Amazing Lace

And just like that 48 of the 63 games that make up the NCAA College Basketball Tournament have come and gone. It is now up to all those in the sports world to analyze and break down just exactly what has transpired over the last four days, and make another round of stunningly bold predictions for this weekend, each of them having the same likelihood of being completely off the mark. We’re going to tune out the Dick Vitales, the Billy Packers, and the Clark Kelloggs for the next three days, as we know there’s nothing they can say to affect next week’s Sweet 16 action.

Well that, and none of their names is Lacey Smith.

A laid-back, low-key high school German teacher day, Lacey Smith is a fearless college hoops prognosticator by night. Aside from some love for the Philadelphia sports teams (which may or may not include her own Phantoms jersey), no one suspected Mrs. Smith of being a hero of the hardwood. Two weeks ago, we here at YAB dropped the gauntlet. We then picked up said gauntlet and threw it at family, friends, and frequenters of our little blog.

You know in Dodgeball when you catch a ball somebody threw at you, sparing yourself and ousted the thrower? Let’s just say Lacey caught the gauntlet and winged it back at our head.

According to the YAB = You’re a Bracket II Standings, not only has Lacey proven she knows far more about college basketball than the whole lot of us, she’s done it going away. Nay, she does not hold a meager 1 point lead over nearest competitors Karen Yelito and myself – that would be expected. Lacey kicked the doors in on the competition and has busted out to a 5 point lead.

The girl must eat, breathe, and sleep March Madness.

With 54 out of a possible 64 points to date, you could throw a chainsaw at Lacey’s head and she wouldn’t flinch. Hell, she’d catch the chainsaw in her teeth, use it to cut down an elm tree, and laugh maniacally as the tree landed on your car. What we have on our hands is a competitor. A take-no-prisoners, drain-the-three, rock-chalk-jayhawk kind of competitor.

Some might argue that Lacey just picked all the favorites, and to the casual eye, that may be true. But look closer, people. Like the bracketologist that she is, she called for the demise of the 8th seeded Arizona Wildcats at the hands of the merciless 9th seeded Purdue Boilermakers. Well, you know what?

She was right.

Come Saturday, Lacey was flirting with the lead for the YAB crown (and the potential free swag that may follow such a crown. *Free swag is not an actual crown.) And while Lacey was doing this, Arizona was on a plane back to Tucson. Why? Because Lacey decreed it to be so. She’s merciless.

So what’s next for the world’s greatest seer since Nostradamus? According to her Sheet of Integrity, she predicts Kansas, Georgetown, and Ohio State in the Final Four. For her fourth she actually predicted the eliminated Wisconsin Badgers, but we know what she really meant. For the fourth team, Lacey planned to take on the Florida Gators by herself and defeat them with sound perimeter shooting, an aggressive inside game, and tension-breaking giggling at the mention of A Bug’s Life.

Will her picks hold true for next weekend? Of course they will. Lacey Smith entered this tourney for two reasons: to chew bubblegum and kick ass.

And someone’s all out of bubble gum.

Sing a Song of Spending

One thing I’ve noticed during my infancy as a parent is that babies like singing. From their perspective, it’s quite simple. The person with the big arms that insists on holding me is speaking to me in a manner far more melodic than usual. And since it’s been weeks since I’ve had Mom’s inner heartbeat to help me drop a beat, I’m going to shut and up and listen to what they have to say.

That’s pretty much it.

Now singing to your baby can come in one of two forms. The first is the planned recital. The Planned Recital method means you have selected the repertoire you are about to perform, measuring it carefully for pitch, range, tempo, and lyrical content, and you expect your selection to have a certain desired effect on your audience: pacification. My choice rendition: The River, by Garth Brooks.

However, the second form is far more unpredictable, and therefore, way more fun. This is when you begin a sentence in talkspeak and for an inexplicable reason, it morphs into singing. For no reason, you’ve added a melody to completely words that just a second ago sounded rather declarative. The pitch goes up and down, but the lyrical content remains remarkably boring. But who cares?

She’s buying it.

Yes, some song that has the musical quality of impromptu tune Will Ferrell sings to James Caan in Elf is actually keeping your baby at bay. Who cares if it’s a list of spices you’re reading out of the pantry. It’s WORKING. And just like that, anything you can think of can be nominated for a Grammy.

Now this is a revelation that I’m sure every parent comes up with at some point, which leads me to my point. Do you know the nursery rhyme “Hush Little Baby”? Of course you do. It’s the one where the overly materialistic parents try and buy their way out of a baby hissy fit. My theory is this: that nursery rhyme, which has been passed down for generations, is just some villager peasant parent looking around and naming things he sees. And somehow, this random tune (clearly from the latter of the two forms mentioned above) has been embedded in the Great American Songbook.

Don’t believe me? Let’s review the lyrics.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word // Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird”
Ok, I’d start an ad-hoc song with “hush little baby,” too. After all, that’s probably why you’ve opted to sing in the first place. But there seems to be a transitional lyric that got left on the cutting room floor. Because rather than it coming off as “if you’re a good child and do what you told, I’m going to buy you something nice,” it comes off as “no, I don’t care if you think a mockingbird is a completely irresponsible thing to buy a baby, you’re getting one and you’re going to like it.” Wow.

“If that mockin'bird don't sing // Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring”
This is a simple case of parent explaining to child the definition of “defective goods.” Look, Dad, you bought a lemon of a songbird. Take it back to the store and get a new one. What’s that? You didn’t get the new pet warranty? You must feel foolish. And your kid is still screaming. What’re you going to get her next? Of course, a diamond ring! Nothing says panicked parenting like going from new bird to new bling in 2.3 tears. I’m speechless.

“If that diamond ring turns brass // Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass”
I’m assuming that it’s the gold band on the ring that’s gone brass, as opposed to the highly valuable stone. Because if the latter’s the case, congratulations. You’re kid has the gift of alchemy! Quick, ask her nicely to turn that jar of mayonnaise into a stack of hundred dollar bills.

“If that looking glass gets broke // Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat”
A looking glass is a terrible present. She probably threw it on the floor when you weren’t looking. As for the goat – this is proof that this song was conjured up by a peasant wandering his farm. Hey, doofus. Puppies are way cuter.

“If that billy goat don't pull, // Papa's gonna buy you a cart and mule”
You know how some parents insist that their children become doctors or police officers because that particular occupation has been in their family for generations? Upgrading baby’s first pet from a stubborn goat to a stubborn donkey is pretty much like handing the kid a pitchfork and pointing in the direction of the barn. And since you blew all your cash on the diamond ring, you couldn’t afford the mule that sounds like Eddie Murphy.

“If that cart and mule turn over // Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover”
Turn over? What could a baby possibly do to upend another animals and the four-wheeled transport vehicle it is strapped to? Forget alchemy. Your baby is telekinetic. And I don’t mean to lyrical nitpick, but what if Baby Magneto made that cart and mule vanish? Would you have bought a dog that’s Spanish?

“If that dog named Rover won't bark // Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart.”
Yep. If there’s one thing that a baby needs more than one cart, it’s two carts.

“If that Horse and Cart fall down // Then you'll be the sweetest little baby in town”
And you’ll also be the most spoiled, too. Now go take a nap while I go to the bank and take out a second mortgage on the house.

Euclid Cheated and Stole, Too.

There’s an old adage that simply says, “The Numbers Don’t Lie.”
There’s a new adage that simply says, “Oh Yeah? Then mathematicians do.”

The absoluteness of numbers is why I enjoy working in Finance for a living. There’s an answer that can be revealed if you use logic, science, and a calculator every single time. It’s an epic battle to be right all the time and to have the scratch work to prove it. This is why I hated essay tests. Why did we need to bring subjective opinion into academics?

(This is also why I hated Reading Comprehension on the SATs, too. What’s the best answer of the four below for the underlying theme of this passage? What kind of question is that, fencesitter?)

But sometimes number crunchers don’t use their power for good. They use it for evil. And this evil is picked up by those who essay tests, and published on the internet or in a newspaper. And then it’s my job to expose them as the arithmetic charlatans that they are. What’s that? What are my credentials for performing this public service?

I was a mathlete.

I’m sure at some point this week (or some past March) you’ve been thrown the statistic that the annual NCAA college basketball tournament is a distraction so prevalent in the workplace that if one put that productivity in currency terms, American Business would be at a multi-billion dollar loss. (This year the figure is $3.8 billion). And news websites like CNN and MSNBC just take the headline and the total and tease it on their front page, and all of a sudden, Wall Street’s in a panic. “Oh my God,” those traders cry. “At that rate, the 12 GM plants across the country are on schedule to produce approximately nine cars this month. Sell, damn it!”

So overdramatic.

So while I’d like to blame the content editor on the press that makes this story a big deal, the real problem lies with the mathete (read: turncoat) that came up with the amount in the first place. Don’t you remember taking those tests back in high school, Numbers McAddstoofast? Your final answer isn’t what the judges are looking for! Don’t you read directions?

SHOW YOUR WORK.

Nowhere in any of these financial doomsday articles is there ever a supplemental margin of calculations that would demonstrate the $3.8 billion’s origins. Maybe they’re afraid to publish a picture of a nerd with a dartboard, I don’t know. But as your resident logarithmic public defender, I will grab my calculator and debunk the press for you. For Basketball. And for America.

First off, the figure, according to the nefarious article, quadrupled this year, up from $889 million last year. Wow! So we all got 300% raises during our last review period! (Checks paystub.) Oh. Guess not. (sigh)

No, the consulting firm wizards behind this adjusted their “number of basketball fans” up to 41% of the American public, meaning last year, they assumed the figure was 1 in 10. I don’t want to pull out a stats book or anything, but that’s probably more than a few standard deviations from being accurate, no? What did they do last year? Poll a group of 10 toddlers, with only one responding positively to the question (the rest cried when they saw Joakim Noah on TV.)

Random guess at B-ball fans nonwithstanding, it’s still a flawed number. It assumes that everyone in that 41% 1) sit in front of a computer, 2) will spend 14 minutes a day on March Madness for 16 days (even the non-game days?) and 3) this time is in addition to existing time wasting methods.

The blind construction worker on a smoke break begs to differ. (Dude, who gave that guy a sledgehammer, anyway?)

It just took you 4 minutes to read this post. You have 9 and a half to laugh at Duke, and then it’s back to the salt mine with y’all.

Wreath Wrath

eth-ics – noun - The rules or standards governing the conduct of a person or the conduct of the members of a profession.

From time to time we’ve evaluated ethical behavior in the name of comedy, and based on our readership, it seems we consider ethical behavior to be rather important. However, we also value a good laugh, probably more, which is when ethics gets booted to the back of the bus. In 2005, you all decided I my fishing methods were ok in your book. And last October, everyone was fine with swallowing their whistles when I witnessed someone drop a Dew and return it to the rack.

You’re my kind of people.

However, today’s ethics lesson is not one of moral standing vs. comedy. Instead, it’s moral standing vs. good taste. Indulge me if you will.

I have a co-worker who I’ve alluded to before here on YAB. Since that post, she’s done a number of things that were worthy of standalone blogs, but I’ve sided with other material everytime the moment has struck. My personal favorite was when she volunteered to clean our kitchen (which actually wasn’t dirty), and then put up a laminated, full-color sign on the fridge that read, “Your kitchen is clean courtesy of Dwight Schrute. Be sure to thank him next time you see him!!!”

* - Yes, Dwight used three exclamation points.
* - No, that’s not my co-worker’s real name. That would be an ungodly coincidence.

Anyways, Dwight is always looking for ways to add his personal touch to our office, in order for it to look as professional, orderly, and decorative as possible. Now I feel that every employee signs an unwritten contract (they sign with invisible ink) that one should try and keep their workspace tidy, but Schrute goes the extra mile. Aside from cleaning the kitchen in hopes of future praise, this person has organized our cabinets, sorted the coffee, and dusted all finger prints off of all filing cabinets everywhere. Schrute once asked me, “How can you stand these finger prints all over this filing cabinet?”

For one, I have nothing in that filing cabinet. For two, it’s located a good twenty feet from my office. For three, I’m not in therapy.

But all in all, I can ignore Dwight Schrute, and we can both co-exist. However, since I’m a Finance Analyst, guess who he has to come to with accounting-related questions?

The premise was simple. Dwight had bought some fake “greenery” to spruce up the office on his personal credit card. He was seeking reimbursement for the company, since the “greenery” benefits all. He did not seek prior approval to purchase this “greenery” on the office’s behalf from his manager, therefore raising the question on whether or not he is rightfully owed the cash for the “greenery.” Said cash? It would come out of my budget.

Let’s put this in real world terms. You have a friend who thinks they know what kind of music you like. Because of this person’s confidence, they go ahead and buy you a front row seat. So just like that, you’ve got a ticket for April 3rd at the Wachovia Center. Enjoy the Pussycat Dolls, sucker.

Now after the show’s over – which you stomached because there was a rumor that the Flyers were going to cross-check the ‘Dolls – this friend comes back and says she needs money for the ticket. Wha???

That’s how it is with the “greenery.” By now you might be wondering why each time I mention these new communal office wreaths, I’ve put “greenery” in quotes. You see, I was raised to believe greenery should be green.

Not horribly brown and ugly.

So, ethicsmongers, Dwight Schrute doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on because of lack of prior approval to spend office funds. However, I could be the nice guy and help him and his wreaths out ($40? Really???) But should I punish him for a complete lack of taste?

Oh, I think so. Do you?

Condon Goes Top Shelf

As a cost-savings measure, our office is currently embarking on a massive initiative to standardize all the office furniture in the region. That way, no one employee can claim a wicked sweet desk as their own, and insist that it comes with them anytime they switch locations. By everyone having identical semi-wicked sweet systems furniture desks, moving offices will become as simple as putting your junk in a box and self-carrying. Actually, not a bad idea.

So with two more offices undergoing the great furniture transformation today, a host of old non-standard furniture now litters our corridors. Those who seem concerned with random stuff blocking fire exit passages are looking to convince others to take it into their office. As an office-dweller that still rocks the wicked sweet old stuff, I’m a target the size of well…Target.

“Hey, would you be interested in a bigger bookshelf?”

I didn’t even have to look out my door towards the bookshelf my colleague was referencing – my answer was already set in stone. It could have been gold plated and filled with cans of vanilla frosting, and I’d still turn the thing down. Why? Because I’m trying to get into shape for softball season, and the gold would clash with the door handles. But also (and more relevantly), I really don’t need a bigger bookshelf. To paraphrase Wayne Campbell,

“I don’t have a book, let alone many books, to necessitate a bookshelf.”

Yes, it’s true. In the world of financial accounting, there’s not much need for bound literature. Perhaps if I were a lawyer, or medical research assistant, or say, middle school librarian, I could totally use a bigger bookshelf. But right now in my office, my stacks of volumes consist of a solitary item: Financial Management: Theory and Practice.

And that was an accident.

Yeah, it’s not that I reference my grad school Finance text on a daily basis, but instead, left it in a cabinet when I needed to clean out my school bag about a year ago. So when the smaller bookshelf was bestowed upon me a month ago, I figured I might as well put it up for all to see. Joining it on the top shelf is about four binders, a few training manuals, and a space where I often put my lunch. The other three shelves are empty.

The new model which I am currently being offered for a low, low price is a mighty five shelves. One could make the argument that I could take that first shelf and just transfer the existing contents of my current shelf over. Fine. But then what am I supposed to do with the other four?

What I am Supposed to Do with the Other Four

Shelf 1 – Awards – Most prestigious business people have an ego wall, where diplomas, certificates, and photos with famous people go. Well, my diploma frames are too big, my National Latin Exam Perfect Score certificate is just fine in Medford, and Russell Crowe didn’t ask for a Kodak Moment. So that leaves me with a fantasy football trophy (which Jon owes me), a medal from Wildcat Relays, and that Oscar I swiped from Helen Mirren while she downed a burger.

Shelf 2 – Books – Yeah, I’ve got plenty of books at home, and I can show of my intellectual prowess with the best of them. I think I’d have to go with all my books from GW (including those stupid softcover international eds. I bought from eBay), all the “So You’re Going to Be a Daddy” books I’ve read, and those battered Michael Crichton novels from when I was 13 that seem to have survived ever move I’ve ever made. God, Sphere ruled.

Shelf 3 – Random Things – Something on this shelf would have to be a conversation starter. Or when I refuse to discuss such matters under a shroud of secrecy, they should make my co-workers wonder as to their importance. In reality, these will be completely random things that I have selected from my home. This list isn’t finalized, but I think I’m going to bring in a DVD of Ghostbusters II, some tarragon, our Dustbuster, rollerblades, and a spatula.

Yeah, that’ll screw with ‘em.

Shelf 4 – The Intern.