Picking favorites

I've written about several things that I like and dislike over the course of my posts here. I have opinions on topics large and small, and if I can't share them here, well then I guess I can't share them anywhere. I wanted to get a little specific on some favorites today, to let you know yet more about me and the way I think.

Let's start with an easy one: sounds. Of course, the very top of the list is sappy stuff about my wife's voice, my nephew's laugh, etc., so I'll spare you and get to a less Petercentric one. I really, really like the sound of opening a new can of coffee. I clamp down the can opener, and then the moment I start to turn the thingy, there it is. Sheeeuuuuuwm. I love it. I'm sure part of it has to do with my chemical dependency on the product it's unleashing, but it's just a cool sound, not that unlike opening a new can of tennis balls or turning on a light saber. Here's the thing though: Don Francisco coffee, which we drink every morning, changed their can types recently. The last one we bought had a pull tab on a flimsy aluminum thing instead of the normal can top. I opened it up hoping to hear the same exact sound, but it was a smaller Sheeeuuuuuwm and not nearly as satisfying. I now may have to pick up tennis (or light saber battling) to get my fix.

And now onto colors: My brother is 3.5 years older than me, so naturally I liked whatever he liked. His favorite color was red, so when asked as a little boy, my favorite color was also red. "That's my favorite color," he said, "get your own." I thought about it and chose blue, and I've been very happy with that decision ever since. I've refined it a little over the years, and I now like navy blue the most. Sky blue is very pretty for certain things too, and regular blue-blue isn't bad, but I like the navy variety. The only problem I have with navy blue is that I really have to look closely to tell which is my navy suit and which is my black one. This morning even, when my wife said her pants were navy, I leaned in closer, and she added, "Trust me." That's it though - it's a solid color. Close behind it are forest green and brick red, each a strong color in their own right. My wife and my friend Dusty both like purple the most. I don't know what color Greg likes the most, but since he's partially color blind, maybe he doesn't either. Kevin still likes red after all these years, so the t-shirts I had made for his bachelor party reflected that. Do people change favorite colors after they've chosen them in their youth? Gentle readers, what say you?

And then there are numbers. Ah, numbers. How many of you remember when you chose your favorite number? I know the exact date, actually. Here's what happened: When asked my favorite number, I said it was 5, because that was my brother's favorite number. "That's my number," he said, "get your own." I told him that it was only because I was 5 years old. "So when you turn 6, will that be your favorite number?" he asked, hoping to get me to commit to a timeframe. "Yep," I said. Like any good businessman, Kevin followed through. On my 6th birthday, he approached me and asked if 6 was now my favorite number. "Yep," I said, and it was. Exactly a year later and in exactly the same tone, Kevin asked me, "So, is 7 your favorite number now?" "No," I told him, "I liked the way 6 felt." And boom, it's been 6 ever since.

My wife's favorite number is 11, and I'm not sure why (although her birth month + birth day = 11). Greg's is 7, and he's born on the 7th. Dusty's is 12, and he's born on the 12th. Dave, who lies from time to time, has three favorite numbers: 11, 13, and 77. He says they have to do with jersey numbers from hockey players when he was growing up and nothing to do with his birthday, which happens to be 11/13/77. 5 has nothing to do with Kevin's birthday, and 9 has nothing to do with my friend Jon's, but those are their numbers. I'm proud of them for branching out. 6 is my birth month, but having heard my story, I think you'll agree that that's more coincidental than anything.

Is it strange to know so many friends' favorite numbers? Maybe, but after getting sports jerseys together and playing roulette together, it was bound to happen. It's not even close to as strange as the Timberlake wannabe on American Idol last night dedicating a song to his Grandma with "I could be the one to take you home/Baby we could rock the night alone" in the lyrics.

Got stories as to why you chose your favorite numbers? Send 'em along, and maybe you'll be featured in this week's Follow Up Friday. I know, that's heavy.

Have a good Hump Day, folks, and let's meet back here tomorrow, ok?

Walk of life

Since we were all just subjected to dozens of "Who are you wearing?" questions during the Oscar pre-show, I thought I'd stop for a moment and reflect on my own attire. Be prepared to file this under the "Too Much Information" tab, but I'm here to talk about my underwear. I'll give you a minute to close this window if you're too afraid to proceed. No hard feelings, honest.

Back in the day, when one chose to wear boxer shorts, there was a very limited number of options. There were solid colors, some stripes, maybe a paisley here or there, but that was about it. In my unofficial history of the garment (that is, 100% guessing), some manufacturers probably started branching out around Christmas time, making a holiday pattern or two. Then, places like The Gap and Banana Republic went ape shit and took this thing to a whole new level.

I first noticed some cool plaid and patterned ones at Structure, which then changed its name to Express Men. I didn't approve of that name change, by the way, since I had only thought of an Express tag on women's clothing but now found it on mine. It was like seeing Easy Spirit on my basketball shoes or Maidenform on my manziere/bro. Anyway, I bought some boxers because they were cool, and then I saw what The Gap and Banana Republic had to offer: crazy selection.

I went a little nuts at first because I was shocked by the possibilities. Suddenly, I had boxers with penguins, blueberries, polar bears, grizzly bears, basketballs, alligators, monkeys, cool patterns, and much more. In all the excitement, I didn't stop to think of any possible ramifications.

They started right away though: how could I wear blue and red plaid boxers under an outfit that totally clashed with them? I liked my outfits to match, and I couldn't separate that additional article of clothing (though unseen) from the rest of my outfit. Fortunately, I had plenty of pairs with blue in them since I wore that color often. I had a great array, and it just took an extra minute or two to get the combo right each day.

I only branched out on a few occasions. If I was flying somewhere that day, I wore my airplane boxers, whether they matched or not. If I was going to Vegas, one day would have to be my pair with playing cards and poker chips. A big Laker game brought the basketballs out, and I'm pretty sure they helped them win. That was pretty much it though. Aside from that, I did my best to match every day.

For years, I got up earlier than my girlfriend/fiancée/wife, so I'd get dressed in another room while she slept. I'd lay out the entire outfit the night before to keep the rummaging sounds down, and I'd smile to myself at how perfectly the ensemble went together. We then started getting up at the same time though, so I stopped laying out clothes and just chose something in the morning. Then one day, for reasons still unknown to me, I stopped caring so much. I sometimes went out of my way to choose the boxers that least matched my outfit, just because it looked funny while I got dressed. I started reaching a little for themes. For example, I had an interview and I wore the airplanes because they were to help "my career take off." Another time, I wore the gambling pair when starting a new and daunting project at work to remind me of the risk/reward correlation. If it was raining out, I might wear the pair with palm trees on them to will the sun out. You know, loosely situational pairings.

I thought of all of this and deemed it postworthy this past Sunday. I participated in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure (www.komen.org) 5K walk with my family and lifelong friends of the family. Having gone once before, I knew that the event was filled with the amazing spirit of breast cancer survivors and the hope and optimism for a cure from those who have lost loved ones from the disease. Therefore, I proudly displayed to my wife (and possibly some unsuspecting neighbors) that I was wearing my boxers with lemons all over them. These survivors were dealt some lemons in life, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the celebratory spirit there. Each and every one of them there fought and overcame those obstacles or was currently fighting for a healthier tomorrow, and that was the overwhelming sense of the event. We were swimming in metaphorical lemonade all morning, and man was it sweet.

Have a great day, gentle readers, whether your underwear tells you to or not. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Living a lie

As I've mentioned in the space before, I went to a little bubble of a private elementary school through 6th grade. When the time came to go to junior high, I was nervous for several reasons. First off, I had just been a big fish in a small pond, and I felt like I was about to be a guppy in an ocean. Second, I had two of my best friends going there with me, but they were practically the only people I would know in the entire ocean at first. Third, the school started in 6th grade, so I felt like all of the 7th graders would already have formed their friendships while I was just one of "the new kids" (not to be confused with "The New Kids of the Block," because I think I would've worried less about my social life had that been the case). Lastly, I was nervous because I would be living a lie.

You see, we didn't live within that junior high school's district. We were just a couple of streets away from the magic line, but I was supposed to be going to a different school. After asking around, it was clear that one school was better than the other, so we did what was necessary: we lied. My grandmother's friend Ruth lived in the right place, and she was nice enough to let us use her address. She became "Aunt Ruth," and I "lived there with my mom because my parents were separated." I memorized the address and could rattle it off quickly if needed, but I was still nervous. I needed some more backstory to get fully immersed in my character: Was Aunt Ruth my Grandma's sister, sister-in-law, or from my Grandpa's side? What happened between my parents? Did they still love me even though they didn't love each other anymore? If asked, I wanted to be able to answer these questions. Maybe I'd meet a girl whose parents were really separated, and our relationship would be built on my false empathy. Then I'd have to tell her the horrible secret at some point and she'd push me away for lying, leaving me to concoct some plan to win her back by telling her in front of the whole school that I wasn't just lying to her...I was lying to myself too. We'd probably kiss then, and that would be pretty cool.

In any case, I wasn't 100% comfortable on that first day, knowing that I was lying by my mere presence on the campus. It didn't help AT ALL that the kid sitting next to me in 1st period was wearing the same shirt I was. I had picked it out weeks ahead of time to make my splash on the scene, and I guess he did too. One guy thought it was funny to ask if we were brothers, but I didn't find that nearly as humorous. I made it through that first challenge though, and I just hoped that I didn't have many more classes with that same kid that day.

My two friends, Adam and Jason, had lockers right next to mine, so I felt comfortable chatting with them after 2nd period (now called "Nutrition" instead of "Recess," which I thought was a curious choice since it actually was a recess and had nothing to do with the healthfulness of my snack). One more locker over, there was a young girl getting her books. One of us said hello to her, and she smiled and said "Hi" back. Adam and Jason left, and I was alone with her for a minute as I filled up my backpack with what I'd need for 3rd and 4th. She turned to me and said, "So what grade are you in?" "7th," I answered, not knowing if that would make me cool or stupid. She nodded. "You too?" I asked. "No, I'm in 6th," she said. I nodded, since that seemed to be the appropriate response. Then she closed her locker, and just before walking away, she turned to me and said something that sounded like, "And by the way, I'm onto you."

I stood there, frozen with fear for the next ten seconds. "What did she mean, she's onto me? How could she know? Is she going to tell the principal? Will my first day also be my last day? Will I have to have another first day at the other school? Then I'll really be the new kid. How did I give it away so easily?" I kept going over it, wondering if at any point in our two-line conversation I had slipped in, "I DON'T REALLY LIVE IN THIS DISTRICT!" I didn't remember doing that, so maybe I just mis-heard her.

Regardless, I spent the next two periods wracking my brain over what else she could've said. I could only come up with one alternative: "I'm hot for you." That would've been extremely forward of her, but maybe that's how junior high worked. It was possible, I thought, that she saw me earlier that morning and wanted to snag me (especially since I was an older man) before the other girls had a chance. She did wait for my friends to leave, after all. I still didn't think that scenario was too likely, but it was all I could come up with besides "I'm onto you."

In the car ride home, I told my mom what had happened. She laughed a little too long at my "I'm hot for you" hypothesis, and she agreed that I must have mid-heard her. I saw the girl again the next day, but it was limited to exchanging hellos. The next day, the same thing happened. I just wanted some hint, either way, as to what she said that first day. Either a little head shake or a wink or something to let me know what was going on. It was really eating me up inside, and so I did the unthinkable: I talked to her.

"Hi," I said, mustering up every last drop of fake confidence I had. "Hi," she responded, grabbing books from her locker. "I know this is going to sound strange," I continued, "but when we met a couple of days ago, you said something just before you left. I didn't hear you, and I was wondering if you remembered what it was." She made a puzzled face and said, "Um, no, I don't remember. Sorry." She went back to grabbing her books, and I turned to my locker, defeated. "Great, now she knows I'm lying and she thinks I'm a weirdo," I thought to myself. Then I felt her turn to face me. "Oh," she said smiling as she swung her backpack onto her shoulder and slammed the locker, "I probably told you my name. I'm Andrea."

As she walked away, and I repeated her name to myself: "ON-dree-uh. By the way, I'm ON-dree-uh. I'm ON-dree-uh." It made so much more sense now. Why did she have to pronounce it that way? Either having it sound more like Andrew or like Andrea Bocelli (on-DRAY-uh) would've stopped the problem before it ever happened. Oh well, it made for one hell of a memorable foray into the world of public school.

Gentle readers, I hope that you, your friends, your family members, and your fake family members all had a nice weekend. Now get back to work, and remember, I'm onto you.

FUF #2

Happy Follow Up Friday, which I'm really pleased to be calling "FUF" now. It's just fun to say. FUF. FUF FUF FUF. I'm feeling FUFfy. But enough of the FUF talk, let's get down to business:

Dusty and the Mills are in New Orleans right now, and Dusty sent me two mention-worthy text messages. The first was a t-shirt that read "C'est Levee." I think that's great on three levels. First, it's a good pun. Second, there's an added level to the pun (albeit possibly unintentional) because it's a French phrase and there's a lot of French culture there. Third, it's inspiring to think that someone could face as destructive a situation as Hurricane Katrina and be able to eventually say, "That's life" and try to move on in a positive fashion. Am I attributing too much intent to a person who maybe just bought it off a street corner five minutes ago? Most likely, but a guy can dream, can't he?

The second one he sent me was the name of a political newspaper there: "The New Orleans Levee; We Don't Hold Anything Back." Ouch, that's some biting commentary there. Not quite as positive as the previous example, but it certainly hits home.

Bumper sticker report from my lovely wife: "My Maltese is Smarter than your Honors Student." We've seen these stickers before with other breeds, but come on, are we really to expect that a little yippy dog is smarter than anything? A lab or a golden maybe, but not a Maltese. We lived next door to one for a couple of years, and her name was Bon Bon. The only thing more annoying than that little not-a-real-dog-dog's bark was her owner yelling, "BON BON! BON BON!" at the top of her lungs when the dog got out. I'm a huge, huuuuuge dog person, but that Maltese owner is overestimating his or her dog's intelligence even more than the bumper sticker intended.

License Plate and Subsequent Discussion Report: I saw a car with "WOES ME" on the license plate. On a frickin' BMW SUV. Yeah, it must be tough. Woe is you, my friend. You is woe. I told my wife about that, and here was the conversation:

Me: ...on a frickin' BMW SUV!
Her: Maybe they were kidding.
Me: I really don't think so.
Her: Well, maybe he has a small penis.
Me: It was a woman.
Her: Maybe she has a small penis.
(silence)
Me: Well I guess that would be better than her having a large one, right?
Her: I guess... You're going to put this in your blog, aren't you?

Oh you know it! Moving on: We had spent some time in this space over the week discussing what is and isn't a sport. It was as lively as things get here, including a whopping SIX comments! Man, I should totally make this a pay site. Anyway, KROQ's morning radio show was making fun of the Disney movie called "Jump In." I hadn't heard of it, and it turns out that was a good thing. Granted, I'm not exactly the target audience, but one clip they played offended my sensibilities enough to comment. In said clip, a girl is talking to her brother about double-dutch jump-roping. Jumping rope? Whatever. Anyway, she proceeds to tell him with confidence that double-dutch is a sport, just like football or basketball. Oh really, little girl? Just like those, eh? Not more like, oh I don't know, jumping up and down? I'd say tetherball is more of a sport. I'd say four square is more of a sport. I might even go as far as to say competitive cheerleading is more of a sport. Jumping rope, while it requires timing and physical activity, is in the same category as sit-ups for me, so no, I don't think that it's just like football.

Deep breath, hold it, and release. Ah, I'm better now.

Yesterday, I said that I doubted that any of the big names in the NBA would moved at the trade deadline. Well, ESPN ran a headline of "Trade Dud-Line" after it passed, which might tell you if I was correct in my assumption or not.

Lastly, reader and official UOPTA mother Laynie wrote in lamenting the fact that there isn't a real dominant franchise in the NBA right now. I understand her point, and it is fun to have that one team that everyone wants to be the one to beat. However, I think the NBA has been very fortunate to have several such times in recent times. The Lakers 3-peat made them the hands-down dominant team for about a span of five years. Not long at all before that, the Bulls did something I doubt we'll ever see again in the NBA by winning six championships in eight years. With a new crop of very good young athletes, we could be just one trade away from a one-two combo that rules the league for a few years.

Part of me really likes that there's no dominant team, because anyone can win by putting together a good stretch of games. Part of me doesn't like that, because I then look at the Miami Heat last year and don't think of them as a championship-caliber team (even though they won). Same thing with Dallas, who lost to them in the Finals. Good basketball teams, but they don't strike me as anywhere near what I've come to expect from previous champions.

One of those previous champions was the Boston Celtics, who I absolutely hated growing up. I wanted anyone to knock them off before the Finals so the Lakers could play someone else, which made for some strange bedfellows. For example, I was rooting like crazy for the Pistons to beat them before a big steal by Larry Bird and layup by Dennis Johnson burst their bubble. DJ passed away yesterday at the very young age of 52, and I was sad to hear the news, despite whatever heartache on the hardwood he caused me.

In 1997, Marlon Wayans and Kadeem Hardison were on The Daily Show with Craig Kilborn promoting their new movie, "The Sixth Man." Kilborn asked them if they knew who the greatest sixth man in NBA history was. They were thinking, and he gave them a hint: "Boston Celtics..." "Oh, the brother with the freckles! The brother with the freckles!" Marlon Wayans shouted, referring to Dennis Johnson (who was African American and did indeed have freckles). "No, we're looking for John Havlicek," Kilborn replied. Regardless, every single time I have seen or heard Dennis Johnson over the past ten years, I've yelled out, "The brother with the freckles!" A great nickname that he probably never even knew he had. My thoughts go out to his family.

And on that upbeat note, have a great weekend everybody. Relax, enjoy Mexico's Flag Day tomorrow, and get some good laughs in. As always, write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Trading Jones

Can he do it, folks? Can he stretch the sports theme through Thursday until he gets to Follow Up Friday? Oh, it's a definite possibility.

I wrote about the NBA draft a bit yesterday, but today's NBA topic is a more timely one: the trade deadline. Today is the last day of the season that teams can make trades, whether little draft pick swaps or blockbuster deals with major superstars. The means that for the past month or so, every basketball fan has been thinking of ways to get a good player on his or her favorite team without giving up anything good. Of course it rarely plays out that way in real life, but we stay true to our teams in our imaginary deals.

As of this morning, the big trade speculation around the league is that the (my) Lakers are trying to pry Jason Kidd away from the Nets. If you don't follow basketball, all you need to know about this scenario is that Jason Kidd is a good player who could possibly fit well with the Lakers. Here's the problem: the Lakers have said that they're not going to part with three players in particular (Kobe, Odom, and Bynum). Therefore, the offer can't be anything that the Nets would actually consider, most likely. That hasn't stopped me from imagining the Nets taking two or three of our bench players for one of the best point guards in the league. More annoyingly, it hasn't stopped sports talk radio hosts from debating (for hours) whether the Lakers should give up Odom or Bynum for Kidd. They're not going to do that, and they've said as much, yet the hosts will still fill up time discussing something that shouldn't even count as a hypothetical. Deep breaths, Peter, deep breaths.

Another interesting part of the trade deadline is the valuable commodity of "expiring contracts." Those are players whose deals end after this year, and therefore their salaries will come of the books. Teams will trade for these players to free up money for the future. The funny part about all of this to me is that everyone will make fun of some egregious contract for years and then suddenly, solely by virtue of time passing, the player becomes a commodity that other teams want. In one of my dream scenarios, the Lakers are able to trade just expiring contracts of bench players for a star. "Sure, we'll give you Mihm and McKie, and we'll only take Tim Duncan off your hands in return." That's not gonna happen, but that's the kind of thing that goes on in the heads, inboxes, chatrooms, and IM boxes of NBA fans for weeks around this time of the year.

Guess what? That got me thinking. What would happen if trades were a part of real life, complete with yearly deadlines? I have obvious untradeable assets (yes, I'm including you, honey), but what could these deals look like? Would a family trade expiring contracts (paid off car, daughter about to leave for college with a full scholarship, etc.) for another family's sports car? The second family would definitely get under the salary cap with that move, maybe just in time for an addition to the family (free agent). Hmmm, now that I re-read that, it could possibly be the stupidest idea I've ever written. Normally I'd erase it, but I'm short on time this morning, so it stays. Can I trade that paragraph and an earlier post for five quality paragraphs that actually time some of this crap together?

Regardless of whether I can relate this to real life or not, it's an exciting time. Every once in a while, a big name that nobody expected to get traded will suddenly be switching jerseys. That's why we keep talking about it, because if one of these deals should happen, we'd be cool for thinking of it. My guess is that Jason Kidd stays put, as do all of the other big names that have been thrown about. It's almost always a letdown after the deadline passes, but we only have to wait for the offseason for the chatter to start up again.

Switching topics (because I can't squeeze more out of that one), my friends and I are getting our fantasy baseball league together. We've been doing this for years, and it's become a pretty standard practice by now. A couple of weeks ago, my friend Greg said that he wanted to change things up for this year. I said I'd like some changes too, but it turned out that we were on different pages. Here's how I'd describe it: Say we're a rock band. We've been together for a while and put out four pretty successful albums. We're getting a little tired of our sound though, and we want to branch out creatively. I suggest that our next album have a running theme throughout it and that we have a couple of songs that sound different from what we typically do. Nothing drastic, just something that gets our fans to turn their heads a little and say, "Wow, that's funkier than normal, but I kinda like where they're going with this." Greg says, "I was thinking along similar lines. Let's do a blues-meets-ska album and really blow this up to make it fun and interesting." See what I mean about different pages?

I wanted to tinker, he wanted to change. I fought pretty hard on this for a little while, and then something happened. Greg sent a website link with a demo of how the new system would work, and it was really cool. Now, as shocked as anyone, I'm trying to convert the others over to the new system. I'm not afraid to change my mind when provided ample evidence, and Greg presented his point so well that I suggested he run for Congress. So now I'm pumped up about fantasy baseball this year and excited about trades that will never happen in the NBA. Not too grounded in reality, one might say.

That person would be wrong though, because I get my dose of reality in the form of American Idol. I know, I know, but it's actually pretty compelling television. Tonight, the final 24 gets cut down to 20, and I have a pretty good sense of who one of the departing ones will be. I'll miss saying his name in the coming weeks, but Sundance Head had the worst performance of the two dozen.

Gentle readers, do you watch this show? I know most of America does, so let me know if you do. If so, I'll pontificate more frequently on this big ole slice of Americana. If not, I'll try to spare you the details of something that doesn't interest you (like Chris Mihm's contract). Finally, the rambling is coming to a close. I'll be back tomorrow with Follow Up Friday, where lots of space is still available. Email ptklein@gmail.com for your chance to be famous on the Internets.

Instituting the draft

In a feeble attempt to keep the sports theme alive for another day, I'm going to ramble for a while before getting to today's topic (with an awesome transition, just you wait). One aspect of sports that I've gotten into a little more over the past few years is the draft. Specifically, the NBA draft. It used to be that I'd know only a couple of players from the NCAA tournament, and it was cool to see which team they went to. It was even more cool to see them don the hat of their new team and shake the commissioner's hand for a picture.

Now though, the sports media outlets start hyping people during their junior year of high school, so by the time someone finishes his freshman year of college, I've been told all about their strengths, weaknesses, comparisons to current players, and where they should go in the draft. Heaven forbid any of these kids (yes, kids) want to stay in college another year or two to get better. I understand them leaving school once projected to be in the first round: it guarantees them millions of dollars in a contract when going back to school could result in a poor year, or worse, a career-ending injury. I have no problem whatsoever with that, I'm just tired of the talking heads telling me that someone's going to be an NBA Hall of Famer before he's stepped onto a college court.

By the time the draft rolls around, so many sites have already told us where someone should be selected that there's wild disappointment and second-guessing any time that's not the case. How could they pass on the guy that everyone says will be "the next Kevin Garnett" for someone who might only be "the next Elton Brand?" It's ridiculous, but since the players get so much coverage, I'm fully in that second-guessing crowd, often based solely on what others are saying since I don't watch much in the way of college basketball.

I bring all of this up because any time I'm going out of town, I hold a draft of my own. (Damn, that was one mighty fine transition.) I don't remember how this started, but I've been doing it for years now: The Toiletries Draft. Yes, I hold a mini draft in my head while putting my toiletries into my brown leather toiletry bag. And yes, I know how odd that sounds.

I always start by putting all of the potential draftees out on the counter and clear out the bag. Then I make some general opening statement in which I welcome people to the 2007 Toiletry Draft, sometimes brought to you by a made up sponsor (depending on where I'm going). There are many strategies involved, and it's not always the biggest items that go first. My aftershave lotion isn't as big as my deodorant, but it should probably go in first to secure the coveted end space to get lodged in by the deodorant. You see, there's a science to my madness.

I then picture NBA commissioner David Stern walking up to the podium: "With the first pick in the 2007 Toiletry Draft, Peter Klein selects...Hair Gel." I grab the gel and place it right where it should go to maximize the space (to thunderous applause, of course). "With the second pick in the 2007 Toiletry Draft, Peter Klein selects...Old Spice High Endurance Deodorant." Boos rain down from the rafters and the commentators start shaking their heads. "Well this is a surprise, folks," they say. "We expected Shampoo to go here, but clearly Peter saw something he liked in the pre-draft workouts from Deodorant. Shampoo should be a steal with the third pick."

"With the third pick in the 2007 Toiletry Draft, Peter Klein selects...Shaving Cream." The crowd is stunned. "We didn't see this one coming," the commentator says, "Shaving Cream wasn't eligible for the last draft because Peter was going to Vegas and wanted to remain scruffy, so his draft stock fell quite a bit." And so it goes. It takes longer than it should, but overall just a couple more minutes than normal people take. It's a little heartbreaking at the end when I see the draft hopefuls that weren't selected this time (mouthwash, nail clippers, etc.), but there's always next time. And Hand Lotion is showing tremendous potential; he's projected to be the next Conditioner.

Have a good day, gentle readers, and remember to make sound choices today. Please email ptklein@gmail.com with any sights, thoughts, gripes, questions, or suggestions for a Follow Up Friday.

A good sport

I got a good response from my sports stuff yesterday, although most of it was from the person who specifically asked for sports topics and his wife, so maybe that doesn't count as much. Regardless, I'm going to continue a little in that same theme because I've got some more to say. So there.

I talked to my mom last night, and she mentioned out that by the points I listed yesterday in how to determine what is a sport, playing jacks would be considered one. It has a ball involved, it has a physical nature, there's a winner and a loser, and you won't find people who could be "professionals" the first time they play. So clearly we need more criteria.

The Sacky couple suggested that if there's judging involved instead of the players determining who wins that it is not a sport. As you can see in my response in the comments section, I give a big "Hell no" to that theory. I don't think of figure skating as a sport either, but if the Olympic committee thinks so, it stays in the conversation. It's funny, because I would've thought before diving into this topic that one of my criteria would've been, "If it's in the Olympics, it's a sport." Figure skating, ping pong, archery...it's just not clear-cut enough for me.

I was chatting with my wife about this last night as well, and she said that one of the criteria seems to be that there's a subjective quality to the activity that makes it feel like a sport. I agree, and it's that quality that will ensure that not everyone will be in accord with this topic. To me, bowling feels like a sport, but I know it doesn't to many people out there. Similarly, even though billiards has all the components that I listed to make it a sport in my own mind, it still doesn't feel like one to me. I can't explain the difference, but playing pool still falls into the "game" category for me.

I'm still very interested in your thoughts on this, gentle readers. Please let me know what other criteria you think should be added to the It's a Sport Manifesto, and I'll be there to play devil's advocate.

Sticking with the sports theme for a bit longer, I'd like to make a broad statement: Basketball is the best sport to watch on television. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy watching several other sports on tv, but basketball is the best, and I'll explain why: In football, baseball, hockey, and soccer, the final score could end up being one team scoring once and the other team not at all. To die hard fans, those games are still very exciting because of the subtleties and nuances involved. To casual fans, they're unbelievably boring.

I appreciate great pitching a defensive plays in baseball, and I think they're fun to watch (even on tv). However, I can still understand why people think that's boring. A stellar defense in football can be amazing to watch, but the casual fans don't want that; they want to see people breaking off 60-yard runs or leaping catches in the endzone. If, heaven forbid, a Superbowl ended with a score of 3 to 0, you'd be hard pressed to find people that enjoyed watching it, regardless of how well the linebackers stuffed the run.

Hockey and soccer are a different story for me. I can't watch them on tv; they're not good for me. Not only do they share the same potential 1 to 0 thing, but plays so rarely develop that they always looks sloppy to me. I'm sitting there, watching someone start toward the opposite end of the field/ice and then failing to do so over and over throughout the game. The moments when someone gets close to the goals are very exciting, but when a team can end up with a single digit number of "shots on goal" at the end of the game, the rest of it is just tiring for me to watch. Again, there are great nuances in both of them, but too much "almost action" in my book.

And then there's basketball. Ah, sweet basketball. Want to see successful scoring attempts? How about 100 of them in a game? Even in this era of poor jumpshooters, when someone goes up for a shot in a basketball game, it's still close to 50% that it's going in. The 3-pointers are fun to watch since they're from far away and each one is its own "shot on goal," and the slicing layups or thunderous dunks add the punch that you find in baseball's homeruns. The viewer gets to see scoring many, many times each quarter, and for casual fans, that's a huge difference.

I'm not ignoring basketball's shortcomings. Especially in the NBA, there's too much one-on-one, some sloppy offensive sets, and a little too much attitude at times. To have on tv though, it's my number 1 any day of the week. In each of the other sports I listed, ESPN can show you every scoring play in a one-minute highlight reel. Yes, those are individually more exciting than a given basket, but I'll take a routine mid-range jumper over a punt ten times out of ten.

You can make arguments about other sports being on tv, and I'll listen: tennis is like basketball in the sense that there will be a point every so often, and you know that while you're watching. Same with volleyball, and I think those two are fun to watch. Golf, while the majority of the population finds it boring as hell on tv, also provides that sense of successful plays every hole. But I'm here to boldly assert that for the tv-viewing public, nothing hold a candle to basketball. It's a slam dunk.

Have a good Tuesday, everyone, and don't forget to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything you'd like considered for future posts.

Sporting opinions

Good morning, everyone, and Happy Presidents' Day. Many of you might not have work today, but I only get the more major holidays off. So while you're sitting around today, laughing with friends and debating whether Harding or Polk left a more indelible mark on American history, I'll be in my office marveling at how empty the parking lot is. You guys actually talk about presidents on Presidents' Day too, right? Oh, nevermind then.

I used to know a song with all of the presidents in order, and I wish I still had it committed to memory. I have snippets still memorized, like "Pierce, Buchanan, Lincoln," but not nearly enough to help me trivia-wise. I've often thought that it would be a good idea for a downtown section of a larger city to name the streets on a grid in the same order as the presidents. That way, people would grow up knowing that Truman was right before Eisenhower. Or maybe the states in alphabetical order or by year they became a part of the Union. Yes, I know that teaching history via street names is nerdy, but it's not like I'm asking for the elements on the periodic table. I'm trying to help people learn a little more about the country without them having to try - is that so bad?

Enough of that for now. I mentioned one brief part of my IM discussion with my buddy Kevin up in Sacramento on Friday, but there was quite a bit more to it. When I worked with him for that year in Sac-town, we talked a lot every day, and about 90% of it had to do with sports. In fact, the first non-work thing I ever said to him was about a trade I saw that the Oakland A's made because I had just seen him with some A's string thing around his neck. (As a side note, the locals there call the older downtown part of the city "Old Sac," and I don't think I'll ever be mature enough to refrain from giggling at that.)

So I suppose it was just a matter of time before I got a message from him saying, "When do we get a blog on the triangle offense? Come on. I've read about your dreams damnit - when do I get some basketball?" I tried explaining to him that I don't think that stuff would entertain most of the people I know who read this. Also, there are hundreds of sports blogs out there all rehashing the same topics day after day, but I'm the only one I know of that writes about naming a daughter Diarrhea (or Diaria).

In about 50 posts, I have mentioned college football, betting on sports, former Laker (and UCSB alum) Brian Shaw, and as I told Kevin, "bowling - don't forget bowling!" He replied, "I already forgot bowling. Bowling = drinking - therefore - not a sport." Now we were onto something. He continued: "Pastime - yes - sport - no." (And I thought I was hyphen-crazy.) I asked about softball, since we played that together on a company team. "Softball is a semi sport," he said, "you can drink and play." I didn't buy his stance at all, but I let it slide for a minute so I could bring out the big guns: "Golf officially destroys your argument though, right?" I asked. He wasn't completely swayed, and answered, "Golf is a pass-sport - kind of a sport, drinking helps you those days. Kind of a pastime - since 80-year-old people play it."

Now I felt he was just dead wrong, but since he wasn't budging on golf, I was going to change his mind on bowling. I wrote, "I understand darts not being a sport, and poker is a game and not a sport, but I think bowling counts just as much as race car driving. It's physical, there's a ball involved, a score - sounds like a sport to me. John Kruk was a baseball player, and Oliver Miller and Stanley Roberts played basketball. John Daly's a golfer - why are fat bowlers any different? They don't drink during competitions."

His response? "I can't get behind it." That's it, unswayable. It got me thinking about my criteria for what makes something a sport though. We can't just go by what ESPN airs, because then we'd not only have to call darts and poker sports, but spelling bees too. I can't just say a ball has to be involved, because that would exclude swimming but include Chinese Checkers. I don't think that you can slap the word "competitive" before any game and make it a sport. Scrabble is a game, and even if it's televised, in tournament format, and with prize money, it's not a sport.

So here is my short, unofficial list of what makes a sport a sport (this is a living document and I may add or subtract from it based on compelling arguments or moments of clarity):

1. The activity has a physical component to it
2. There are winners and losers
3. No one could play for the first time and be good enough to be a professional

Those are the basic points, but I'm far from satisfied with it. With just those three as criteria, "Dancing with the Stars" would be considered a sport. Having a ball involved helps but isn't required, and I feel the same way about jerseys/uniforms. What else is necessary to make something a sport, gentle readers?

Ok, time for a mountain of real work. Have a good Monday everyone, whether you're working or not; I'm selfless like that. And remember, Zachary Taylor was totally cooler than Martin Van Buren - don't let the sideburns fool ya.

Follow-up Friday

Oh readers of a gentle nature, I'm extremely pleased to announce that it's Friday. I don't have a topic today per se, so I'm going to address a couple of things from previous posts and draw inspiration from emails I've received. This will be disjointed and possibly fairly short (which should be ok after yesterday's opus), so consider yourselves warned.

In my "Red-Faced Moments Part 1" post, I wrote about an unfortunate bowling experience. Longtime Friend of the Family Klein and UOPTA reader Sue asked if this was the same bowling ball that was lost on Nordhoff. That prompted me to tell that story to the rest of you: One bowling afternoon, everything was going along according to plan (that is, no mystery powder mishaps to possibly destroy my reputation). When it was my turn, I grabbed my ball, went through my beautiful lefty approach, shook hands with the head pin, etc. I got 8 or 9 down and walked back to the ball return. After the normal amount of time, my ball wasn't back yet. I waited for the neighboring lane to bowl to see if that would spit mine back out with it, but to no avail. As is customary when this happens, I pushed the intercom and told them my ball didn't return. They did their thing, but it still didn't come back. Time passed, and someone from the alley went to the back to see where it was. More time passed, and I kept thinking, "Come on, how hard can it be to find the ball back there?"

Pretty hard, it turns out. After a long wait, a bowling alley employee came toward me with a weird look on her face. She handed me my ball, which was all scuffed up and scratched. "I don't know exactly how it happened," she said, "but the ball was in the parking lot." "Excuse me?" I asked, rightfully confused. She explained that it must have somehow gotten thrown off the track, bounced around back there, and slipped through some small hole that led to the parking lot behind the alley. No one had ever seen anything like that happen before, and they offered to buy me a new ball. And it was that new ball, Sue, that flew through the air and dented the center divider. Needless to say, that was an excellent question.

Next, I wrote in my "Days and Daze" post on 12/22/06 about Cherry from the place I worked in Sacramento. She's the one who welcomed everyone with a day-of-the-week-specific greeting each morning. "How are you doing on this Tuesday now that we survived Monday," etc. Well, my friend Kevin who was my boss up there IMd me yesterday. He said, "Cherry just came in my room and said, 'Happy day after Hump Day and day before Payday Friday.' I had to share this." I said, "Oh come on, where's the TGIT day? That's bullshit." He said that maybe she's branching out, and I disagreed, saying that borrowing twice from yourself doesn't constitute branching out. She was a model of consistency, and now she has this glaring infraction on her record. Shame on you, Cherry, and thanks for letting me know, Kevin.

Thirdly, I unfortunately had "What if God was One of Us" in my head. Longtime readers will recall that I hate that song, especially the extremely forced "'Cept for the Pope maybe in Rome" line at the end. Then I realized something: The Pope doesn't even live in frickin' Rome! He's in Vatican City, so the line is even more ridiculous than I initially realized. Joan Osborne, when you sit at home and wonder why you never had another hit, look to that line and nod knowingly.

Reader Stacy, who for years I've called BKS for Bratty Kid Sister, sent me an email with a whole list of thoughts and questions. The one I'll address right now is this: "Should we be saying 'Sudan' or 'the Sudan' because I've heard both?" Excellent question, and I'll give you a researchless answer. I'm going with 'the Sudan,' because I like using "the" whenever possible. I've jokingly said that my middle initial of T stands for "the" because I like the way "Peter The Klein" sounds. Dusty's girlfriend's last name is Mills, so we call her "the Mills." If we're discussing something like a movie, one of us might easily say, "Oh I'm a big fan of the Swingers," even though that word isn't in the title. So stick with "the Sudan," BKS, whether it's right or not. It's right by me.

Thanks for your contributions everyone, and keep emailing ptklein@gmail.com with thoughts and questions for future follow-up Fridays (and other alliterations). Have a great weekend.

Red-faced moments Part II

Sit back and get comfortable, gentle readers, for you are about to read a tale of childhood innocence, confusion, creative bravery, regular embarrassment, hideous embarrassment, and ultimately sweet, sweet redemption. Uh oh, this looks like it's going to be a long post.

Childhood Innocence
I went to a private elementary school through sixth grade. My last year, I'd become a sizeable fish there, playing on all four sports teams and nabbing some highly-coveted roles in plays. Along with that, I was friendly with almost all of my peers, and the teachers and administrators liked me and encouraged me. I enjoyed school, and never quite understood the kids who celebrated the last day of school like they'd just won the World Series. What could possibly go wrong in an environment like that?

Confusion
One word: Girls. I remember sitting around with some male friends, and the topic of girls in our class came up. For some reason, we were behind the curve and still used "love" for what we should've been calling "like like," such as, "Well I know you like her, but do you like like her?" We hadn't caught on to that yet, so one friend was openly telling us that he kinda loved this girl in our class. "Kinda love" isn't said much in adult days, but we totally knew what he meant. "Who do you love, Peter?" they asked me. I had no idea, but since they all seemed so sure of themselves, I must've loved somebody and just not realized it yet. I quickly thought of all my female friends in our class, and I really liked a lot of them quite a bit, but none even remotely romantically. My best female friend at the time was Mandy, so I told them with absolutely zero confidence, "Well, I guess I love Mandy."

Creative Bravery
"You have to tell her!" they demanded. I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but they made it sound like that was the next inevitable step. You love somebody, then you tell her. Just as I was coming around to the idea of mentioning it to her at some point during recess, things got scarier: "How are you going to do it?" they asked. Shit, I hadn't realized that just telling her wasn't sufficient. (Please remember, this was 6th grade. I would now have no problem telling anyone to mind their own business and let me do things my way. Back then, my desires remained flexible to match those of the group.)

Here's where things fell apart. My brilliant plan was as follows: I told a kid named Jason P. (who we all knew Mandy loved, by the way) to tell Mandy that I had a special message for her. The message was the secret in the Beatles song, "Do You Want to Know a Secret." That is, "I'm in love with you," but she'd have to figure that out on her own if she didn't know the song because Jason wasn't instructed to tell her. I had to make it unnecessarily tricky. I think it's fair to assume that the virtues of direct communication weren't taught until later in life. In any case, Jason agreed, and he left to find Mandy as I waited, unsure of what I even wanted the response to be.

Regular Embarrassment
The next morning, Mandy came running up to me before class. "I got your message from Jason," she said, "and I ran home and asked my mom to sing me the song." "Oh," I said. "So...thank you," she said, then turned and walked away. I didn't know what to make of that, so I ignored it and hoped the whole situation would go away as quickly as possible. After recess that day though, I heard her telling her friend the story. "So Jason loves you?" the friend asked. "No, Peter does," Mandy replied. "Oh, ok," was the response.

A week passed, and Mandy and I still talked often but had successfully avoided the dreaded topic, and none of my male friends had brought it up either. So, my plan didn't exactly work, but I was no worse for the wear, right?

Hideous Embarrassment
It was about two weeks later that we had a substitute teacher. He was a cool, younger guy, and I'd sat and chatted with him during some of the breaks. When we only had about an hour left of class, he asked if I could do him a favor. I went to his car in the parking lot and brought his guitar case back to the classroom for an end-of-the-day treat. (I know you all can see where this is going, but I assure you it was the farthest thing from my mind.) For the last hour, we would be allowed to socialize and he'd play his guitar and sing for the class. I was with the guys off in one corner talking about normal boy stuff, and most of the girls were in a dense pack in front of the teacher.

He played one song and then a second. He sounded good, and the class (especially the girls) enjoyed having something different in the schoolday. Then he started the third song: "You'll never know how much I really love you/You'll never know how much I really care." For some reason, it hadn't kicked in yet. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. Then a few more notes, and then the fateful word: "Listen." Before he even finished the first line, I felt my face on fire. Before he finished the second line, the classroom was filled with laughter. I looked next to me and saw my male friends pointing and laughing, then turning, I caught Mandy and her friends laughing as well. The teacher stopped and followed everyone's pointed fingers to me. By this point, my face was so flushed that I could feel my eyes watering (not from crying - let me be clear about that). I walked toward the teacher and asked if I could go to the bathroom, hoping he could hear me about the cackling. "Are you ok?" he asked, genuinely concerned. "I just need to go to the bathroom," I urgently lied. He let me go, and I stewed in the bathroom for the next 20 minutes. I kept picturing a classmate named Amanda Nixon, pointing and laughing, and wondering who even told her the story since she wasn't good friends with Mandy. Clearly everyone knew, and if they hadn't, they were learning the story right then.

With a minute left of the day, I snuck back in, got my stuff, and left. It seemed that the teacher was cute enough that the girls thankfully forgot about me for the time being. I didn't argue, and I made it to my mom's car without encountering anyone from my class.

Sweet, Sweet Redemption
Even though it very rarely came up the rest of the year and it didn't seem to affect my social life negatively, I was still scarred by that experience. The one thing I kept thinking was that I should never have even been in that situation to begin with. If I had just told them that I didn't love any of the girls in our class, or that Mandy was just a friend, or that I loved some other made-up girl I met at camp, none of that would've happened. I lost contact with almost all of my classmates after graduation since we went to various junior highs, but the memory was still right there. Any time the subject of embarrassing moments came up, I knew my #1. In fact, I went so far as to say on multiple occasions that that situation was the only regret I had in my life. I know, heavy stuff.

And then five years later, something happened. I was in an SAT prep class with two friends, and who did we see? Mandy. We all chatted, talked about high school, asked if they knew so-and-so, etc. The whole time, I was just hoping she wouldn't mention that day in class. The four of us met up during the lunch break and headed over to the nearby Denny's. Midway through the meal, Mandy said, "Hey Peter, remember 'Do You Want to Know a Secret?'" I turned slightly red and answered, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I remember that." Then the most remarkable thing happened. Mandy said, "I know you were probably pressured into choosing someone to like, and since I was your best female friend, it was easy to confuse that." Almost word for frickin word of what I had been saying since that day. She got it, and since girls mature faster than boys, she probably understood my feelings even better than I did back in sixth grade.

From that day forward, I've held my head high when it comes to that horrifically embarrassing moment. I can't take back how it felt in those panicky moments, but I stopped regretting it and started viewing it as a learning experience. Namely, I learned to hate that substitute teacher for bringing his stupid guitar. And now when that song comes on, I can knowingly smile to myself instead of looking around anxiously and starting to sweat.

I once again lost touch with Mandy after that class (although I did see her on tv playing competitive dodgeball once and nearly spit out my drink). Ah, it feels good to get that story off my chest. Not many people's most embarrassing moment ends with a chapter called "Sweet, Sweet Redemption," so I'm thankful for that. Have a good day, gentle readers, and remember the perils of indirect communication.

*Remember, please email ptklein@gmail.com with questions, opinions, or possible future topics of conversation. I need all the help I can get.*

Red-faced moments

Hey, would you look at that? Valentines' Day is on Hump Day. Go figure.

In yesterday's post, I talked about the Hooters incident at my bachelor party being one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. That got me thinking (again) about what else I would put in that category. I came up with three memories that probably hold the top spots. Being both bold and a little stupid, I've decided to share them with you, extremely gentle readers. Two today, one tomorrow. Deal? Great.

First, let's travel back in time to 8th grade. You remember 8th grade, right? It was a time in which people cared so much more about what other people thought. It was also a time fraught with the fear that you might do something stupid, and news of that act would spread through the social networks so that you'd be ruined in high school before ever stepping foot on the campus. Ah, good times.

So it was in 8th grade that I found myself in a bowling league with my lifelong friend Jason and two of his friends from his previous school. Now I fully acknowledge that I'm a nerd, but I swear to you that I was frickin' Don Juan compared to those two guys. I was doing everything in my power to remain "the cool one on the team": chatting with our opponents in between frames, rolling my eyes at my teammates' jokes to make it clear that I didn't approve, etc. They were nice enough guys, but I didn't want them hurting the rep I was trying so hard to create.

One afternoon, it was my turn to bowl, and walked up to the ball return. One of my teammates asked, "Do you wanna use this?" as he threw a little bag to me. I caught it as some powder went flying. "No thanks, I already have some," I said, and I tossed it back to him. My ball was a little tight on my thumb, so I often used baby powder to make it looser, which is pretty standard in the bowling world. That's what I thought was in the bag he tossed me, but in actuality, I had just put sticky stuff on my hand without realizing it. So I started my five-step approach, and at the part where I would normally let go of the ball, I didn't. Instead, it stuck to my thumb all the way until my arm was about even with my chin. My momentum carried me stumbling about three feet out onto the lane. The buzzing sound of me crossing the line (indicating a fault) and a huge POP sound from my thumb's release echoed throughout the alley. Time slowed as the ball soared through the air like a lazy fly ball to right-centerfield. I say right-center instead of center because it eventually landed not on my lane, not on the one next to mine, but on the divider between that one and the one next to it. Now the echoing sound throughout the alley was the loud crash of a bowling ball hitting and denting the center divider.

I stood there for a second, out a few feet in my lane, looking at my ball two lanes over next to the damaged divider. I knew I had to turn around, so I did so as casually as one can in that situation. You know the scene in Back to the Future where Marty rocked out with his electric guitar at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, kicking over the amps, etc. and then he opened his eyes to find a frozen crowd that didn't know how to react to what they had just witnessed? Well, let's just say that my fellow kids in the league perfected that same look right then. Blank, attempting-to-comprehend stares on every last one of them. I mumbled a half-hearted "Whoops" before I walked back to the seating area, trying desperately to look nonchalant. It didn't help that I needed one of the alley's employees to walk out onto the lane to retrieve my ball, and I spent the next couple of hours praying that the other kids would find my goof cool somehow.

Crazy as it sounds, that incident didn't follow me to high school. Maybe it's because in order to tell the story, someone first had to admit that he or she was in a bowling league. Whatever the case, I didn't care as long as it was gone. I can still very clearly remember the looks on the people's faces, and I can still remember hearing nothing but my footsteps and my heartbeat as I walked back to sit among my shocked peers. Therefore, that takes spot #3 on my most embarrassing moments.

Now let's travel farther back in time to around fifth grade. I attended a sleepaway camp a few weeks a summer for a few years, and it was great: a bunch of my closest friends, cool activities, fake Native American names for the counselors, secret ceremonies, and a chance to reinvent yourself with a group of people who didn't just see you every day in school. One of the earlier years that I attended, we were in the middle of the traditional welcome campfire on the first night. I was sitting on the right side of the U-shaped bench arrangement around the fire pit with my friends, trying to be cool enough to get recognized by the older cabins. I hoped to overhear something like, "Hey, even though he's younger, that Peter kid's pretty cool, so maybe we should ask him if he'd hang out with us." I never heard that though, so I must have been sitting too far away.

Anyway, the ceremony started and they were solemnly explaining the rites and sacred history of the camp. Out of nowhere (I mean nowhere!), the largest bolt of lightning I've ever seen in my life lit up the sky directly in my line of sight behind the left side of the benches. It startled me so much that I jumped to my feet and started to yell, "Holy shit!" In that brief moment of time, I knew I wasn't supposed to say that, so I quickly managed to change "Holy" into "Oh my." That wasn't enough though, and I heard myself starting to make a "sh" sound. Thinking on my feet, I changed the word to "shorts" at the very last second.

Allow me to take the perspective of a someone sitting in the left or middle section for a minute: "There I was, listening to how Broken Arrow got his name, and for no reason, a boy on the other side stood up and yelled 'Oh my shorts!' at the top of his lungs. I looked down at his shorts, but I didn't see anything wrong with them. Maybe there was a bug in there or something. Or maybe he's retarded." (I, of course, would never use that term in such a manner, but this imaginary kid in the left or middle section totally would. He needs a little sensitivity training if you ask me.)

Yeah, that was pretty awkward. I sat back down, immediately questioned by my friends as to the cause of my outburst. They saw the lightning also, but needless to say, they didn't have the same reaction. Running Bear glanced over to me as if to see if I was ok, and I nodded. My shorts were ok too, by the way. To this day, I don't know what would've been worse, "Holy shit," "Oh my shit," or "Oh my shorts." Maybe the second one. All I know is that I disrupted an important ceremony by yelling something incomprehensible and it seemed completely unwarranted to two-thirds of the people there. Embarrassing? You bet your sweet ass it was embarrassing.

So those are two of the three. Ah, loud noises and stunned crowds staring at me; such a perfect combination for embarrassment. Have a good day, everyone, and if you're doing anything for Valentines' Day tonight, I sincerely hope you avoid that level of embarrassment.

Nightstand surprises

I rarely use this space for anything of a serious nature, but an extended family member of mine passed away yesterday. She was a kind and loving woman, and it didn't feel right to not mention her today. Gloria, you will be - and already are - deeply missed.

I'm not really in the writing mood, so here's something from the archives:

I was cleaning out an old nightstand, and I came across the most interesting things. The bottom drawer was almost entirely old photographs spanning the years. Most of them were from vacations that my wife and I have taken throughout the years, and it was nice to relive some of those moments (even if it made the cleaning process take five times as long). There were also many, many pictures of my group of friends during our college years, often with wide, alcohol-induced smiles. I also found a set of pictures from my bachelor party, and man that was a blast. Just me and my closest friends in the world (including my brother the Best Man, of course) drinking, acting stupid, and having fun.

A few of the pictures took place in a Hooters restaurant where we went for lunch. Unbeknownst to all of us, they have a tradition when it comes to bachelor parties: the groom-to-be has to put a raw hotdog in his mouth, a broomstick between his legs, and then ride the broomstick around the whole restaurant like a horse. When the waitresses brought me up in front of the whole restaurant and told me what I had to do, I quickly surveyed my options: either do it and get it over with or try to say no and cause a bigger stink. I told my friends that they'd better get good pictures, donned my "cool" sunglasses, and made a lap around the restaurant. For being one of the most embarrassing situations I've encountered, I look remarkably at ease in the photos. To this day I swear that I couldn't have done it without my sunglasses on; they allowed me to adopt an alternate persona in order to get through the ordeal.

I found two other things that were particularly interesting in my nightstand. One was a random piece of paper with a work assignment on it. On the back of it, I had written down two puns that must've stuck me on the same day. First, I wrote "Delusions of Grand Jury," maybe thinking that should I ever right a parody of a John Grisham novel, I'd have my title. Second, I wrote "Rice Erroneous." It took me a minute, but I think I was making a play on words with "Rice-a-Roni," and what one could call it if they screwed up the cooking process. This was before I knew of Condoleeza, so I couldn't have been coining a new nickname for her. I don't remember writing either of these down, so it was a strange experience to have to decipher my own puns.

Lastly, I found another piece of paper with an email I had written to my friend Jon in late April of 1998. He and I had been going back and forth writing purposely horrendous poetry in emails, each one more gloriously bad than the previous. I vaguely remember writing this one and almost stopping partway through because it was so silly, then changing it so it would appear that I was taking myself seriously - way too seriously. Without further ado, here is "Untitled" by Peter Klein:

Who knows the No
of the Norse Thunder Gods?
Who knows the nose
of the flaming bald eagle?
Who sees the sea
of the mighty Hepatitis?
Who sees the Sees
of the cocoa butter's loins?

It is he who smotes the matches of the pond'ring Everglades.
It is he who counts the crashing rainbow sparrows I have made.
It is he who kills a deer, a female dear, and then says "Doe."
It is he who need not know the name of that which No now knows.

I now know the knowledge
of the fruitless periled trees.
I know the bleeding wassifer
and his bandaged, bloody knees.
I know the swooning titmouse
and the way that prey will pray.
I know the pretty backspace key
bites ebb tides in the sway.
I know that used jalopies
are impossible to tow.
And yet I know that everything
I need not know to No.

Ah, I love bad poetry. I wish I still had the others that Jon and I wrote to each other, but this was the only one of its kind in my nightstand. I have the unintentionally bad ones from my teen years, but I think I'll keep those off the internet for a while longer. Part of me wants to go to an open mic poetry night and read that one with a running inner monologue of "If you don't understand this then you're an idiot because this shit is publishable. Grow up already." I looked on careerbuilder.com, but they didn't have "bad poet" as an occupation, so I guess it'll have to remain just a hobby for me. Oh well. Have a good day, gentle readers, and look out for swooning titmouses. Titmice? Whatever.

Commuted sentences

Good morning, and how are we doing on this Monday again? I have to tell you about something I saw last week: I was sitting in traffic on the 405 on my way to work, and as I'm prone to doing, I looked around at the cars in the same situation as me. One lane over and one car up, I saw the most perfectly-placed license plate imaginable: H8 405. I was understandably thrilled. Don't get me wrong, I don't like the 405 parking lot any more than the next guy, but that's commitment when you pay extra to have that as a personalized plate.

My dad called to tell me about a car he was behind later that same day. The plate read "FU TLG8R," plate-speak for "Fuck you, tailgater" in case you can't tell. Is it just me, or doesn't something like that actually invite more tailgating than they would've received without it? For example, if someone had a bumper sticker that said "I Hate Hand Puppets," you'd better believe I'd bust out my entire catalog of animal shapes while slowly passing that car. At the very least, "FU TLG8R" made my dad tailgate in order to take a picture of it with his phone for me.

Then the next day, the 405 was the gift that kept on giving as my wife and I carpooled to work. First, a car in front of us asked a question that I'm pretty sure we've all wondered from time to time: "How would Jesus drive?" My guess is probably the speed limit and more apt to let folks merge than the average man, but I have no proof of that. I'm assuming that the owner of that car is kidding, because what could they really accomplish with that? The only thing I can think of is reminding Christians about Jesus' teachings of peace in hopes to curb the honking and swearing, but aside from that, I've got nothing.

Speaking of merging, I get very upset sometimes when people don't do it properly. If two slow-moving lanes are becoming one, there's a right way to do it: one here, one there, etc. We call this the Zipper Method, naturally. When it's my turn in the zipper and some dicknead is trying to get two in on one side and not let me in, I usually first ask, "Really?" and then I say, "Honor the Zipper, man, honor the Zipper." (You can find an explanation of 'dicknead' in my post entitled "Comedic Detour" if you thought that was just a typo.)

Back to that glorious day on the 405: Right after "HWJD?" we saw a license plate that read "A REALMN." Maybe it's just me, but I find that to be along the lines of the "I Love My Wife!" bumper sticker in that it comes off as defensive. To me, someone that puts that on his license plate is saying, "I'm a real man. I would've gotten 'REAL MAN' but it was taken, but I'm more of a man than whoever has that plate. I don't care what you've heard about me, I'm real. Ok, fine, I slept with one guy once, but I was drunk and that was a long time ago, and he came on to me. And he had long hair so I was confused. Seriously, guys, can we drop that already? I'm a real man. And I hate France." Again, maybe it's just me.

Lastly, just a minute later, we saw a truck for a company that does electrician work. On both sides of the truck in big letters it read, "Drug Tested, Background Checked, Professionally Trained." The order struck both me and my wife as very curious. When I call to have an electrician come out, while I don't want them to be high, I first care that they know what the hell they're doing. I'd do fine on the drug test and background check, but I wouldn't want me installing recessed lighting in my house.

Anyway, I'm thankful for the 405's opinionated drivers. It certainly keeps me more entertained on my treks to and from work, even though I'm often screaming in my head, "GO! GOOOOO!" It's too bad "H8 405 BT LUV NHRNT CMDC VLU" wouldn't fit on a plate.

Remember, gentle readers, if you see, hear, or think of things that I might love or hate, email me at ptklein@gmail.com. With any luck, I can have weekly bumper sticker/license plate reports for your viewing enjoyment. Have a good Monday.

King Lyrics

I only remember two things from a dream a couple of nights ago: First, I knew I had a long day coming up so I put on A LOT of deodorant and finished it off even though it was a couple of days old. And second, I asked someone if "President Hummus resigned yet." And then in the wee hours this morning, I looked at my clock and thought it was a Wheel of Fortune puzzle with the answer being the word "obscene." I guess there was a zero, a five, and an eight somewhere in the time. What do these things have to do with each other, let alone today's post? Absolutely nothing. Although come to think of it, some pita and hummus would make a good snack this afternoon. Happy Friday, everyone. Clearly my mind is ready to stop working for the week, and I hope all of yours are too.

I've written a little about songs this week, and it got me thinking about a few things that I'll attempt to fuse together logically. If that fails, I'll just start a new paragraph and forego any semblance of a transition.

I'd always been a big fan of my name actually appearing in songs, like in "Man on the Moon" by REM, "The Ballad of John and Yoko" by the Beatles, and "Stove" by Sloan (actually a cover of a song by Eric's Trip). In fact, I used to have a button on the stereo of my old car that said "LOUD" on it, and I'd employ it whenever my name was coming up in one of those songs. Yes, it was awesome.

I remember many years ago, my friend and prom date twice-over Alissa was singing the beginning of the Beatles' "Don't Pass Me By" as "Alissa for your footsteps/coming up the drive" instead of "I listen." It obviously fit very well. She also sang "Walk on Alissa" instead of "Walk on the Ocean" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, which didn't work nearly as well, but I was still impressed by her ingenuity.

I've been changing song lyrics my entire life. I remember making the entire "Angel of Music" song from Phantom of the Opera into a ballad about having a cold entitled "Angel of Mucus." In fact, a small group of us in fifth or sixth grade even wanted to form a Weird Al-like band and change popular songs into funny ones. We only came up with two that I recall: my friend Adam turned "Twist and Shout" into a song about going to the dentist to have teeth pulled and I turned Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" into a song about plastic surgery. Yes, we were way ahead of our time.

In any case, I've since gone way overboard in changing lyrics when it comes to my dog, but that's another long post for another time. I'm here today to talk about the strange words I put to instrumental music. I have two such stories to share this morning, and I can feel you leaning in closer to your monitors in anticipation. Back up a little, it'll be better for your eyes.

About 5 years ago, my friend Dusty and his girlfriend "the Mills" brought out something that ended up occupying a good deal of our free time: old school Nintendo. They had the game "Dr. Mario," which is basically like Tetris but with more strategy and pills falling instead of blocks. There were two background music options called "Fever" and "Chill," and I had fun with both of them. With "Chill," I mainly inserted lyrics from other songs, like "I made it through the wilderness" from Madonna's "Like a Virgin" and "We like the cars, the cars that go boom" by L'Trimm. (Yeah, I had to look that up.) On "Fever," though, I pretty much just sang the same thing throughout what I can only guess was the chorus: "Your name's Weiner Dude." I don't know why, but it wasn't long before everyone was singing along to that part. I think it was a combination of a Wienerschnitzel commercial and a line from "Waterboy," but why I put them together and why in that song I'll never know.

The second story goes back farther in time. I was probably around 13 or 14 when my mom bought an instrumental tape (yeah, cassette tape) of David Lanz's music. There was one song in particular that she played more than the others, and it was a beautiful piano piece called "Leaves on the Seine." I remember finding myself singing along in my head, "Snow fields and wheat fields have slowly gone away." I don't know why again, but those were the words I put there. Then I got that song in my head for the first time in a decade or more last week. To my surprise, I added more lyrics. Now, I sing:

And snow fields and wheat fields have slowly gone away;
And the apple of my eye is orange,
Yes the apple of my eye is orange.
Snow fields and wheat fields have slowly gone away.

Care to hear what I'm talking about? If you go to
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IcCI4hy2fc and listen from 1:03 to 1:27, it should match up perfectly with the lyrics I created. I just listened again, and I'm pretty sure Mr. Lanz had those exact words in mind when he wrote that piece. If you think other words fit better there, I'd love to hear them. Yes, that's a challenge.

Ok, time to put this rambling post to bed. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone, and don't forget to write to ptklein@gmail.com with thoughts, questions, observations, and general annoyances. Now where can I find some pita and hummus...

States and names

There was a Friends episode once in which the characters were trying to write down all 50 states and having a hard time at it. The next night, a group of us were at my friend Lisa's parents' place, and someone wanted to see how many each of us could write down. "I'd get all 50," I said. "That's what I thought," Lisa replied, "but it's harder than it sounds. I tried last night and only got 47." "No, I'd get all 50," I repeated, "because I know a song with all of the states in alphabetical order." "Oh, then I guess you would." The others all got pens and paper and I served as the answer key when all was said and done. The song has come in handy a few other times, including a board game once that asked how many states started with the letter m (8: Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana).

Why do I bring up such a nerdy and unexciting story? Because, gentle readers, the word of the day is "fifty." As in "fifty nifty United States," "Ulysses S. Grant on the $50 bill," and "Holy crap, this is Peter's 50th post on his blog!" Believe me, I'm as shocked as you are.

Here's a little story that combines many themes we've touched on in this space over the past 49 posts: As you may know, I have certain time issues. Namely, I feel like I need to be early to everything all the time. To make matters more pronounced, I am very bad at figuring out how long things take. If I were going somewhere ten minutes away, I'd usually only be five or ten minutes early. If I had stops to make though, it got progressively worse. For example, I would allot fifteen minutes EACH to getting gas, going to the ATM, and dropping off a video even though there were all near each other and near my destination. I couldn't help it, and so I'd get where I was going about 45 minutes early.

A minor digression: When my wife and I were dating, she did a very smart thing. I always arrived super early to get her because I thought there might be traffic, and she was getting tired of it. So instead of telling me what time to pick her up, she started telling me what time to leave the house. Brilliant. I fought every urge to leave earlier and actually got there when she wanted me to. (I did sometimes allow five minutes to walk the one hundred feet to my car, but then I'd sit in it until the right time.)

Back to the story - one situation in which my time issues are most prominent is when I go to a movie. Especially if it's a movie theater in a crowded place, my timing is really thrown off. I figure that it could take up to twenty minutes to find parking, then I might wait in line another half hour to get tickets and be let in (we're not talking summer blockbusters here, that would be much more extreme), etc. The predictable result is that I walk into an empty theater. I must tell you truthfully, there are few things in life that put me at ease as much as that. I can't explain it, but every time I see those empty seats and know that I'm early enough to sit wherever I want, I let out a deep breath and feel peaceful. Yes, I'm a sick man, I realize this.

What would I do during the half hour or more before the movie started? Aside from saving seats for my on-time and late friends, I'd sit peacefully and watch the pre-movie entertainment. I got to know these slides very, very well. The cycle is only so long, and so I sat through multiple viewings each time. I know that realtor must be good because he has a sailboat, I know that I can bring my ticket stub to the Elephant Bar for a free appetizer, and I certainly know all of the movie trivia.

My favorite trivia slide that I saw so many times asked me to guess which American movie titles matched their translated titles from overseas. The three titles were "Big Liar," "Dimwit Surges Forth," and "I'm Being Good Because I Want to Go Out." Of course, the answers were "Nixon," "Waterboy," and "Babe: Pig in the City," respectively. My friends would arrive, and I'd casually guess the answers, not fooling them for even a second. I don't understand why "Nixon" wasn't called "Nixon," but I'm not complaining. In fact, I've incorporated one of the titles into my vocabulary: whenever our dog is clearly trying to get us to talk her for a walk, we ask her, "Are you being good because you want to go out? Babe: Pig in the City?" So I truly do appreciate the translations. In fact, I'm going to see if I can find some good ones online. Hold on a sec.

Thanks. Taiwanfun.com tells me the following:

"My Best Friend's Wedding" = "The Bride is not Me"
"Contact" = "Rich in the Future"
"GI Jane" = "Satan Female Soldier"

Not bad, but let's see what else I can find. I went to www.geocities.com/smvgrey/Titlefun.html, and it has "Nixon" as "The Big Liar," so I'm inclined to believe them on the rest. If so:

"As Good as it Gets" = "Mr. Cat Poop"
"Boogie Nights" = "His Powerful Device Makes Him Famous"
"The Matrix" = "The Young People who Traverse Dimensions while Wearing Sunglasses"

I'm not so sure about those last two. I found another site, but I'm pretty sure they were all made up. Ah, the series of tubes that make up the internets; gotta love 'em.

And now a plea from your humble blogger: This being the 50th post tells me two important things: First, I have a lot of crap to talk about. Second, I don't have nearly enough crap to talk about. Sure, I have a list with some topics that can sustain this space for some time, and my drive to work each morning is full of blogging potential, but I'm here to ask for help. Bill Simmons of ESPN, my favorite online sports writer, has a mailbag column every so often in which he just addresses reader emails and questions. He has a following in the hundreds of thousands, though, and mine is probably closer to 8 or 9 of my friends. That said, I would love it if you folks would send ptklein@gmail.com your thoughts, questions, annoyances, bumper sticker observations, etc. whenever they arise. I might put together entire mailbag columns or I might just use them as prompts for longer posts from time to time. I'm sure there's a lot of stuff out there worth sending, and I'm sure I'll have an opinion on it all.

With that, gentle readers, I'm concluding the 50th post. Have a great Thursday, and thanks for reading.

Just me, just me

Writing about Yosuke yesterday made me think of another great moment in Peter History with broken English. Badly broken English. Compound fracture English. You get the point. I worked at a country club for two summers doing all sorts of jobs. I cleaned the members' golf clubs, got carts ready for them, set up for tournaments, drove a shuttle around, etc. Almost everyone I worked closely with was a native Spanish speaker, and the English skills ranged from quite good to "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Fortunately, my Spanish at the time was good-to-quite-good, so we spent a lot of time helping each other out. I knew textbook Spanish, which was close but not quite what my co-workers spoke. For example, I once used conducir for "to drive." "Conducir," my colleague repeated as snobbily as possile, indicating that I used too lofty a word. I asked what I should use instead, and he told me manejar. I knew those two were synonyms, but the textbook didn't tell me the subtle differences. Another time, I used estacionar for "to park," pleased with myself that I recalled it from the little yellow vocabulary box in my textbook years back. "Estacionar," the same man repeated in the same my-shit-don't-stink tone. He said to use parquear instead, which just sounded made up to me.

As a side note, I really like the "shit-don't-stink" phrase. It's a very accurate way to describe an undeserved holier-than-thou attitude. I wonder though how it stuck with "don't" instead of "doesn't." And why isn't it "holier-than-you" while we're at it? Ah, the mysteries of the universe.

Anyway, one of my closest associates at the country club was a guy named Rodrigo. His English was less refined than all of the others, but he really seemed to be putting in the effort. I remember him coming up to me once and asking, "Who was first pres-dent of United State?" I replied, "George Washington was the first pres-i-dent of the United States." "Jor Washeenton," he said, then asked, "A-raham Leencone, he second pres-dent?" "No, he was the sixteenth pres-i-dent." This thoroughly confused him, but I briefly explained why he knew Abe's name and not John Adams'.

Rodrigo would listen to English-language radio all the time to help him learn, and much to my delight, he'd attempt to sing along. He once came up to me, proudly belting out the words, "Olee mullomee!" By the tune, I gathered that he meant "Only the Lonely," and I corrected him and gave a brief summary of the song in Spanish.

And then one day, my favorite interaction with Rodrigo happened. He approached me and said, "Hey, how come your name in a song by Michael Jackson?" Normally there were enough contextual clues that I could figure out where he went wrong, but I was at a loss here. "Which song is that, Rodrigo?" He then began singing, "Just Peter, just Peter, just Peter, just Peter," and I eventually recognized that it was the tune of "Beat It." I told him that the King of Pop was not in fact saying my name, but rather "Beat it." He asked me to define that term for him. "Well, that could mean a lot of things. It can mean 'leave' or 'win' or 'to hit something' or it's a way to make an egg...or 'to masturbate.'" He asked which one Michael Jackson meant with the song, and I guessed that he meant "leave," but now I'm not so sure.

When I left the country club after my second summer there, I asked Rodrigo if I could have one of his work shirts that said "Rod" on them, thinking that would be cool to wear from time to time. I also got a "Jose" one for Greg and a "Sergio" one for Jon. These ended up being our "drinking shirts" in college, and we wore them to many a shindig. It turned into a whole group thing, where everyone had drinking names, and if you screwed up and called someone by their real name, you'd get slapped on the arm. I know, we were stupid drunk boys, but it was a lot of fun at the time.

So Rodrigo's legacy lived on way past my two years working with him. I still bust out that shirt from time to time, and with any luck, you'll find yourselves singing "Olee mullomee" next time Roy Orbisson comes on.