In-flight entertainment

Good morning everyone, and happy Hump Day to you all. I got in from Miami late last night and I have more real work than normal, so this will be more brief than normal.

There were two things I was going to write about in detail. First, I got to the airport way early to get work done on my laptop, but after paying $10 for the wi-fi there, it hardly worked then eventually didn't work at all. It takes a lot for me to write a complaint email, but that waste of time and money got me there.

The second thing was the movie choice on the plane ride back. A late-night flight from Miami to Los Angeles, and the powers that be decided to put the animated kids' movie "Open Season" on. The preview they showed looked horrible enough that I didn't even give it a chance. On the way there, they showed "The Illusionist," which makes a lot more sense. (By the way, that movie gave the illusion of being somewhat good from the preview.)

So, I said "I was going to write about in detail" because while sitting on the plane, boredom struck. I had two crossword puzzles and four sudokus, but I either finished or got stuck on them. So naturally, I did what any of you would've done: I turned to haiku. Traditional Japanese haiku is not what we typically see in the States. The 5-7-5 syllable structure isn't really rigid at all, and the first line tends to have a "season word" in it, like mentioning the cherry blossom to denote springtime. Since those are actual poems, I stuck with simply counting syllables.

One last note: my brother's first name has 5 letters in it, his middle has 7, and his last has 5. I once called to tell him that he mimicked the haiku pattern of syllables, but he already knew that. Ah, genetics.

Here you go:

The airport wi-fi

has low connectivity

I give my mi-fi

I insert the flap
into the metal buckle
just like a good boy.

Seat 24G

looks just like 24F

but with half the ass

Airplane miracles:

three dollar snickerdoodles

and pillows that hurt

I'm such a rebel -
I would help others before
securing my mask.

The songs of Weezer

work remarkably well with

dumb, muted movies

I feel you staring

get your own damn sudoku

and step off, bee-otch

The guy next to me

gets his black carry-on bag;

I get ass in face

The flight attendant

did more than attend the flight.

She should get a raise.

It won't recline more.

Trust me, it won't recline more.

Please - please - stop trying.

Nothing like snoring

to distract haiku writing.

Thanks, 22H.

SkyMall magazine:

Full of things I never knew

I never wanted

I got up to pee

out of sheer boredom alone

and still went. I rule.

Emergency doors

could still be fun to open,

all things considered.

My light just turned off.

I quickly turned it back on.

Yep, that's a highlight.

Someone mis-entered

the in-flight crossword puzzle.

Frickin' amateurs.

Two and a Half Men:

"Comedic entertainment"?

Uh, I don't think so.

Little booze bottles
are a larger saftey threat
than Peter's hair gel.

Chewing gum relieves
ear pressure, not peer pressure.
An honest mistake.

Just one hour left.
This was a good diversion;
Thanks, gentle readers.

La cosa loca

I feel like I've written a lot recently about sleeping and sleepiness, but that's not going to stop me from relating yet another tale for your reading enjoyment (I hope). I'm in Miami for business right now, and the first night and following morning of a trip back east always pose a problem for me.

You see, I have to get up at 6 or 7 something in the morning for meetings, and I know that it will feel like 3 or 4 something in the morning because I won't have fully adjusted to the time difference. So I try to combat this by going to bed early, but it quickly becomes midnight and I'm wide awake because it's only 9pm to my internal clock. Then I start playing the whole "if I fall asleep right now, I'll get x number of hours" game, and I'm pretty sure I've never won that one.

Can't I just pretend that's the real time and trick my body into going to bed at 11 and get a good number of hours in? No, my internal clock isn't tricked so easily. It knows things, and my cunning attempts at trickery are always rebuffed and met with unwavering resolve. Stupid stubborn internal clock. Regardless, when I woke up after a solid four-plus hours of sleep, something happened that led me to today's particular Sleepy Klein story:

Over the course of five or six years, the same thing would happen about 90% of my mornings. I would be in the shower, and then I'd notice that there would be a song in my head. Every single time, it was the same exact song: "Wild Thing" by Tone Loc. For those of you not familiar with the song, it's basically a rap in which Mr. Loc repeatedly tells us that he enjoys sexual intercourse and not, as you may have assumed, a remake of the oldie by The Troggs. It includes such beautifully-crafted lines as, "Couldn't get her off my jock, she was like, like static cling/But that's what happens when bodies start slappin' from doin' the wild thing." And to be fair, it's this song that introduced the world to "Hasta la vista, baby," later further popularized on the big screen by some Austrian actor who has since faded from the limelight.

For the first couple of years that this happened, I never gave it much thought as to why that same song was in my head almost every morning. I thought it was amusing that I kept getting "Wild Thing" in my head so often and didn't wonder too much about the cause of it. Then I did start to wonder, and it was killing me. I'd be in the shower, notice it in my head (usually in the third verse already), and think, "Dammit, why are you here?!?" It never answered. I told people about this problem, hoping someone would say, "Oh yeah, I get that too, it's because..." No such luck.

And then it happened. After at least five years of this occurring (honestly about 90% of my mornings), I was in a work meeting discussing a project that would be challenging to implement. I went back to my desk and found that "Wild Thing" was in my head. Quickly, I replayed everything that had just happened in the end of the meeting, and by Jove I got it: At the end, I said to my boss, "Alright, let's do it." Aha! "Wild Thing" starts with Tone Loc saying, "Lezz do it!" I further connected the dots and realized that in my sleepy state, I need a little pep talk to get out of bed. Apparently, that little pep talk to myself was consistently in the form of "Let's do it." My subconscious took that phrase and continued with the song that followed.

Once I figured that out, the song appeared less and less frequently. But after a shorter than planned rest here in Miami, I guess I needed all the help I could get. Thank you, Tone Loc. Without you, I might still be in bed, and more importantly, I might not know what to do when a woman tells me, "I need fifty dollars to make you holler/I get paid to do the wild thing."

A little misunderstanding

Over time, almost everyone who knows me ends up calling me Pete. My family all does, and I'd say a vast majority of friends do too. It's partly laziness and people wanting to save a syllable, partly just the fact that "Hey Pete" is easy to say. I like my name, and I like the nickname of Pete, but I never introduce myself that way because I don't like how "Pete Klein" sounds. It's a little too choppy, so I go by Peter and people will eventually do as they please. Fine by me. (Naturally, Dave the Contrarian purposely introduced me to someone as "Pete Klein" after hearing my thoughts on the subject.)

That brings me to the main meat of today's post: people misunderstanding names. For example, I once wanted to try Pete on to see how it felt. So at a coffee house, I placed my order and when asked for my name, I confidently said "Pete." "Keith?" the barista asked. "No, Peeeet" I said, fully enunciating all three complex sounds in the name. After starting out 0-for-1 as Pete though, I switched back to Peter.

That hasn't been foolproof either. I was at a Jamba Juice, and when asked my name, I truthfully said "Peter." "Your name is Gator?" she asked incredulously. "No, Peter," I said, "but go ahead and leave it as Gator on there, that's fine." I was confused how someone could assume such a tough nickname for me instead of hearing an actual name first. That wasn't the only time either. I had a woman at another Jamba Juice (I blame the blender noise, by the way) ask my name, have me repeat it (which I did slowly and clearly), then have me spell it. I did, but I wasn't sure why she didn't understand me. "Oh, I thought you were saying Geter." Her co-worker chimed in and said she understood me fine, but that made two times that people mistook my P sound for a G, and I didn't even know that was possible.

The king of this form of miscommunication is hands-down my friend Greg. Nice, normal name. It started back when we were little kids and he joined a bowling league I was in. An old coach named Lou came up to him, and I'm going to switch to play-like dialogue to better capture the moment:

The scene is a bowling alley circa the mid 1980s. Two young boys stand center stage discussing the upcoming battle between Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant, and how Optimus Prime would totally kick either of their asses. Greg, a shy boy with glasses and a new bowling bag in his hand, is nervous to be entering the cut-throat world of competitive bowling but tries to appear brave and seasoned. Peter, exuding a masculinity not often seen in boys his age, stands by his friend, hoping some of his immense internal fortitude will be mystically transferred to his lifelong friend.

Lou: (enters stage left) Hello there. Say, what's your name, little feller?
Greg: (as bravely as possible) Greg.
Lou: Hi Gray, I'm Lou, nice to meet you.
Greg: (bolder yet) No, it's Greg.
Lou: Sorry, Rick, sometimes my hearing's not so good.

Peter then steps in with a boyish smile to soften his rugged good looks to clear up the confusion. He's saved the day, and the twinkle in his eye gives the audience the impression that he knows this won't be the last time the world calls upon his unlikely combination of steady-handed leadership and bedside manner. (Curtain)

Naturally, I've called Greg "Gray Rick" from time to time ever since that magical moment, and it's probably been twenty years now. Damn. In any case, that was the first of many such instances for Greg.

Of course he's gotten "Craig" from people, but that's understandable. I remember being out to dinner once and running into someone I knew. Everyone at the table introduced themselves, and the young lady repeated almost every name back correctly. "Jon, Scott, Dave, Rob, and Jack. I think I got it." "Almost, it's Greg," Greg said. "Oh, I thought you said 'Jack'," she replied. After she walked away, Greg leaned in and very seriously said, "Guys, please be honest with me. Do I have some speech impediment that I don't know about?" We told him that he didn't, and he almost seemed upset because that would've at least been an answer for him.

A couple of years ago, Greg called me to tell me that it happened again. He went to Fatburger with some of his law school friends, and they all placed their orders and gave their names. Time passed, and one by one everyone's name was called to retrieve their food...everyone except Greg, that is. He waited, thinking maybe his was just taking longer for some reason, then finally went up to the counter to see how much longer it would be. "What's you name?" the attendant asked. He told her, and she went to look for his order. She went over to one that had been sitting there for a while, checked the receipt, made a confused face, and then brought the tray over to him. "I guess this one is yours," she said as she pushed it toward him. He looked at the receipt, and where it should have read "Greg" was the made-up name "Rek." Rek!

It's gotten to the point that Greg's been toying with ideas for nicknames. Since the actor Topher Grace became popular, it's opened a new door. His name is Christopher, but he doesn't shorten it to Chris but rather Topher. Cool idea, but it takes the right kind of name to do it. Nifer wouldn't really work for Jennifer, but something like Andra for Alexandra possibly could. Would Ory work for Greg? Kinda, and it's cool sounding (like 'Quin for Juaquin), but it would still be a name that people don't immediately get.

So basically, he's screwed. Should he just wear a nametag around? I don't typically take pleasure in other people's problems, but this has been a comedic goldmine for our group of friends for so long that I'd almost hate to see it go. At the very least, it's provided us with the possibility of a Geter and Rek business together somewhere down the line.

"Names" for 200, Alex

Happy Friday, everyone. I'm delighted to once again venture into the world of names. It's a veritable goldmine of topics, so I'll certainly be back again soon. Today, I'd like to start with my name. I like it, it's a name that everyone knows so I don't have to spell it for them but isn't so common that I had to be Peter K. in elementary school. Overall, I think it has good positioning in the name popularity index.

However, there's a reason people might know the name: it's featured in an unusually high number of fairy tales. Peter Pan, Peter Piper, Peter Peter Pumpkineater, Peter Rabbit, Peter Cottontail (two rabbits!), Peter and the Wolf, the German fairy tale Struwwelpeter (translated as Shockheaded Peter), and probably many more. Seriously, that's a lot of frickin' nursery rhymes and fairy tales.

Also, in our own English language, I've come across a definition for "peter" that read "to gradually become smaller and weaker, eventually ceasing to exist" as in to "peter out." Add that to the fact that it doubles as slang for a penis and my last name meaning "small" in German, and I think you'll agree that we have a winning combination.

As a sidenote, I searched on Google last week for my name to see if UOPTA would come up. I tried different variations to help it along, like "peterklein blog." As it turns out, there's not only a .com of my name taken, but another blog on Live Journal and a guy who write for Wordpress with my name. I just hope they're funny.

Anyway, my senior year of high school, we would often eat lunch at a sandwich place called You're the Boss. I often commented that if that were the case, I'd be Tony Danza. I also had a deep desire to call them, and when they would answer the phone with, "You're the Boss!" I'd reply with, "You're fired!" Never got around to doing that though.

The shop operated as many sandwich places do: you fill out a sheet with what you want, put your name on it, they ring you up and call your name when it's ready. The first time we went in, Dusty wrote his name as Dusti with a heart over the i to be cute. It's a very long story that I may address another time, but I put my name down as Juaquin. When the order was ready, she called "my" name, and "Dusti" and I shared a little laugh. Ha ha. Like that.

A couple of days later, we went back into You're the Boss. As we opened the door, the woman behind the counter said, "Hi Dusti and Juaquin!" Oops. It appeared that I was stuck being Juaquin at that establishment until graduation or until they went out of business, whichever came first. Being a creature of habit, she started to know what I wanted without me filling out a sheet, and since the sandwiches were good, we'd go there once or twice a week. Every time, I was Juaquin, and every time she said it at least once.

I was terrified that someone from school would come in while we were there, and she'd hear them call me by my actual name. I created back-stories just in case, like how I was half-Mexican but ashamed of my heritage when I started high school so I went by my middle name there. Now I see how beautiful the culture is, so I go by my given name when I meet new people. What if she asked to see my license though? I would have to say I don't have one and pray that Dusty drove there that day in case she followed us out. (Yeah, I tend to overanalyze things at times.)

Then one day, I was almost caught. Our classmate Jason Barbanell came into You're the Boss while our sandwiches were still being made. When they were done, the lady said, "Here you go, Juaquin." "Juaquin?" Jason said, and laughed a little, knowing us well enough that it made perfect sense to him. The lady turned to me with a confused look, but I pretended I didn't see her. Then as he was leaving, Jason said, "See ya, Pete." Crap. I quickly decided that he had called me by my nickname 'Quin (pronounced "keen") and she must have misheard him. Dusti played along and called me 'Quin a couple more times before we left. It's actually a pretty cool nickname, and if I could find a way to make that short for Peter, I'd think about using it again.

Gradually, we shifted away from You're the Boss (You're fired!) and toward Del Taco. It was a lot less expensive, almost just as close, and fortunately for my nerves, they never asked my name. Have a great weekend everyone.

Domo arigato

A couple of weeks ago, I came out as a nerd to everyone watching on "the internets" and I'm here to reprise my role. I talked about my love of learning, and nowhere was that more apparent than when I would look through the catalog at courses I could take in college. I'd flip through, read the descriptions, check the pre-requisite courses, and get almost giddy at how interesting so many of them would sound.

I majored in English and minored in Spanish, and those departments offered a wide array of classes that I'd never dreamed of before. I took a literature class called "Cultural Representations of the Body," in which we debated whether or not the body is the screen on which one's soul projects itself, for example. Strange stuff, and exactly the type of thing that would catch my eye when the next quarter's Schedule of Classes would come out.

As is the case with most college programs, I had General Education requirements to satisfy in addition to my major and minor requirements. This was in essence why I wanted to go to college: so I could leave with a well-rounded education in addition to the specific knowledge I'd learn from my major. (Are your Nerd Alerts going off? If not, they need to be tuned.) There were so many choices that I felt boring every time I took the introductory course of a department. So, for a social science course, I got to take an Anthropology course called "Understanding Africa." I figured that I knew really nothing about that entire continent, so what the hell. It was some fascinating stuff, and I can sometimes still draw from that when watching Jeopardy. Speaking of which, I took a Linguistics class called "Word Origins" specifically with Jeopardy in mind, but now I get nervous when that's the final category because I feel like I should know the answer (or question) automatically.

For one of my final requirements, my friend Greg and I both signed up for a Comparative Literature course called..."Robots." The description in the catalog didn't give us much information, so we were solely going off the title. As it turned out, the course probably should've been called "The Philosophy of Existence," because that's mainly what we discussed. However, we got to watch and/or read Blade Runner, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Frankenstein, and others. We talked about how can one prove that he is not a robot, since there's no way to truly prove free will, etc. Our French professor named Didier navigated us through the topics with his oh-so-French accent and his patented move of putting his right elbow in his left hand and then continuously moving the open right hand in a circle as he spoke. Continuously.

The class had only two graded parts to it: the in-class midterm and the final paper. The midterm was pretty simple for anyone who had paid even the slightest amount of attention, so I got an A- on it. For the final paper, he gave us four topics to choose from, but told us we could do something different if we cleared it with him first. The day before it was due, I was stuck. I kept trying to write about the only prompt I liked, but it wasn't working. Then, in a moment of clarity, I had one of my greatest ideas of my college career: I was going to bullshit the hell out of this paper.

The whole class was really bullshit, and Philosophy majors would raise their hands and say circuitous crap that sounded like it came from Bill Clinton's deposition. They'd smugly say stuff like, "If I know I exist because I move my arm, then my arm must also exist because it has the power to recognize that command. Thus, my arm has its own innate free will since it chooses not to disregard my mind's existence," and expect oohs and ahhs afterwards. I felt like I could write anything with conviction and lofty language and have it eaten up, so it was almost like a perfect storm of bullshit.

I started typing, and before I knew it, I was writing a term paper in journal form, stating that I had been a robot in the class, observing the nature of beings with free will. This wasn't one of the prompts, and I hadn't cleared it with him first, so it was a risk. But I thought about how this would all play out: Didier would get it and think that it was either bullshit or brilliant, he'd immediately check my midterm grade as a reference, then upon seeing the A- determine that it must be brilliant. So I laid it on thick. I wrote about how I was programmed to sit in a different seat on the second day of class to avoid looking robotic, but since the humans all sat where they had before, I adapted. "This does not compute," I wrote several times throughout, and ended each daily entry with "End program."

I wrote about HAL in 2001, and how humans misinterpreted his message as he was "dying" and saying "I feel it" over and over. "My programmer uploaded all of the romance languages onto my hard drive," I wrote, "and I know that HAL meant to say 'I feel it' in Spanish, or 'lo siento' which means 'I'm sorry'. I dare not speak up for I did not want to call attention to my advanced knowledge," and crap like that. I just went through my notes, found little things I had jotted down, and turned them into a robot's journal entries.

And my plan worked beautifully. Because of probably the best bullshitting I've ever done in my life, I got the only A+ I ever received in college. I sometimes wonder what Didier's reaction was while reading my paper (and moving his hand in a circle), and whether he put it aside as proof that he really got through to a student. All I know is that because of that class, I now do more than just a robot impression when I hear "Mr. Roboto" by Styx; I also think about my arm deciding to accept my mind's existence. Long live General Education!

Getting jobbed

On the radio a couple of days ago, they were talking about celebrities who had crappy, dead-end jobs before becoming famous. So-and-so worked at a McDonalds, this guy cut hair at his sister's salon, etc. I sat there laughing, not because any of it was particularly funny, but because those were not crappy jobs. I know crappy jobs. Those were lesser jobs or starter jobs, but not crappy ones.

What's the distinction I'm making between those categories? To me, if you didn't know what you were getting into, that plays a big role. With McDonalds, you pretty much know when you're applying that it's a lower-paying, faster-paced job working with often unkind customers and unmotivated colleagues. I have two tales of jobs that were unknowingly crappy, and I'll let the US Weekly editors fight over which they choose when I'm rich and famous.

Back in good ole Santa Barbara, I had just graduated from college and was in the middle of applying for jobs on campus. This was a very long process, because everything had to be 100% according to the Human Resources playbook. So each job was officially open for three weeks, then once it closed the applications were sent all together to the department. After two to five rounds of interviews, blah blah blah. While all of this was going on, I went to a temp agency to see how I could make some money in the meantime. When I was told about a week-long position with the parking department at a Christian college in town, I took it. (Even though I'm of the Jewish persuasion, I didn't find this to be a conflict of interest at all - I just wanted a little cash and I didn't have to sign anything saying that Jesus is the Lord or anything.)

So I walk up the first day in a dress shirt and slacks, and I learn what my job will be: Sitting outside in the summer heat with a full-time parking employee, running up as cars pull into the lot, scraping off old parking stickers from the students' windshields and putting new ones on. Awesome.

It was, to say the least, a very interesting experience. On day one, the lady I was working with starting talking about going to garage sales every weekend. "I know that the rate should be three t-shirts for fifty cents, so I don't let them Jew me down," I was told. Hmmmm. I had to decide whether I should say something nicely and make the next four and a half days of sitting alone with this woman even more awkward than it already was or let it go and hope it was the only comment of its kind all week. I chose that latter, and it fortunately didn't come up again.

Another interesting component was interacting with the students. I was only a couple of years at most older than them, so I'd chat a little while scraping off the stickers. One young lady was a bit flirty and kept asking if I was new in town and needed any friends. I politely declined and told her that I had a good group of friends including my serious girlfriend in town, yet as she was leaving, she yelled out what residence hall she lived in "just in case." I chuckled to myself, especially since I had just seen her "Real Men Love Jesus" bumper sticker.

At the end of the week, I made a very small sum, my hands were sore and calloused hands from all the scraping, I had a little sunburn from sitting outside all week, I'd endured a little religious slur, and I had unwittingly broken hearts all along the way (which takes a devastating toll on me). Does that count as a crappy job?

If not, I have story number two to throw at you, gentle readers. You've heard about my job in Sacramento and the fun I had arranging things in zip code order, etc. With that job, though, I knew what I was getting into and it definitely could've been worse. Before that job, I had a two-week temp job that was a little less than advertised. I was told that I would be helping this larger company prepare for their annual convention. Cool, I did event planning stuff before, this could be interesting.

Yeah...that's not really what happened. As it turned out, the help they needed was in cold calling a list of several hundred businesses to see if they'd be interested in attending the convention. And as it turned out, everyone on that list had already been contacted and said no, but they needed more attendees, so that's where I came in. To make matters oh-so-much more interesting, the phone jacks weren't working properly so I had a makeshift office in (wait for it) the supply cabinet. Yep, there I sat, amongst the reams of paper, printer cartridges, and boxes of old fliers, calling people who had already clearly said no to the same request.

At the end of that stint, my voice was hoarse from talking eight hours a day, my neck hurt from cradling the phone, and I'd been yelled at by people on the phone who didn't understand why I was calling them. I had a new appreciation for open spaces though. Crappy? What say you, friends? Don't get me wrong, there are very bad jobs out there that make these seem like walks in the park. It was more the bait-and-switch aspect of these that got me. Anyway, reliving those experiences at least made me feel a little better about my current job. Speaking of which, I'd better get back to it. Happy Hump Day.

Half-awake, all-weird

A funny thing happened on the way to the office yesterday. I guess I was still a little tired, because I suddenly realized that I was on the wrong offramp of the freeway. I don't quite understand how that happened, since I kinda figured my car knew its way there without my help at this point. But there I was, getting off one exit too early and taking a couple of extra turns and extra minutes to get here. It stuck me as odd, and it got me thinking about other great moments in half-awake Peter history to share with you, gentle readers.

People do weird things when they're half-asleep. Wait, I've been told to own my statements, so let's try that again: I do weird things when I'm half-asleep. I've mentioned in this space before how bad my math is when I try to figure out when my alarm clock is going to go off. "Let's see, it's 2:15am, so I have 20 more minutes. Maybe I should just get up now to get a head start on the day." It's really something, and I amaze myself on almost a daily basis.

About a week ago, a strange thing happened. My alarm is set for 5:50am, but since I'm crazy, I almost always get up somewhere in the 5:40s. This is a problem on several levels, but mainly because should my alarm go off, I'll feel like I'm late because I'll have less time than I'm used to (even though that's the predetermined time I need to get up to do everything). Anyway, I opened my eyes last week, saw that it was in the 5:40s, and excitedly thought to myself, "The Shed!" Somehow, somewhere in my sleepy state, I had named the ten minutes leading up to my alarm "The Shed." I'm as clueless as you are. I told my wife, hoping she'd find some rhyme or reason to this, but no - I'm just bizarre. Naturally, I've awakened in The Shed every workday since and called it such. In fact, just this morning, I remember seeing the clock in the 5:20 range and thinking, "Ah, it's still pre-Shed." Again, I don't know where this came from but still decided to share (because I learned long ago that sharing and caring are connected). I could understand if it were called The Window, but no, it's The Shed.

Moving on to more Sleepy Pete tales: Back in high school, computers were in the awkward teen stage of being able to connect through a modem online to text-based things like chat rooms but not yet anywhere near the internet we've come to know and love. Dusty, a tech guy by all accounts, was totally into this stuff. I was sleeping over there one weekend night and we thought of things to type to strangers in other states that would make us seem cool. After a few hours of this, I told him I was going to bed. "Ok," he said, "I'll wake you up at 3." "No," I told him, "let me go to sleep." "See you at 3!" he replied.

In the morning, Dusty asked if I remembered him waking me up at 3. I didn't at all, so he recounted the tale: The clock struck 3, and he proceeded to tap me repeatedly on the forehead. I sat up and confessed, "I didn't do the truck." He said, "Uh, Peter, I think you may need to go back to sleep." I then looked at him with disdain and said, "Bridge," before lying back down and falling asleep immediately. No one knows what that means (I certainly don't at least). I suggested that maybe he misunderstood me calling him a "stupid fuck" and "bitch," but he says my pronunciation was clear. Ooh, maybe I was supposed to take the truck on the bridge to The Shed...I think I'm onto something here.

Now, I don't know how much that story really counts, since I was probably at least 80% asleep still. I have no excuse for the next two though, because I was physically awake for both of them.

First, during the summer before my junior year of college, I had to get up early for my on-campus job. So one morning, I got up, shaved, showered, and brushed my teeth. I then put a quarter-size dollop of hair gel in my hand and proceeded to wipe it all over my face. Brilliant. Was I awake? Mostly, yeah. Not enough to refrain from confusing my morning steps though. A momentary lapse though, and easily forgivable.

The second was slightly more than "momentary." Senior year of high school, I wake up and hop in the shower. I get out, do all my stuff (correctly), get dressed, and head downstairs to make some coffee. As I enter the kitchen, my parents are sitting at the table playing Boggle. I stop and stare at them, very confused since my dad is normally already at work at this time and my mom should be asleep for another fifteen minutes. They stare back at me, equally confused because it's 11:45pm, and I just went to bed less than an hour ago. Yeah, my bad.

Before any of you smart asses say it: no, snoozing would not help me be more awake to start the day. These are isolated incidents, and they still fall well within the margin of error. And on that note, I have to start my real day and do my real work. Have a good Tuesday, everyone.

Meet Pete

Before I get into anything else, I have two quick announcements. First, as of around noon EST on Saturday, "my very pregnant friend Danielle" needs a new nickname. Congrats to the whole family, and I can't wait to meet little Tyler. Second, I forgot to mention my little homey T-Roy's 1st birthday on Friday, and that was totally unacceptable. T-Roy, if you're willing to forgive me for that error, I'll forgive you for the big open-mouth kisses you were giving my wife yesterday. Deal? Sweet. And onto the post:

Like most people, I think of myself as a pretty complex human being. I can seem like completely different people depending on the situation, spanning the entire spectrum from shy and introverted to bizarre and wacky. Quite a few years back, I came up with the three things that I want people to say about me. I think they speak to the core of who I am, and they are as follows:

1. Good guy; cares about people.
2. Hates mustard.
3. Not a snoozer.

Please don't confuse this list (as many have) with what I want on my epitaph; this is what I want people to know about me as a living person to better understand me. I've been telling people this for years, and former employees of mine even gave me a framed certificate with the three points printed on it. If I could go back in time, I think I'd change the order of the second and third, but what's done is done.

First and foremost, I want people to know that I truly care about the welfare of my fellow man. I care much more about my own family and friends, but wishing the best for all people is a key ingredient to the entree that is Peter. I'd say it's the pasta to lasagna - providing the structure and defining characteristics of the tasty dish. And yes, that metaphor works all the way through the "tasty dish" part. Since point #1 is not inherently funny though, that's all you get to hear about that.

Second, I hate mustard. 'Hate' is a strong word, I realize, but I actually hate mustard. My friend Greg once asked why I hate it so much, and I replied, "I don't like the way it tastes." A simple statement, but a fact that can't be argued with. Why is this significant to my life? Most obviously, if you're making me a sandwich, I don't want mustard on it. If you're cutting my sandwich in half, make sure your knife doesn't have mustard on it first. If you're eating mustard next to me at a college football game in the mid 1980s, it had better not get on my sweatshirt. Yes, I'm talking to you Jason N. Yellow mustard, spicy brown mustard, honey mustard dressing - nope, not my thing. I don't like the way it tastes. The only minor exceptions I've ever made is for things that have mustard as an ingredient that I can't taste. For example, certain potato salads or deviled eggs have been ok in the past. If I can't detect the thing I don't like the taste of, I may go ahead. One hint of it though, and I'm done.

Perhaps less obvious, hating mustard is relative to my life because it speaks to the fact that I have strong opinions, I voice them, and I stand by them. However, as in the case of potato salad, I am willing to consider other sides and bend my stance if appropriate. For example, Greg asked me over the weekend if I'd eat at Carl's Jr. if they changed their ad campaign to something less offensive to my sensibilities. I said, "If they completely changed to something more like a Jack in the Box campaign, I'd seriously consider it." See? I'm not a monster.

Lastly, I am not a snoozer. Not a fan of the snooze button one bit. I don't get it, really. I determine what time I need to get up, set the alarm for that time, and get out of bed when it arrives (or before, as is too-often the case). Oh sure, I'm very tired and would love a few more minutes of sleep, but that's the time that I need to start the day, so I do. It's not just that, it's that I also don't understand how such a small amount of extra time would actually do anything for me. I've known people who purposely set their alarms an hour before they need to get up so they can snooze five or six times. That strikes me as just plain stupid. Why have a final hour of stop-and-go sleep when you could've slept soundly that whole time? Yeah, it's hard to get out of bed, I get that, but does falling back to sleep several times make it easier? Snoozers out there, please try to defend your position.

Why is not being a snoozer key to who I am as a person? I think it says a lot, actually. On the most basic level, I'm very time-oriented any hyper-punctual. Time is always a factor for me; if I didn't get up when my alarm went off, I'd be late, and that doesn't work for me. Beyond that though, it shows how I stand by my decisions. If I say I'm going to get up at a certain time, I'm going to do it. If I'm extremely tired because of a late night or a bad night of rest, I'll have to suck it up a little to get moving but I still will. It's a part of who I am, it extends well beyond the realm of sleeping, and based on conversations I've had with my parents, I'm pretty sure it's genetic.

So, I thought I'd start this week off by giving you, gentle readers, a little more insight into who I am at the core. At the very least, you now know more about how to make me a sandwich.

Out-standing

My very pregnant friend Danielle started a blog (http://daniespages.blogspot.com/), and even though she didn't say as much, I'm taking full credit for being the inspiration. I clearly need to do a better job of inspiring though, since she only has two posts so far. Geez, it's not like anything else is going on.

In post 2 of 2, she talks a little about customer service, and talks about being pleasantly surprised by successful encounters with people in that position. I'm a little light on creativity this morning, so I'm stealing her theme to jumpstart the posting process.

I've been in service positions before, including a couple of years working at an Italian restaurant in a mall. At the end of each day, I found that I only recalled three types of customers: assholes, weirdos, and hot chicks (I was 14 when I started there). The normal, nice folk got forgotten pretty quickly. I took this knowledge with me out into the world, and I decided that if I wanted to add color to someone-in-a-service-role's day, I only had one option: be slightly weird. I can't really be an asshole to people in person, it's just not in my nature, and even though I have nice legs, I'm not a hot chick. I'm not talking about being super-freaky and ordering in pantomime or interpretive dance or anything, just slightly different than Joe Customer.

For example, I went to the Coffee Bean near my office a couple of days ago. I asked what kind of hot teas they had, and after reviewing the list, I asked the difference between the two peppermint ones. "This one is an herbal tea," the young lady said as she pointed to the Ginseng Peppermint. "Don't you think Herbal T would make a good rap name?" I asked. She was a little caught off guard, then replied, "Isn't that kinda nerdy for a rapper?" "Well Ice T seems like it would've been too nerdy to me, but he's done alright for himself." She wasn't sold yet, so I added, "What if he's all about legalizing weed like Cypress Hill - then it's a good name, right?" She saw my point but stuck to her guns and said it just didn't seem to fit. She handed me my Ginseng Peppermint, I paid, and I guarantee you she recalls that conversation next time she makes that same tea for someone. Do I care that much about being remembered? Not really, it's more about breaking the monotony for those people. I'm a giver.

So that's what I try to do for them. What can they do for me as the customer? Simply do their jobs correctly. I don't think I ask for too much in that regard. If I'm calling customer service with a question, either have the answer or find someone who does. It's the in-between, "I'm not sure...maybe" answers that frustrate me.

Wait, I've had a lot of anger in my posts this week. It's not my fault that French Stewart and Carl's Jr. are so infuriating, but I'm going to take the high road for the rest of this post. Here is a tale of excellent customer service in a place where others would be content to be average:

I lived in Santa Barbara for a total of nine years, and I loved so many things about that town. One of the things was the number of really cool and relaxing bars. Nothing crazy, just places to chill with the homies, have a drink or two, and actually hear each other's conversations because they weren't drowned out by thumping beats. One such place is Dargan's, an Irish pub downtown. Good music, good beer on tap, pool tables, and a weekly trivia night - that kind of thing is my bag, baby. Anyway, there was a younger busboy there who stood out for doing his job very, very well. I don't know if he got paid by the number of empty glasses he brought back to the kitchen, but the minute your last drop was gone and the glass hit the table, you'd look down and it would be gone. He kicked ass at his job and did it with pride.

Yet, that's the less prominent reason that my friends and I remember this young lad. The thing is, any time he needed to either reach in front of us get our attention for some reason, he would say, "Um excuse me please." I left out commas there intentionally, because that would imply pauses between some of the words. It was never "Excuse me," or even "Please excuse me," but always - always! - "Um excuse me please." He was soft-spoken, so he might say it two or three times in a row before someone moved their hand off the empty glass. Always the same exact delivery; no fluctuation in tone or volume, just "Um excuse me please" over and over throughout an evening. We couldn't even make a drinking game out of it, because we'd all get too plastered. Naturally, we refer to him as Um Excuse Me Please to this day.

This might sound like it would get annoying after a while, but it didn't. He was working hard at his job, doing very well at it, and he unknowingly developed his own endearing catchphrase too. After a couple of years going there occasionally, Dusty showed me an article in the Santa Barbara News Press with a big picture of Um Excuse Me Please as the lead. It was all about him, and it was remarkable. This guy, it turned out, was a high school student whose parents immigrated to the U.S. when he was very young. He had three of four jobs to help them make ends meet, was an excellent student, and was in the middle of running for class president. It became clearer to me why Um Excuse Me Please did such a good job at Dargan's - it was the only way he knew how to do things.

Since this was years ago, I like to think that Um Excuse Me Please got into a good college and is now making his family proud by pouring himself into something that involves helping others. Somewhere, he's either in front of a classroom, in a board room, or meeting with a patient, and I hope he's opening with his famous line. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Fast (and furious) food

Longtime UOPTA reader Laynie posted a comment yesterday that took the words right out of my mouth. She mentioned her hatred for Carl's Jr.'s advertisements. The thing is, I almost added an entire Carl's Jr. section to yesterday's post but decided to split it into two and save that part for today. Smart lady, that Laynie. (Please note, she also hates Paris Hilton, so the picture to the left is of the hotel heiress/dirty whore in a Carl's Jr. commercial.)

First, let's go back in time (cue time-travel music). As a teenager, I ate fast food more often than I should have. Since McDonalds and Burger Kings were ubiquitous, those were the ones I frequented more...frequently. (Yeah, I could hit the backspace key and re-do that sentence, but I like to keep moving forward, ya know?) I really enjoyed what Jack in the Box had to offer, especially their $1 menu items. Wendy's was good too, although I never quite got used to the square patties on the burgers. Seriously, what's going on there? Who thought that would be a good idea? Not that hamburger patties are natural-looking to begin with, but the square ones look more like art deco than fast food to me. In any case, my favorite fast food hamburger was the Western Bacon Cheeseburger at Carl's Jr. Oh I know how unhealthy that is, but that burger was what I was looking for when I was looking...for a burger. Damn, did it again.

Still moving forward! Then Carl's built an entire ad campaign around how messy their burgers are to eat. That's not my thing, and I found the commercials actually unappetizing. In addition, one commercial focused on guys spying on a woman through her window and making sexual groaning sounds every time the ketchup dripped off the burger. As if that wasn't enough, they made sure that they had all the sound effects they'd need to accentuate each bite. It was disgusting on several levels.

I guess it worked though, because they didn't stop there. No, gentle readers, they were not content just to gross me out; they also needed to piss me off. They had radio commercials with little songs about other restaurants' "wimpy burgers." They proceeded to tell us what kinds of guys ate wimpy burgers, and that amounted to basically saying, "You're a homo if you eat burgers from anywhere else." They were only slightly more subtle than that. Then, they launched commercials making fun of Chicken McNuggets, pointing out that chickens don't have a part of the body called "the nugget." Valid point, I suppose, but not when it comes from the same company who sold "Chicken Stars." They conveniently avoided that part, as you might expect. My anger was building.

Next, they had a campaign centered on the fact that without the existence of Carl's Jr., men would die of starvation. Because we're idiots. They show men poking raw meat at the market, etc., being completely incapable of anything but eating their food in a messy manner. They couldn't do any worse, right? Oh how I wish that were true. Instead, they assault the viewing public with ads for "The Six Dollar Burger." The rationale behind that burger is that it would cost $6 at other places. At Carl's Jr. though, the one called "The Six Dollar Burger" doesn't cost $6. The value meal costs darn near that, but focus, people. It's what it would cost. Oh wait, then they launched commercials telling us that a burger like that costs $20 at Restaurant X and $10.95 at Cafe Y. To me, that completely invalidates the entire reason behind naming the burger what they did.

Even worse, they then had the audacity to launch another campaign saying that at Carl's, you can get a restaurant-quality burger without all of the annoying things that come with going to an actual restaurant. What examples do they show us? You know, annoying things like...when people clean the counter. How dare they? And my hatred level rose even more.

Fortunately, I was not alone in my hatred. Frequent visitors of this space probably know that it was my friend Dusty who shared this anger with me. And so we did what we could - we boycotted Carl's Jr in the early stages of these campaigns. Remember, they had my favorite burger there, but this was bigger than burgers. This was about insulting my intelligence with commercials that portray all men as stalking, imbecilic slobs, and we weren't going to take that lightly.

Years passed, and we remained true to our vow. Then one day, I was put into a position I never imagined. I was working in Palm Springs for a few days, and I don't know where anything is there. It had been a very busy day, and I had only managed to eat half a sandwich at around 11am. We finished something at 8:45pm, and I had to be somewhere else nearby at 9:15pm. I didn't think there was going to be any food at this next event, and I was understandably starving. So, not knowing where anything was in the city, I drove toward where I had seen a supermarket before in hopes that there would be a fast food place there as well. I pulled in, and sure enough, there were two fast food places: Carl's Jr. and Green Burrito. The problem, though, was that the Green Burrito was in the Carl's Jr. and they shared the same drive thru. "Well, shit," I thought, "would this count as breaking my boycott?" I thought about it for a minute, even though I didn't have much time. Finally, I turned around and left the parking lot. It was a close enough call that I didn't feel like I could risk it. Instead, I drove toward what I thought was a more populated area and scanned the streets for food. Almost ten minutes later, I found a Jack in the Box and wolfed down a Jumbo Jack in my car before heading to the next event (which was fancily catered, by the way).

In recounting this tale to Dusty after returning home, he admired my stance but would've been ok with me eating only Green Burrito food from that drive thru. Other people weren't as understanding and think I was a stubborn fool for not taking the opportunity to eat when I could. I'm a man of principle though, and I'm proud to say that I held true to my convictions even in tough times. I know what you're thinking, and yes, I think I'm just like Job too.

So Laynie, rest assured that I didn't just leave Carl's Jr. commercials out of yesterday's post without a good reason. My hatred runs deep enough for them that they deserved a whole day dedicated to the overall shittiness of their ad campaigns. And mind you, they've incurred all of this wrath without involving Kirstie Alley. That's hard to do. And that concludes The Six Thousand Word Blog Entry, available in only 1,179 words. Bastards.

Checking it twice

Good morning, and how's everybody doing on this (beat) Humpday? I'm fine, thank you. No, really, I appreciate you asking.

In my post yesterday, I referred to the dancing Magic Mountain guy and how annoying he is. The first thing I think of with that guy is, "He's on Dusty's list." Allow me to explain: Years ago, we somehow came up with lists of individuals that we really didn't like. The premise was simple: If you were forced to shoot someone, it would be hard to choose among the following people. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't by any means a list of people we wanted dead, just ones we disliked enough that if we were forced to kill someone, they'd merit consideration. Are we horrible people for creating these lists? It's debatable, but first check out the level of people we're dealing with here.

Back in the day, my list looked something like this:
French Stewart from "3rd Rock from the Sun" (for being incredibly annoying)
Fran Drescher from "The Nanny" (for being incredibly annoying)
Kirstie Alley (for being incredibly annoying)
Michael Bolton (for having the same constipated sound in every song)
Toni Braxton (for prominently featuring "Unbreak" in a song)

I know I'm totally missing some, and it's driving me crazy. Dusty's list had a few that overlapped with mine, but his also included:

Fred Schneider from the B52s (for being incredibly annoying)
Magic Mountain Guy (for being incredibly annoying)

My spot-on impression of Fred Schneider did nothing but cement his place on that list, by the way.

In the years since, some people have worked their ways off this list. I don't feel as strongly about Michael Bolton anymore, and since I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be in the debate for the bullet, he's officially off. In essence, fading from the spotlight may have saved his life. Toni Braxton was almost off, but her horrendous performance on last year's American Idol finale kept her on. French Stewart, I'm sorry to say that even though I haven't seen you on tv for years, you still anger me every time I think of you, so you're staying.

There's a newcomer to the list though. I don't know if these radio commercials play everywhere, but if you've heard the guy who says, "You're Killing Me, Larry!" for Sit N' Sleep commercials, I have to believe that you'd agree with me. I can't change the station fast enough. They already had one catch phrase ("Or your mattress is FREEEEEE!), yet they felt compelled to add him and his stupid ass. Yes, I'm resorting to name-calling now.

Again, let me state clearly that I don't wish death upon any of these people - I'm sure they all have some redeeming qualities (with the possible exception of Kirstie Alley). What I'd really like to know is who you, gentle readers, would have on your lists. Please refrain from putting people you actually know, because I don't want to be called as a witness in the ensuing trial. And please leave politicians out of it, because as a general rule I try to avoid breaking federal laws. So comment away, and on that happy note, have a great day.

What's the deal?

As a kid, I went to Six Flags Magic Mountain several times. Often it was with a group from one of the camps I went to, but I also went often with my friend Adam who lived near the amusement park. We got to know the rides pretty well, and I have fond memories of those trips. We'd debate whether the front or the back was more fun on Ninja, see who could make the best faces for the picture on Viper, and scream inappropriate things on the big drops of Colossus. Good times all around and the perfect place for adolescent boys.

In the years since, I've had two main thoughts about Magic Mountain: I don't even know what rides are still there since they kept changing everything, and I hate the commercials with the dancing old guy. (Note: If you've never witnessed the commercials of which I speak, do yourself a favor and avoid looking for them online. You're much better off that way.) But over the past week, I've heard a radio commercial for Magic Mountain that's left me a little perplexed. In it, the offer they make is as follows: buy a one-day pass, and you get the whole year for free AND one free kid's admission.

I'm all for good deals, but there's that line that every deal can cross that moves it over to a different category - the Hmmmm Category. If a restaurant is having a special and their hamburgers (normally $8.99) are only $5.99 for a limited time, that sounds like a good deal. If they were running a special where those same burgers were $0.49, they enter the Hmmmm Category. Why are they so eager to get rid of those, and how good could the quality possibly be at that price? It's why we wouldn't go to a place advertising laser eye surgery for 20 bucks.

A lot of infomercial products straddle this line. They build up the applications of the product so much and slash the price so often, that it starts to seem like a really good deal. Then they say, "Act now, and we'll throw in another one FOR FREE!" Hmmmm, I say, Hmmmm.

The line is a fine one, and I think of it like a value bet in poker. If I know for sure that I have the best hand, I want to bet the highest amount possible that I can get other people to call. If I quickly go all-in, it'll scare people away. However, if I bet too small of an amount, it sends the signal that I'm trying to get people to stay in. Professional poker players know this amount, and I always watch in awe at their accuracy.

Back to Magic Mountain: My thought on that commercial and that deal is that they're showing their hand way too eagerly. It says to me, "We know that hardly any of you will come back enough times to make this worth the $59.99 you're shelling out, so we're trying to make it as appealing as possible." The term used for this is "breakage," and companies love it (and rightfully so). The rebate forms that aren't filled out, the gift cards that are forgotten in a drawer, the "three more times and get one free" card in that same drawer - they all equal more profit for the companies.

So if you're going to Magic Mountain because of that great deal they're offering, you'd better get $60 of enjoyment out of that first trip, because chances are that'll be your only time there in 07. That is, if Magic Mountain's still there - I think Jack Bauer watched it get annihilated last night. Sorry, Valencia.

It's a small (intestine) world

While working within the wonderful bubble of the university system, everything was very touchy-feely and politically correct. It was a utopia, and we needed the language to reflect that. For example, to keep a positive spin on things, we encouraged students to "satisfy" or "fulfill" their requirements rather than "get rid of" them. It's just more positive that way.

In interviews, we'd ask people what their strengths were, and conversely, areas in which they would like to see continued growth. "You mean 'weaknesses'?" they'd ask. "We prefer to call them 'areas in which you would like to see continued growth', but yes, you got the point."

When constructive criticism was needed, we would use the "feedback sandwich" method. (I've since seen Stewie on "Family Guy" use this method, but he didn't call it that.) We would nicely state the suggested improvement between two positive comments. For example, after watching an academic presentation, I might say the following: "Ok, first of all, great energy and enthusiasm throughout the presentation - the students will really connect with you. Just a little note here: don't forget to mention that they need 184 units if they satisfy Area B with college level course work instead of the normal 180. Oh, and great work explaining the differences between the Ethnicity requirement and the Non-Western Culture Requirement. Those can be tricky!"

If the presentation wasn't very good, this method proved to be more difficult. I would end up saying something like, "Ok, first of all, nice printing on the posters - that'll help the students really get the most out of your presentation. I noted that you had some errors on your posters though, mostly located in...the information that the students need to know...in order to graduate. But I really like the sad faces in the Academic Disqualification section - nice touch!"

We sugar-coated everything and created the most positive environment possible. (It was fantastic at the time, although it was quite a shock to leave that bubble and be faced with bosses whose feedback sandwiches were open-faced and double meat.) We not only had team-building retreats, but an annual diversity retreat for our student workers to help them better understand the variety of students they'd soon be helping. My boss and I co-led these retreats, and we would cram exercises and discussions on race, gender, socio-economic status, ability/disability, sexual orientation and more into one long and draining day.

In my preparation for the diversity retreat one year, I came across an article explaining that we should stop describing the U.S. as a "melting pot." I was confused by this, because I always thought that was one of the good things about the country, that people all became Americans regardless of their background. What I learned, according to the article, was that "melting pot" suggested that people all assimilated and left their own cultures behind in order to become homogenous with the rest of the population. Instead, it argued, we should be a "cultural salad bowl" with several pieces each adding to the overall flavor of the dish. A salad of just lettuce is boring, right? Each added component retains its unique flavor, but in doing so, makes the whole salad better and more interesting.

Whether you buy that or not is unimportant. What is important though, is why I thought of this while having a snack this weekend. I started off with just a tortilla, and I was going to make what we refer to as "my thing," which is basically a quesadilla with turkey and some kind of salsa inside. I'm not at all claiming that I created this, it's just that I have it often enough that I can say I'm making "my thing" and my wife will know what I mean. Anyway, I decided to use some Havarti we had left over instead of the standard cheddar. I put some Tapatio on it to add a little kick, and then for some reason, a few drops of soy sauce.

Then I realized what I was doing. You see, I was turning my stomach into the cultural salad bowl, and I was damn proud. Here I had good ole American turkey breast, Danish cheese, Mexican sauce, and Japanese sauce all in one meal. I quickly surveyed my options to see how multi-national I could make this dish if I chose. Is the parmesan cheese really Italian like it's pretending to be? The olive oil probably is. Do we have any French or Russian dressing in the fridge? We have curry - is it Thai curry or Indian curry though? Could english muffins really be English muffins? Would the Quaker guy who makes oatmeal count as another one?

Even though I could've made my stomach a kick-ass cultural salad bowl, I ultimately remembered that I was making this snack because I wanted it to taste good. Any addition could've jeopardized the mission, so I stopped at four cultures. I also felt like I was getting into "quota" territory, and that was far from my intention.

Regardless, it was a tasty snack. If it asked for a review, I'd have to say, "Good job blending the different tastes together - my stomach will really appreciate that. One note here, maybe next time you can try a little less Havarti since it's a stronger taste than the cheddar I'm used to. Overall though, great execution and I'm sure I'll be seeing you again in the future."

Happy Monday, everyone.

Bursting at the themes

Ah, happy Friday everyone. This one was a long time coming. I don't know who okayed this week having five work days, but they'd better have a complaint box. The unintentional themes of this week's posts have been thinking of things in the car and improvisational comedy. In that spirit, I have two things to write about (one in each of those categories) before diving into a pretty large pile of real work today. Sucks, I know.

First off, a commercial on the radio told me to get my news from "Fox 11 at 10." I'm used to this, and I doubt the 11 really throws anyone off, but it always catches my ear. This time, it reminded me of another Sacramento tale. I've briefly explained before in this space the type of work I did for that year to pass the time - basically "looking busy" for at least 6 of the 8 hours in the day. The other time was filled with such tasks as organizing thousands of pieces of paper into zip code order and manually entering information into a spreadsheet that already existed on the network in another format.

One task thrust upon me near the end of my stay (I almost said "my sentence" but that would've been unnecessarily mean to the Sackys) was to be the back-up receptionist for when the full-time one went on a break or to lunch. The rules I had to follow in that position were hilarious. I couldn't say, "Hold on one second," or even "one minute" because it could take longer than that, and we didn't want to lie to the customers. I argued that "moment" was undefined, but I was told to leave it as "Please hold." Also, I couldn't say, "No problem" because (get this) it implies that there may have been a problem. Oh sure, that makes perfect sense. Anyway, I occasionally had to page people or make announcements over the intercom. The only rules with that were to repeat the page twice, and if it was a general announcement, begin with "May I have your attention please." Not too difficult, right? I got a little stagefright the first couple of times, because this was a big place and there were hundreds of ears in cubicles hearing me.

So one Friday, I got a call from the very nice lady who ran Human Resources. This is what she made me say over the loudspeaker: "May I have your attention please. This is the last call for all first-timers for the Second Friday Lunch. Once again, this is the last call for all first-timers for the Second Friday Lunch." I immediately got two calls from smart asses (including my boss Kevin) asking me to repeat it again. I almost lost it a few minutes later mid-page when announcing the "first call for seconds for the Second Friday lunch." Ah, my time in Sac. I got to experience two new things up there: actual seasons and mind-numbingly menial tasks.

Crap, this is turning into a long post. I promised the second story, so I'll do it. When you speak of me, "honors his word" should factor prominently in the discussion. Back to talking about improvisational comedy. Improv is sometimes described as "comedy without a net" because there's only one take and the actors are out there relying solely on their minds. If the basic premise of a scene isn't working, the audience may be a little eager for the next one to start, but the actors themselves are dying up there. I have a little experience with this.

I was in the worst improv scene of all time. I fell, there was no net, and it hurt like a bitch. For a little while, I didn't want to discuss it. Then I grew to accept it, wear it as a badge of honor (or more appropriately, a Purple Heart), and I now think that I grew from that horrible experience. Here's what happened: we were playing a game called "Scenes." In it, the team does one short scene that doesn't necessarily need to be very funny. Then, they repeat the scene three additional times with different themes applied to it. The basic structure of the scene stays the same, so the audience knows what's going to happen while the actors need to spin everything in it to match the theme that the audience threw out. The details are fuzzy, but I remember the first scene was something about me being a scientist and aliens landing near my lab. I talked to them, they gestured, and we agreed to live together in peace.

The first theme we were given was the worst one possible for this scene: Science Fiction. There was no real way to change it to make it much more Sci-Fi than it already was. So, I grabbed a grey wig, and a la Doc Brown from Back to the Future ran out there and screamed, "Marty! You've got to come back with me!" Dead frickin' silence. The blankest of blank stares. I'm pretty sure those in the front row could hear my heartbeat. Alas, the scene must continue, so we ran through it almost exactly the same way as the first (not funny) scene.

We had to do it two more times, for an audience that clearly wanted it to end as quickly as we did. I saw the panic in my teammates' eyes, but we just needed to get through it. I'm sorry to say that I don't even recall what the second theme was or how it played out. I just know it was bad. The third though, I believe was in the style or either "detective" or "mystery." I can clearly recall a few things from it (besides the immense flight instinct). One, the aliens started talking in this one. "Glub glub," they said. Two, they pulled a gun on me for some reason and ordered me to go into a ditch. And three, this conversation happened:

Alien: (pointing gun at me and motioning) Glub glub, on the glub glub.

Me: (slowly walking toward the 'ditch') You want me to glub glub on the glub glub?

I hope you can sense how unbelievably bad this was. For one of the longest games in our arsenal, I don't think we got a single laugh. It was painful. And yet, it was a good thing. For one, I learned that if I could survive that, I had nothing to fear every other time I went out there. It would never be that bad again, and I lived to tell that tale without any external injuries. And two, it gave us years of "Glub glub" jokes. Totally worth it.

On that note, gentle readers, have a lovely weekend.

Comedic detour

I was all set to write about something else this morning, but two things happened on the drive into work that changed my plan. Come to think of it, that happened yesterday also. Maybe the secret to comedy isn't timing after all, but traffic. I'll look into this.

First, the shorter story. A little over a year ago, we were living in an apartment complex with one parking spot for both of us. My wife had recently purchased a new car, so I had no problem letting her have that spot while I usually just found one on a side street nearby. One day, I got a good spot on the main street. When I went out to my car later, there was a note on my windshield: "Dickhead - next time pull all the way up!" I looked, and sure enough there was a foot or two of curb before it turned red and an extra car (or at least a third of one) may have been able to park there as well. I was a little taken aback that my first offense angered this person enough to start the note off with "Dickhead," but that's not what stuck from this encounter. You see, the stem on the 'h' in "Dickhead" was shorter than it should've been, making it look like I was being addressed as "Dicknead." (We pronounced it like dick-need to accentuate the error rather than dick-ned, by the way.)

It didn't take long for "Dicknead" to work its way into my vocabulary. I've found that I only use it in very specific situations, such as someone staying in a faster lane and then cutting over to where they need to be at the very last second, thereby causing more of the traffic that they were avoiding with their frustrating move. It happened this morning in fact. I was slowly moving along in an exit only lane, and someone forced his way in at the last second and caused me to brake pretty hard. "Watch it, Dicknead," I said aloud in my car. And like that, a post was born.

Well, half a post at least. (As a side note, my wireless keyboard just ran out of batteries in the middle of the word "post" in the last sentence, so I stole a co-worker's keyboard for the time being. Don't tell.) Here, as promised, is story number two:

On the radio this morning, the guys on KROQ were playing messages that people left for them saying weird things. One guy half-heartedly made a bad joke, then quarter-heartedly laughed afterwards. Ralph on the show then said, "No, that didn't work. When you have weak material, you need to bring it!" I know exactly what he's talking about. Committing to a joke in comedy is probably one of the top three keys to success (after timing and traffic, of course). No matter how good the idea or line is, if it’s weakly delivered or the speaker lacks confidence in the line’s ability to get a laugh, it will fail.

Take Robin Williams for example. Most of the time, nobody knows what the guy is saying. He’s jumping around, doing different accents, and making the most obscure references known to man. However, we laugh. We laugh a lot. Why is this? It’s because he knows that he’s funny, and we therefore expect whatever comes out of his mouth to be funny. The same thing is true with Dennis Miller; it comes across in his delivery that what he’s saying is, by definition, funny. Therefore, we laugh even if we don’t know how he just compared Boris Yeltsin and Florence Henderson.

Another way commitment comes into play is that it can turn something that isn’t funny into a big laugh from the audience. Comedy Sportz, and improvisational comedy company, performs weekly all over the country. I was at a performance by the Los Angeles team in the late 90s, and I saw such an amazing display of commitment that I’ve carried it with me as an example ever since. The audience was shouting out actions for the actors to perform one by one. When it got to an actor named Frank Maciel’s turn, an audience member shouted, “Put a book on the table!” That has to be one of the inherently least-funny suggestions ever thrown out at a night of improv. Frank, however, as in-the-moment as I’ve ever seen anyone, magnificently strutted up the table, slammed his imaginary book down, then gave the table a look of defiance as if to say, “That’s right. I’ll put this book anywhere I damn please. If you’ve got a problem with that, maybe we should step outside and settle things.” The crowd erupted in laughter and applause. From "Put a book on the table" to laughter - that's a tough road. Frank took a non-funny thing and by means of totally committing to it, made it hilarious, unique, and something I’ve remembered for years.

Another actor in that position only would have mocked the person who shouted out that suggestion by walking normally to the table and saying something like, “Ooh, I’m putting a book on the table.” Kinda funny, would elicit some chuckles, but nowhere near what Frank turned it into.

Ok, I have to end now and search for batteries before the rightful owner of this keyboard arrives. I wouldn't want to return from the bathroom to find a note taped to my monitor calling me an "Assnole."

Artful disapproval

On my way to work this morning, I was behind a car that had a couple of bumper stickers on it. I pay attention to these, because my friends (most often Dusty) and I text each other with BSRs, or Bumper Sticker Reports. This car had something on it that has been around for some time now: a picture of Calvin from the comic "Calvin and Hobbes" urinating on something. Through the years, I've seen him tinkle on lots of things. Often it's a rival of sorts, whether it's the Dallas Cowboys, the Sacramento Kings (or Lakers when I was in Sac-town), or Al Qaeda.

This morning's depicted little Calvin pissing on the logo for Toyota. I'd try to describe the logo, but I can't get much more specific than saying it has an oval and some round lines. You know what I mean though, right? Anyway, the bumper sticker was on a Tercel, made by Toyota. This confused me, and I spent the last five minutes of my drive trying to figure out what statement that person was trying to make. Was it "I think this car's a piece of shit but I'm stuck with it"? Was it out of fear of looking unpatriotic? "I really love America, I swear, but my wife made me get this so we could save a little more on gas"? Or was this person just a complete moron who fails to understand the confusing message s/he's putting out there? I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, gentle readers.

I can think of two examples in particular of Calvin bumper stickers that have probably done more harm than good. First, I saw Calvin relieving himself on "La Migra," or how INS is referred to in Spanish. Second, I saw him micturating on "DEA." Maybe I'm more cautious than the average man, but don't you think at some point these people will regret the decision to put stickers like those on their cars? Maybe the first person is not an illegal immigrant but rather someone against their policies. Fine, I have no problem with voicing one's opinion, but you'd better believe any regular traffic stop will involve a closer look at their documents than usual.

And for the DEA guy...I'm almost at a loss for words on that one. If you put that on your car, you're asking to be pulled over and searched. Even if he will never have drugs in his car, that can't make anything easier. And if he ever does have drugs in his car, I bet the only thought running through his head the entire drive is, "Oh, why did I put that stupid sticker on my car?"

What would be the worst thing to have Calvin wizz on? Please chime in. I'm between "Stupid Fucking Cops," "All Women," and "Russell Crowe." Ya know, just in case he sees it.

Happy (beat) Hump Day, everyone. My wife and I both agree that it should be Thursday today since yesterday felt like it should've been Wednesday. Alas, it's not.

Knowledge for knowledge sake

In the first Austin Powers movie, Vanessa Kensington begins to unpack her suitcase. Upon seeing how incredibly organized her packing was, he exclaims, "Nerd alert!" (He says something British before that like "good limey" or something, but I'm having trouble finding that online.) That exclamation is very appropriate for today's post, because I'm coming out to all of you as a nerd. Wow, it feels great to get that off my chest.

I enjoy knowledge quite a bit. I love watching Jeopardy because it serves two of my most-enjoyed hobbies: learning and feeling smart. The things I learn inevitably come up in board games, crossword puzzles, or basic conversations and I love being able to call up something that I didn't even know I stored away. (Your Nerd Radar should be reading high levels by now.)

I remember sitting in class once as people around me started discussing their favorite Shakespeare passages or speeches. I chimed in, noting, "Nothing really surpasses the emotion of the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry V for me." They all agreed that that scene was great, and then class started. Listening to the lecture, I realized that I had just come across as a Shakespeare buff to those people. It's true, I knew a good amount about him at that stage in my life, but what if that was the only thing I knew about Shakespeare? What if there were little things like that about every topic that I could insert into conversations and appear to be extremely knowledgeable?

I wrote a brief article about this for our residence hall's newsletter. I said that if you're around people who are discussing great feats in sports history, mention that "Jordan dropping a double-nickel on the Knicks at the Garden just 5 games after his first comeback" was pretty frickin' sweet. They'll all agree with you, and they'll assume that you're a pretty knowledgeable basketball fan. I had a couple of other examples too, but you get the point.

The next few times I was in a bookstore, I looked through the reference sections, eager to find something like what I was searching for. I wanted a book to help me learn a little about everything. Just enough to artfully have conversations on the topics, but not much more or less. A couple of years later, I was thrilled to see that Bill Bryson had come out with A Short History of Nearly Everything. I truly enjoyed other books by him (and own four or five), so this reference book (in the reference section) seemed to be exactly what I was looking for. And it was...to an extent. It's full of fascinating topics, like an extensive explanation of how scientists know the weight of the Earth, etc. It's a little too dense to just pick up and learn something, but it is packed with info. I like it, and I certainly like his writing of this information, but it didn't satisfy that need I had completely. It was much more science-based than I hoped, rather than a broad stroke across the education spectrum.

I came home last night after work, and I saw a book on the kitchen table. Our friend Danielle (who will be giving birth to little Tyler any minute now) sent us a gift because, well, she's an incredibly sweet person. I picked it up, and it's called The Intellectual Devotional by David S. Kidder and Noah D. Oppenheim. The subtitle is Revive Your Mind, Complete Your Education, and Roam Confidently with the Cultured Class. Perfect! I opened it up, and there are pages of information for each day of the year. It covers literature, science, visual arts, religion, and more. I know I can't stick with one page a day (even thought that's the intended purpose), so I think I might read the week's worth a few times each week before moving on. Last night, I read the synopsis of James Joyce's Ulysses, and I learned about the plot, the writing style, and a little history about the book itself. Basically, I'm hooked.

I know, I am such a nerd, but I don't care. Unknowingly, Danielle sent us something that I had been searching for. I'm going to learn about the suffrage movement, Verdi, stem cells, and so much more. And when I'm done, you'd better not be on the other side of the Trivial Pursuit board.

Like minds

I have a good friend named Dusty, and we often think alike. Strangely, eerily alike. Here are two examples of what I mean:

1. In 11th grade, nutcase/English teacher Mrs. Dunlop tells the class, "Remember, kids, nothing lasts forever." At the same exact moment, Dusty and I turn to each other and both say the word "Styrofoam." It's true, practically, but that was an odd conclusion for two people to come to quickly.

2. Coming back from lunch senior year, we hear the parking lot guards talking about carpet. "Wow," one of us said, "you must be bored when you start talking about carpet." Three seconds of silence went by, then at the same time, we both said, "Here we have a nice berber." I'm not sure why I said that exactly, and even less sure why someone else would.

When we were on an improvisational comedy team together, this shared-brain phenomenon came in quite handy. We could set each other up for jokes that others wouldn't see coming. I remember once in a scene having some kind of emergency. "Oh no," I said, "I'd better dial 911!" I picked up the imaginary phone and dialed. On the other side of the stage, Dusty picked up another imaginary phone. "Extension 11," he answered. "Damn it," I yelled, "I forgot I had to dial 9 first!" He saw that coming, and I knew he would.

I have many more examples of this (including time with a board game called "Telepaths"), and I used to relate them often to my old boss, Kim. At one point, I remember her sighing and saying, "Ah, everyone should have a Dusty."

Despite all of these examples, I was still shocked a few years back when it happened again. We were walking back to my office from lunch, and out of nowhere he asked me this question: "Do you know what song has the most ridiculously bad syntax in order to force a stupid rhyme in its last line?" He was about to tell me when I told him to give me a minute. Then I lit up, "Yes, yes I think I know what you're gonna say - the stupid 'What If God Was One of Us' song, right?" I was right, of course, and here in all its glory is the last part of that song:

Just trying to make his way home

Like a holy rolling stone

Back up to heaven all alone

Just trying to make his way home

Nobody calling on the phone

'cept for the Pope maybe in Rome

Man, I frickin' hate that song to begin with. I know that Joan Osborne found a good amount of success with that song, so it obviously worked on some level. But "'cept for the Pope maybe in Rome" really pisses me off (and Dusty too). If she was set on keeping that line at the end, at least something like "Except perhaps the Pope in Rome" would make grammatical sense. Unless she means that the Pope may or may not physically be located in Rome currently, she messed up the line. It's choppy, nonsensical, and just plain stupid in my book. The song is bad enough without that line that Dr. Evil even mocks it in one of the Austin Powers movies with his "blah blah blah blah one of us" rendition.

When I heard that song recently in a public place, I thought ahead to the last line and it angered me. I was much happier before Dusty brought that to my attention, because I was just wholly dismissing the song and not giving any consideration to it whatsoever. It's one thing for a song not to take its lyrics seriously - I'm fine with that. "Why Don't We Do It in the Road" or "Tequila" for example.But if you're trying to have a thought-provoking and deep song about some of the largest questions in the universe, you just can't end it like that. It's like baking an apple pie, stepping on it, and drizzling motor oil on top of it before serving it to your guests. You started off with a pretty good idea, Ms. Osborne, but the execution was off just a bit.

Please note that I am trying my best to ignore the fact that she seriously thought "Just a slob like one of us" was a good enough line to feature it three or four times in the song. I'm really, really trying. Ok, time for real work. Happy Monday everyone.