Intermittent Holiday Joy

I’ll tell you what. You find me some boughs of holly, and I’ll be happy to deck some halls.

Now that we’ve put Thanksgiving in our rear-view mirror and no one seems to really care that the Finnish people celebrate Independence Day on December 6th, YAB turns its attention towards Christmas. Now as for as preparations go, the YAB desk will most likely have to put much of it on hold, as the Thanksgiving holiday set us back a bit, but while we did not take advantage of Black Friday or sit on Santa’s lap, we’re aware that Christmas is here. Need proof? Just listen to the radio.

I don’t know how one would decorate a blog for Christmas. I suppose I could screw with the colors or the fonts, or once and for all figure out the world of pictures. Maybe there would be a secret hyperlink in each post that if accidentally clicked, your laptop would fire a candy cane at your head. But let’s face it. Someone will be caught sleeping while reading and lawsuits aren’t exactly what I want for Christmas. (Although “You Got Caned” has a comical ring to it…) I guess if you can’t holiday-decorate a blog, you could always blog about holiday-decorating.

The year was 2001, and I was in my second-to-last period of final exams for my entire life (assuming that I don’t go to grad school…damn.) As the weather turned colder on the outside, the inside of my dorm room was as plain as could be. Scattered textbooks, laundry-in-waiting, Chris Nordberg wasting time on our couch – nothing extraordinary in the least. As we returned from Thanksgiving break, Spud and I both found ourselves full of holiday cheer and decided it was time to make sure all passers-by knew it. We needed to decorate.

The Christmas decoration of a dormitory room is highly limited to due a lack of money, time, and square footage. Most people who undertake such a task normally limit themselves to some cut-out snowflakes on the door or perhaps a couple of stockings hanging from the closet. In a room that had no place for a tree, and there were rules about installing a fireplace on the 3rd floor of a 4 floor building, we quickly realized that standard indoor Christmas deco wasn’t in the cards. But walking the aisles of the Williamsburg Target gave us an idea.

(If you are a former RA of Chris Condon, please stop reading now.)

In a 21’ x 13’ room, there is a perimeter of 68 feet around the wall edges. When we decided that the best way to celebrate the holiday season was by lining the ceiling with icicle lights, that number became very important. For those not in the know, icicle lights are the glowing white Christmas lights that hang down in vertical strands of 5-8 individual bulbs, giving the effect of icicles hanging from a roof’s edge (assuming you have radioactive snow.) Starting at the sink (always a great place for electricity), the seven ten-foot strands were woven in and out of the ceiling tiles to hide much of the base wiring and leaving the illusion of the icicles themselves. This continued all the way around the room.

Because of the many dorm room staples we had around the perimeter of the room (beds, desks, Casio keyboards), this wasn’t exactly easy. But once we had come full circle, it was time to light up our dorm room with a warm Christmas glow. Some 840 individual sparks ready to ring in the holiday season in a perpetual light of joy. All there’s left to do is plug in the strand to the outlet and…

They blink. ALL of them.

Every single strand blinks on and off in every five seconds or so. And not all at the same time either. It’s like they all have minds of their own. And no two minds have any interest in thinking alike.

Sure, we got used to it, and managed to study for finals in varying intensities of illumination. I think I was even able to sleep with them on. But for any visitors to Camm 244 that year, we had a holiday message for them:

Merry Seizure Christmas from Chris and Spud.

Encino Turkey

Here in Washington D.C., an annual Thanksgiving tradition at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is to ship a turkey in from some state rife with gobblers (this year, Minnesota) so that the President of the United States may invoke Article II, Sec. 2 of our Constitution. With one mighty chop of diplomacy, the Executive-in-Chief spares the life of the lucky turkey (who no doubt has jet lag) by granting it an official pardon. Harry Truman began this Caligula-esque practice back in the 50’s, and we’ve been letting birds spread their wings in the name of freedom ever since. Too bad they cannot fly.

But turkeys granting freedom to people? That’s a new one.
42 year-old Chicago resident Mark Copsy was on his way home from the supermarket with the centerpiece of his Thanksgiving dinner, as well as his son (Mark, don’t mix them up.) when he spotted a vehicle slam into a neighborhood curb and burst into flames. Quick to react, he ran to the car to find an elderly couple stuck inside. With the doors jammed and the smoke thickening, he tried to use his kung fu abilities to kick open the car’s windows. When that failed, he realized there was only one other thing to do. And this is a direct quote:

“Hell, I’ll just use the damn turkey.”

Talk about a hero. After fulfilling his life’s purpose, he was sent to the Butterball plant, slain, iced, and ready for some basting (the turkey, not Mark Copsy). This bird was thrown into an inferno of a situation, risked premature cooking, to save the lives and the Thanksgiving of two people. He didn’t ask questions – he just kicked some glass.

While I don’t know how the insurance company will handle this one, I do know that this is a heartwarming holiday story of practicality. After all, if a turkey can be used as a sledgehammer, what other dishes on your feastly table can serve other purposes in the calamitous face of danger?

CORN ON THE COB – Picture this: you’ve witnessed an accident and you’re out of daytime minutes on your cell phone. But yet, you still have to get a message to your local Emergency Response. Write down your predicament on a piece of paper and rubber band it around an ear of corn. Throw it as far as you can. Even if it doesn’t reach its destination, somebody will pick it up and continue its journey. Why? The aerodynamic properties of corn make throwing said vegetable so much fun that people will do it without question.

STUFFING – Yeah, it tastes great and there never seems to be enough of it to go around. But have you ever considered a fuller utilization of its spongelike quality? Next time a cat or baby gets stuck in a tree, spread a layer of stuffing on the ground below. The treedweller can fall through the air with glee and land with the softness of Charmin. It will also save you that broken arm you’d get if you climbed up after them. (And for the record, I have no idea why there’s a baby in the tree. Maybe poor parenting.)

CRANBERRY SAUCE – Explosive material, such as dynamite, should be detonated within a barrel of yams in order to minimize the damage and maximize “flying goo.”

YAMS – Serve no purpose. On the dinner table or off of it.

You’re still thinking about corn throwing, aren’t you?

My Sharona

Who says politicians can’t get down?

CNN is reporting that Israel’s Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, the man who became the leader of the embattled nation in 2001, has decided it’s time to go. Unhappy with how his vision for the Israeli future is progressing, he’s putting on his “I’m Number #1” hat and making some changes. Despite being the one in charge of the political faction in power, he’s not too pleased with what’s transpired. It’s time to change.

The year was 1973. Sharon and his military buddies were kicking back in their bunker on the Sinai front after a hard day of fishing in the Suez. Six years prior, they had seen the bulk of their wartime action, fighting for six consecutive days, but all in all, it had been smooth sailing for a while. The men got together and decided they should celebrate the good life they had. An Evite was sent out, and the right-wing soliders let everyone know they were going to throw a party. The called it a Likud Party, which is really just a fancy Hebrew word for “Toga.”

Ariel Sharon’s party was well-known and well-attended for many years, up to this day. He enjoyed playing host for the Israeli people, but Likudpalooza wasn’t exactly what he had planned that day in the bunker. It started out exactly as the even planners had envisioned: a civil affair where people who shared the same preferences in the important issues (what music to play, where to put guests coats and weapons, whether Doritos are better as Cool Ranch or Cooler Ranch.) Dinner parties are indeed nice, Sharon thought at the time, but ultimately, he wanted to make sure that all his neighbors were cognizant that when it came to running a party, he was THE man. As the party rolled into the 80’s, they began to get the message.

But now that it’s 2005, Sharon is getting tired of this party. They’ve been playing Haddaway on the stereo since 1992. No one has thought to pick up salsa on the way to the party, making these Tostitos as dry as the desert sands. There was a raucous game of Twister that kept the joint jumping back in ’86, but the board has since been covered up by the coffee table that Netanyahu crashed through when he was forced to resign as Party Master of Ceremonies. Even Gaza Strip Poker seems dull.

So CNN is absolutely right when they are reading the tired expression on Ariel Sharon’s face. He knows that unless somebody brought Cranium, this is the beginning of the end for a party he first drew up the invitations for over thirty years ago. The time has come for the most powerful party animal to put down his drink (Mountain Jew Kosher Red), open up the closet in the foyer, grab his dusty, dusty coat, and quietly exit stage left.

But here’s the problem with Sharon. As wise as he was to leave a party that had been lame for about 5 years, he’s still got a fever. A fever to dance, to play, to party. And since he is still the Prime Minister of Israel, he’s going to use his status to organize a new party. Since the only other shindig on the block is currently billed the Labor Party, there’s no way he’s just going to grab a goblet over there. That sounds like work.

Long story short – Ariel Sharon’s throwing a Party. And you’re invited!

Slicin' the FKL

Here’s an unusual YAB comment from the weekend. And it’s not the first of its kind. “Hey Chris Condon, you got an interesting blog here! I'm definitely bookmarking you right now! I have a Fantasy Knives site. It pretty much covers fantasy knife related stuff. Come and check out fantasy knife if you get time :-)”

Now granted, I could finally buckle like a belt and put up the word verification in the comment process to avoid this sort of spam I end up deleting on my own, but where would we be then? Monday morning with writer’s block? I don’t think so. We like out YAB readers to be able to comment without having to correctly spell “svtwfm” or “b3foof.”

This particular comment topic, fantasy knives, does not appear on recent posts, either. In fact, only the column titled “Dihydrogen Oxide” receives visits from our crafty visitor. I have no idea what fantasy knives have to do with our study on water coolers, but I guess we attract all types here. Even British people in search of the phrase “crunchetty crunch.” But I think there’s a far more important issue here.

Fantasy Knives?!?!?!?

When it comes to fantasy sports, I’m no rookie. Having been the general manager and owner over the years for approximately 7 fantasy football teams, 4 in fantasy hockey, 3 squads on the e-diamond, and even a brief but misguided foray into fantasy golf, I’ve become the textbook example of how to run a team to a 3rd place finish. But while managing 4 teams at once (currently) had covered my interest in simulated management for the fall, my interest has once again been raised with the advent of a new sport – fantasy knives!

Being the GM of a Fantasy Knife team can’t be easy. When your entire roster have an acute ability to “cut you,” personnel issues are a bit of a touchy subject. Now I’ve never run a fantasy knife team before, but I’m willing to try new things and fully expect to not come out of my rookie season unscathed. But before I can even play the first match, I’ve got to get myself a team.

The fantasy knife draft is only a few weeks away, and since our random commenting friends have only just informed me of the sport this past weekend, I’ve got some research to do. And since I have no idea how the sport of knives is actually played, we’re just going to have to make it up as we go along (Nothing has changed, it seems.)

The categories in which FKL teams are to rack up the statistics are fairly simple compared to other fantasy sports, and there’s only five of them – “Shiny,” “Pointy,” “Sharp,” “Size,” and “KQ,” which stands for Knife Quotient. The KQ is difficult to define (like a QB rating), but ultimately is scored on how scared a person would get if being chased by a madman (this season, he’s sweaty-toothed) with said implement. It’s pretty confusing, I’ll admit, but I’ll try anything once.

Except Gogurt.

Being late to the game, I’m not getting the number 1 pick in my FKL draft, so I guess I’ll have to do without “Machete.” But I think with some luck and some draft savvy, I’ll be able to build a championship team. Just imagine a starting lineup with the following all-stars:

1. Cleaver
2. Scalpel
3. Swiss Army
4. Bowie
5. Excalibur

Take my knife. Please.

Strange Shopfellows

One of the benefits of working at a corporation with an employee count in the 5 digits is the number of perks the folks over in Pirate Resources are able to negotiate on our behalf. A common corporate marketing strategy these days for many industries (cars, clothing, travel) is to offer a small discount to a huge firm in hopes all of their employees take their business to them. Now, I haven’t bought my BMW yet, but it’s nice to know that I’m a Corporate Club Customer in their showroom. I feel much less guilty about eating their complimentary cookies and test driving cars with no intent to purchase.

Well, with holiday shopping season just around the corner, it looks like Macy’s has stepped up its efforts to win my gift-giving dollars. When I returned from lunch this afternoon I found a bright Red booklet waiting for me on my chair. Now I’m sure a rep from the department store didn’t visit my cubicle during my absence, which means that my company has struck yet another corporate partnership. A partnership – in deceptive advertising (Dun-dun-DUNNN!)

(Apologies – our sound guy was let go last week. When he slammed the door behind him, it resulted in a loud…silence.)

The red Macy’s booklet, surely rife with coupons and savings just ready to spill out into my chicken salad, proclaimed “It’s our friends & family savings event!” and “We’re giving you our 20% employee discount!” There’s also a weird picture of a woman in a parka with a red Macy’s bag precariously balanced on her head. Ok…

I had no idea Macy’s and me were that close.

We’re certainly not related via the bloodlines. Macy, according to this website, finds its origins in Old French. The closest I’ve ever been to being a being Old French was eating a day-old quiche. Maybe if it was O’Macy or MacY, but it’s not looking like we’re swimming in the same gene pool. And what about friends? Don’t get me wrong, Macy’s, I had a blast registering at your place, and the fact that we’re neighbors these days garner you some privileges, but when you say everyone at my 43,000 employee company is your bud, the term friend loses a bit of its luster. It’s like an Evite where you throw a shindig and invite everyone you’ve met in the last six months.

Maybe that’s why I’m getting a 20% discount, Macy’s. Have too many people realized your clever ruse of friendship that you’ve resorted to bribing? Will you stop at nothing to ensure you don’t eat alone in the cafeteria? Well there, I’ll just be completely honest with you and your “Check Yes or Yes” ways.

I’m still interested.

Turning inside the booklet, I read what exactly the 20% friendbribe entails. After all, when it comes to friendship, it’s the small print that will tell the difference between a long-lost yearbook signee and a groomsman in your wedding.

-“Shop at any Macy’s East store or online at macys.com.” – This means one of two things. Either Macy’s is playing favorites with their Eastside buds (Come on over and play Nintendo at my place, but don’t tell anyone in California) or that Macy’s West is where the truly cool stuff is and I’m being deemed a second-class pal (Pay no attention to that Xbox on the shelf – this is old school Nintendo, baby! Bemyfriend!)
-“Pay any way you like.” – Time to test this bond. Do you guys accept produce as payment? How many bananas for those dish towels?
-“15% Off almost everything* in the Home Store” – I love the asterisk. It’s like Macy’s says that I can borrow his Legos, but had his fingers crossed behind the back the whole time. In this case, the asterisks represents “cosmetics, fragrances, selected lease depts., everyday values, restaurants, services, gift certificates, gift cards, brial kiosks, previous purchases, furniture, and mattresses.” Man, I really was in the market for a bridal kiosk, too.
-“You could win $50 instantly” – Translation: if by the slim chance that another friend or family member accidentally drops a $50 bill on the floor and you are the first to pick it up.