Mixing it up

Hi everyone, and welcome yet again to this little slice of the internets called UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unceremoniously Obnoxious Pterodactyls Terrorize Aardvarks," but I think I saw a special about that on the National Geographic channel once. Instead, this UOPTA is where I think about things, remember other things, and then type them up for your visual consumption. Sound good? (Thanks to my lovely wife for supplying that UOPTA. Send your own in to ptklein@gmail.com, would ya?)

Speaking of that same lovely wife, we recently started doing something that many people had been almost begging us to do: watch Mad Men. I can't tell you how many people were shocked that I wasn't watching it and expressed harsh disapproval. It wasn't that I was against the show, I just wanted to have some time to start watching from the beginning and eventually catch up to the current episodes. It's similar to how I've felt for a while about The Wire. Everyone tells me it's great and that I'm really missing out, so I plan on watching the entire series at some point. Well, we're making our way through the first season, and I'm rather enjoying it so far. Aside from my wonderment at the amount of smoking and drinking, it's a well-acted and intriguing show.

That said, I'd like to focus on one word in particular from that last sentence: "drinking." I'm not a big drinker by any means, but part of me can't help but find a half-full rocks glass with some indiscernible brownish liquid incredibly cool. (Not to the extent that the Mad Men characters have those glasses in their hands, mind you.) I've often wanted to have "my drink" be something cool when I go to a bar or party, but that kind of thing apparently doesn't happen naturally at all. Uh oh, I feel a random tangent that will hopefully tie back in nicely coming on.

My tastes often expand either by accident or by the power of suggestion. Here is a non-drinking example. Way back in the day, I went to summer camp with my favorite brother and a few friends. One day in particular, the counselors organized "The Dating Game" in which the campers would partake. The winners would get to go to McDonalds for lunch, so naturally, we all wanted to win. I was probably only around 8 or 9 years old, so dating wasn't really on the top of my list yet. I was a good kid who didn't cause any problems, so I was chosen to be one of the three unseen suitors during one of the games. I remember it fairly clearly. I was Bachelor #2, and along with the two other suitors who flanked me, I stared straight ahead at the crowd. The unseen bachelorette asked me only one question: "Bachelor #2, if you were a sandwich, which part would you be and why?" Not turning on any charm whatsoever, I replied, "Well, I guess I'd be middle part, because...I just like being in the middle of things. That's why I'm Bachelor #2." The other guys each got two questions, and then time was called. I saw some girls in the crowd holding up fingers to the bachelorette as to which guy to choose. I felt like I saw many more ones and threes, but she surprisingly selected me. Confused but eager to eat some quality fast food, I smiled.

We got to McDonalds, and a counselor took all of our orders. As if programmed, I rattled off, "A Big Mac combo, just cheese and pickles, and a Coke Classic for the drink." I grabbed some ketchup packets and got a table with the other boys my age, completely missing the point of the game. (In truth, I don't remember a single thing about the bachelorette - not name, hair color, anything. What a ladykiller I was.) We were all talking about something very important (like which Beastie Boys song was our favorite) when the trays of food came. I opened the styrofoam box in front of me and saw a Big Mac with everything on it. I asked around at my table, but the only other Big Mac was also that way. I did something very un-young-Peter-like: I just went for it. To my shock, I really liked it. Maybe special sauce, lettuce, and onions weren't going to kill me after all. Who knew? From that day forward, the formerly picky burger eater ordered the Big Mac without saying, "With no..." anything. Way to go me. And that horizon was broadened by accident.

To get back to drinking and how that ties in, I'd like to briefly go through my evolution of imbibing alcoholic beverages. When I first began drinking alcohol (almost legally), I stuck to some things that tasted ok. This meant wine coolers, the glorious but now defunct Zima, and other similar concoctions. I drank beer, but I still made a face after almost every sip. It was a means to an end though, and I wanted to acquire the taste. Time passed, and beer and I became good friends. I tried some hard liquor every once in a while, but nothing really struck my fancy. Then, during my senior year of college, I became a big fan of spiced rum and Coke. I even bought a bottle of Captain Morgan's to "fix myself a drink" from time to time. (I put that in quotes because I can't say that phrase without affecting my voice to sound either old-fashioned or possibly creepy.) We had tall glasses in our place that I'd use for that, starting with three fingers of rum and then an entire can of Coke. It fit perfectly, and better yet, it got my friend Greg to start calling me "Three Finger Klein." I felt like a gunslinger or something.

More years passed, and I pretty much stuck to beer, wine (which I was learning to really appreciate), and my Cap'n and Coke. Greg had started liking scotch, and tried it a couple of times with the same exact response: "Why didn't I remember that I don't like this?" It was too strong, and while I thought about learning to acquire that taste as well, the cons outweighed the pros. Then, in April of 2007, I was at a charity event for work with my lovely wife and some friends. One of the guys was going to the bar and asked if I wanted anything. "Surprise me," I said, feeling extremely daring. He came back a few minutes later with something. "What is it?" I asked. "I'll tell you later," he said. I took a sip and really liked it. He told me it was a 7 and 7. I asked what that was, and he told me (Seagram's 7 and 7-Up or a similar product). More branching out! My lovely wife missed the last part of the conversation and asked what I was drinking. "7 and 7," I said all cool-like. "What's that?" she asked. "Fourteen," I said, and then I waited for a rim shot to accompany her shaking head. It never came. But here I was, suddenly with two mixed drinks that I liked. I was getting somewhere.

Let's fast forward some more until we get to May of this year. I was at a conference in Ron Burgundy's hometown, hanging out with some clients after dinner. We'd had a few drinks (a 7 and 7 and a couple of beers over the course of a few hours), and one guy wanted "an after dinner drink" before calling it a night. "Uh oh, I have no such thing in my stable," I thought. The first guy ordered a cognac, and I thought about joining him in that, even though it honestly scared me a little. The guy next to me said, "What are you having?" "Whatever you are," I said. This was a frightening statement, because that guy drinks so much that he practically has gills. "You sure?" he asked. With a look and voice that exuded confidence, I said, "Absolutely. Surprise me." "Ok. Two Makers Mark Manhattans please," he said. I gulped. I didn't know what kind of liquor Makers Mark was for sure, and I didn't know what happened to it when it became the Manhattan version. The drinks came, and to my utter surprise, I rather enjoyed it. So much so, in fact, that I immediately sent myself an email that only said, "Makers Mark Manhattan." Ready for the best part? This drink looks cool. I'm talking "Mad Men cool" here, served in a rocks glass and everything. I think I now have a go-to cool drink, not cut with any soda to wuss it up or anything. According to a website I looked at the next day, it's two parts Makers Mark (which I learned is a bourbon - I like bourbon?), one part vermouth, a dash of something called bitters, and an optional garnish of a cherry. How cool is that? I feel like I should go get a fedora or something.

I haven't had the opportunity to order one of my new drinks again yet, but I assure you that I will soon. I'm not gonna go out and buy three new bottles for the off chance that I'll feel like "fixing myself a drink" one night after work. That's just not my thing, but hopefully I go out somewhere soon that I can just rattle that off and soak in the coolness. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the former Bachelor #2 is back in the middle of things, and he's bringing several drink options with him.

With that, let's mix, shake, and strain ourselves on over to the Car Watch.

First off, my homey Rockabye saw a plate that takes things to a new level: "ATRNY4U." Yes, it's not enough to be in the yellow pages, have a bus bench ad, or maybe a website. This lawyer wants you to know that, should the time come, s/he is there to represent you. One problem though: how do we contact this attorney? That's why we need the ultimate in lawyer car advertisements: two bumper stickers on either side of the plate that read "LAWYER," and the 7-digit phone number as the plate. The area code can be on the top part of the license plate frame, and the bottom can alert us to any specialties (i.e. personal injury). It's just a matter of time, isn't it?

Next up, my lovely wife and I saw a plate that I really liked: "MUU WAH." It's clearly an attempt to replicate an evil laugh, and I applaud that.

Lastly, I saw a van for a flooring company. Their phone number, as boldly lettered onto its side, is 866-WE DO WUD. I'm torn here. Normally, I'd applaud this person for sticking to the true 7 digits and not getting into the famed 800-SAVETHECHILDREN territory. That said, I would actually prefer to see WOOD there, despite the superfluous 8th digit. "WUD" just looks stupid to me, and that's clearly not the point of getting a vanity number. So...good effort, I guess, but poor execution.

Ok, this ended up taking up more space than I'd imagined, so I'm ending this here and now. Meet me back here next Friday for more stuff, ok? In the meantime, please email me with anything that crosses your mind (inlcuding things that UOPTA can stand for). And now, los happies: Have a very happy Fourth of July tomorrow, my friends and friends of friends. On Sunday, my favorite nephew goes from "almost fo-wuh" to actually 4 years old, so happy birthday to that frickin' adorable kid. And...I think that's it. I don't have my calendar in front of me, so I apologize if I'm missing anyone's birthday or half-birthday. Let me know and I'll apologize profusely (or antifusely). Take care, everyone.

Badvertising

My dear homepeople of the internets, I welcome you to another post here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Usually Only Pilots Teach Aviation," but if that's the case, I really think that they need to bump that up to 100% of the time. "Usually" simply can't cut it this time. Instead, UOPTA is where I write my thoughts and stories for my 8-10 loyal readers to hopefully enjoy. (If you can think of something that UOPTA can stand for, please email it to me at ptklein@gmail.com and make your presence felt in the first paragraph of an upcoming post.) As is often the case, I have some unrelated items to share with you all today.

It probably comes as a shock to absolutely no one that I'm critical of the way companies advertise their products. I've already discussed the extreme example at great length (Carl's Jr. garnering a Peter Klein boycott), but there are lesser, more general ones that bother me as well. I'm going to make up names for these categories. The first one I shall call...The Self-Disparaging Comparison. Allow me to explain the SDC with a crystal clear example:

Picture a commercial for Pine Sol or a similar product. At some point, it's likely that there will be a split screen showing one mop or sponge doing a mediocre job on the left while the product they're selling is doing a kick-ass job on the right. What's the problem with that? Well, often the product on the left is the old (or current) version of the same brand's product. "But look at how NEW Pine Sol with its extra added cleaning power takes care of the same mess!" I made up that specific example, but I'm not far off at all. Basically, when products show how much better they are than the same brand's recent product, they're essentially saying, "Yeah, that stuff that you spent your money on because we said it was the best and is now sitting in your cabinet...well, it didn't really do that great a job. This one is a lot better." But what if they told you that something killed 99.9% of germs before? Can they rightfully come out with a "better" product without claiming all 100%? My suggestion is to stick to belittling "the other guys" or similar products in the same category and to just let your old versions fade away gracefully.

I thought of another SDC during that last paragraph. "Now with 100% real meat!" To me, that only elicits one reply: "What the hell were you serving me before?" It's almost like a used car salesman saying, "This car over here is special - it's never been found with two dead hookers in it." Ok, maybe not quite like that, but who among us hasn't forced an analogy to dead hookers before?

The second advertising method that's currently bothering me is one I'll call the Arbitrary Size Boost. I've noticed the ASB many times in the past, but I saw it again this week and it spurred this entire post. My shaving cream is very pleased with itself. "35% More! (compared to our 7 oz. size)," it tells me. I see this all the time. "50% more!" it'll say on a bag of some snack food. You know what they don't tell us in those little blurbs? That it costs the same as the smaller size. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. Yes, the four-pack of shaving cream at Costco now has the larger can size in it, but am I paying more for it? If so, then why not make it 75% bigger and raise the price more? The thing is, they don't care to mention when the opposite happens, which does all the time (especially lately). Granola bar boxes that once came with 6 now have five. My bag of tortillas has 16 instead of the 20 to which I grew accustomed. Bottles that appear to be the same size now have indentations on the bottom to sneakily decrease the volume. You never see, "Now with 25% less volume (compared to our 12 oz. size)." I understand why they'd try to be sneaky about that (especially when prices remain the same often for the lesser amount), but I don't want to see those same companies tout their "bigger sizes" a year from now when they're actually the same size they had before getting sneaky. I'm watching you, retail products.

Ok, time to switch topics. In this here blog, when I say I don't like a phrase, it's usually because it either doesn't make sense or is just wildly inappropriate. Not today, my good men and women. Here's a phrase that I dislike for a whole 'nuther reason: "Adding to an already tough drive." If you hear that on the radio in your car, you'd better hope that it had nothing to do with your route. Unfortunately, everything seems to be an already tough drive - getting in a car at all is really beginning to suck in L.A. There's no rhyme or reason anymore, and I thrive off rhyme and reason. Driving to my grandparents' house last weekend, we were suddenly in bumper-to-bumper traffic. It was a Saturday in the early afternoon, but that didn't matter. There can be horrible traffic anywhere, on any day, and at any time in the greater Los Angeles area. (And in the worse Los Angeles area too I suppose.) As someone who already worries about leaving enough time to get somewhere, all this traffic does is make me anxious. There seem to be only two possible outcomes when I'm leaving to drive somewhere a moderate distance away. One: I don't hit traffic and get there way too early, usually leading to time alone in the car, writing emails on my Blackberry that I could've been writing on a real computer if I hadn't left so damn early. Two: I hit traffic and worry the whole time that I'm going to be late. It's worse if I'm going somewhere for the first time and have to find out where it really is, where to park, etc. Oy vey, this traffic thing isn't good for me at all.

And with that, let's slowly inch our way over to the Car Watch.

First off, my friend Dave very rarely sends me anything for the Car Watch section, but when he does, it's a doozy. Check out this picture he sent me of a car he saw when he went to an Angels game recently:

In case you can't read that, it says, "For Letters Call." Oh, they do lettering on things. How interesting. And since it's a toll-free number, I'm guessing that it's not just a guy in his garage doing it as a hobby. Why then, pray tell, would the driver spell his or her favorite team's name wrong right below that? That's comically awful. I wonder how many people have seen that car, thought about calling, and then purposely not given them the business because of that error. That's your livelihood, dude! Come on, put just a little pride in it. To me, this colossally negligent error in business advertising is tied for the worst I've seen. The other, sent a while back from loyal reader Sue, was a tutoring company that specializes in helping with "grammer." Those two errors so successfully strip the companies of credibility that I might not even point it out to them in person as punishment for their foolishness. People, please proofread. Please.

Next up, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate that he saw: "(Heart) 2B DST." Now I ask you, friends, which makes more sense: "Love to be dust," or "Love to be Daylight Savings Time?" Neither, right? "Love tube dust?" I don't know what that could mean, but that's not stopping me from throwing it out there. Whatever it stands for, the driver clearing loves it.

And lastly, my dad sent me a very good plate that he spied. It read, "CLSY BRP." Can that be anything but "classy burp?" I guess the driver's initials could be BRP, but if that's the case, then s/he showed an amazing lack of foresight in selecting that plate. I can't help but wonder what would constitute a classy burp. Is it in a baritone with an appropriately genteel hand mannerism? Would it be reserved for after a particular food or drink, like caviar or port? I want to know this, yet I have a feeling that I'll be left in the dark. Any additional thoughts, my friends?

Ok, that's it for now. I'm tired and ready for the weekend. How about you guys? (This is the part where you're supposed to cheer.) I can't hear you! (Now you're supposed to cheer louder.) Whoa, I guess you're ready for it too! I'll be back here next Friday with more stuff, things, and items. In the meantime, I've got some happies to dish out. Happy birthday today to my good friend Jason. Also, congratulations to him and his new fiancee Wendy on getting engaged. We're very happy for them and can't wait to congratulate them in person sometime in the near future. Happy birthday to me tomorrow. Thank you, me. No problem. Happy half-birthday to my dad on Sunday, and happy 6th birthday to little Katy, daughter of Sacky Kevin and Sacky Christi. Isn't it weird that they have the same first name? Alrighty folks, have happy and healthy weekends and weeks. See you in July, foolios.

Usage and abusage

Hello everyone, and welcome to another Friday of potential fun at UOPTA. No, no, that does not stand for "Unicorns On Path To Antarctica," but that does pose additional questions in my mind. First, are they galloping or flying when they're over landmasses? Second, when they fly, do they do so in a V formation like birds or more willy-nilly like some kind of air stampede? And third, why can't I have musical ability so that I could start a band and name it Air Stampede? You can't spell that without Peter, after all. (Thanks to my homey Rockabye for sending in that UOPTA. Please send in your own to ptklein@gmail.com; I'm already almost out of them.) Friends, UOPTA is a place in which I write thoughts and stories (and usually has nothing to do with mythical winged creatures). So let's see what I've got this week, shall we?

Ooh, lots of random items today in my bag of words. Let's start small. There is a word that a great many people say incorrectly, and it comes up just often enough to piss me off: Espresso. That's right, with an S. There's no X in that word, people. Just because you already know a word that sounds like that one but has an X doesn't mean that you have to insert an X into this one. Oh boy, now I'm really getting angry. I just did a search for "expresso" online, and after listing a film and some software by that name, Wikipedia has this: "an alternate spelling of espresso." I refused to believe this and went immediately (without passing Go) to the Merriam Webster site. Sure enough, there's an entry: "Expresso: variant of espresso." Variant? More like f'd up way of saying it. (For the record, my spellcheck doesn't recognize "expresso," so I've got that going for me.)

I understand that the chief concern of a linguist is the actual usage of language and not in how correctly it is being used. I've learned that many of our most proper forms and constructions were born from improper usage. Once it becomes popular enough though, it doesn't matter if it's "right" or not; that's just the way it's being used and is therefore acceptable going forward. And that, my friends, is why I'm not a linguist by profession. If I can't get upset at poorly used English, then that's just not for me. Am I supposed to sit idly by while people say, "I'm literally drownding in paperwork" when it's figurative and there's no D in that word? I don't think so.

Oh crap, the internet just makes me more upset and confused. I don't know why I just did this, but I wanted to see if the incorrect "visa versa" was getting its own entry too. I feel justified in saying this is incorrect because it's Latin. I don't think we should be able to modify a dead language. In any case, I was pleased to see a few sites pointing out that "vice versa" is the correct form instead of the one that bugs me. But then I found this little nugget that turned my world upside down: "Classical Latin pronunciation dictates that the letter C can only make a hard sound...and a v is pronounced like a w; thus wee-keh wehr-suh." Wee-keh wehr-suh? What am I supposed to do with that? I feel like I now have two options. One, I continue saying "vice vehr-suh" going forward, all the while knowing that I'm incorrect and therefore almost as bad as the people who say "visa." Two, I start pronouncing it the Classical Latin way and have nobody understand what the hell I'm talking about. If they figure it out, then I'm Snobby McSnobberson for saying something obscure. It's a lose-lose situation.

Moving on to another item about words. I was on a phone call at work earlier this week, and one person told another that he would "send a facsimile over." I didn't realize that anyone still said that whole word when referring to the electronic transfer of a document through telephone lines. Does that guy also go to the gymnasium after work? And then study mathematics? What if he catches influenza?

Our next item also involves words, but this one actually made me laugh instead of fume. I was in Miami for a conference earlier this year, and I walked past a theater called The Fillmore. However, that's not how I first saw it. For some reason, the sign on the front of the building says, "F THE FILLMORE." The F is in a different font than the other all-cap letters, but it's directly in front of them and really looks like it's part of the name. I found one picture online, but it's from a little too far away. You'll have to trust me on this one. "F THE FILLMORE" it says, and I'd be shocked if a large percentage of people didn't also see it that way. You can't spell "percentage" without Peter, after all.

Ok, last item before we shift gears (pun intended). I've written before about people misunderstanding my name occasionally when I say it. It doesn't happen nearly as often to me as it does my friend Greg, but I've still heard some good ones (i.e. Gator and the completely made-up Geter). Recently though, I got a new one. "Your name?" the young lady asked. "Peter," I said (truthfully, might I add). She made a strange face. "Your name is Dealer?" she asked incredulously. "No," I said, "Peee Terrrrr." "Oh, that makes more sense." Gee, ya think? I wonder which association she made in that brief moment of thinking that my name was Dealer: drug dealer, blackjack dealer, or car dealer? That's the order in which I thought of them.

Ok, I lied. Here's the last item. Sorry about that, but I reminded myself of something and figured I may as well keep on keeping on. I worked for a short amount of time in one of the academic departments at UC Santa Barbara right after graduating and before moving onto the college advising office. This department was very small, with only four full time staff members. One of them, a nice woman we'll call Sherry, kept accidentally referring to me as David for the first two weeks I was there. Every time I corrected her, and every time she laughed and said she didn't know where that was coming from. About a month into my stay there, the department head put a pamphlet in my box with a routing slip on it for people to check off that they'd read it. It had our initials on it, or at least it was supposed to. I could clearly identify everyone else's initials, but instead of mine, there was a "DR." "Hey Sherry," I said, "Did you create these new routing slips?" "Yeah, why?" "I'm not on here," I said. She walked over and took a look. "I did it again! I'm sorry, Peter, I don't know why I keep calling you David, but that should be a P instead." "Um, that's not my last initial either," I said. She looked back at the sheet and then laughed for the next ten minutes. She couldn't explain that one either, but somehow Peter Klein had morphed into David R. when she was typing that up. It was very strange, especially when I brought my friend Dave (whose last name starts with an R) into the office shortly thereafter. The upside of that gaffe was that I could occasionally sign emails as "David R." over the following two months and make her crack up every time.

And with that, let's get ourselves misidentified over at the Car Watch.

A week or two ago, I saw a Lincoln Navigator with the plate, "NVGATOR." "Wow, they really want us to know what kind of car that is, and they're certainly not trusting us to just read what it says on the back." One day later, my favorite brother sent me this plate: "JAGUAAR." Yep, it was on a Jaguar. Not to sound too much like Seinfeld, but what's the deal with that? We can see what kind of car you're driving; you don't need to doubly tell us by also spelling it wrong on your license plate.

My homey Rockabye saw this plate a little while back: "IMMUNE1." Now don't you think that's tempting fate just a little? If I were omnipotent, I'd be tempted to see just how immune that driver is to things. And if I were impotent, I'd probably drive a big truck to overcompensate.

Lastly, I saw a license plate frame that confused me a little bit. On the top, it read, "Sorry." On the bottom: "'Bout That." Is s/he just a really bad driver who wants to issue a preemptive blanket apology? If that driver cut me off or waited at a green light for a few seconds before hitting the gas, I don't think I'd consider that frame as a free pass. Fortunately for both of us, the car behaved just fine while it was near me.

Ok, that's it for PK/DR. I hope you all have glorious weekends and weeks, mis amiguitos. In the meantime: Happy half-birthday to my favorite brother and my good friend Jon tomorrow. Happy Fathers' Day on Sunday (especially to my dad), which is also my homey Rockabye's half-birthday. Happy birthday on Wednesday to my friend Ozzie, and happy half-birthday to Jesus on Thursday. Last but certainly not least, way to go, Lakers! I must take partial credit for their victory, for I finally figured out how I have to sit on my couch for them to win. It involves bending a toe in an odd way which ends up hurting quite a bit after a while, but I'm willing to sacrifice for my team. I wonder if they'll acknowledge me by sending me a championship ring. I'm just as responsible as Adam Morrison (if not more). Anyway, I'm proud of them and hope to sit correctly and cheer them on to next year's title as well. Shaloha, and remember to write to me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Slipped my mind

Good day, everyone, and welcome to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unskinned Onions Produce Tears Again," but that's a sad reality of kitchen life that we all must face at some point in our lives. (Thanks to my loving mother-in-law for sending in that UOPTA. Get your own in this top paragraph by writing to ptklein@gmail.com. Pretty please.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write things that are on my mind, and people just like you willingly read those thoughts and stories. So let's get right to it.

Actually, I have a little story about today's date first. My favorite brother, all of my best friends, and I have a habit of speaking almost entirely in movie quotes. Some movies peak quickly and then fizzle out. For example, we quoted the hell out of "John Carpenter's Vampires" (because it was so awful) for a year or so before it almost completely left our collective vernacular. Same with "Contact," which has some good lines in it. Other movies stick around for the long haul. For example, the first "Austin Powers" movie, "Anchorman," "Face/Off," and "The 40 Year-Old Virgin" are firmly established and aren't going anywhere. Right up there with those four is a little movie from 1998 called "Rush Hour." It's 2009 now, and lines from that movie still come up all the time in our normal speech. I thought of this because I saw today's date and chuckled to myself. You see, the shadowy bad guy of "Rush Hour" is known as Juntao (pronounced so that it rhymes with "moon now"). Almost every year since then, I've called or written my homey Rockabye to say, "JUNE TWELVE!" in my best Jackie Chan voice. I know it doesn't really sound like Juntao, but it always makes me smile. JUNE TWELVE!

Now here's what I intended to write about today. Thank you for your patience. I have found yet another thing in this world that I absolutely detest: Not remembering something that was very clear to me at one point in my life. I'm not just talking about forgetting someone's name here. Allow me to illustrate via the power of two examples.

I was talking to my favorite brother and my friend Greg (The Pigh) last weekend. I'm not sure exactly how it came up, but Greg mentioned something that I used to say quite frequently while playing an ice hockey video game back in the 96-97 academic year. In hockey, there's something called a "one timer." Wikipedia defines it as a shot "that occurs when a player meets a teammate's pass with an immediate slapshot without any attempt to control the puck on his stick." Got it? Good. Anyway, every single time one of us did a one timer, I would say, "One time, one time, just be thankful for my rhyme." It was from some old school rap, and thinking about "one timer" got me singing that line. Greg got in on the action too, even though he didn't know the song. He affixed an accent to his version for some reason, and we're not sure if it was intended to be Irish or Jamaican.

In any case, Greg brought up that line while we were chatting on Saturday. The last few times I'd thought of it, I realized that I couldn't remember which rap song it was from. I turned to my brother, who knew all of the same songs but was 3.5 years older at the time, so hopefully had a better shot of remembering. "Oh, Kev, what song is this from?" I asked before launching into the line. He had no idea. Crap. So I did what anyone in my position would do: I turned to Google. I searched for the entire phrase, parts of the phrase in quotes, and every combination possible. Nothing. In fact, Google doesn't find the exact phrase, "thankful for my rhyme" anywhere in the bajillion websites it searches. So what can I do? Ask everyone I know and try not to get upset when they all look at me like I'm making it up on the spot? I know it came from somewhere. My only thought is that maybe instead of being an actual song, it was from an 80s commercial or something instead (which wouldn't be as likely to have its lyrics online). All I know is that I'm at a dead end, and it pisses me off.

My other example comes from way back in the day, and it occurs to me that I've never told this story to anyone. Growing up, my favorite brother and I spent a lot of time at our grandparents' house doing all sorts of things. We often recorded ourselves either singing songs, having conversations, or just being silly. One afternoon in particular when I was about 8 or 9 years old, Kevin was using the tape recorder. I distinctly remember sitting in the background, singing a camp song to myself. However, when we listened to what was recorded a couple of hours later, I couldn't make out what song it was. I remembered it was a camp song, but on the recording, it sounded like I was singing, "Every the apple you." Those pretty clearly aren't the right words, but as I listened over and over again, that's what it sounded like. I spent the rest of that day going through every camp song I could think of. "Every the apple you" didn't fit into any of them. I think of this every time I see apple juice, and while I know that there's no way in hell I'll ever figure it out at this point, it still makes me frustrated with myself.

I hope my examples have helped shed some light on this particular type of not-remembering. I knew something very clearly at one point, cited it, and then can't for the life of me recall it a little while later. I think this is different than my mom's problem with remembering Phil Collins' name or the time I couldn't remember the word "observant" and kept saying "observsive" and "observatory" over and over again. Instead, I'm left sitting here with Google failing me and "every the apple you" playing on repeat in my head. The "uh oh" in this blog's name feels very appropriate right now.

One quick thing before we move on: As long as I'm not the one doing it, I like when typos really change the meaning of what someone intended to write. I wrote about this probably two years ago, and cited two typos that I caught at the very last second. The first was, "I know you're really busty," instead of "busy" to one of the female Deans at UCSB. The second was a letter certifying that my friend (who was getting her massage license) wouldn't be giving out sexual favors. I wrote, "She's a fine and oral citizen" before catching it and adding the M. In any case, I saw a typo earlier this week, and this marks the third time that I've come across this one. Instead of "definitely," it said, "defiantly." That's a big difference. "I defiantly think we need more training," one of the three said. (Really? The other people are staunchly against that? Duly noted.) Now I realize that many people misspell definite as "definate," but it's another thing to spell it wrong and then transpose two letters.

With that, let's scramble our letters on down to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye sent me a plate that I think demands too much of us. "SWIMGR8," it tells us. That's right. "Get in the water - no, all the way in the water! Now start swimming! Better! Better! Mediocre swimming is not acceptable!"

Next up, I'd like to illustrate a poor use of the Car Watch surfaces, in my not-so-humble opinion. The plate itself read, "BSTN LA." That seems pretty clear cut to me, although it could be "Best in LA" instead of "Boston," as I first read it. The driver clearly isn't too confident in his plate's ability to get his point across. In comes the license plate frame to save the day. On the top, it says, "It says." On the bottom: "Boston L.A." Oh thank you so much for clearing that up. I'm surprised that there wasn't a bumper sticker that said, "The frame says that the plate says 'Boston L.A.'" And then an antenna ball to explain the sticker. And Calvin peeing on something that explains the antenna ball. And then mud flaps to clear up any of the Calvin peeing confusion. Or maybe the driver could've just gotten, "BOSTN LA" on the plate and stopped there.

Last but not least, my dad sent me this bumper sticker: "Come to the Dark Side. We have cookies." That's one hell of a fringe benefit. I'm there, dude.

And I'm also done with this week's post, dude. I'll be back next Friday for some more of this shyte, ite? In the meantime, let's acknowledge some happiness. Happy 0th birthday yesterday to our friends' Danielle and Jesse's new little girl, Nicole Rheta. Congratulations on being born, and we hope to meet you soon. Happy half-birthday to my loving mother-in-law and whole birthday to our friend Wendy tomorrow. Monday is my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. 40! That's a big number, so please join me in wishing them a very happy one. And happy half-birthday on Tuesday to our good friend Candice. That's it, party people. See you next week, and GO LAKERS! JUNE TWELVE!

I think I get it

Shaloha, my friends and friends of friends. Welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Until Orangutans Pray, They're Atheists," but I really can't argue with that sound logic. Thanks to my lovely wife for supplying that UOPTA - you can do the same my emailing me at ptklein@gmail.com, dontchaknow. Speaking of my lovely wife, it's her birthday today, so everyone please join me in wishing her an extremely happy one. Now let's get to some thoughts and stories, shall we?

Last week, I wrote about some interestingly-named businesses and how they can purposely be misleading. In thinking about the topic of business names a little more, I would like to add a new category - The Maybe Pun.

When I was in tenth grade (holy crap, that was a big number of years ago), I had a sixth period English class with some friends. The teacher suggested that we buy some books from a local bookstore instead of some chains that probably no longer exist. This particular bookstore, she told us, was called "Lewis For Books." After class, my friend Dusty and I talked about going there over the weekend. "Lewis For Books," I said aloud, mainly because I was confused by the name and trying to figure it out. "Yeah, get it?" he asked. I hesitated and set my mind in overdrive for those two seconds. If it was indeed a pun - like it seemed to be on the surface - I wanted desperately to get it. If Dusty already got what they were doing with that, I didn't want to seem stupid by not picking up on it too. I came up with nothing though, so I sheepishly replied, "Um, no, not really." "Me neither," he said. I was relieved. We spent the next few minutes trying to figure out what it could possible mean. "Maybe it's telling us that Lew...Is for books." "Instead of being anti-books?" "I don't know." "Maybe it's trying to fit neatly into a sentence, like 'I'm going to Lewis...for books.'" We eventually gave up, but every single time the store name came up after that, we'd say to anyone around us, "Ha! Get it?"

Almost the same exact thing happened with another establishment in The Valley. As I documented in this space at least a year ago, I worked for a brief time at a place called Salads Galore. Yes, that name makes sense since that's what they serve. Next door to it, however, is a restaurant named "Chili My Soul." I've been there several times now, and while it's a bit pricey, they have some amazing chili dishes that I'm pleased to eat from time to time. The name bothers me though, and Dusty agrees. "Is it a command using 'chili' as a verb? I demand that you chili my soul immediately!" "Is it a pun on 'chill my soul?' Oh wait, does anyone ever say 'chill my soul?'" We didn't come to an answer on that one either. What makes it worse is that I've seen a restaurant called "Pizza My Heart" that has a similar name construction but is actually a fully-functional play on words. Oh yeah, and it gets Janis Joplin in my head every single time I think of it.

The reason I thought about this particular topic is because my mom mentioned one of her own troubling Maybe Pun establishments. Near my parents' house, there's a place called Massage Envy. As it turns out, there are over 800 of these spread out across the U.S. In any case, my mom asked me very seriously, "Is it supposed to be like penis envy?" That's what I think of too when I hear that, and I told her as much. But it wasn't just the lack of pun that bothered her; the use of "envy" did too. Her point was that since anyone can theoretically go there and get a massage, why exactly would anyone be envious? It's not like some exclusive club that we're not allowed into or anything. I tend to agree yet again with my mother, which I've learned is a wise thing to do.

Ok, moving on to some random items. First off, I had two genuinely ironic moments within ten minutes of each other. I went to Whole Foods to get some lunch with my co-worker Jamie earlier this week. When I was set to leave, I got into the express line since the two people waiting before me only had a couple of items each. A few minutes later, it was almost my turn. I took a little look around and saw three wide-open checkout lanes with cashiers waiting for someone to be rung up. Yes folks, I chose the express checkout to be faster, but the idea of it being faster ended up making it considerably slower than its non-express counterparts. A few minutes later, we were in her car heading back to the office. It would've gone a lot faster if it weren't for an extremely slow car in front of us that kept braking for no reason whatsoever. In the lane next to us, cars kept zipping by quickly enough that we couldn't get around the slowpoke. What kind of car was it? A Suzuki...Swift. Yes, the least swift car on the road was called a Swift. Awesome.

Next up, I was in San Diego recently for work, and I noticed something as I got into the hotel elevator that struck me as strange. Right above the floor buttons was a sign that had, "Firefighters' Operations," "Firefighters' Phone Jack," and "Firefighters' Service" all with additional text beside them. If you're scoring at home, that's some correct plural possessive shit going down right there. Then I was surprised at myself for being surprised by correct usage. Has it really come to that? I wanted to send myself a text message about it but felt self-conscious with other people in the elevator with me. Then I noticed that all three of them were typing away on their Blackberries, so I joined the masses and e-jotted myself a note.

And lastly for this section, I had a meeting earlier with a woman this week at work. Somehow, our conversation got sidetracked and we ended up talking about dogs for a good ten minutes. She told me a great story that I have to relay here. A little while ago, she got a Maltese puppy. She decided to partially train the pup by using a squirt gun to illustrate what was a no-no (barking, peeing and pooping indoors, etc.). A little while later, a new neighbor moved in to the house next door to her. When they met a day or two after that, the new neighbor asked, "What's going on over there?" "What do you mean?" she replied. "I keep hearing you threaten someone by saying, 'I'm gonna go get the gun!'" She explained, and they shared a laugh. Ah, what a simple misunderstanding that easily could've let to the police busting in the door with their weapons drawn. Those are the best!

And with that, let's lock and load on over to the Car Watch.

My favorite brother sent me a license plate that took me a lot longer than it should've to understand. It read, "OLETYMR." For some reason, my first reading was the completely made-up, "O lety mister." Then I transitioned to, "O, le timer!" like a dismayed French chef who isn't quite ready for the next step of the recipe. Finally I got the real message and felt foolish for first making up nonsensical things. But here I am sharing that folly with you; that is indeed how I roll.

Next up, my homey Rockabye sent me a bumper sticker that probably could've been on the car from the above item. It read, "It's not just that I'm old. Your music really does suck." That's certainly casting a wide net with one's put-down, wouldn't you say? What if the car behind this guy (or gal, but I doubt it) is listening to the old dude's favorite music? Then his aural distaste is sadly misplaced. But not erased. What a waste. All in haste. He should be maced. And then eat paste.

And lastly, I saw a plate earlier this week that said, "CRZI HRS." Again, my mind went a little off the beaten path with this one. Instead of what I have to believe is "Crazy Horse" (since that is an established name in our collective vocabulary), I read it as the driver trying to tell me that s/he keeps "crazy hours." I switched over to getting the real meaning almost immediately, but then I took a second and examined why I went to "hours" first. I think I have a legitimate claim: we as a people see "HRS" stand for "hours" all the time on sign windows, on Outlook meeting durations, and many other places in life. I was conditioned to think "hours," was I not? Would I have gotten the real meaning if there hadn't been the space after "CRZI?" We may never know. Regardless, I'm just glad I got to the true meaning before my mind tried convincing me that it was "Crazy Human Resources."

Okeedokee, my little artichokees, I'm out of here. Oh sure, I'll be back next Friday with more stuff, but that's no reason to hold back the emails you're just dying to send me about your own thoughts, stories, and Car Watch items. In the meantime, let us get happy. Happy 0th birthday yesterday to little Annabelle Daisy Miller, new daughter of our friends Candice and Scott. Welcome to the world, young one. As clearly stated in our opening paragraph, today is still my lovely wife's birthday. Happy birthday, my love. Not so coincidentally, it's also the birthday of a very sweet chocolate lab with the wettest tongue this side of the Mississippi named Shira. Happy anniversary on Sunday to the Frazees and the McCoys. Happy half-birthday to our good friend Twilight on Monday, and happy birthday to my Aunt Judy on Tuesday. Have a great weekend and week, everybody. AND GO LAKERS!

Misleading the way

Bienvenidos mis amiguitos, and welcome to another Friday here at UOPTA. No, that's not a reminder about it being the Undeniably Orgasmic Playoff Time Again, but that's certainly one way to look at this part of the overlapping NBA and NHL postseasons. (Thanks to Aunt Lynn for sending that UOPTA in - get in the game yourself and send one to ptklein@gmail.com.) No folks, this is the virtual receptacle in which I deposit my thoughts and stories. Thanks for stopping by, and let's see what we've got here today, shall we?

You know what I like? Yes, burritos, but that's not where I was going with this one. That sounds good though. Anyway, I like to see purposely-misleading business names. "Whatever do you mean by that, Peter?" Good question, fake audience member with impeccable manners. I'll tell you what I mean by way of examples.

First off, I've mentioned before in this space that I lived in the student-heavy town of Isla Vista adjacent to UC Santa Barbara for three years. It was a fantastic place for that stage of my life with everything I ever could've wanted, but I hope to never live anywhere like that ever again. The various eateries and establishments in the town added greatly to the experience. Where else can you choose from three places within spitting distance of each other to get a burrito at 2am? Mmm, burrito. Well, sometime in my first couple of years there, a bar opened on the street with the majority of the business establishments. It was called, "The Study Hall," and I thought that was brilliant. I never used the line myself, but I can imagine many students truthfully telling their parents, "I was at The Study Hall all night," while trying to conceal the sound of a smile on their lips. Well played, imaginary students. Even better (or worse, depending on your viewpoint), I assume that if a student were to use a credit card with the parents' billing address, one could come up with a few conceivable ways in which s/he spent twenty bucks while "studying" (snacks, blue books, scantrons, sharpened pencils, etc.). That's putting higher education to work, and I'm all for it.

There are a couple of similar bar names that come to mind in the L.A. area. Notably, there are two "Father's Office" establishments. There's less trickery with that one I think, because one probably wouldn't be able to fool one's parents with that one. Then there's "The Casting Office Bar & Grill" in Universal City. That name actually strikes me as quite sad. Maybe it's just me (and it often is), but I can't help but picture an out-of-work actor telling a loved one that he's going to try "The Casting Office" again today and see if there's any work. "I'm sure something will come up," a supportive parent might say, "You've been going there almost everyday, so something's bound to happen. Hard work and determination are always rewarded." See, you're sad now, right? The only way I can make it better in my mind is to think that maybe casting agents actually go there to unwind after a day on the Universal lot. Then it might actually work out, which would be great for that fictional guy. (Wow, I've made up three people already today. I feel both powerful and a little crazy.)

Lastly, there's another category in which a sneaky name is potentially very helpful: Gentlemens' Clubs. I'm not a fan of strip clubs - they're just not my thing at all - but I can understand that some people like them. If any of those people want to keep that fact hidden, then dropping names like "Paradise Cove" and "The Frisky Kitty" probably won't help the cause. However, there's a strip club near my work called "Plan B." I think that's very wise for two reasons. First, the aforementioned discretion is key (if desired). Second, picture a group of guys who go out and their plans for the night get derailed by one thing or another. "Well, how about plan B?" one might say. And like that, this one particular strip club has made its way into their group consciousness. (By the way, another strip club called 4Play is nearby, which is just a smidge more conspicuous.)

There's also a legendary strip club on Sunset called "The Body Shop," which is very clever in its sneakiness. That said, it's enough of an establishment in L.A. that it's lost most of its deception. I was made aware of this while with a group of guys one day, when one said that "The Body Shop" had burned down. The others lamented that news, and I couldn't figure out what the hell they were talking about. After a few more sentences, I finally understood that they hadn't taken their vehicles there to get worked on. "Ah," I thought, "very clever indeed." I gave it another thought, and an inherent problem came to mind: "Honey, why are you going to the body shop at night? And why are you and your buddies carpooling?" Maybe the owner is content with having a pun in the name and isn't trying to be sneaky after all. Either way, the pun-loving side of me approves of the name.

Not to switch gears too drastically, but I have a random little story to tell. I was in a meeting at work, and one person was telling the other about a very large company with which he associates. "They're the 800 pound elephant in our industry," he said. It took all of my might to hold back from saying, "So...on the small side then?" I did refrain, but I thought his mixed-up metaphor was funny enough to share. I hope I was right.

Ok fine, one more random thought for you all. I have a giant pet peeve of which I only recently became aware. I really dislike when status bars lie to me. I was trying to restart a program on a computer at work, and a bar came up to allegedly show me my progress. It started off empty, but then slowly filled in more and more with little boxes to indicate the rate of completion. It was slow, but I stood there and waited since I could tell approximately how much longer it would take. Minutes later, I started to reach for the mouse as the bar became completely filled. Instead, the bar emptied again and one little box appeared in the far left. "Fooled you!" it may as well have screamed at me. Stupid lying status bar. Seriously, what's the point of even having something like that on the screen if it's completely arbitrary? It's not like it said that was step one of four or anything. Nope, it just pretended to be related to the actual restarting process. I gave it the finger and walked away.

With that, let's make untraceable electronic progress on over to the Car Watch.

My friend Dusty saw a bumper sticker that I rather enjoyed. It read, "Land Rover: The Best 4x4xFar." I think that's brilliant. The use of "x" as another "by" was enough on its own for me, but having "far" sound like "four" was the icing on the cake. Actually, that's a bad metaphor for me. I prefer cake without icing more often than not, because icing tends to make things overly sweet sometimes. Give me a good cake that has some sweet stuff in it, and I'm set.

Here's a license plate from my homey Rockabye that sort of goes with the last one: "CLAP6X." First of all, I would without a doubt pull up next to that car and clap - but only once or twice. They're not the boss of me! Second, the reason I said that this plate sort of goes with the last item is because of its use of the letter X. In this case, it most likely stands for "times." X is pretty versatile, it would appear. Without giving it much thought, it can easily stand for "by," "times," "cross," and "Christ." Speaking of which, I'm used to seeing "X-mas" standing for "Christmas," even though I don't fully understand why. Why then does Christina Aguilera go by "Xtina" occasionally instead of "Xina?" The T is already in the X, right? By the way, when lacrosse players call their sport "LAX," it makes sense and is clever. Final score: Jocks 1, Pop stars 0.

And lastly, my dad saw a plate that read, "OHBEHAV." Is it possible to read that in any voice other than Austin Powers'?

That's it for me, homepeople. I shall return a week from today to dish more of this slop. In the meantime, please help me wish a happy birthday on Monday to my friend and former boss Kim, and on Tuesday to my friend and former employee Devon. If you think of anything at all that you feel like sharing, you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com. Have a happy and healthy weekend and week, friends, and go Lakers!

Burgers and lies

Good morning/late morning/lunchtime/afternoon/dusk/evening/middle of the night, everyone. How am I supposed to know when you're reading this? Anyway, welcome to another installment of UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Urologists Of Poland Try Anything," but that's still very helpful to know if you find yourself in that specific situation. (Thanks to my mom for that UOPTA offering. Send in your own version to ptklein@gmail.com.) No friends, UOPTA is a place in which I convey my thoughts and tell stories that somehow came to mind recently. Let's jump right in, shall we?

When I was in that bowling league for a few seasons recently, I enjoyed almost all aspects of it. However, one thing pissed me off for the first two or three seasons that my friends and I belonged. In the final week of the season, they dispensed the prize money to each team. With the money they had left over, I expected some kind of game to decide who got what. I've heard of people getting playing cards for each strike and then forming the best poker hand to win, for example. Well, in this league, it amounted to a guy behind the counter calling out his friends' names and saying things like, "Hey Joey, pick up that spare and you get $10." My friends and I kept a pretty low profile compared to some of the other participants, and so we weren't as known and never got our names called. That angered me, since everyone put in the same amount of money and I never got a real chance to win any of it back.

Therefore, I was quite pleased when they changed their method a while back. The new one was a combination of two parts chance and one part skill. There were raffle tickets (chance) that yielded prizes, and a few scattered non-white pins in the mix. If you got a pin of color as your head pin (chance), you had to get the front desk's attention and then bowl a strike to win $10 (skill). I liked that a whole bunch more, and I had the good fortune of winning one of those raffles. I waved my ticket in the air like a moron when they called my number before proceeding to the front desk. I was presented with a few options: a lottery scratcher, a $5 gift card to Starbucks, or a $5 gift card to In-N-Out. I quickly assessed each one. Oh sure, the scratcher would've added some drama to the experience, but I'd be kidding myself if I thought it would turn into more money. Starbucks is good, but I've also had a Starbucks gift card in my wallet for...I have no idea, so that probably wasn't too practical. In-N-Out has some mighty tasty burgers, and even though I don't go there very often, it would be worth a special trip to redeem my prize. I snagged it and made my way back to the lane. A few minutes later, my homey Rockabye's number was called, and he made the same wise decision as I had.

I held onto my gift card for about two weeks before happily pulling into a nearby In-N-Out. I ordered my Double-Double (pickles, "the spread," and grilled onions) and waited my turn in the line of cars to get to the pick-up station. When I got there, I noticed a laminated sign. Here's what it read:

"60th anniversary October 22nd Discount Rumor:
You may be aware of a rumor about our menu prices being lowered for our anniversary on October 22nd. This rumor is untrue. We’ve always tried to keep our prices as low as possible in order to give our customers the greatest value. One of the ways we accomplish this is by not discounting and our anniversary is no exception. We’re sorry if this rumor has caused any confusion."

That, my friends, is a successful rumor. Whoever originally came up with that fabrication made it so widespread that the company's website and individual physical locations had to address it. I read up on this rumor online, and In-N-Out was supposedly going to go back to their prices from 60 years ago on that day. 30 cents for a cheeseburger, 25 for a hamburger, 15 for fries, and 10 for drinks. I can understand why a rumor like that would get traction, but I have to believe that even the person who created it was surprised by how much it took off. Personally, I'd be quite proud of myself.

I thought of that story because of something that happened at work earlier this week. I was in my office doing my normal stuff when I heard my co-worker Scott say, "Adam from the Beastie Boys is the brother of Screech from 'Saved By The Bell.'" I spit my tongue. "No he's not!" I yelled from my desk, even though I wasn't a part of the conversation at all. I got up and walked out there to confront him. "Yes he is!" Scott said. "Screech and a Beastie Boy are brothers." "First of all, you have the wrong Beastie Boy," I said to everyone who was now listening. "You meant that Mike D. - Michael Diamond - is brothers with Dustin Diamond, who played Screech. But that's not true either." "Yes it is," he said again, and then he started walking over to his computer to "prove" it. "Scott, it's a good story, and one I believed myself for a while. I even told people that amazing piece of trivia. Then I found out it was a lie and I felt stupid for helping spread it." He returned to the main area a minute later and admitted that I was right. "That sucks, because it was a good one to tell people," he said. "I know, I know. Dig a little deeper online and you'll find people saying that they're not only brothers, but that Neil Diamond's their dad." We all laughed for a minute, and then I wowed everyone with my knowledge of the lyrics to "Sabotage" by the Beasties. You never know when that'll come in handy.

I don't know how rumors do it, but the real good ones somehow avoid the whole fact-checking process. Scott is very internet savvy and proved his own piece of trivia false within a few seconds. Why did he skip that step at the beginning? If I thought about it long enough, I'm sure I could come up with a formula of sorts for what makes a rumor good. There has to be a certain amount of plausibility but a much greater amount of over-the-top-ness. Too much of that turns into nofuckingwayness, and then it loses all credibility. I'll stop there, because otherwise I'd just keep inventing terms and forcing relationships between them, and experience tells me that I won't get too far with that.

(By the way, I just typed "gerbil" into Google, and the #2 result was an urban legends site about Richard Gere. These things can really take on a life of their own.)

And with that, let's be both officers and gentlemen on our way over to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye saw a plate and initially read it incorrectly. He sent it to me, and my initial read was the same incorrect thought. The plate was, "CLDHNDS." Both of us thought of the completely made-up term, "Cloud hands" before we realized that "Cold hands" made a lot more sense. Cloud hands would look really, really cool though, don't you think? Ooh, especially if they were ominous thunderclouds with lightning shooting around inside of them. Yeah, it would be hard to pick things up or blow your nose, but who's gonna mess with a guy with thundery clouds for hands? (Answer: nobody.)

Next up, I was behind a car with this plate: "TQLAMAN." I'm guessing that's short for "Tequila man" and not "To kill a man." It's hard to say which would be a bigger red flag for law enforcement. It's also hard to imagine drinking tequila with cloud hands. I'm just sayin'.

Lastly, my dad sent me a text message that said, "IMNAKED." I was scared at first, but then I put on my thinking cap (which I keep nearby at all times just in case) and figured that it was a license plate that he saw. I asked if the driver was indeed sans apparel, but he said that he wasn't. Here's one of the few cases in which I prefer a blatant lie.

Ok folks, that's it for me. Have one hell of a weekend and week, and have a good Memorial Day. I'll be back next Friday with more typographical characters. In the meantime: Happy anniversary today to our friends Danielle and Jesse. Happy half-birthday to my lovely wife's half-sister tomorrow. There's something almost poetic about that. And this Wednesday's a big one, folks. It's not only my high-anticipated 11/12ths birthday, but it's also our friend Adam's birthday and our favorite niece Hayley's 1st birthday. She's adorable, so you should all wish her a happy numero uno. Be happy and healthy, friends.