That's all, friends

Good morning everyone, and thank you for joining me on my final post here. I think I'm going to start by giving you a little background into my decision, talk a bit about the future, and then see what happens from there. Is that all ok with you? Excellent.

My decision to end UOPTA is based on four key factors. One: I'm really running out of things to form entire posts around. I'd been saying that to friends and family for months, but it truly is the case. In fact, I've ended up writing about a few things that I never planned to because I'd wanted to save them for potential projects down the line. So that's the main thing. Two: It's been feeling a little more like a chore to post something each week. This is all my fault, I realize. Somewhere along the line, I felt like each post had to be between 1,500 and 2,000 words, with an intro, acronym, body, Car Watch, and closing. I'm still pleased with how almost all of it has worked out, but I don't want to get to a stage where I have my self-imposed deadline and nothing to say. You see, I didn't do this quite right. Instead of treating it like an actual blog, it was more of a weekly column over the past two years (and an every-weekday column for the year before that). I maintained it for waaaay longer than I ever expected, and I feel good about that. Three: As all of you who know me in person are already aware of, my limited free time is about to become non-existent. My homey Rockabye sent me a bumper sticker that sums this third reason up perfectly: "Got Sleep? No. Got Twins." Yes, my lovely wife and I will be welcoming not one but two tiny humans into the world. We're obviously very excited, and our worlds are going to be turned upside-down. If the blog's been tough for me to write recently, it'll be impossible on no sleep and an overwhelming desire to be with them instead of at my computer. Along those same lines, I don't want to write a blog about raising kids and the cute things they do. There are roughly a brazilian sites out there already doing that, and hearing stories about other people's kids is probably on par with hearing stories about other people's fantasy drafts or poker hands. They just don't pack the same punch. Four: Today marks three years and 365 posts here on this site. Those are good numbers, and ending it now feels like the right time. (I originally thought that 365 was a coincidence, but my lovely wife pointed out that it makes perfect sense. Five days a week for a year, and then once a week for two years should equal seven times a week over the course of a year. Therefore, I'm leaving you with a year's worth of posts if you feel like you need a steady morning ritual.)

I'm not quitting cold turkey though. (By a show of hands, how many of you are eating cold turkey today left over from yesterday's festivities?) I thought long and hard about what I could do to still have an outlet for the thoughts and stories in my mind. After discussing possible options with a few friends, I was thrilled that we found something that made sense as a next step. Here it is: Nothing To Read Here. (Ooh, irony.) That, my homepeople, is an actual blog. By that, I mean there will be posts of small, medium, and large length, and not on any regular timeframe. Better yet, it's not just me. I have three like-minded friends in on this with me, and the four of us will all post when we have things to share. We're a new team, and I already really like what we're putting out there. (Since there's no regular schedule, you can either just go to the site from time to time to see what's new or subscribe in a box on the right-hand side to get an email every time a new post is up. How convenient!) While I may be running out of actual stories from my past, I plan on having new thoughts for a long time, and that new site is where they'll show up. We'll all be using pseudonyms on the new blog site - I'm P-Dawg by the way - and I'm confident that you'll find my friends as funny and interesting as I do. So this really isn't a goodbye at all, but rather just an end to how we're used to interacting.

That said, I don't expect to continue with what have become regular features of my posts here. Therefore, I plan on using all that I'd stored up of those right here, right now. Buckle up, because this might take a while.

First, I've come across quite a few words and phrases that can not be spelled without "Peter." Usually, I'd write something and then pick a phrase out of that paragraph to highlight my name, but I'm switching it up this time. Instead, I'm going to try to write a little story with each of the items in it. And what the hell, I'll put them in bold so you don't have to go sorting through the letters while you read:

Decades ago, I see an important meeting in American history unfolding just like this...An inventor walks into a company called Superior Marketing. "Sirs and madams," he says as he taps his cigarette into an ashtray, "I have created the ultimate in adult party entertainment." He lays out the blueprints and begins his pitch. "No matter who you are, from the President to the Jones family in Cooperstown, New York, you want your visitors to be quite impressed when they come over for an evening of fun. Out of soda pop, peanut butter, and crackers? That's just a temporary setback. Late in the evening - the preferred time for this product - you bring out this baby. It's real pretty, isn't it? Have the ladies put on some patent leather pumps and you're ready for a wild and memorable evening. I have all of the intellectual property locked up, so the market's already cornered. What do you say?" The execs look around at each other for a moment before one speaks up. "I like it. I don't see it for homes though as much as possibly licensing it to chains all around the country. Probably some strong international prowess as well. Do you have a name for it yet?" The inventor smiles and says, "How could I forget? I call it...the Stripper Pole."

Ah, I can delete a whole bunch of notes to myself now. That actually feels good. Let's see if I can recreate that feeling by plowing through some unused Car Watch items, shall we?

A long while ago, I saw this plate: "UMM NO." On the license plate frame, it said, "Princess." Wow, I feel like I already have more than enough information to say that she's probably a bitch. Way to put that out there.

I also saw a license plate frame that read, "Volleyball Monthly. 'Set' for life." I don't know if the first part is a command for how often I should engage in the sport or the name of a publication. However, I approve of the pun in the second part enough to include it here. Nicely done, demanding coach/magazine.

This plate was interesting: "I (Heart) SNU P." That's very different than "I (Heart) CNU P," don't ya think? It's nice to know that one letter can turn a lover of a cartoon dog and make him a bathroom voyeur. By the way, I heard the instrumental song that I only know as "The song from Peanuts where they all dance and Snoopy puts his chin up in the air" recently and it made me happy. What a fun little tune. Maybe I should make that my ringtone instead of "Cop Killer" by Ice-T and Body Count. So hard to choose.

I have two very different readings of this plate: "NEON8TS." To me, it's either "neonates" or "neon 80s." (Seriously, if there was one decade known for having neon, it's the 80s.) If it's the first reading, then there's a superfluous T in there since "N8S" is already "nates." If it's the latter, "8T" is a pretty cool way to write "80" if that was taken. I've been holding onto this plate for about two years because I keep going back and forth as to which one the owner was trying to say. If it's somehow both of them, then that's the coolest thing I've heard all day.

I hate to go along with sweeping generalizations, but what are the odds that someone with the plate, "INFNT BS" is a lawyer? (That has to be "infinite" and not "infant," right? I don't think infants engage in bullshitting. I guess I'll find out though.)

If you have "1 DITZ" as your plate, there's no way you want people to take you seriously, right? I wonder if "IM DUMM" was already taken.

Just as the driver suspected, I was behind his or her car when I spied this plate: "UCMEB4U." True dat, my fellow Angelino, true dat.

About six months ago, I saw two cars next to each other with plates that made me laugh. The first might've made it on its own: "RNDM WMN." To me, that phrase is never used in a positive light. Wow, I'm so right. I just did a quick Google search for "random woman," and these all came up on the first page:
"Random woman kicks random man in street."
"Jude Law has gotten some random woman pregnant."
"Man douses random woman with urine."
"War with Iraq...and a random woman."
"Tila Tequila and random woman!"
"Another random woman wants MJ's kids."

Yes, that was all the first page of search results. Nice plate, by the way. The second one, side-by-side with the random woman, said, "FAJITAS." That's it, just "FAJITAS." I didn't get close enough to the car to hear if it was sizzling or not, but I highly doubt it smelled as good as I would've hoped.

And lastly from my backed-up stash, I have a little story. My lovely wife and I have lived in our house for a little over three years. Shortly after moving in, we were walking around our neighborhood when I saw a parked car with the plate, "RUFFN8R." My first thought was that it was some guy whose last name started with "Ruff" and his nickname (either for himself or given) is, "The Ruffinator." Well, we started seeing that car every time we took a walk, so I had more time to think about it. "I wonder if the owner is a rough version of Ralph Nader," I said once. The next time, I pretended to punch and kick an imaginary enemy as I said, "Grrr, we need renewable energy sources!" My lovely wife looked perplexed for a couple of seconds before realizing that that was my "rough Nader" impression. The next time: "ELECTRIC CARS NOW!" I yelled as I manhandled imaginary foes. After that, "I MAY HAVE LOST OREGON FOR GORE IN 2000!" And so on. I still see the car very often (and even rode next to it on the freeway once coming home from work), and it always makes me laugh.

Now, as you may have guessed, here are some plates in my inbox from my homey Rockabye.

First up, "IMVRYL8." Is that the built-in answer to the officer pulling that car over for speeding?

Next, he sent me a plate that read, "SNEEZ DR." Would that be an Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor? They do a hell of a lot more than treat sneezes, so it wouldn't be a very flattering self-descriptor. Or maybe a "SNEEZ DR" is one that works with a specific dwarf? Yeah, that's probably it.

"MM HMMM," another plate told him. I don't know what he asked it first, but I'm glad he got the affirmative response. That's still a weird thing to put on one's license plate, don't you think? Wouldn't you like to at least consider the question first? I guess not.

There's no way to tell if this one was accurate or not: "QT BOO T." We'll take your word for it, ma'am.

I like this one: "MRRR 007." When I read it, I hear the old announcer for the Chicago Bulls introducing Sean Connery to the arena. "And now, all the way from Scotland, put your hands together for Misterrrrrrr 007!" The crowd would naturally go wild.

This one really speaks volumes: "MELOOOW." I don't doubt for a second that the driver is truly a mellow person. I'd say it's the opposite of something like, "ANGRRRY." I'd believe that person too.

I rather enjoyed this email from him but had nothing really to add to it, so it just stayed in my inbox until now: "License plate frame: 'BLOOD TRIBE. BEE YEE YOUK TO WALKIE.' Not going to lie, I'm clueless." Amen, brother.

Here's an interesting bumper sticker: "Highland dancers do it-" Actually, I'm going to pause here. Let's think about all of the ways this one could end. Remember, the best "(blank) do it (blank)" stickers are the ones that actually make sense for the subject and have a good sexual double-meaning as well. This is best illustrated in my mind by, "Makeup artists do it on your face." So, how exactly could highland dancers do it? Some of them wear kilts, so maybe something with that? Or since they're dancers, any generic dancing thing like, "...with rhythm," "...in groups," etc. would work. So what did they go with? "Highland dancers do it for real." God I hate them.

And lastly, he asked for help on this one: "SPT LVR." I see the problem here. I really don't want to think it's "spit lover," but there aren't many other viable options. I don't know why someone would love spit, but would s/he be more likely to love a spot or a spat? I don't think so. I'm gonna assume that SPT are someone's initials, because I really don't feel like researching salivaphiles right now.

Hey, remember when I first wrote about what I call Auto-Followers? Well, I'm pretty sure I found a new one: Glom. Dictionary.com says it can be a stand-alone verb without "onto" following it, but I've certainly never heard that. Anyway, that's food for thought.

Well, those are things that were sitting in my email account that I doubt I'd be using in my next endeavor. I still have a bunch of smaller thoughts that will surely show up there in time. Before I head out and hopefully see you at the new blog, I'd like to thank everyone who has been a part of these past three years at UOPTA. From the people who randomly find my site after searching for bizarre things to the few regular readers I've never met: thank you. I don't know who you all are - "RNDM WMN" maybe? - but Statcounter tells me that since July of 2007 (when I created my free Statcounter account) I've had about 12,000 pageloads. That number astounds me since my Friday posts regularly attract between 20 and 30 unique visitors. In any case, I appreciate all of the eyeballs and hope you were entertained. Next, thank you to my friends and family who have been reading consistently throughout my time here. Even though I've been the one writing, I feel that sharing all of these thoughts and stories with you have brought us even closer. A big thank you to my homey Rockabye for always making sure I have a good supply of Car Watch items. I've included three items in every post over the past two years, and he's always had at least one of his represented. It was comforting to know that I'd have something to write about when I got to that part, so thanks again homey. Heartfelt thanks go out to my favorite brother and my adoring parents. Not only did they help supply me with ideas and read every post with gusto, but their comments entertained me and validated every reason I started this thing in the first place. Mom, you are hands down the Commenter Extraordinaire of UOPTA, and I truly appreciate the thought you put into your witty retorts. And lastly, I must thank my lovely wife her unconditional support, love, and patience. For example, we had both just awakened this past Wednesday morning and were still lying in bed. Out of nowhere I asked, "How do you think you spell the symbol above the 6 on a keyboard?" "That's a good question," she said. (Right there already tells you how wonderfully-matched we are.) "You mean is it a 'carrot' like the vegetable or a 'carat' like the jewelry measurement?" "Or even a third way," I added. "Huh, I don't know. What made you think of that?" (The answer, according to Merriam-Webster and Dictionary.com is "caret," by the way.) My lovely wife is bombarded with out-of-the-blue questions like this far too often, and yet she has always provided loving encouragement. As early as four or five months into writing this blog, I said that I didn't think I could keep going. She believed that I could, and knowing that she was on the other end of my keyboard smiling at my words was all I needed to push on. Thank you, my love.

And that, my friends and homepeople, is all I have for you today. I encourage you to check out Nothing To Read Here to see some of the posts we've already put there to welcome you. As always, please feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com (or pdawg@nothingtoreadhere.com) with anything that comes to mind. You probably have a good sense of what I find amusing, clever, irritating, and stupid, so I always welcome more fodder.

Thank you again, shaloha, and I wish you all health and happiness.

Prediction addiction

Good day, folks. I hope you're all doing well as I welcome you yet again to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Ukuleles Offer Pleasant, Tuneful Amusement," but man is that an apt description or what? The famous "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" version by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole is certainly both pleasant and tuneful, and since that's the only ukulele song I can immediately think of, I'll assume my sweeping generalization is accurate. (And yes, I had to look up the exact spelling of his name. I always forget that it's A before E in Israel.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write my thoughts and stories and wait for my mom to comment.

I was a junior in high school when Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain killed himself. (Oops - spoiler alert.) It was obviously big news, but (in my opinion) not the generation-shaping news that my history teacher thought it was. He, with a keen sense of the moment, spent our whole class period telling us that we'll always remember where we were when we heard this news, going as far as likening it to JFK's assassination. He asked us what this meant to us as teenagers and how we would carry this with us going forward. To me, it was sad and I liked their music quite a bit, but I clearly remember sitting there and thinking, "You might be taking this one too far, buddy." I also remember a conversation I had with a couple of friends later that day. "Mark my word," I said, "Kurt Cobain's almost two year-old kid is going to be a hit singer or big movie star by age 21." I knew the kid's name was Frances Bean Cobain, but I didn't know if it was a son or daughter. I just looked into the future and thought there was no way I was wrong with my prediction.

Well friends, Frances is a she, and she's now 17 years old. The fact that I had to tell you that means that my prediction has not yet come true. But what if she were a big star? I doubt anyone would remember me "calling it" way back in the day, and it wouldn't seem super impressive for me to say that I knew this would happen. Therefore, I've had to keep reminding people of my prediction every couple of years so that I'll be recognized for my prescience if/when it actually happens.

With that in mind, I had an idea for what I think would be a kick-ass website: Heard Here First. I'll explain my vision and then you tell me if it's as brilliant as I think it is. Everyone signs up and creates a user profile, a la MySpace or Facebook, but with fewer apps and modifications. Basically, you have a profile picture, a name, hometown, likes/dislikes, and friends. What else? Your list of predictions.

There would be some pre-populated categories from which to choose (as well as create-your-own ones). Each prediction would have to have an end date, so there would be a definite right-or-wrong aspect to it. Once you predict something, it would be time-stamped and put on your profile along with the time remaining until it will be decided. Emails would be sent to you as completion dates near (or as often as you want them). Once they're done, there would be a section that listed all of your previous predictions, the status of each one, etc. We might see, "Correct but outside of the predicted timeframe," "Marginally correct," "Way off," etc.

Why is this fun? Here's the way I look at it: I can tell you that the Lakers will win the 2010 championship after beating the Cavaliers 4-1 in the Finals. But anyone can say that, and many people already have I'm sure in their NBA previews. But let's think bigger. Will Jack Black be nominated for an Academy Award by 2020? If I memorialize that call in 2009, how amazing would it be if I were right? How about saying that some little-known senator or governor will be Vice President in 2016? What about a prediction that life on another planet will be discovered within the next five years? The bigger the gamble, the cooler the predictor is who prognosticated correctly.

Smaller ones would be cool too, especially for family and friends; they can even be used as motivational tools. "I will go to Australia by the time I'm 40," "I'm going to get straight As next semester," "I'll finish my novel by this time next year," "I'm going to run the L.A. Marathon in a personal-best time," etc. Big or small, putting predictions out there tells others about the way you think about things and your sense of the world around you. Who knows, maybe there would even be some minor celebrities made out of correctly predicting a few big things. They would be heralded for their amazing foresight. "Hell, it's practically 5sight," I'd say. And there would be much laughter and applause.

So why am I just telling you all about this idea instead of doing it? Well, I did buy www.heardherefirst.com, which currently forwards people right to this page. That's all I've done though. You see, we're talking about a shitload of work here and an equal amount of technical expertise that I certainly don't have. Think about the bandwidth a site like this would require to have profiles for everyone who wanted to sign up and upload a picture. Also, I'd be afraid that people would start using the site for predictions with which I'm not quite comfortable. "So-and-so is going to die," for example. I don't like that. I also wouldn't want to see mean things written about/to fellow high school students, like, "Brian Danning is going to get his ass kicked after school next Wednesday." (Hey look, that came true!) So would I need to only allow people to predict things in pre-populated categories? That's not fun, and it's impossible to think up every good one. Another problem is that no one can really verify the smaller predictions. If I say that I got all As that semester, who's going to say I didn't? People in a comments section under each prediction? Maybe each self-regulated prediction would require another user to verify it. That just opens the door for personal relationships to get in the way of the predictor's accuracy.

As you can see, I haven't fully thought this through except for the fact that I believe it's a good idea. I think it would have to be a free service for people, which means any money I'd make would have to be from advertisers (who wouldn't come a-knockin' until the site already had a crazy amount of daily pageloads). Who agrees with me that this idea makes sense? My feelings won't be hurt if you don't. (I'm often out on an island with things I think are good ideas. I'm the guy who thinks a Citizen Kane-like black and white close-up of a guy's mouth saying "Roast beef" instead of "Rosebud" would be a good commercial for Arby's, by the way.) I turn to you for your thoughts, homepeople.

And with that, let's waft like the delicious aroma of a Beef N' Cheddar on over to the Car Watch.

I was behind a plate on the freeway earlier this week that read, "HITSMKR." I assume that the owner is trying to say "hits maker," but I first read it as "hit smoker." That mis-reading could have two separate meanings. First, someone who smokes things in hits (versus deep drags I suppose), and second, someone who physically hit a smoker (either with a fist or with the Hit Smoker car itself). By the time I finally got around to what was likely the intended meaning, the car was nowhere in sight. Too bad, because maybe I would've seen some puffs of smoke coming out of the window or pieces of a smoker lodged in the grill. I'm just sayin'.

My loving mother-in-law saw what might be the most depressing license plate ever to grace my little slice of the internets: "NO HOPE." Unless that's an anti-Obama slogan that I somehow missed, I feel pretty bad for that person. Much like Jell-O, there should always be room for a little hope.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that falls into the "I see what you were trying to do but it just didn't work" category of automobile expression. It read, "BON TCHR." I first read it as "bone teacher," as in the probably-illegal command. My homey Rockabye made me smile with his reading of, "Be on teacher," which is thematically very similar to mine (but more specific in the positioning). If I had to guess though, I'd say that this is probably a French teacher who thinks s/he is good at that job, and "good" is "bon" in that language. I've never thought of bon as "bone" before, but now that I have, I think I just made up a joke: What did the below-average French speaker call his honeymoon? A "bone voyage." You see what I did there? Hey-o!

That, my friends, is it for me today. Fret not, for I'll be back next Friday. In the meantime: Monday is my wife's half-sister Sara's full birthday. Thursday is Thanksgiving and our friends Sarah and Keith's anniversary. Speaking of Thanksgiving, I have an awful lot of thanks to give. I'm going to hold off until next week though, in a very special edition of UOPTA. In fact, it will be the final post I make here on this site. After three years, I'm kinda hanging it up. I'll explain more in my mammoth post next Friday, but just know that I'm very thankful for all of you. Enjoy the holiday, the weekend, and the majority of next week.

Express-ing my disapproval

Welcome, homepeople of the internets, and it's lovely to see you here again at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Untrained Oceanographers Practice Taming Alligators," which I think we all can agree is a good thing. It simply would not end well. Instead, at this UOPTA, I leave large-toothed reptiles to their own devices and choose to write down thoughts and stories for intended reading enjoyment. If that sounds like a plan to you, then you are granted permission to proceed to the next paragraph.

Those of you who know me in person or have read my extensive thoughts on the subject here know that I have a great deal of hatred toward Carl's Jr.'s ad campaigns. And rightfully so, I maintain. My friend Greg thinks it's the stupidest boycott of all time, which makes me wonder if he really knows me at all. In any case, I went to a food court in a mall this week with my co-worker Rob to pick up some lunch. I was tempted by the lady who handed me a piece of teriyaki chicken to sample, but I pressed on until I was stopped by a fresh tray of orange chicken at Panda Express. I know it's not good for me, but it's hard for me to pass that by.

Rob got something from another restaurant, and we headed back to his car with our orders to drive back to the office. On our walk, I said to him, "It's a good thing Panda Express only has one current commercial that pisses me off, because I'd hate to have to extend my boycott to them as well." "Wait, you still watch commercials?" he asked. "Only during live sporting events or if I have ESPN on in the background," I said, which appeased his incredulity. "Oh, I don't think I've seen a Panda commercial. What pisses you off about it?" After about five minutes straight of ranting, he understood my position and I had an idea for a blog post.

Here is the video, and below is a breakdown of why I hate it. (If it's not working, you should be able to open it here.)

0:01-0:06 We start off with a guy in a hat holding some Panda Express food with the restaurant in the background. In a taunting and annoying tone, he says, "Bet you goofy-looking fellas would like to try some of my new Sweet Fire Chicken from Panda Express..." As he speaks, he holds his food out ever-so-slightly to whoever the "goofy-looking fellas" are. So far, he's the only goofy-looking fella we've seen. Then we get a close-up product shot.

0:06-0:10 He finished his sentence: "...with its delicious sweet and fiery sauce." He pushes the food out closer to his subjects, further taunting them. We then see to whom he is speaking: panda bears. Wait a minute, do pandas eat anything but leaves? Wikipedia tells me, "The Giant Panda has a diet which is 99% bamboo." But looky here, the pandas are licking their lips, so clearly they are tempted by the Sweet Fire Chicken. (As an aside, why is 'fiery' spelled that way instead of 'firey'? I don't like that. From now on, it's 'firey' for me. I don't have reason to write it...ever really, but I may make a point of it now to stick it to the man.)

0:10-0:14 He continues his baseless taunt, but in his most annoying voice possible: "But it wasn't made for gentle giants, ha ha, (puts bite in mouth) mmm. Mmm mmm. (Rolls his head back like he can't believe how good it is.)" Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? I get the impression that he bought that food specifically to annoy the panda bears. Imagine you're standing a few feet away from him at the zoo. You look over, and you see a guy talking to the animals in a sort of baby-talk taunt from far away and audibly delighting in how good his food is. How quickly would you keep your children away from him?

0:14-0:18 Apparently this guy really knows how to get pandas' goats, because the "gentle giants" have had enough. (Oh yes, his "gentle" comment earlier was just to set us up to think that they would just sit there and take it. Foolish us.) One of the pandas reaches over to a rock - oh no, is he going to launch it at the man and crush his skull? No, thankfully it's not really a rock at all, but rather a...fake rock with a glowing red button in it? W-w-what? The panda's hand immediately pushes the button on the big, electrical, hinged, fake rock. We get one final close-up of Taunty McGee laughing at the pandas. "Oh, they're so stupid that they let me stand here with food!" he seems to say. Is your disbelief sufficiently suspended? Just wait; it gets even better/worse. A rope comes out of nowhere with a pre-tied loop at its end. Clearly it was summoned by the glowing red button in the fake rock that the panda bear pushed after being taunted by food its species doesn't eat. The rope comes from the viewer's left, but we can't see from where. Somehow - I know not how - the loop gets around the antagonizer's ankle (even though his foot doesn't leave the ground to allow room for it to slide under). We see his face in a close-up again, this time with a warranted look of concern. The magical rope yanks Jerky McJerkface straight up in the air. Yes, straight up, as if it's attached to God's own hand. That must be it, because there's really no other way it could come from its original angle and pull someone straight up while seemingly attached to nothing. So, if I'm getting the story right, these bears created a sophisticated and mechanical rope system to take out an enemy who happens to be standing exactly in that spot? "Ah!" the man says softly. Ah, indeed. In the background, we see the Panda Express restaurant again where Douchey Von Bearteaser must have purchased his head-rollingly good meal. Also in the background: two oblivious people having a chat and ignoring the Rope of God that punishes those who dare draw the ire of the Giant Panda.

0:18-0:21 But wait, there's more! With mediocre special effects, the first panda’s mouth moves to say, “You mess with the pandas,” and then both pandas’ mouths say together, “We bust your chopsticks.” So, um, yeah, they can talk. And when they do, it's in horrendous would-be catchphrases. You know what might've been easier than that elaborate device (which will surely be dismantled after zoo personnel cut that dude down)? "Buddy, you give me that food or so help me I will climb over that wall and rip your arms straight out of their sockets." I'm just sayin', that seems a little more cost-effective. And it's not like they got the food from the guy anyway. They didn't show us, but I'll have to assume that he dropped it during the whole rope encounter. By the way, there's a piece of bamboo sitting in front of them. Where did it come from? Oh yeah, they were each holding bamboo sticks the whole time until one was dropped in favor of a shiny button of doom hidden in a fake rock. But f that s, they want Sweet Fire Chicken.

0:21-0:30 Normal ad copy with close-ups of the food and shots of people preparing it. No problems here. In fact, they do a good job here of making the food look appetizing. I didn't hear any of this the first time I saw the commercial though, because I was busy screaming, "We bust your chopsticks? Are you serious? We bust your chopsticks? What the hell is wrong with them?"

0:30 The screen shows, “Experience Pandamonium.™” Oh, so they have a decent catchphrase after all. Why didn't they use that instead of trying to force a horrible one on us? Are they hoping that with enough catchphrases one will stick and then ABC will greenlight a half-hour comedy about their zany lives at the zoo? "This summer, life's not always the zootopia you thought it was. When the sun goes down, it's a bear-knuckle world out there. (Record scratch! Pandas falling down! A pie in the face!) Tuesdays at 8/7 Central, watch these gentle giants bust people's chopsticks and avoid getting bamboo-zled on the new hit comedy, Pandamonium. Starring the voices of Jim Belushi and Kathy Griffin. It's Ursa Majorly hilarious!" (Oh great, I just did all the work for them.)

So the bottom line is this: I really dislike that Panda Express commercial. I understand that I sometimes take things way more seriously than the originators ever intended, but hey, that's me. If it were just the talking pandas, I'd shake my head and get past it. It's not though, and the combination of (what I find to be) moronic elements is enough for me to single this spot out as horrible. And yet, it would take many more of these commercials to get to the Carl's Jr. level of ad hatred. I hope that doesn't happen, but if it does, then I'm gonna have to just keep on walking past that line to another eating establishment, regardless of how good the orange chicken smells.

And with that, let's take a two-item combo with steamed rice over to the Car Watch.

I saw a plate a little while ago that expressed a sentiment not often seen in that medium: "S8ANIC (Heart)." Whether the heart symbol is in lieu of "heart" or "love" doesn't really change the message, now does it? All I know is that now I have "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg in my head. My friend Adam and I used to sing that as "Cixelsyd Traeh," which I now see was pretty insensitive of us (albeit comical).

My favorite brother sent me a plate that confused him: "SENOR EL." "Mr. The? Don't get it," he said. I wish I could help you out, bro. I suppose it could be "Mr. He," which almost sounds like "mystery." Whoa, and this plate's meaning is a mystery. I'm totally freaking out now.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate: "DENM DR." Ooh, does s/he bedazzle the hell out of jeans or something? Or is it closer to the medical field, sewing and transplanting to make jeans "healthier" instead? Is there a hierarchy amongst denim doctors, where the elite work on $100+ designer ones while others opt to work at a clinic to repair ten year-old Levis? Regardless, I sure hope the driver didn't spend too long in Denim medical school.

That's it for me, friends. I'll be back next Friday with more stuff, but there is plenty to be happy about before then. In fact, today is the busiest birthday day of the year for me in terms of shout-outs. Happy birthday to my Grandma Zelda, loyal UOPTA reader and kick-ass spicy chicken casserole maker Aunt Lynn, and my good friend and former three-time roommate Dave. Happy half-birthday to our good friend Lisa on Monday. Happy full birthday to my friend and former colleague Suzanne on Tuesday. And happy old dating anniversary to my lovely wife on Thursday. Whew. See you next week, everyone.

Just (over)do it

Good (insert time of day most appropriate to your situation), friends! And how is everything in (insert your geographical location - be as specific as you like) today? Boy, I sure am glad to hear that. Welcome yet again to UOPTA. If it were called "UOPTA UOPTA," you might mistakenly think that it stood for, "Umpires Only Pretend To Arbitrate Until Ousting Players That Argue." Good thing I'm here to set you straight. Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down some thoughts and stories for your hopeful enjoyment. (Double thanks to my mom for sending in that double UOPTA. If you'd like to send your own in - which you know you do - just email it to ptklein@gmail.com.)

This past week, two of my best friends did a little song/rap number in front of a collection of small business owners to promote their own business. Upon watching it, my first thought was, "That takes a lot of balls." I've been in front of large groups many times in my life, but there are still things (like their very funny performance) that I just can't see myself doing. Sure, maybe after a couple of drinks and/or surrounded only by my closest friends, but that's it.

Along those same lines, I could never in a million years be a stand-up comedian. I really admire the guts/balls/chutzpah it takes to be alone on a stage in front of strangers, trying out material that will either get you laughs or vicious taunts. While I like to think I'm quick on my feet, I can't imagine I'd handle a heckler too well. I'd probably just apologize that he didn't think that last one was funny and promise to try harder next time. I think I'd successfully fight off the urge to curl into a ball though.

Many successful stand-up comedians have excelled because they are adept at pointing out ordinary things in our lives and illuminating the humor in their existence. Obviously, Seinfeld was the master of this, with "Did you ever notice..." essentially becoming his catch phrase. Dane Cook, before he got super over-exposed and unfunny, was actually amazing at this too. The one bit of his that jumps to my mind is his description of parking garages and how your tires screech like crazy even if you're only going 5 miles per hour. "What is that made of?" Good stuff.

After watching some stand up and realizing that common thread about 8 or 9 years ago, my friend Jon said to me, "There must be so many ordinary things like that in the world. We should think of some." So we sat for a while, coming up with roughly...nothing. About a week later though, I kind of had one. I had just gotten out of the shower, and in my towel I told Jon my thought: "I've shaved my face hundreds of times in my life, and I have never even once taken too little shaving cream. I always have probably twice the amount I need, even though I'm trying to keep from overdoing it." (I still have this problem by the way. I've had a beard for about 11 months now and only shave my neck, so I try to take just a small amount. I lather up, and I'm usually left with about half of my original amount still sitting in my hand.) Jon and I agreed that it wasn't a great observation, especially since it wasn't a universal experience. When a comedian talks about the different ways in which people respond after tripping on the sidewalk, it's universal. Mine was a little more narrow, and maybe not even true for everyone. I didn't take a poll or anything, so maybe I'm the only one who overdoes it in the shaving cream department.

Well, as it often happens with random conversations years in the past, I thought about this same topic a few days ago and I wanted to find more things that fit in my shaving cream category. (Think of this as mental exercise and not a report on where I'm most wasteful please.) With just a little extra thought, I actually came up with two more things that I can not help but overdo every single time. First up: salad dressing. I'm simply powerless over this one. I pour some on - knowing full well that I always put too much - then assess the situation. "Hmmm, it looks like it's really only resting on the top, and when I move it around, it's probably not enough for all of the lettuce." So like a moron, I put some more on. When I put my fork in for the first time and glimpse the bottom of the bowl, there's a pool of dressing smiling back at me. I don't know how to stop this.

Later in the same day that I thought of salad dressing fitting this bill, I came up with another one: boiling water. This one is ridiculous. Let's say I want to boil water for me and my lovely wife to each have one cup of tea. I will pour water into the teapot (which is indeed both short and stout), all the while trying to imagine that I'm just filling up our two mugs and nothing more. "Is that about right?" I wonder, but clearly more water is pouring in while I'm taking the time to wonder that. "That's probably good," I say, and I shut off the tap and start heating it up. Then, after I wait for it to boil, I take the pot over to the mugs and pour the steaming water into the waiting mugs. Lastly, I go to the sink and pour out excess water for about five to ten seconds. Think about how long that it. I must put twice the required amount in the teapot every single time, and that's with knowing that I have a tendency to do that.

Along the same lines, if I'm making instant oatmeal and using an already-hot water spout, it's gonna be some liquidy oatmeal. Just like with the salad dressing, I spend time questioning whether or not it's enough, opt to pour in some more, and then regret it a few seconds later. It's a lot of fun trying to pour extra liquid out of outmeal without making a mess or burning your hands; trust me on that.

I think those are the only three things that I consistently overdo in that manner. Making pasta is close. I always think it's too little (no matter how much I originally put in the pot), and so I add some more. It's hard to say if I overdo it or not though, because even though I end up with a big pile o' pasta, it all gets eaten eventually.

How about you guys? Do you have anything like this? Be it ketchup, hand lotion, or anything else, I'd love to hear from you. I'm not alone in this, right?

And with that, let's misoverestimate our way on down to the Car Watch.

I saw a license plate frame that, in my not-always-humble opinion, has good intentions but didn't really think the whole thing through. "I'm a fireman's flame," it told me. Again, I get what she's going for, but let's deconstruct that a bit, shall we? What does a flame represent to a fireman? I'd say danger, his job, and something that needs to be extinguished or it could destroy lives in addition to property. Does she really want to be those things to him? I hope not.

My friend Dusty sent me a picture of the side of a big truck. The company sells heated toilet seats, so it says, "Honk...if you like warm buns!" Cute, right? Wrong. The double entendre really only works if it's a phrase that we'd use in a sexual manner. Have you ever heard someone say, "Wow, she's got really warm buns" or "Check out the warm buns on that guy"? I highly doubt it. Hot buns, sure, but warm? But they couldn't say hot without it sounding like they might burn your ass when you sit on their products. So instead of finding something else that actually worked both ways, they pressed on. I bet they think they're warm shit.

Conversely, my homey Rockabye saw a construction truck that transfers dirt or big equipment from place to place. Their slogan was, "Hey, take a load of this." Better yet, the license plate read, "IDUMP4U." That, my friends, is how you have off-color connotations that tie in directly with your business. (Ok, maybe they didn't intend for the plate to have a double meaning, but do you honestly expect me to see "dump" and not giggle?)

That is it for me, homepeople. I'll be back next Friday with more things for your intended reading enjoyment. In the meantime, let's celebrate the things we'll be skipping over: Happy birthday tomorrow to my good friend Greg (The Pigh), and to my friend Jamie on Monday. Wednesday is not only Veterans' Day, but also the kick-ass holiday of Martinmas. And Thursday is my good friend Dusty's birthday, which starts the 7.5 month period in which he's a whole number older than me and just can't relate to each other. Have a great weekend and week, everyone. Shaloha.

The watching machine

Why hello there, homepeople of the internets, and welcome yet again to this week's installment of UOPTA. No, sadly, that does not stand for, "Unless Oprah's Paying...To Applebee's!" However, I believe that's Steadman's official stance on food consumption. (You see that? I just made a Steadman joke even though I have no idea what I'm talking about. It made sense though, right?) Instead, this UOPTA is where I take some thoughts and stories from my past and present and put them down in electronically-represented words. As of this moment, I have no idea what any of those thoughts or stories will be this week, but hopefully if I just keep typing, something good will happen. (Want to send in your own UOPTA? Yes, yes you do. And ptklein@gmail.com is the email address that will help you achieve that goal.)

As I go through my inbox to find little tidbits that I can hopefully turn into entire paragraphs, it feels like a sort of time travel. "Ooh, Peter from last February didn't like an AMPM commercial on the radio. And Peter from last January didn't like how a woman on a 'Law and Order' rerun pronounced the word 'negotiated.'" It's odd to feel like a spectator of my own life, and since most of the emails are random, unrelated thoughts (or license plates), that's where this exercise takes me. Oh, cool: it also made me think of something to write about this week.

It's an interesting thing, being a spectator. In sporting events, the differences between seeing something live and on tv are huge. In one scenario, you're more comfortable, not spending too much money, have better and multiple views of what's going on, hear announcers add color to the action, and can pee without trekking a half-mile and missing a bunch of action. In the other scenario, you're there! It seems like the staying-at-home option far outweighs the going one, but it all depends on your level of fandom. For example, I would rather sit in the highest row of seats at the Staples Center with a $15 beer to watch a regular season Lakers game with my friends than watch it at home. Football though? I'll take a tv and the ability to flip channels or only watch parts of the game. (Also, I'd have to drive to San Diego for the closest professional football game.) It's also the "event" side of it though. My lovely wife doesn't like sitting in the same place for hours unless it's something that really captivates her attention. A Laker game once every year or two fits the bill, but baseball is too slow and long to keep her from being antsy from the 5th inning on.

Another big difference between being there and watching from home is the communication between fans and athletes that can't hear them. At home, I'm generally pretty quiet. I stick to celebratory sounds on good plays, "He's so fucking good" about Kobe Bryant, "Get a fucking rebound" to the Lakers standing around while the other team corrals three offensive boards in a row, and "Get out! Get out!" when a ball off a Dodger bat looks like it might have the distance.

At a game, I change my entire persona. I'm always far enough away that the players have the same likelihood of hearing my words as if I were still at home, but there are other factors at hand. First off, there are kids around, so I modify my staple phrases to "He's so...good" and "Get a fffff, uh, rebound!" But there's also the entertainment factor, both for others in the party and for complete strangers. When former Dodger Brett Butler used to come up to bat, I'd yell, "Come on, Bert!" loud enough for several rows in each direction to hear. I knew his name was Brett, but I called him Bert loudly and proudly every time he came up to bat or made a play in the field. My parents thought it was funny, and I liked the fact that people near me had to be thinking, "Why isn't anyone correcting that kid? They just called him Brett on the loudspeaker but he keeps saying 'Bert.' What the hell?" I also called Mike Piazza "Mark" and Delino DeShields "Lino Shields," simply factoring out the "De"s. Fifteen years later, I went to a game with my parents and just yelled Blake DeWitt's last name so that it sounded like "Do it" every time he came up. I was entertained at least. The best example of screaming a player's name has to go to my friend Dave. At a Laker game recently, whenever Lamar Odom touched the ball, he'd yell, "Score Odom" really quickly and loudly. Go ahead, try that out. Did it sound like a part of the male body to you? Well it sure does when Dave says it, which obviously makes it much more fun.

I have another spectator-related story, and this one doesn't have to do with sports (in case that's not your thing). About a year and a half ago, I was at a commercial shoot for something. They had hired people to sit in the audience for reaction shots, but there weren't enough men. Being extremely manly, they naturally came to me for help. Even though I was there for work, I had some downtime and agreed to sit in the audience and help them out. Here's the thing I didn't expect though: they taped the crowd's reaction shots first, before there was anything we were actually spectating. So it required a little acting, and I was totally down with that action.

I don't mean to brag, but facts are facts: I was the best fake audience member in the history of the part-time profession. When the director simply asked for big applause as if someone famous was walking onto the stage, most people just smiled and clapped. Maybe a couple of people added little shouts of "Woo hoo" or something. That's child's play. I added subtle elements that impressed my fellow fake audience members to the point of them asking me how often I did this. You're interested in those elements now, aren't you? Ok, but don't go spreading these around. First, I clapped about four times. Then I gave a little point to where the person would be standing. I went back to a couple more claps before turning to my friend and I shook my head with a look that clearly stated, "Wow, this sure is an enjoyable time we're sharing." Here's the thing, that person wasn't even really my friend, but I had you believing it even through the written account of my subtle starring role. (What do you mean "subtle starring role" is paradoxical? You're paradoxical.)

Later on, we had to act wowed by something amazing that we'd be seeing on the stage. How did most people act that out? They said, "Wow." Yep, that's about it. Simpletons. Let me tell you how I kicked ass with that fake emotion as well. First I furrowed my brow a little as if I were focusing intently on the stage (but not enough to cause a crease between my eyes). Then, upon the moment of the big reveal, my eyebrows softened and my eyes got wider. This is when most people started to say, "Wow." Not I, friends. I opened my mouth and took a quick breath in, like I was a little surprised by what I was seeing. Then I closed my mouth and pushed my bottom lip up a little (which I call "The Bill Clinton") and gave a slow, meaningful nod. What was the nod's meaning? If you saw it, you'd know without a doubt that it was saying, "I'm not sure quite how you did that, but damn do I respect the job you're doing up there. Bravo." Compare that to the sheep-like wowers, and it's pretty easy to see why I stood out from the crowd. Peter Klein: Fake Spectator Extraordinaire.

And with that, let's point, shake, and nod our ways on over to the Car Watch.

Ok, this one's a little bit nerdy, but I'm going to press on anyway. I was driving with my lovely wife when I spotted a big truck in front of us that read, "Zephyr Express North" in a large font. I made a scoffing sound and said, "You see that?" She said she did, but didn't understand why she was supposed to be looking at it. "Zephyr...north?" I said incredulously. "Yeah?" "Well a zephyr is a wind from the west, so that doesn't make any sense." She was unaware of the definition, as (now that I think of it) most people might be. I know it because when we went to a minor league baseball game (as spectators!) during our year in Sacramento, we saw the hometown River Cats play against the New Orleans Zephyrs. I looked it up around that time and remembered that factoid. So now that we're all on the same page: "Zephyr Express...North?" What the hell, right? Right?

My homey Rockabye sent me this license plate recently: "WILDCPA." Ooh, let me guess, do you e-file people's taxes while listening to rocking flute of Jethro Tull? Do you tell people to deduct like the wind and let the cards fall as they may? Do you...crap, I really know absolutely nothing about accounting. Anyone got any good lines here? Please post them in the comments section and help a brother out.

Lastly, my friend Dusty sent me a plate and frame combo that makes me insanely jealous. The plate read, "20 CENTS," and the frame elucidated us with, "The 4 Nichols." Damn that's good. I wish multiple Kleins added up to something so I could make a punny yet accurate license plate. I tip my imaginary cap to you, family o' Nichols.

That's it for me, folks. I hope you enjoyed, and either way, please send any thoughts you have to ptklein@gmail.com so I can keep this thing going for a while longer. I'll be back next Friday, hopefully with an idea or two before I start typing. In the meantime: Happy half-birthday today to my Grandma Mu, a great encourager of creativity. Happy Halloween tomorrow, which is also our cute pup Hallie's 7th birthday. Happy half-birthday to our friend Jesse on Sunday, and to both Debbie and Jen on next Thursday. Take care, folks, and I'll see you in November.

Smooth operator

Hello yet again, my homepeople, and welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unwanted Orphans Progressing Through Adolescence," but I can imagine that that sadly happens fairly often. (Do I know how to get this party started or what?) Instead, I like to think of this UOPTA as a happier place, where people with or without parents can come on a weekly basis to read my thoughts and stories. So let's see what I've got for today, shall we? Hmmn, it looks like there's nothing even close to resembling a theme, so I hope you're ready for some disjointed and segue-free thoughts this week. (If you'd like to send in your own UOPTA, ptklein@gmail is how all the cool kids are doing it.)

Without getting into specifics, part of my job often involves me setting up conference calls for clients with other people I know. Over time, the process has become pretty streamlined for me: I get some times from one party, suggest them to the other, s/he chooses one, I send out a meeting request through Outlook, and then I send a reminder/confirmation a day ahead of time. Being who I am, I always get on the calls way too early and sit there for a few minutes while I await attendees from both sides. That's my fault, and I realize that. It's a combination of wanting to be there first to welcome them and a poor assessment of time. I always forget that it doesn't take three minutes to pick up the phone and two more to dial a number. What I don't get though is why 95% of the time, I'm still the only one on the call when the agreed-upon hour arrives. It's usually only another two or three minutes before someone joins, and then a few minutes after that (and some awkward, stalling chatting) before the other side's there. But the invitees are never all there when the clock hits the set time, and as a hyperpunctual person, I just don't get it.

Last week, I set a call after many emails back and forth finding the right time for two people to speak. I called in only about three minutes too early and waited. After ten minutes had passed, I sent an email to both parties making sure they had the right call-in number and PIN. After ten more minutes, I sent another email saying, "It looks like you both got caught up in something, so let's find another time this week to chat." Those aren't the most efficient 23 minutes I've ever spent in my life. On top of that, this conference line we use has had the same song rotation as its hold music for years, and I'm getting really sick of it. There's one Ray Charles song, one Natalie Merchant song, and one Sade song. That's it. Oh, and there's always a little burp of static in the same place on the Natalie Merchant song, and when I point at the phone right in time with the static, I feel as cool as one possibly could in that inherently uncool situation. Maybe those 23 minutes weren't all bad after all.

It's strange, but I just realized at 32 years old that I have a pet peeve. That's a little late in the game, right? Here it is: When someone is talking to me and I can hear that he needs to clear his throat, but he just keeps right on talking. Dude, clear your damn throat! I find myself clearing my own in that situation, partially as a subconscious reaction to make sure my breathing passages are open, and partially in hopes that the speaker will take a frickin' hint. I hear it, he hears it, and anyone within earshot hears it, so why press on? Do your little cough or double-cough; I'll still be here when you get back.

I learned a very interesting piece of trivia recently. I heard on the radio that 50% of the U.S. population lives within 500 miles of Columbus, Ohio. "That can't be," I told myself. "That's weird," my lovely wife said when I repeated the factoid. Not content to leave it alone, I went to an online map of the country, got to a size in which half of my thumb equaled one hundred miles, and set off to find Americans. Sure enough, there are giant cities in all directions of Columbus. Some barely make it, but it appears that in a straight line, St. Louis, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, New York City, and Atlanta all fall within that distance. Crazy shit, eh? Oh yeah, and Aurora, Illinois too, home to Wayne and Garth. Can't forget that.

Way back in high school, I was on an improv comedy team for two years. Even though the meat of our performances were made up on the spot, we still held weekly rehearsals to sharpen our skills. One of my favorite skills I learned during that time was the art of working backwards to create a joke. To be clear, these were usually very stupid jokes, but that's kinda what you're expecting with a whole five seconds of thought behind them. I bring this up because earlier this week, I made up a joke in that fashion. I was draining some pasta while helping make dinner, and the wheels started turning. "Hey honey?" I asked. My lovely wife looked over. "Will you tell me if a joke I just made up is too stupid to share with people?" She agreed. "Ok," I said, as I gave a quick recounting of it in my head to make sure I had it down. "Why did the rolls go to Dairy University?" "Why?" "To butter themselves," I replied. She thought, smiled a little, and said, "Not bad. It's in the Laffy Taffy category." "I'll take it!" I said.

For those of you not familiar with Laffy Taffy, it's a candy with pretty bad jokes sent in by children (or people posing as children) printed on the labels. I like to try to guess the punchlines, and not to toot my own horn too much, but I'm either really close or the joke is f'n stupid. For example, I could guess that when it asks, "Why did the skeleton go to the movies by himself?" that the answer will have something to do with "no body to go with him." But when it asks where a dentist goes on vacation, how the hell am I supposed to guess, "The mouth of the Mississippi"? I find myself trying to make the stupid jokes better sometimes. For example, "Why did the apple turnover?" one asks. "Because it was jealous of the jelly roll" is the given answer. I don't like that. If you're setting it up as a verb in the question, follow through in the punchline and make it, "Because it saw the jelly roll." Jeez, kids these days.

Speaking of creativity and putting some serious thought into words, I must say that I'm somewhat disappointed in the boring name of the greyhound. "I say, old chap, take a gander at that grey hound lying there. I created the breed myself, and I shall call it...the greyhound." If I were the old chap that guy was talking to, I would've stopped him right there and encouraged him to at least put his town's name in instead of that bland description name. (Oops, forget all that. According to Wikipedia: "The name 'greyhound' is generally believed to come from the Old English grighund. 'Hund' is the antecedent of the modern 'hound,' but the meaning of 'grig' is undetermined, other than in reference to dogs in Old English and Norse. Its origin does not appear to have any common root with the modern word 'grey' for color, and indeed the greyhound is seen with a wide variety of coat colors." Jeez, dogs these days.)

And with that, let's chase a fake rabbit down the track to the Car Watch.

My friend Dusty sent me a picture of a bumper sticker. In large letters, it read:
"Daughter - Summa Cum Laude. Cal Poly Pomona.
Son - Magna Cum Laude. USC.
Me - Dumb Shit.
GO FIGURE!"
Well, if we're just going by choice in bumper stickers, I can attest that he's at least right about one of those three.

I saw a license plate earlier this week that confused me. "D(Heart)LESS1," it read. Is that really something to be proud of? The person is telling the world that s/he is either "heartless" or "loveless," and that doesn't scream, "Put me on your license plate!" to me.

Lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that read, "POTART." I read that as "pot art," which then led me to picture blacklight posters with Bob Marley, The Grateful Dead, or the cast of "Dazed and Confused." Then I thought about it a little deeper and started picturing art featuring marijuana. It could stand in for trees in a three-dimensional painting or have little googly eyes on the outside of a plastic baggie to make it look like a person. (No, I wasn't high.) But what if I'm off base with going for the drug reference? Do people make art for/with teapots or coffee pots? They can wear googly eyes too, mind you.

Ok, that's more than enough for me. Thank you for your time here today, friends, and I look forward to hopefully seeing you back here again next Friday. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with any UOPTAs, Car Watch items, or questions about where I get the good shit that makes you start thinking about teapot artwork. In the meantime: Happy Anniversary today to my friends Suzanne and Andrew. I have my fantasy basketball auction draft this Sunday evening, so send good thoughts my way. Happy Birthday to my friends Alicia on Monday and Regina on Thursday. Take care, everyone.

Punk-tuation

Good morning, party people and non-party people. Welcome yet again to another week here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unripened Oranges Predictably Taste Acidic," but that is a truism I dare not question. (Thanks to my favorite brother for providing that UOPTA - it's one of my favorites to date, but mainly because you can spell Peter TWICE with the letters in it. If you'd like to send in your own, please do to ptklein@gmail.com.) Instead, mis amiguitos, this UOPTA is a place in which I write my thoughts and stories. Sounds simple enough, right? Then let's get into an actual themed version of a post today.

I'm re-reading the very entertaining, "Eats, Shoots & Leaves" by Lynne Truss right now. If you're not familiar with it, the book is a humorous case for the importance of punctuation and why accuracy is paramount. In it, she also gives many great examples of poorly written items. I see them myself all the frickin' time, but it takes a real whopper (or doozy, if you prefer) for me to write it down or take a picture with my cell phone. I've seen some recently that have prompted me to those extremes though.

First off, my lovely wife and I traveled up north for our friend Dusty and The Mills' wedding. The Mills grew up in a tiny town, and while I was up there, I learned that the entire county has only three traffic lights. (I originally typed "country" instead of "county," and I'm pretty sure someone would've called bullshit on that.) But small town schmall town, I always say. Grammar and punctuation is not limited to those in metropolitan areas. (Neither is poor grammar and punctuation, as we'll come to see.) So there is no excuse for an ice cream stand to have a printed and laminated sign that read, "We now have peanut's on our Sunday's." If you're scoring at home, that's three errors in seven words (an impressive ratio!), but I guess if one never learns how to use apostrophes or the difference between a dessert and a frickin' day of the week, that's par for the course. Bravo, ice cream stand, bra-vo.

Next up, I got a haircut a little while ago, and parked in my usual space. Typically, I walk past the three or four old men sitting outside of the bakery next door and then sit and wait for the barber to arrive. (I take the first appointment of the morning and beat him there every time. It's kinda my thing.) This last time, however, there were no old men holding coffee cups and complaining about the state of the world today. In fact, the entire bakery looked closed. I walked up to the front door and saw this sign on the door:

In case my needing-to-get-a-haircut reflection is blocking out the important first sentence, it reads, "This has is closed." Once again, this was a printed sign at a place of business...that apparently was devoid of proofreaders. I guess they were deciding on whether to say that the store "is closed" or "has closed," and in all the commotion forgot the all-important noun. I wish their Beverly Hills store more luck. (Oh yeah, and nice job capitalizing the state abbreviation.)

Near my office, there is a Coffee Bean that I used to frequent...frequently. (I like the verb "to frequent." It's convenient.) Now I only go once in a while, since I can make tea or coffee at my office in a less expensive and quicker fashion. In any case, I was at the register about a month ago when I saw a printed sign in a plastic holder. It was obvious that they cared enough to place it where everyone can see the sign, but they neglected to care enough to refrain from bastardizing the English language. To wit:

I can understand when someone writes something technically incorrect that sounds good in his or her head because it's more conversational in nature. But I just can't imagine, "Parking validation are only good for 20 minute additional cost will be charge after 20 minute Thank you" sounding good in anyone's head. My only guess is that some supervisor there is not a native English speaker, and everyone else was too afraid to correct him or her. I obviously loved it and wanted to take it home with me electronically. It was tricky though. After trying to think of a few scenarios in which I would rightfully have my phone out and pointed that direction, I gave up on being subtle and held it out in front of me to snap the pic. I may have even giggled; it was worth it.

The final one really gets my goat because of the number of people who must have looked at it before it reached my eyes. I was in Babies R Us (which deserves its own entry with an f'd up name like that), and I saw something that made me say out loud, "Oh come on!" Ladies and gentlemen, I present:


I kept waiting for the rest of the sentence. "My first photo's...of a puppy dog." "My first photo's...certainly going to be a memorable one." "My first photo's...subjects have their eyes closed." Nope, that was it. Keep in mind, for this item to be in front of me, it took a company to have the idea to create it, a designer to make the image/text, an executive of some kind to approve it, a buyer at the store level to place an order for the albums, and many more people along the way. No one saw a problem with this? In short: "Babies are us like photo's."

Ok, this isn't related to failed punctuation, but I rarely put pictures in the middle of my posts, so I might as well keep this one full of them. Yesterday, I got to work at my normal time, turned on the 23 light switches in the office, and put my stuff down on the file cabinet behind my desk. My eye caught something on the window, and so I looked in a little closer:


If you can't tell, that's a snail on the window. So what, right? It had rained the two days before, and they come out then. What's the big deal? Well, my office is on the third floor of the building (out of three). I can't help but wonder how long it took that little guy to get so precariously perched on the window pane. Did he start on the roof and try working his way down (as his direction would suggest)? I have no idea, but after taking the picture, I got down to work and didn't look over there again for an hour. By that time, the snail was no longer in sight. Either snails are faster than I'm giving them credit for, or their bodies are a little less sticky than necessary for those conditions.

And with that, let's leave a slimy trail on down to the Car Watch.

I saw this license plate earlier this week: "TP DNSR." My first thought was, "Toilet paper dispenser," even though I knew immediately that was wrong. "Oh, 'dancer' it's trying to say," I thought. Naturally, I tried picturing a toilet paper dancer. Then I thought, "Moron, it's probably supposed to be 'top dancer' or...no, 'tap dancer.' What's wrong with me?" I can't explain why it took me so long to get there, but I think it's safe to say that if a tap dancer instead made someone think about toilet paper, then the license plate probably doesn't work well enough.

My favorite brother sent me an email that said the following: "SENOR EL - Mr. The? Don't get it." I sure think of "Mr. The" with that too, Kev, so I'm right there with you. I like it, even though I don't get it. Maybe I'm just jealous since I've always thought it would be cool if my middle initial of T stood for "the." Peter The Klein has a nice ring to it.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that he was pretty sure would incur the wrath of Klein. It read, "PO8IC." This one's difficult, because it speaks to two different ways I approach things. On one hand, it's frickin' stupid since the word isn't "po-ate-ic." As I've clearly stated, I dislike when numbers are used in a way that doesn't serve the same purpose as the way they sound. That said, it's unbelievably fitting to allow poetic license on a license that's trying to say "poetic." If the driver was indeed trying to create a "poetic" license, how can I fault him or her for that? I don't think I can.

Alrighty folks, that's it for me. Thanks for joining me again this week, and I'll do more of the same next Friday. In the meantime, there are some things we'll pass between now and then. According to my calendar, I should wish a Happy National Boss Day today to all you bosses out there. So to Bruce Springsteen, George Steinbrenner, Mr. Hogg, and my lovely wife, enjoy your special day. Happy half-birthday on Sunday to my friend Lindsey, and another happy half-birthday on Thursday to my favorite sister-in-law, Ilyse. Have a happy and healthy weekend and week, friends. Shaloha, and go Dodgers!