devalue a crisp new Mr. Washington?

Um, our notes show Mr. Washington…and friends.

Yes, as per the article, 4 new Presidential dollars will be revealed each year until 2017, when we run out of dead presidents. (It’s a federal law that only the deceased can appear on currency, as to avoid something our forefathers referred to as a MASSIVE EGO TRIP.) No doubt those who have been collecting state quarters since 1999 will embrace our new gold coin overlords, but will these round, gleaming cylinders of liberty make a difference as to how our society exchanges money for goods and services? (We don’t have a clue – which means that question was “rhetorical.”)

In times such as these, we find it helpful to imagine what it will be like to buy things with currency with former Presidents on it. Will you feel comfortable with shoving the head of Herbert Hoover into a parking meter? What about JFK’s mug into a vending machine in exchange for some Cheetos? Sure, there are Presidents on current coinage, but those portraits are universal – by doing a quarter-like set of Presidential dollars, these will no doubt face more scrutiny and attention. We here at YAB are all in favor of this newest shake-up, with one exception.

Warren G. Harding.

Wikipedia has compiled several surveys conducted over the years that aimed to answer “Who was the Best President We’ve Ever Had?” And while that answer is often unanimous (Washington), such surveys also reveal our worst Commanders in Chief. And somehow, amidst all the statistics and accomplishments, President Harding is at the bottom of the barrel. Below the guy we impeached (Johnson), below the alcoholic (Pierce), hell, even behind the guy who didn’t make it through his inauguration speech (Harrison). After all, it was Harding who is remembered for corruption, Teapot Dome, and had a foreign policy equivalent to putting a pillow over your ears and closing one’s eyes.

How can his dollar possibly be worth the same amount? Thoughts?

Shoe Money Tonight

In the midst of some post-work errands, I now realize that the modern mall is in fact dying. Not so much the mall part – after all who the heck can’t go for a Cinnabon and Orange Julius right now? – since there will always be teenagers with no particular place to go. No, the better documented decline lies within the doors of the department store.

(This is impressive, since the mall-side entrance to these stores actually favor the “wide, gaping openings” over “doors” any day of the week.)

Yes, within the last ten years, the “anchors of the mall” have been hemorrhaging cash, much in the way we expect our airlines to. And this is a problem, considering we don’t actually need department stores – unless they can in fact get me from Dulles to Orlando for $79 one-way. Many people have theorized why department stores have lost the luster they once had in the early twentieth century. Some say it is the discount superstores that have sent them back on their heels. Others would decree it is the online shopping revolution that has kicked Macy’s and Friends to the curb. All of these external reasons have had the leaders of these once-great stores scrambling to adapt in a new economy.

As usual, YAB comes to the rescue. Psst…hey guys…listen here.

Of all the problem and all the factors that can be taken to task that have spawned the “departmentally insane,” NOTHING is more ridiculous than the shoe department.

Mens’ or Women’s, it doesn’t really matter. Department stores do it the same way. They carve out a nice 3500 square feet of their store, often in a high-traffic intersection near the door or by the ever-popular fragrance depot (a migraine waiting to happen.) Yes, 3500 feet may not seem like a lot, but then figure that’s probably 3-5 times the size of your apartment (for those communal dwelling readers out there.) Now think about that apartment you have/had. If you were to sell shoes out of your apartment, how many different shoes could you put on display for shoppers to consider buying (and prevent them from going into your fridge and eating the last Hot Pocket)? Hundreds, right? Remember, you only need to show one shoe of every pair.

The department stores, on the other hand, pride themselves on making your shoe-buying experience as spacious as possible. Apparently at some point, some consumer firm must have put out a well-read report that stated the number one thing a consumer hates is “shoes up in their grill” (citation needed.) So the department stores have gone to the extreme by showcasing as few shoes as humanly possible.

You got a nice 3x3 foot table? That’s 9 square feet of showroom display. We’ll put nearly 5 shoes on there, often on transparent risers that give every shoe that “just out of the fairy tale” look. (Note: there’s nothing fairy tale about a Size 12 loafer.)

(Another note: Our senior year of WM, Chris Nordberg was a Size 12 loafer.)

In order to make the shoe show room more airy, all wall shelving is recessed so that they can put approximately four shoes on a 6 foot wide panel. Do you have any idea how many DVDs I could store on just one of those shelves? Yeah, I’m jealous. And it no longer boggles my mind why department stores can’t make money.

(But hey, they do have man chairs for guys to sit in – a lost art in department stores these days. So they’ve got that going for them.)

I’m not professing adopting the chaotic vertigo that is DSW Warehouse, but something must be done. Either show more shoes to increase variety, increase choice, and increase the bottom line, or cut the shoe section in half by moving all the current shoes to a more compact section and put in an Auntie Anne’s in the middle of the store. Who couldn’t go for a pretzel right now?

I know Lord’s all for it, now if I could just convince that bastard Taylor…