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Make your own at Hallmark.com. Good to see Hallmark staying relevant.

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More hazy memories from Thursday night.

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Thursday night was our office holiday party. I could try to explain the theme or caption each photo, but I’d rather let the pictures tell the story. By the number of people who ended up taking Friday off or stumbling in around 11, the party was a raging success.

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Ronald Reagan almost appeared in Back to the Future III? Trent Lott is whipping minorities? Here’s another round-up of my recent contributions to mental_floss:

• Nothing I like better than misused quotes in signage.
• Especially when said misused quotes refer to a possibly-made-up holiday.
• That “Minimum Credit Card Purchase: $10″ sign is against Visa rules.
• What does the whip do?
• Sportsmen of this and other years.
• Some Saved by the Bell trivia.
• Some famous Rutgers alumni.
• We need a new phrase to replace “the best thing since sliced bread.”
• Memorable Movie Moments, plus the English Family Dreamgirls/Rocky Balboa pact.
• Back to the Future: The Trivia.
• Stuff Andy Rooney really did say.
• And spectacular stories of storied spectators.

Allen Iverson’s high school football highlight reel.

A lot has changed in a year. Especially Bailey, and our living room walls. See the outtakes after the jump.

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I spent two summers in Los Angeles. In 1999, a night class at UCLA qualified me for student housing while I worked at internet startup Stamps.com. The following year, the founders of Stamps had cashed out and moved on, starting a data security firm called Archive. They invited me to ride along in their intern sidecar.

The sequel summer was set in the Hollywood Hills, where my friend Brett and I rented a room in this house in Nichols Canyon, described as “A clean-lined mid-century oasis with walls of glass and vibrant canyon and city light views.” Judging by that link, it’s now a location for filming. This does not surprise me. During my 21st birthday party, a former inhabitant came to see his old place. “I loved this house,” he said. “You guys still shoot porn here?”

Our roommates were characters, but this post can’t begin to describe them. I’m three paragraphs in and haven’t told you why we’re here. How rude of me. I’ve had a series of (what I consider) great ideas this week. Almost none could ever be turned into actual profit, at least not by me. So I’m going to roll out a few this month. Run with them and report back. We’ll start with People Placements.

Which brings me back to that second LA summer.

Being the film and television capital of the world, it’s not surprising how many struggling actors I stumbled across. But what stuck with me was how many were fully funded by mom and dad. Many were driving $60,000 cars and paying $3,000/month for rent. They were out every night. I saw no signs of income or budgeting.

The parents sponsoring this are the target of my first Big Idea. Every TV show could set aside 2 or 3 non-speaking roles for People Placements. A handful of struggling parents of struggling actors could pony up $50,000 to give their son or daughter what might be their big break, just like Staples pays to stock the shelves of The Office. The larger the role, the larger the price tag. Is $250,000 for a few lines worth it? Maybe not to you or me. But if you’ve been dragging your kid to auditions since she was 3, why not heave one last pass for the end zone?

I’m not suggesting this is a great way to make it in show business. But I own two TiVos, and even watch live events on a 20 minute delay to allow commercial skipping. Networks need new ways to pay the salaries of actors who didn’t need a $100,000 check from Mom to launch their careers.

By the way, don’t tell me SAG would be against this. SAG would get a big cut. Also, if this is a concept already being employed, I applaud the industry’s ingenuity. Clearly no research was conducted here.

Ten years ago today, Morris Knolls defeated Malcolm X. Shabazz 36-20 to capture their third straight NJ state title. Last month I found this picture in my parents’ basement and borrowed a scanner from my in-laws’ garage. The crazy looking guy numbered 50 is me.

Ten years ago tomorrow, this photo ran on the front page of The Star Ledger. Golden Eagle historians will recognize Bryan Pojanowski’s head behind my left shoulder. Poj was LaDainian Tomlinson before LaDainian Tomlinson (Poj is four months older), and far more deserving of full color ink. Over my right shoulder is Hemal Patel, whose five pass deflections in the previous playoff game helped get us back to Giants Stadium.

Surprised this isn’t getting more press.

Bailey would prefer if we slept at the foot of the bed. She is not pleased when we try to muscle in.

I’ve never been one to advocate theft. But out of my eye’s corner, I can see an item I desperately want. Easily within reach is my seatmate’s cell phone. It’s on her lap. She’s making angry snoring noises. Now’s my chance.

Greetings from Amtrak. We’re coming to you live (on tape delay) from the New York to D.C. leg of Amtrak’s Northeast Regional Service. I have no business in our nation’s capital, but my wife did, and I rarely pass up complimentary lodging.

This represents a significant upgrade from my standard commuting vessel. My legs have room. I was given an in-ride magazine featuring pieces on Jerome Bettis and the best undiscovered restaurants in Montpelier, Vermont. An entire car is dedicated to the sale of snacks, an entity prohibited on my daily bus.

My fellow passengers are more attractive and less angry; they’re from everywhere and could be going anywhere. I helped an elderly Australian couple with their bags, flexing both my diplomatic muscles and my delts. The husband told me they were en route to Newport News, Virginia. The way he said it, Newport News was followed by four question marks. Naming a town must be such a rush.

The absence of a cell phone ban is one of my few complaints. I probably wouldn’t mind if not for the football-shaped woman beside me (“more attractive” was not universal). Her body’s resemblance to an oblong leather ball has little to do with my desire to kick her through uprights.

On paper, her story warrants sympathy. Before even leaving Penn Station, I’d learned her husband had just called it a marriage, trading her in for a younger model. He’d also taken sole possession of their New York apartment. Shipping home her belongings was the purpose of the trip she was in the process of completing.

She was a sympathetic figure until she started bossing around the help. “My reading lights aren’t working,” she told the ticket-taker, despite showing no evidence of reading material. “This isn’t the first time, either. What’s the matter with you people?”

She turned to me for solidarity. “These guys are space cadets, huh?” The space cadet was taking my ticket at the time.

The lack of lighting didn’t slow her relentless phone activity, which grew louder and more manipulative. “I won’t be able to get down to the city as much,” she shouted into her device. “At least I have friends like you, who will probably let me stay over.” I felt compelled to introduce the concept of hotels.

“Maybe I can leave a few outfits in your closet.” Luggage, too.

She made hissing noises at the Virginia-bound Aussies talking amongst themselves. “I’m on a call.” More offended I’ve never been.

Her campaign for free lodging and storage space continued, targeting every New York homeowner she knew. Between New York and Philadelphia, she made seven calls and received none. All this canvassing was exhausting; she soon passed out, slouched back, cell phone precariously resting on lap. Her nagging calls were rivaled in lunacy by her bitter snoring. These were the sounds of a woman who’d drive into her ex-husband’s new family room, then maniacally rationalize the decision.

While I debated hiding her phone in the snack car, she received her first and only call. Even her ring tone was loud and obnoxious. She frantically came back to life, reminding me of a house regaining power. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if I knew what I was doing for Christmas.” Like a blender resuming its duties after a blackout, she didn’t miss a beat.

I’ll admit it. It is nice.

(An actual edition of Commuting Suicide will be pulling in later today.)