Make a Left at Spoon, Arkansas

Bunch of sellouts.

In a news item YABNews stumbled across a few months ago, the Dish Network was offering a decade worth of satellite TV every resident of any town willing to change their name to Dish. Well, it looks like a village of schmoes took the bait. Clark, Texas, a hamlet of all of fifty-five households will be enjoying free cable in exchange for the naming rights. L.E. Clark, the man who incorporated the town in 2000 (and promptly named it after himself) is a little ticked. Hey L.E., maybe you should have had a cooler surname so that your residents wouldn’t be tempted to seek a corporate sponsor. Like “Dontmesswith.” Yeah, I think they would’ve kept that one around.

DISH, Texas will no doubt see a population increase and some additional press coverage. I guess it’s kind of nice to have television included in your municipally-provided utilities. And since it costs nothing in taxes to provide to the residents, it’s not going to be a budget cut casualty anytime soon. We can leave that deletion for lesser important things. Like recycling.

My capitalization of the word DISH above was not the product of a sticky Caps Lock. According to the agreement, all uses of the company name in regards to the city must be in full uppercase mode. I guess when you find out you’ll be getting 872 channels, you tend to not sweat the small stuff. But writing it as DISH and not Dish gives this town an attitude. On maps, DISH will be yelling at its more well-mannered neighbors. On a list of school district closings, DISH will demand to be announced first, and will also insist to be the first voting precinct reported by the evening news. I could change my name to CHRIS CONDON, but such bravado will seriously hamper my lifelong dream job aspiration – “stealth ninja.”

But if you think the Dish Network is in the innovative cusp of the advertising world, you’re seriously mistaken. The article cites Half.com doing the same in 2001 with Halfway, Oregon. Truth or Consequences, New Mexico initially named themselves after the game show of the same name. (Unconfirmed reports on which came first with Laguna Beach – the town or the show.)

But these are merely little fish in the big pond of brand recognition. Just last year, Bay City, Michigan was persuaded by the auction giant to add one little ‘e’ at the beginning of their name. While innovative, this ultimately was a disaster for the small port city on Lake Michigan. The entire economy went to hell, as standard pricing became a thing of the past. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, was now purchased by means of rapid-fire bidding. For bigger items, like automobiles and furniture, this wasn’t a big deal. But it hit rock bottom when schoolchildren at their local 7-11 were raising the stakes for Snickers Bars. Everything was overpaid for (48 dollars for a Big Mac?) and the residents became so poor that the economy stalled and collapsed. Realizing their mistake, eBay felt bad and donated “it” to every citizen. Thanks, guys.

Yahouston, Texas has hit the ground running, desperately trying to distance themselves from the fact their baseball stadium was Enron Field for 3 years. Yahoo! offered to provide all sorts of free service to Houstonites - like mail services and streetside map kiosks. Google has promised to match their strategy by marching to Salt Lake City in names of rechristening the state Gootah.

I know what you’re thinking – where the heck is You’re a Blog in all of this? Surely increased readership would result from the press coverage? Well, we’ll let you be the first to know that we have an offer on the table with one lucky town. In exchange for naming rights, we promise that not only will their post office bring the mail, it will also bring the funny. Hold on – I have an e-mail I need to check.

It’s official! Our little blog is now the official sponsor of one lucky town. Say hello to Khan-YAB, Turkmenistan!

I can't wait to meet all the Turkmen and Turkwomen!

Rain of My Existence

Going to class on the Metro three days a week, I realize that there will be some changes in my commuting environment. I can’t sit in a comfortable chair. Music is limited to whatever mp3s are shuffled through my Dell DJ. And if I choose to yell at a fellow commuter for his stupidity, there’s a much better chance he actually hears my complaint. (Note to self: if Hefty McBiceps cuts you off in line for the escalator, just let it go. Let it go.)

But the most drastic change comes with the weather. And yesterday, the weather decided to let me know just who’s boss. The DC area got its first taste of winter chill last night, as the temperature dropped as cold as a monkey in a snowstorm. Honestly, I’m ok with that (the temp drop, not the freezing of our primate friends). I wear a warm coat to work, and I walk with my hands in my pockets. Furthermore, the Metro is a comfortable 95 degrees year-round. However, there was once other element that Mother Nature decided to add to the equation.

It wasn’t freezing rain. But damn, that rain was freezing.

Faced with a 6 block walk to class on E Street, I was not pleased to see what I saw coming up the epic-length escalated at Foggy Bottom. I first realized I was in trouble when I saw those entering the Metro station drying off and closing their umbrellas like Noah’s Ark had hit an iceberg. My hopes of a dry walk decreased when I turned the corner and saw “Caution: Wet Floor” signs dotting the entrance way. I lost the will to live when I looked up at the sky.

Now it wasn’t a thunderstorm that greeted me on the corner of 23rd and G. A key ingredient of thunderstorms is no doubt thunder, and unless the mild roar of four thousand people on their cell phones drowned it out, I didn’t hear a single clap. No, this was just rain. Cold, continuous, driving rain. Most people, on our elevation to street level, prepared for the coming precipitation. Standard stuff – putting away newspapers, opening umbrellas, buttoning up waterproof coats. And as the escalator took me closer to the skyflood, I stood. Helpless.

Wearing a wool coat and not carrying anything resembling an umbrella, I got dumped on. For six long blocks, all I could do was star at the ground, keep my hands in my pockets, and pray I don’t step in puddles. Now for anyone who happened to be in a similar predicament yesterday, YAB would like to present some “Lost in the Rain” safety tips. Who said we don’t write for the public?

1 – It absolutely slays me when waiting for a traffic light to change, people try to dry off by brushing water off of their head or clothes, like it’s going to make some monumental change in how wet you are. They spend so much effort trying to get their hair dry when they are no doubt another 10 minutes from their destination. Now your hands are wet, too, and that will come into play when you call your friend on your cell phone to tell her it’s raining. A cell phone in a slippery hand might as well be a lost phone in street drain. Butterfingers.

2 – Those who walk with umbrellas on city streets have a limited view of the world around them. The overhang of the umbrella (no matter how you pronounce it, Sathro) obscures your peripheral vision. Keep this in mind. Your overall width has increased, and you suddenly require more sidewalk without touching even a single slice of funnel cake. Translation: spaces you thought you can fit into in the past are closed for entry now. If you fail to realize this, you’ll be rudely awakened when a tall kid with an MBA bookbag and no umbrella gets smacked in the face by your water deflection unit. Only when it rains does the rest of the world realize how hard it is to live with the width of my shoulders.

Pay-Per-View Pals

When did ATM start standing for “All The Money?”

As a kid, they were many ways to get some cold hard cash into thy pocket. Allowances were doled out in dollar bills. Selling lemonade at a yard sale was good for a buck or two. Birthday cards (from the relatives who weren’t so concerned about saving for college) occasionally netted some additional greenbacks. And when all else failed, checking the coin returns of pay phones could help a kid save up for more baseball cards. It may not have been much, but as they say in Evita – “the money kept rolling in from every side.”

(Umm…did I say Evita? I meant, der…Super Macho Robot Killers 4. Ah. That’s better.)

Once you enter the real world, though, many of those avenues dry up. Most monetary gifts are now in check form. There aren’t coin returns on cell phones. Your allowance, now called a paycheck, gets directly deposited, and is really just a funds transfer. And nobody wants to buy lemonade from a 26 year old sitting on the sidewalk.

With every other cash money method ruled out, it looks like all of your dollars and all of your cents are guarded in that mighty vault called a “bank,” and the one posted sentry at the gates staring you down with his impersonal icy façade has his mechanical hands clutching your wad of cash. The ATM.

Now despite the hard, metallic exterior, ATM is actually a big softy. As long as the bank has some money with your name on it, ATM is totally cool with just giving it to you. All you have to do is verify you are who you say you are, and the little man with the bucket of $20s that sits in the little ATM room will feed some cash through its little black mouth. See, he’s not so bad. He gives you money!

The problem with this, however, is that ATM isn’t always nearby. Some similar looking clone may be, but not your buddy. The clone has deceptively matched the attire of ATM. Heck, he’s even got a little cubby for free envelopes (which also like yours, never actually has any envelopes stocked.) And he’s just as nice as ATM – happy to give you money at any hour of the day. But there’s one hitch that makes him an imposter.

He embezzles.

Every time you pay him a visit, he demands a dollar-fifty for your friendship. Sure, about 2 miles from your current location waits your true friend who charges nothing to hang out. But apparently, this guy feels that proximity is worth slapping a tariff on your relationship.

Pay-per-view friends are not great company, and especially not great on the bank account. It’s best to literally go the extra mile and visit ATM, a guy who says “Come on in, take whatever you need.” But for some reason, he occasionally says that he’s sick, with some malady called “Insufficient Funds” and you might be forced to visit his evil cousin. Or find the last remaining coin return in Tyson’s Corner.

I suppose there’s always another option. Supermarkets will gladly give you cash back after a purchase. However, methinks Wegman isn’t a true friend either. He’s got two tricks up his sleeve. First, you end up stopping in and buying something you don’t need just to get some cash. I’m pretty sure that’s why crap candy bard like Mr.Goodbar are still around. Secondly, It’s so painful to see that an otherwise minimal shopping trip for bread and paper towels turns into a $24.32 charge on the old bank statement.

Man, that better be some pretty freakin’ good bread.

Somewhere in Middle America...

After a brief 2-day assignment on Nordblog, YAB’s favorite phone-artist Chris Nordberg has been entrusted by his current university to represent the Tar Heel Blue at a very important luncheon. A handful of UNC MBAs were put on a plane yesterday to pick the brain of America’s second richest man, Mr. Warren Edward Buffett (not on the plane, but when they land). As you are reading this, he’s probably sitting down to lunch…in OMAHA.

Now, YAB was going to send one of our crack reporters with him to cover the historic event, but approving the expense reports in a business model that has zero discretionary income would require US to be on crack. Who knows what kind of ridiculous dinner tab a correspondent could ring up in Omaha? I hear it’s the Beverly Hills of the Heartland. There’s even a velvet rope to get into Dairy Queen.

Nonetheless, we managed to get a transcript of the conversation Nordberg had with Buffett. Please note – Nordberg spent the weekend in Williamsburg with many of his friends, and there was little time to plan out his prepared questions. Looks like he just shot from the hip. Well…you’ll see.

Chris Nordberg: Wow, Mr. Buf-fay, it’s an incredible pleasure to meet you.
Warren Buffett: Why thank you, Chris – but I can tell that you must be hungry for lunch. My last name is pronounced Buf-fett.
CN: Oh, I understand. So you’re related to Boba Fett. That’s pretty cool. I guess that begs the question – how did you choose a career as an investment banker over bounty hunting? I find my self struggling with that very question in my career.
WB: Son, you’re mind is racing a million miles a minute, calm down. We’re in Omaha. The most exciting thing that happens here are crop circles. My name is Warren Buffett, and I’m open to all questions you may have.
CN: Oh, sorry. I haven’t had any Mountain Dew in the last 24 hours.
WB: That’s okay, Chris. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Mountain Dew is a product of the Pepsi Company. I am a large-percentage owner of the Coca Cola Company, and I support my investment by knocking back about 5 Cherry Cokes a day. I don’t look down on you because you haven’t recently consumed a rival product.
CN: I appreciate it. Ok, my first REAL question would be that you have a most impressing resume, and I am trying to gauge my path to the top, at 26 years of age, to see where I am in comparison to you.
WB: That wasn’t a question.
CN: Fine. How much were you worth at 26?
WB: In 1956, I was worth $140,000 after investing $9k three years earlier. Granted, that’s in 1950’s money. It was an impressive run, in which I accidentally bought and sold Sri Lanka. I was young and inexperienced. But you learn from your mistakes.
CN: I agree. I’ve made my share of mistakes. There was this one time where I let Chris Condon make up a conversation between a billionaire and myself since there aren’t phones in Omaha and he needed some blog material.
WB: Is that this conversation?
CN: Nah, that was with Bill Gates. This one is real. So what is it like to be brothers with a musician? Are you guys twins?
WB: I don’t have a brother.
CN: Yes you do. Jimmy. I bet that Cherry Coke of yours tastes damn good after a cheeseburger in paradise.
WB: Son, we’re of no relation. In fact, I think we’re done here. Guards!

And that is the story of how Chris Nordberg got banned from Omaha.

Making Me Look Bad

And I thought a was a slacker before…

I’m not going to lie. High school came pretty easy for me. On a healthy regimen of doing my Spanish homework in homeroom, waiting until the absolute possible minute to write papers, and using the collective powers of the Senior Slack Pack (Smith, Morea, et al) to make up presentations on the fly, I was able to do just fine at old SHS. I didn’t apply myself as much as others, and that promptly drove those others up the wall. I had fun in high school instead. And granted, my parents probably would have preferred a more conventional approach to studying, but hopefully there will be enough funny in this blog to dissuade them. However, no matter how much of a slacker I felt like before, I feel like a MAJOR slacker now.

When I was 18, the most proactive thing I ever did was run a Fantasy Hockey league. In the past week or two of news, 3 guys have made me look like a chump.

When the beginning of the end for TO’s employment with the Eagles happened in the middle of last week, the fuse was lit my an interview Owens gave to ESPN.com, calling them a “classless organization” and dumping on McNabb while praising Brett Favre, the Interception Machine. Everyone reported this dialogue came from ESPN.com, but few have mentioned that the guy in the interviewer’s chair wasn’t Sean Salisbury or Michael Irvin – it was Graham Bensinger. WHO?

A freshman journalism major from Syracuse University.

Bensinger has proven that the first year of college is more than just going to meals in groups of fourteen people and writing papers until 5 in the morning. Some kids report on the verbal taunting that happened at the frats last weekend between Drunky and Beer-me. Graham Bensinger shows the world that not all millionaires eat their Chunky Soup.

Ok, next. In high school, an annual event that was oft hotly contested would be the Student Council President Election. Largely a role with little power, one senior will rise above the rest with clever campaign posters, free lollipops in the auditorium, an entertaining speech, and a large group of friends. But hey, it’s a nice resume filler for college, no? I never had the interest in running for such a position, but then again…

I’m no Michael Sessions.

Sessions is the brand new mayor of Hillsdale, Michigan. And he’s only 18 years of age. In a slim 2 vote victory (thanks Mom and Dad!), the write-in candidate beat a 51 year old incumbent. (wow, a guy has been a mayor for 51 consecutive years – crazy!). The kid was even on Letterman last night and presented the Top Ten. Apparently, the promising of soda machines in every classroom does get you somewhere.

Finally, there are no doubt many young, enterprising businesspeople in the ranks of the high school hoi polloi. Kids sell stuff all the time. Heck Zack Morris learned a valuable lesson when he sold friendship bracelets at the cost of 3 dollars and his friendship with Lisa et al. Profits from such ventures are great if you want to buy an extra slice of pizza at lunch. But some people think bigger.

Like Martin Halstead.

This British guy sold off his airline computer simulation firm he started when he was 15 (!!!) to buy an 18-seat plane and start Alpha One Airlines. And since Independence is in the tank, it looks like we should have some open terminals in the near future. Look at these overachievers, would ya?

But man, did I run a mean FHL…