Wildest Fantasy

This football season, the wife and I have been introduced to the all-consuming obsession that is fantasy football.

For those who are unfamiliar with this nifty little pastime, here is a quick explanation. Each member of a fantasy league is the "owner" of a fantasy professional football team comprised of actual professional football players. Prior to the opening game of the real NFL season, league owners assemble (in person or, more commonly, via the interwebs) for a draft, wherein teams are assembled as owners take turns selecting players to fill out their rosters. As the real-life players compete on the gridiron, their fantasy counterparts score or lose points accordingly. Quarterbacks, for instance, earn points for total passing yards and touchdown passes but lose points for interceptions or lost fumbles. Every week, your team goes head-to-head with another in the league, and the winner is the owner with the most accumulated points on his roster. Throughout the season, adjustments can be made: benching players (you don’t want to be the idiot who plays an injured athlete or a guy on his bye week), making trades, etc.

I dove headlong into this venture, joining two Fantasy Football leagues in this inaugural year of my participation. In keeping with the central theme of my life’s work for the past six years, my teams are the Hartford and New Haven Wild Yeast. The wife, a bit more prudent in her fantasy expenditure, is coaching just one team: The New Castle Gangstas. Her mascot is a hooded sweatshirt—which is about as gangsta as the little lady gets. Other teams in our leagues include the Angry Muffins, Community Organizers, Fighting Boobies, and Casey Hampton Fit Club. Additional teams have family-blog-inappropriate monikers.

Allegedly, smacktalk abounds in fantasy football, with an online "smackboard" provided for each game. We have been terribly disappointed by the dearth of smack. We do our best to egg on our opponents (insulting their players, their mothers, their players' mothers, their mothers' players, etc.), but none have taken the bait.

We now watch football in a new way. No longer do we simply cheer for teams to win or lose for the simplistic reason of liking or disliking them or for the impact that their performances will have on the standings of our beloved Steelers. Now, we switch from game to game, cheering members of our own squads while wishing fumbles and interceptions and missed field goals on our opponents’ athletes. Each week, we scour the statistics and make our best predictions for who will be the highest point getters based on past performance, conditions in which they thrive (or not), who their opponents are, etc. and make trades and select starters accordingly. We read columns by dedicated professional fantasy football analysts, track each player’s projected point total throughout the week, and monitor our adversaries' lineup changes, logging in to the league pages several times per day. So addictive is fantasy football, I have not yet found time to assemble my McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces or enter the winning codes online (no worries—I'm confident that I’ve won—my winnings will be waiting for me whenever I get to them).

Fantasy stats and potential roster adjustments are always on my mind. Last night, the wife was describing to our friends an educational research study she would like to perform for her PhD dissertation. Part of the proposed investigation involved tracking individual students’ academic performance by monitoring the grades of each pupil over time. As she described her plans, I interrupted her; my new idea was of much greater import than whatever research-statistical-significance-improving-education-and-bettering-mankind mumbo jumbo she was spouting, so I blurted out, "We should have a fantasy student league! We could pick students and get points for their grades and stuff!"

The moment passed— only minor interest was generated by my proposition, but I believe my idea is truly innovative. Last night's friendly get-together might not have been the appropriate venue in which to expand upon my scheme, so I will elaborate upon it here. At the beginning of a school year, members of a fantasy student league ("fantasy teachers") would draft a classroom. To make educated decisions, fantasy teachers would have access to dossiers on each potential pupil with information such as: past academic achievements and failures, grade-point-averages, athletic accomplishments and embarrassments, birth order, religion (you wouldn't want to draft all Jewish pupils, for instance, as you'd have an empty fantasy classroom on Rosh Hashanah and a dreadful score for the week!), attendance records, classroom participation statistics, medical charts (you'll want a fully vaccinated classroom roster), relationship history, and job data (you might not want to draft a student who's working 20 hours a week at The Gap).

Each week, your classroom will compete with another assembled from students in the same school or district and you will earn or lose points as appropriate to your students' performances. Below is a proposed scoring schedule for students in such a league:

Performances on Quizzes and Tests:
Grade of D or F: -3 points
Grade of C: 0 points
Grade of B: +1 point
Grade of A: +2 points
Grade of A+ or 100%: +3 points

Homework completion:
No assignments turned in complete and on time: -3 points
All assignments turned in complete and on time: +3 points

Classroom participation:
Every 3 questions or comments: +1 point
No questions or comments for the week: -2 points

Participation in a fight:
Wins the fight (and is not caught): +3 points
Loses the fight: -3 points
No decision (or caught fighting): 0 points

Consequences of Bad Behavior:
Missing Recess: -1 point
Detention: -3 points
In-school suspension: -5 points

Awards and Recognition:
Make the honor roll: +4 points
Student of the Week: +3 points
Earn a pizza through Book-It: +3 points
Win a spelling bee: +2 points
Win a game of Around-The-World: +1 point

Extracurricular Activities:
Weekly participation in recognized extracurricular activity: +1 point
Being a member of a winning athletic team: +1 point
Being a member of a losing athletic team: -1 point
Winning in a solo sport: +2 points
Losing in a solo sport: -2 points

Relationships:
In a relationship: +1 point
It's complicated: -1 point
Dumping: +4 points
Being dumped: -4 points

It would be prudent to disallow participation of "fantasy teachers" in districts in which their children attend school. 'Twould be a real shame to have a parent sabotaging their child's in-class performance to gain a competitive advantage over an opponent who has that student on his or her roster.

Depending on how successful the Fantasy Student League becomes, we can roll out an entire lineup of Reality-based Fantasy competitions. I've got a few in mind already, admittedly inspired by my own life experiences. In the Fantasy Science League, for example, participants would act as virtual funding agencies, drafting a lab of professors, post-docs (such as myself), graduate students, technicians, and undergrads. Points would be distributed for successful experiments that yield novel findings, authorship on papers in peer-reviewed journals, book chapters, and pretty western blots; points would be deducted for broken equipment, scientific fraud or misconduct, poor mentoring of younger scientists, and being scooped by competing labs.

Following naturally from Fantasy Student League is Fantasy Higher Education. In Fantasy Higher Ed, players earn points for academic achievement in proportion to the average amount of years it takes for an individual to make such achievements (4 points for bachelor's degree, 2 for a master's degree, 5 for a PhD, 3 for a JD, 1 for an LLM, 1 for each year of postdoctoral fellowship training, etc.). In contrast to most fantasy games, this fantastical competition, of course, would take much longer than a single year, as players would be tracked for the duration of their academic pursuits.

Perhaps the ultimate in Reality Fantasy contests is Fantasy Life, in which fantasy players ("gods") draft a team of real-life people as their own mock creations. Points are earned for life successes such as getting promotions, finding love, making babies, or purchasing hot tubs and detracted for missteps like going bankrupt, committing felonies, or traffic violations.

What Reality Fantasy competition would you like to see and how would points be allocated? Leave your ideas in the comments section!

Dumpster Diving

In an age when the economy is in the tank, banks and megacorporations are dropping like flies, and government-packaged stimuli and bailouts have become commonplace, there remains only one secure investment plan.

I have been paying into this plan for years and look forward to the glorious day when I can cash out and retire on my earnings. Like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, my treasure awaits me at the end of two glorious Golden Arches. That's right: Monopoly at McDonald's is back!

Yesterday, on the way to my car, I noticed that someone had thrown away a large soft drink cup-- get this!-- without peeling the affixed Monopoly game pieces! Of course, I overcame germ and grime and reached into the trash and removed the stickers for my own collection of this year's properties (you need to be willing to get your hands a little dirty-- or punctured by random sharp waste products-- if you want to be successful in this or any other worthwhile venture). Then, after work, I hit the McD's drive thru, specifically ordering so as to maximize game piece acquisition. I ate dinner while driving home (the wife is out of town). I pulled into the driveway around 8:00, and in my haste to let Watson out after a long day, I accidentally threw away my wrappers, game pieces still attached, in the trash can that we share with our neighbors.

I didn't realize this until I was driving to work this morning, mentally reviewing all of the properties I own (many in duplicate) and couldn't remember which ones I had earned yesterday. I replayed the post-large fry/"southern" chicken sandwich/ large diet coke consumption events in my head and could see myself, almost in slow motion, recklessly tossing the game pieces into the garbage. Needless to say, the first order of business when I arrive home this evening will be to retrieve those (probably winning) game pieces from the trash.

I haven't hit the jackpot (**yet**), but I have garnered two free breafkast sandwiches and 25% off my next purchase at Foot Locker. I'll keep you posted.



For a review of last year's Monopolooza, click here or here or here or here.

Hallowinners.

Tonight, we participated in the annual ghoulish ritual of distributing glucose, sucrose, and fructose to a disguised cohort of munchkins and preadolescents (and a few candy-grubbing high schoolers and one parent with a bag of his own!). As the evening progressed, the wife and I made multiple observations, each of which I considered transforming into a standalone blog entry. Instead, I have pooled them together for one uber-Halloween post. Enjoy.

Bwa ha ha ha!

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Our neighbor’s grandchild was clearly new to this whole trick-or-treating business. At the tender age of four, she was costumed as a pretty, pretty princess: dress, tiara, pumpkin-shaped candy receiving container. When she arrived, her grandparents started her off with some seed candy from their stash. After some cautious hesitation on her part, her parents finally convinced her that it was time to branch out to other houses in the neighborhood. Ours was a natural first hit.

She took a few steps toward our house and froze in her tracks. My wife stood poised at the end of our sidewalk, smiling and Kit Kat bar in hand. Princess would not move. Her parents grabbed her hand and pulled her toward my wife. Her eyes filled with tears. “No,” she cried, resisting her urging parents.

“Walk up to her and say, ‘Trick or treat,’” her mother coaxed.

“No, she can’t have my candy,” the girl replied.

My wife, a little confused, replied, “I don’t want to take candy from you. I want to give candy to you.”

These words had a miraculous shyness-curing effect. Without further ado, Princess rushed to my wife and said the magic words, and my wife dropped the Kit Kat bar into her pumpkin basket.

The girl (newly enthused about her evening’s prospects) bounded ahead of her parents to the next doorstep. “Trick or treat!!!” she shouted.

As she sprinted down the street from one house to the next, the wife and I had a good chuckle at her naïve misunderstanding of the night’s proceedings. She had thought that the costume-clad kids were supposed to give their candy to the adults lining the streets...

...which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I would be supportive of a pilot trial of Reverse Halloween (call it Treat-or-Trick), whereby children march up and down the streets handing out candy (or cheeseburgers or money or McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces) to the adults in the neighborhood.

*****************

Watson, our pride and joy, suffers from an irrational fear of large men and small children. Nonetheless, we tortured him this evening by keeping him outside with us as parades of small children, sometimes accompanied by large men, passed by our front door, occasionally pausing for us to drop treats into their treat receptacles.

We’ve learned that Watson experiences an irrational and overriding affinity for terrifying masks, even when mounted on the heads of large men and small children. Turns out that if you are a large man or small child evoking great fear in the loins of our humble non-hypoallergenic faux labradoodle, all you need to do to win his affection is don a Frankenstein or blood-stained hockey mask.

*****************

One young man arrived at our doorstep, appearing uncostumed to my untrained eye. As a matter of principle, I feel it is incumbent upon me as a perpetuator of the Halloween tradition, to, at the very least, challenge those who presume to take my candy without going to the effort to amuse or horrify me with their get-up.

Me to kid: Where’s your costume?

Kid to me (pointing to his gold chain): Can’t you see my bling?

Me to kid: Of course. Have some candy.

*****************

Most of the kids who stopped by tonight were reasonably polite, initiating the exchange with a cordial “Trick or treat”. My wife or I would continue the pleasantries by commenting on their costumes or the weather or the rising price of crude. We'd then proceed to drop one or two (if I was the distributor) or three or four (if my wife was the distributor) pieces of candy in the child’s bag or basket or pillowcase or hollow leg. This would be followed by a (sometimes parent-induced) whiny “thank you” (the apparent whininess of the departing youngster may in fact be an artifact of the Doppler effect).

We encountered the occasional youth with an oversized sense of entitlement. One such charming and mature prepubescent Halloweener arrived at our doorstep and demanded that my wife “Put it in! Put it in!” My wife, taken aback by his demeanor, paused, and engaged the boy in a stare down. He, of course, had no times for such silly games. “Hurry!” he shouted. After some thought, my wife reluctantly complied (we didn’t want wake up tomorrow to find our cars decorated with toilet paper or worse), but she only gave him one piece of candy.

*****************

Finally, as the soon-to-be-sugar-comatose came and went, we saw some truly fun and impressive costumes. I considered taking pictures of my favorite costumes and posting them to this blog, when I realized that that the taking and online distribution of pictures of other people’s children would in fact be illegal and downright creepy.

Thus, what follows is a description of three of my four favorite costumes from tonight.

The biohazard scientist costume, of course, resonated quite profoundly with my own tragically clumsy scientific leanings. The child sported green hair and a lab coat mottled with bright, fluorescent green biohazardous waste stains. Just another day on the job for an average Joe such as myself.

Next, the seven (or so)-year-old dressed as a birthday party table—a clever variation on the birthday gift box costume. The waddling boy was encumbered by a giant cardboard box that was shorter than him by about a head-and-a-half. The box was decorated with birthday plates and napkins and a birthday cake, and the boy expended considerable energy traipsing from one house to the next (let alone around the block). He earned his candy.

I also appreciated the angel who had lost her wings. Her father walked immediately behind her, holding the detached wings to her back, flapping them occasionally.

As for my favorite costume… this one I can post online. I paid for it.

The cutest con artist ever

I find myself once again blogging live from the Pittsburgh International Airport. I have spent the previous hour waiting patiently at my departure terminal, checking my email and the news over an airport McDonald’s breakfast. As per usual, I took extra care to order breakfast items that are accompanied by Monopoly game pieces. I peeled the game pieces from my food and set them carefully on the chair next to me. (To read about our other adventures in McDonald’s Monopoly, click here or here or here).

As I ate and surfed the web, a little girl, approximately 1-2 years old by my best estimation, began to walk around the boarding area, surveying the crowd for individuals with McDonald’s game pieces. She too had eaten at McDonald’s this morning with her father and had 4 pieces in her little hands.

She found two other McDonald’s Monopoly players and initiated a game of switcharoo, amusing herself to no end by picking up one person’s game pieces and delivering them to another in the boarding area. This went on for 20 minutes or so. I watched in horror as this miniature monster unknowingly tampered with my chances of winning big. On the inside I was piping mad, but on the outside, I participated joyfully, oohing and ahhing at the cute little princess waltzing around the airport. I did not want to be the bitter grown-up who refused to entertain the whimsy of small children for a miniscule chance at a major payday (which I feel is, of course, in all actuality, my birthright).

As the game progressed, the little girl’s father grew impatient with her, and he beckoned her, speaking in a foreign language. The girl was unresponsive to her father and continued to trade the extraordinarily low odds of each Monopoly player with the others.

Finally, when the girl, whose name I finally gathered to be Hannah, would not cease flirting with would-be passengers of US Airways 6651, her father stood up, marched over to her, took her hand in his and circulated around the boarding area, collecting all of the game pieces from the passengers with whom Hannah had cavorted. He then proceeded to slide the game pieces into his pocket, apologizing, in broken English, for the disturbance his daughter had caused.

It was at this moment that I realized I had been conned. This father and daughter duo had just scammed everyone at Gate B38 out of their game pieces! I bet they’re not even on my flight. When my aircraft begins to board, they’ll probably slip over to another gate and repeat the whole charade.

I’m onto them. It is unconscionable for a grown man to employ his own daughter in such an unethical (yet brilliant) scheme.

I wonder if they need a third partner.

Park Place(s)

Yesterday afternoon, we had a million-dollar scare.

The wife and I were chilling in the backyard with Watson and a neighbor and her dog when the conversation naturally turned to Monopoly at McDonald’s. Our neighbor rattled off the list of properties she needed before she could win big, and, surprise of surprises, we require the same game pieces. Neither party (my wife and myself nor our neighbor) had the rare piece the other was looking for.

Finally, my wife mentioned, “We have Park Place.” Our neighbor nearly jumped six feet in the air. “I have Boardwalk!” she shouted.

I was dubious. This would mean that, jointly, we possessed the million-dollar combination. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m going home right now to get it.”

“Let’s make an agreement,” I preempted. “If together we have both properties, we share the million dollar prize.” I nearly recommended dividing the purse into three equal shares: one for our neighbor, one for my wife, and one for me. “We split it, fifty-fifty. Deal?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“OK, but fifty-fifty,” I repeated, “right?”

“Definitely.”

She left. While she was away, I dashed to the computer to access the information superhighway to see which was the rare game piece: Park Place (which we have) or Boardwalk (which our neighbor claimed to have). It was Boardwalk, and my wife and I immediately agreed not to advertise to our neighbor that she had the putative needle in the haystack.

I contemplated the chances that our neighbor actually had the winning game piece. They were not high. I estimated the likelihood to be somewhere in the range of one tenth of one percent… one out of a thousand or so: terrible odds, to be sure, but way better than the chances of driving to McDonald’s and procuring the winning piece myself, which the official site tells me are roughly 1 in 184,698,474. In the course of a neighborly visit, then, my odds of winning big money (no whammy, no whammy!) improved nearly 200,000-fold. Those are pretty good terrible odds, if you ask me.

I also learned that McDonald’s pays its million-dollar prizes out as annuities over the course of 20 years… that would be $50,000 a year divided by two…. $25,000 per interested party… before taxes… not a terrible income supplement.

Our hearts were palpitating as we counted our chickens, against better wisdom, imagining what nice things we could do with a few extra G’s. We had let the fantasy sweep over us when she returned, head down. “I was wrong. I thought I had Boardwalk, but actually I needed Boardwalk.”

“Honest mistake. That’s ok,” I lied. As far as I was concerned, she had just diminished my chances of a major payday the same 200,000-fold by which she had improved them not 10 minutes earlier.

“We’ll win it yet,” I added unconvincingly.

“Buh duh duh duh duuuuh,” I remind myself with the McDonald’s jingle, “I’m loving it.”

I’ll love it even more when this time next year mine will the boy-next-door's friendly face appearing on the McDonald’s bags and other paraphernalia with a bubble above his head voicing the following: “I was a student, and I won a million dollars from McDonald's. You can, too!”

Just Visiting

If you read my previous post, you know just how jazzed I am about the Monopoly game at McDonald's.

Among the game pieces my wife and I enthusiastically peeled from our healthy dinner items last night was a free breakfast sandwich. I intended to use that coupon this morning.

At 5:00am, I pulled into the McDonald's drive-thru.

""Welcome to McDonald's. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I have a coupon for a free breakfast sandwich I'd like to redeem. I'll have an Egg McMuffin and--"

"We don't accept coupons."

"No, it's a Monopoly game piece."

"Sir, we no longer accept any coupons. Can I take your order?"

"But I got this here yesterday!"

"We no longer accept any coupons."

"Since when?"

"Since today."

"Why?"

"New rules."

"What!?"

"Can I take your order?"

Irked and bemused, I ordered an Egg McMuffin, hash brown, and a large coffee and pulled up to the window. The drive-thru attendant asked for some amount of money. I wasn't paying attention to the sum and handed the young man my credit card. After some time, he returned my card with my breakfast. I pulled forward and checked my order before I hit the road. There was no Egg McMuffin in my bag or on my receipt.

I put my car in park and walked into the restaurant.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I was just in the drive-thru. I ordered an Egg McMuffin and never received it."

"No you didn't."

"Yes, I did. I wanted to redeem my free breakfast sandwich coupon."

"We don't accept coupons."

"Yes, we've had this conversation already."

"I'd like an Egg McMuffin."

"But you didn't order one."

"OK. I'm ordering it now."

"We don't accept coupons."

"I know." Pause. Deep breath. "I would now like to place an order and pay for an Egg McMuffin."

The McD's employee stood in place, confused. The manager stepped in and completed my order. After a five-minute wait, she handed me an Egg McMuffin. I extended my credit card.

"No, sir. This one's on the house."

Free breakfast sandwich. And I still have my (now apparently worthless) free breakfast sandwich game piece.

Do not pass, go!

I love this time of year. The air is cool and crisp. The leaves are beginning to turn. Halloween decorations are appearing.

It can all mean just one thing: Monopoly is back at McDonald's.

Today, October 2, is the day that I willingly give in to the hype, allowing myself to be swept away by the marketing juggernaut that is the McDonald's advertising machine. Today is the day that I make the annual affirmation: This is going to be the year. I can feel it in my bones.

And I put my money where my mouth is. This morning, after having reheated (and being mildly repulsed by) day-old coffee, I decided to ditch the normal morning routine and head to the local drive-thru.

"Welcome to McDonald's. Can I help you?"

"Um, yes, what comes with a Monopoly game piece?"

"Sir, I just got here. I don't know. The game started today, and I don't have a list."

"Could you find out for me."

Pause. "OK." Long pause. "Hash browns."

"Great. I'll have two. And a large coffee."

"That'll be four dollars and..."

I was at the window before she could tell me the total price. I traded money for a chance to win money. As soon as my breakfast was in the car, I ravenously peeled the game piece stickers from the hash browns and began sticking them onto the free game board. Pennsylvania Railroad. Baltic Avenue. States Avenue. Marvin Gardens. OK. No big win yet. But these things take time.

Throughout the day, I'd consult my game board, strategizing, planning. If I could get Ventnor and Atlantic Avenues, we'd have earned $25,000. Or, if I could just collect B & O, Reading, and Short Line Railroads, I'll be set for a quick $100 (which would just about cover our month-long Monopoly investment).

When my wife called and asked what I'd like to do for dinner, I blurted out: "Monopoly. I mean, McDonald's."

On the way home, I pulled into the same drive-thru. The conversation began in much the same manner as our morning exchange.

"Welcome to McDonald's. Can I help you?"

"Um, yes, what comes with a Monopoly game piece?"

She rattled off a longer list of items that brought the promise of big winnings. I ordered exclusively from that list.

I could barely wait to come home. I whipped the car into our parking spot and scurried to the door, arms full of game pieces and their attached beverages and food items. We sat down to eat, but before I dug into the Big Mac (which I don't particularly care for beyond the context of the hype and hope of large-scale financial windfalls), I spread out our game board. Together, my wife and I peeled the game pieces and affixed them to their cognate positions on the game board.

"What do you have?" I asked her.

"Pennsylvania Railroad," she replied.

The long-forgotten sensation of disappointment in duplicate game pieces washed over me, dampening my enthusiasm.

"Already have it. What else you got?"

"Um, Baltic Avenue."

"Great. Got that one already, too."

And so it goes. With each new game piece revealed, the likelihood of collecting novel game pieces diminishes. We incrementally fill our game board, a single conspicuous unattained hard-to-find property in each set. Every now and again, McDonald's throws us a bone: 10% off at Foot Locker or a free ring tone or breakfast sandwich.

Anyone who's played Monopoly with me knows that I will stop at nothing until I win, just as I evaded paying rent to my wife when I landed on her property (with a hotel) while she was in the restroom (she never called "time out" or asked another player to be a surrogate guardian of her properties). Of course, she won that night. I came in second. Our guests came in third and fourth. Not that I'm keeping track.

I am not deluding myself: I know the odds are against me. That's just how I like it. I am the underdog. It will make the victory all the more glorious when small-time kid hits it big.

I haven't won yet. But, it's only been one day. It's not a sprint, but rather, like any respectable game of Monopoly, a marathon. And this thing goes until October 29 (or while supplies last).