Feeling peevish

Before anything else, let's get right to the most important business of the day: Happy Birthday, Grandma! If you're reading this, I suggest you stop now, because I'm about to act a fraction of my age. I'm sorry, but it happens from time to time.

A while back, I wrote about the process my wife and I went through in finding a name for our dog. We agreed on Hallie, and I'm quite pleased with our decision, but I'm upset that one name never crossed my mind: Peeve. I think that would've been pretty funny when I introduced her to people for at least a week or two. After that, eh, not so much.

Why do I bring up such a pointless story? Because, gentle readers, we're getting interactive today with our subject. Pet peeves will initially be the topic of discussion, but we'll be ending on a much different note. Things shall be discussed, validated, bandied about, and agreed upon in the comments section. I can feel it!

Sacky Christi, bless her soul, actually writes to ptklein@gmail.com from time to time with suggestions for topics. She offered the topic of pet peeves for a post even though she's planning on using it on her own blog (christihaslosthermind.blogspot.com), and even gave me some ammo start off with.

First, I want to start with me, because I am the first person. I was asked on some survey a while back to list my pet peeve. I wrote something about people being late on my time. I'm quite anal about my own hyperpunctuality, and I don't expect anyone else to be like me in that. However, once it's the agreed-upon time for something, it had better be happening. I don't count the 20 extra minutes of me sitting around because I was early, by the way. I just like for people to be places when they said they would. If not, let me know, and I'll be ok with it. I'm not a monster.

So that's my more general pet peeve. A more specific one would have to be the product that really gets me angry every time: plastic wrap. Man I hate that shit. Every single time I want to use some, it sticks to itself the second I take it out of its cardboard home. Maybe I'm just missing the gene that helps people with plasti-crap (as I call it), but I find it nearly impossible to use as intended. Am I alone in this or is it the bane of other people's existence as well?

And then there's the newest of Peter's pet peeves: when people are on hands-free headsets in public places and talking loudly. I was waiting at the deli counter at the market, and a woman was in a fight with someone on the phone. The only problem was that she was standing one foot away from me, arguing, moving her hands, and really pissing me off. "It's none of your business!" she repeated about five times in a row. Yet somehow it was everyone else's business. Grrrr.

Christi's pet peeve is one that probably doesn't find itself on the top of too many people's lists: when there is serious dialogue in porn. Her explanation: "Why? Some big Hollywood director is not going to hear you in there and think, there's the next Meryl Streep! I must get her for this summer's blockbuster film." I asked if I could use her name for this (and for a little more explanation so my readers don't assume she has porn in her daily rotation), and she wrote back, "Sure. It drives me crazy. We'll be flipping channels, come across obvious porn, and they are having dialogue..not just 'Hey you wanna...' but acting like someone wrote a script. Although - that has to be the easiest job ever, porn script writer. I wonder how much it pays?"

She's got a good point about it seeming like an easy writing gig. I guess it has to be harder than just having a guy say, "Here's your pizza, ma'am," and then starting the sexy-time music. Not much harder though. The real talent lies in the loose adaptations of real movies and making appropriately pun-filled titles. I don't know if these are real or not, but I've heard of "Good Will Humping" and "Shaving Ryan's Privates." I assume they do this for more than just Matt Damon's movies. I once saw some of "Lord of the G-Strings" with a character named Dildo Saggins (instead of Bilbo Baggins) and thought that was hilarious. As it turned out, my neighbors Kareem and Laura and my friend Greg had seen the same one. Greg even incorporated "Dildo Saggins" into a song we sometimes hear on the radio.

I should help out the many porn writers who frequent UOPTA by giving them titles to future adaptations. Let's see here... how about "Babes of Glory," "Bump and Grindhouse," "300...and counting," or "Ride 'er Man 3." That was way too easy. I hope they're not paid too much.

Then there are the movies that don't need a change in title. "Next," Nicolas Cage's new movie, for example, could work just fine like that with the right plotline. Same with "The Firm," "A Few Good Men," or possibly other Tom Cruise movies. In any case, here's where one part of the interactive nature of today's post comes into play. First, I'd love to hear your own thoughts on adapting movie names into Pornspeak. Or, if there are titles that you think don't need any modification at all, list those as well. My goal here is to have my gentle readers interacting with one another a little. For example, if my mom writes that "War of the Girls" would be a good title, Melissa might counter with "Whore of the Worlds." I hereby authorize you to be as juvenile and vulgar as necessary. It's Monday, for Pete's sake, let's have fun with this. The best of the lot will get a special mention in this week's Follow Up Friday, and if that's not enough incentive to think dirtily for a minute, then I don't know what is.

Yes, I'm sinking that low for today's offering, my friends and family. Won't you join me in this low form of humor? Come sink to my level, and we'll save actual brainwork for another time.

The other interaction I'd like today in the comments section (if I may be so bold) is to hear other people's pet peeves. I know you have them, so stop trying to appear normal. For some, they'll probably be fairly typical (loud gum smacking, etc.), but I know there are some strange ones among my strange readers.

Have a great day, please start commenting like you've never commented before, and I hope to be mired in serious(ly stupid) discussion with you all shortly.

FUF #11

I believe the Beatles said it best: "Nothing you can read that can't be wrote. Nothing you can smite that can't be smote. All you need is FUF." It's on their rarities collection.

Good morning everyone, and I hope these words find you well. I've got a random assortment of things for you today on this Friday as well as the standard Car Watch items. Ready to roll? Let's do it.

I got a text message from a number I don't know. It read, "Me w/out u is like a camera w/ no flash, a car w/ no gas, a stripper w/ no ass & a pimp w/ no cash! Send to ten ppl u couldn't live w/out!!" Yes, gentle readers, that is my very first unsolicited chain text message. I have no idea how it reached me, but someone evidently can't live without me (or" w/out" me, as it turns out), so maybe I should just be flattered. Have any of you ever received something like that? I get a lot of calls for someone named Mark, so maybe someone can't live without him and my flattery is totally unfounded. Stupid Mark.

Earlier this week, I wrote about the process of learning Spanish and how much I enjoyed it. I wanted to give you a little more insight into my relationship with that language. Specifically, my favorite words. I have three of them, and they're all equally at the top for different reasons. First, I like the word for "spinach": espinaca. That's just fun to say. Espinaca. Really, no more for that one, I just like how it sounds. Second, I like desafortunadamente, which means "unfortunately." It's eight syllables, so it's hard just to throw into a sentence without sounding funny. "Si, si, quiero hacerlo pero desafortunadamente no puedo." No matter how fast you can roll that word off your tongue, it still drastically changes the pace of the sentence. Lastly, I like the word chantaje, which means "blackmail." I like that that word's in my vocabulary, but I like it more because I would stump people in Spanish Hangman with it. "Ch" is one letter in Spanish, but My Fellow Gringos (MFGs) would often forget that when faced with that one remaining blank. They'd guess every other letter before realizing I was being a jerk or giving up, whichever came first. Good times, good times.

Moving on now. I want to see someone use the "fist" part of the word "pacifist" in conjunction with punching someone in a movie. I think that would be cool. "I used to be a pacifist, but now I'm a paciFIST!" Pow, right in the kisser. Man, I should be writing movies. (See what I mean by "random assortment of things"?)

I'm very upset about something, but I find it's out of my control. Sports Illustrated's website has a section on it that I read almost every morning. It had one writer I really like in particular who makes puns and jokes each morning, some rumors about trades, and other interesting things. It was called "Scorecard Daily," and I even got my name and comments in there a few times. They changed the name of the section for some reason, and I really couldn't be more displeased with their choice: "Extra Mustard." Seriously, I would rather they name it "Peter Klein Sucks" than that. I f'n hate mustard, and now I don't even want to click on the link to get me to that page. Do they really want me associating their work with "yucky"? I'm not happy, and hopefully they take my email about it seriously.

When I wrote about accents, my homies the Sacky Family wrote in about them pretending to be British. My lovely wife reminded me that once we were in another country, and there were some very obnoxious Americans near us. Not wanting them to hear that we were "like them," we spent the whole meal with me speaking Spanish and her speaking Hebrew. We didn't understand each other, but we avoided having to talk to them. Nice move, eh?

Dusty and I once spent an entire Target shopping trip speaking in Gibberish to each other. I think we were going for "vaguely European," and the cashier seemed to buy the whole thing. When that becomes a marketable skill, I have a feeling we'll be leading seminars throughout the land. Keep an eye out.

Ok, it's Car Watch time!

Have you ever seen the bumper stickers that advertise a place called "The Mystery Spot?" I think it's in Santa Cruz if I remember correctly, but the sticker's always struck me as counterintuitive. Kinda hard to keep the "mystery" going that way, no?

I was behind a big truck yesterday, and the plate was "IV BY IV." I like it. I can say with 100% certainty that I too would resort to roman numerals to get a point across if it were important to me. In fact, maybe my FUF #s should switch to roman numerals so I can be like the...big football game that takes place once a year. Stupid copyrights.

My favorite brother called me to tell me about the bizarre license plate frame he saw. "Happiness is" on the top, and "Biting My Parrot Back" on the bottom. Now what the hell am I supposed to make of that? "Oh yeah, you want a piece of me, well take that, parrot! Oh man, that retribution felt so good!" There are a lot of weirdos out there, friends, and only a small percentage advertise like this one.

Here's a bumper sticker that made me laugh: "Obey Gravity, It's the Law!" Hee hee. I like that.

Saw this license plate: "NOT SURE." Well, at least we have that in common.

Sacky Christi wrote in with the following: "Okay, I was finally on the freeway for more than one mile and got to see three stickers/frames I felt were worth sharing. First - Big yellow caution sticker on a Saturn : Caution: Driver Singing ...we wondered if this were an ex-American idol contestant, or just that loud of a singer. Second: license plate frame: Happiness is being in Hawaii ...at first, I went, Well duh!, and then it made me think of being on vacation, and I had a small moment of bliss as well. Third: a little black sticker with white writing: My cat beat up your cat ...not sure what to make of that one...no kids to brag about and her cats are bullies?" I agree with you, SC. What do you gain by having your cat beat up another? Fines? Angry neighbors?

We watched the American Idol special this week, and they mentioned "Save the Children." I wondered if that was the same company I wrote about in January's post called "Angry on the Inside." I went to www.savethechildren.com and sure enough, the phone number that angered me so much is proudly displayed at the bottom of the page. Normally charities don't make me angry, but in this case, I'm ok with the exception.

Last but certainly not least, my bro asked what will happen when I go out of town for a week in May. I'm very pleased to report that my Bratty Kid Sister will be guest blogging for that week. She's great, so you'll all be in very capable hands. In fact, I've already read what she'll be posting on Monday and Tuesday, and they're perfect.

Have a great weekend everyone, and please remember to send ptklein@gmail.com anything you can for future posts or FUF pieces. Desafortunadamente, I can't do it all alone.

A pizza history

Hey, look at that: here we are again. To try to continue with this week's unofficial and unplanned theme, let's keep riding the language and word-creation train, shall we? As I look through my recent posts, it becomes pretty clear to me that I like the idea of creating a word that sticks in the web of public consciousness. I don't think most people actively try to make up slang words or coin new phrases, so maybe that's one of "my things," like putting ketchup on a tuna sandwich. Don't knock it til you try it, by the way. The ketchup and mayo are great together. On the nose, you'll find a bouquet of tomato, egg whites, fish, loganberry, and a hint of leather.

As a quick side note, I almost wrote something about me being the conductor of the "language and word-creation train," which made me start thinking about the word "conductor." Since "conducir" means to drive in Spanish, I'm assuming that they come from the same Latin root or something. I'm not looking it up because I don't feel like getting angry, and that's generally what happens. Does the musical position of "conductor" also come from that? I can make the argument that he or she drives and steers the composition, but I can make lots of arguments that aren't accurate. Maybe I'm looking at this backwards and it all stems from "conduct." Therefore, one who makes things move or happen is therefore a "conduct-or." The word most likely pre-dates driving, so that's probably the more accurate story of how those words came to be.

Aren't you glad I took you along with me on that journey to the center of my mind? While you might argue that that wasn't "a quick side note," I'll counter by assuring you that it could've been three or four times as long. You can't spell "tangent-like" without "Klein." (Yeah, I know that was a stretch.)

Back to the origin of train words. Just kidding, I think we've done enough there for today. I remembered another story about me trying to create a term, and since you're my universal recipient (like Type AB blood), I'm going to share. In the fall of '99, I worked for the Writing Program at UCSB. In fact, if you go to Google and type in ""peter klein" writing program" a message from me comes up that doesn't sound like it was written by me. I don't sign things, "Many thanks for your help," but there I am doing it. Man, am in one hell of a digressing mood this morning. I'm going to try to get through this fairly brief story without any further interruptions.

In the Writing Program, we were hungry and decided to order a pizza for lunch. As we talked about what toppings we liked, we easily settled on sausage, green pepper, and onion. "That should have a name," I said. They looked at me oddly, unsure of what I meant by that. "You know, like a Hawaiian pizza or a Denver omelet." They saw my point, and since UCSB resides in the city of Goleta, we wanted to start calling it the Goleta pizza. I devised a plan, feeling a little like Hannibal from the A-Team and loving it. First, I called the pizza place. Very cooly, I said, "Yeah, I'd like to order one large Goleta pizza for delivery please." "A what?" the man asked. "Oh," I said, as if he was stupid for not knowing, "a Goleta pizza - you know, sausage, peppers, and onions." He completed the order, and I'm 100% sure that after hanging up with me, he turned to a co-worker and asked, "Have you heard of a Goleta pizza?"

A couple of days later, one of my co-workers called the same place and had the same interaction with the guy who answered. All we had to do was keep this up a little longer, and soon they'd know what a Goleta pizza was. Then, years down the line, we'd see it on a menu somewhere and have definitive proof that our plan worked. The only problem is that we never called again. I only worked there a short amount of time after that particular week, and neither of us remembered to do it on our own. I still think that was a good plan, so maybe I'll reinstitute it some day. Because seriously, how awesome would that be? Cool enough that no one would believe me, but that's ok. It's about personal gain and not just the glory of adding things to the lexicon.

(I once met a young lady named Alexa Kahn by the way, and I couldn't bring myself to ask if she was related to Dick Shinary.)

Have a good day, gentle readers, and thanks for staying on board today as I veered all over the place. It may be time to lower my coffee intake. Tune in tomorrow for another installment Follow Up Friday. If you have anything for that or future posts, please send it along to ptklein@gmail.com. Thanks!

Tapping my potential

Well well well. Welcome, Wednesday, with wondrously wild words with Ws. How weird is that? I inadvertently broke the chain of words starting with a "W" sound by writing "W." Our language never ceases to amaze me. The words that look like they should rhyme but don't (i.e. 'how' and 'low') and the opposite (i.e. 'laughter' and 'daughter') are just the tip of the iceberg. I know these oddities exist in every language, but I have the most practice with this one.

Since I can remember, I've always loved language. I doubt that surprises too many of you out there. I'll eternally be grateful that my elementary school had us learning little bits of Spanish each week, because I think that started my relationship with words and different tongues off on the right foot. (I am right-footed, by the way.) I clearly remember a teacher who would keep juggling as long as the class could count along in Spanish. We all knew how to say the 1-9 part consistently, but it was Cheryl Tan who helped us when we froze with fear after 39, 49, and 59. Sadly, she couldn't remember "setenta" at the time, so his arms got a little break in between lessons. In hindsight, that was a pretty awesome technique.

After graduating 6th grade, I probably only knew the same amount of Spanish that they teach in the first semester of Spanish 1. However, when my fellow classmates were still learning the pronouns, I could successfully conjugate regular verbs in the present tense. And you know what? I frickin' loved it. During the same time, I was working at the pizza place and talking with native speakers often. My vocabulary grew exponentially (for better and for worse), so I knew how to say some things a year or two before learning why I said them like that.

I ate the lessons up. Spanish was fun and it actually made sense - much more sense than the sentence diagrams Mrs. Dunlop was trying to teach us in English. After a couple of years with it, I was technically sound with my Spanish knowledge and comprehension. There was one big problem though: I sounded as gringo as gringo can sound. I remember going into the Spanish-for-Spanish-speakers class my junior year to talk to my teacher. I told her that I had just watched "El Mariachi" the night before and really enjoyed it. One of the students looked up, and laughing, repeated, "El Mar-ee-otch-ee." I realized then that if I wanted to be taken seriously with that language, something had to be done.

So what did I do? Acting! I started imitating native speakers. I'm pretty good at impressions, and I assumed the character of someone who was raised speaking Spanish. It worked. I started sounding more like I spoke Spanish because I kept imitating people who actually did. I continued with my impression every time I opened my mouth to speak Spanish until that became my normal accent in that language. My CAHP (Convincing Accent High Point) came a year or so later. I said something in Spanish, and a native speaker asked me why I spoke so well. In Spanish, I replied that my mom was from Argentina. He nodded, accepting my statement as true. I immediately set him straight and told him how happy that made me that I convinced him so easily.

I continued with my Spanish studies through college, where I ended up minoring in it. I was going to double major (and was on track to do so for three years), but it just got too tough to read novels of 17th century literature from Spain. After graduation, I began using my acquired skill less and less, and I watched it slowly start to slip away. A lot of it's still there, and I think it would only take a week or so in Mexico to get almost completely back on track.

And guess what? My lovely wife and I are taking a Mexican vacation next month, so I can put that theory to the test. Until then, I'm getting my Mexican rock cds back in the rotation right away. They always seem to help. I don't think I'll get back to my high point of occasionally dreaming in Spanish, but as long as I can eavesdrop better I'll be ok. I get bits and pieces of conversations now, but I've stopped trying for the most part because it takes too much effort.

(The one dream I most clearly remember in Spanish involved a group of us including my dad who were some kind of assassins. We didn't kill people with guns or knives though, because that would actually make sense. Instead, I remember my dad teaching me how certain tap dance combinations could prove lethal. He was illustrating one but purposely left the last step out so that he didn't kill anyone in the room. We all practiced and prepared for the next hit. When I started telling someone about that dream the next day, it suddenly hit me that my dad was instructing us in Spanish and that the whole dream was. Naturally, I was thrilled. And before you ask, no, I don't remember the tap sequence. Or do I....)

My co-worker Rob doesn't speak any Spanish at all (and to my horror once asked for a "polo burrito"), so every time we pass someone anyone conversing in that language, I tell him that they just referred to him as "White Devil." Big laughs each time. Ok, so only on my end, but still.

I'm gonna stop here. I could keep typing about language for a long time, but then my pile of real work would get jealous. Have a good day, gentle readers. We welcome Wednesdays when warm winds wash wasabi widget wikipedia window Wookie whatshisface weapons. Hey, alliterations are easy! See you tomorrow, folks.

Accent prone

Hello and good morning to you on this non-Monday. I went to re-read yesterday's post to see if I could draw any inspiration from it for today's offering. Luckily, it only took one sentence. 'Twas my fake Irish accent at the beginning of the post for no reason at all that did it. I re-read that line, and it got me thinking (uh oh) of some great moments that accents have played in my life. Ok, maybe not 'great,' but certainly memorable and fun at the time.

My buddy Jon got his degree in Acting at UCSB, and our whole group of friends went to a bunch of his performances throughout our four years there. It was during our sophomore year that he was preparing a scene in an Irish dialect for an audition. The play was "The Playboy of the Western World" by J.M. Synge, and Jon walked around our apartment for days repeating the first line over and over again: "And isn't it a poor thing to be startin' again?" He struggled getting the accent down at first, but it wasn't for a lack of trying. Greg then helped Jon out somewhat inadvertently. Since the Irish brogue was flying around the apartment, it led Greg to quoting "Far and Away" with Tom Cruise. He kept saying, "You can be sure, I won't be dyin' twice." As it turned out, Jon could say that line well, so he began to use it almost like a primer to help the accent stick. He'd quote Greg/Tom Cruise then launch into the "Playboy" lines, and the accent was much more believable. Ah, actors and their craft.

That wasn't it for Jon and the Irish dialect though. Later that year, Jon had a tape designed to help him master the accent. It would say things, and he'd repeat them. There were two problems with this. First, he listened to it with headphones, so he'd be sitting there with us and then suddenly blurt something out in the accent. Second, whoever created the tape seemed like a very angry person. Here are the only two lines I remember hearing Jon say from the tape:

1. "It was a rough, tough fight."
2. "I had to stick a knife in his arm."

Of course they sounded more like, "It was a roof, toof foit," and "I 'ada sticka noif in 'is ahm." He listened to it almost non-stop for a while, so I imagine it was weird for people that he passed as he skateboarded to class. "Why's that guy with the weird accent threatening me?" they'd probably think.

The next year, I lived with a different Acting major. It was our friend Burnstein, and it was his turn to work on the Irish dialect. To put it simply: he was horrendous. The rest of us were decent at it, but had little cause to use it in our English, Communication, and Electrical Engineering courses. Burnstein sounded so un-Irish that listening to him became one of our favorite pastimes. We tried to get him to say, "They keep stealin' me Lucky Charms." I didn't think it was possible, but he managed to make that line sound Jamaican. It got to the point where I'd make fun of him by saying, "Eh Mon! They keep a-stealin' me Rasta Charms, mon!" He didn't find that as funny as the rest of us.

Right now, I do a decent Welsh accent, as long as I'm imitating Desmond from "Lost." I can say, "No matter what you do, brother, you're gonna die, Charlie," and that's about it. It's awfully similar to my Irish and Scottish, but I think that's a forgivable offense. If I'm around a Brit for a few minutes, I can get that one going alright. My Australian accent is only decent when quoting a commercial for Australian Toaster Biscuits from 20 years ago. "They tie-st grite!" I suppose I can say, "He just smiled and gave me a vegemite sandwich" also, but it doesn't sound very Aussie. I can't do East Coast accents well, even though I've grown up hearing my Grandma Z's thick Boston one. I know to drop Rs where they exist and add them where they don't, but that's about it. And Southern? Not even close.

Jon got his MFA in Acting in Alabama, and Lisa, Dusty, and I visited him there. After a day or so, I'd heard enough of the Southern drawl to successfully replicate it in my head. So, I tried it out loud once. Judging by the looks on my friends' faces, I didn't even come close to pulling it off. It couldn't have been as bad as Burnstein's Irish one, but you can be sure, I won't be trying twice.

Have a great day, gentle readers. While there are certainly more perilous things than bad accents out there, I suggest you avoid them at all costs today. Remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

New cool words

Top o' the mornin' to ya, laddies and lasses. It's a Monday morning, so I'll be sleepwalking for the next couple of hours. It's times like these that I especially value readers like Sacky Christi who write in to ptklein@gmail.com with stories for me. This time, she wrote in with something near and dear to my heart: the creation of words.

She told me that her boss had been commenting lately on her work wardrobe and trying to get her to dress more professionally. The thought behind it is that if she looks more professional, more people will take her seriously. She says that she always dresses according to the dress code, and having worked for the same company as her for the better part of a year, I can attest to that. So, last week, she wore a big, button-up, untucked shirt and khakis. Her boss came by and told her how frumpy she looked. She shot back at him, saying that she was comfortable.
A guy in the cubicle next to her looked at them and said, "So, you're frumptable?" That's her new word: frumptable.

I like it! The only problem I have is with its inevitable shortening: will be be saying "frumptfy?" That's hard to say. I told Christi that next time her boss says anything like that, she should reply, "It's weird to hear you say that, because in the sexual harassment training I took, they told us refrain from commenting on a co-worker's wardrobe at all to play it safe, especially if we supervise that person. Weird." That should do the trick.

I've written a little before about making up words. If you recall, I use "5ever" with great frequency to refer to things taking "longer than 4ever." Just last night, in fact, I said that my brain was so big when I was born that the doctor had to use 5ceps. Good times, good times. I have a story about the creation of another word that occasionally comes up in my friends' conversations. Years ago, two students who worked for me were having a conversation. One said that she wanted to stop herself from using "retarded" as a synonym for "stupid." The other made a great suggestions: "Why don't you switch to 'ridiculous' instead? That way, you have one syllable to catch yourself if you start to say 'retarded' instead." We all agreed that was a smart way for her to change that habit.

I told my friend Dave the story, and he replied, "Why doesn't she just use 'retardiculous' so she has two syllables to catch herself?" Unfortunately, that stuck and sometimes comes up. We know it's not politically correct and therefore watch the usage, but it's officially in my vocabulary. I've been using "ridunkulous" or the shortened "ridunk" instead as often as possible, but an occasional "retardiculous" can really emphasize a point.

I've always thought it would be cool to coin a phrase that got accepted into the general vocabulary. During my sophomore year of college, a co-worker of mine said that she heard about a Linguistics professor who was starting a movement of using "tart" as "cool," and tracking its usage nationwide. I didn't even try on that one because I couldn't buy into the word.

So I thought of starting one myself instead. There was a Sloan song I really liked that used "cannon" as "cool." I tried that out a couple of times, but it didn't feel right either. It worked on its own in response to something cool, but it never sounded right as an adjective inside a sentence. "Check out my new ride." "Cannon!" I was alright with that, but not, "That's a really cannon car."

Years later, I put more thought into it and had better results. It was my year in Sac-town, and I did two things to help my chances. First, I teamed up with someone who was hip and could get followers. Second, we really thought about the word and what we wanted it to be. I suggested that it needed to have a negative connotation, since "bad" and "the shit" worked fine. We went through many words for a couple of days, without anything seeming right. "I don't know," I said, "it's tough." We both looked up at each other. "Tough!"

We had to be delicate about it, because no one wants to be told that something is cool, it has to evolve naturally. So, we'd be talking, and if someone was nearby, she'd say, "Aw man, that's tough!" Occasionally, she'd even say that something was "hecka tough," which actually makes sense to those Sackies. Being cool, she could see people's initial confusion turn to acceptance, and in not long, she even heard someone else use the term.

That was shortly before I moved back down to L.A., so I don't know if that continued at all, but it was very neat to see how we could affect vocabulary. You know what though? Today is Shakespeare's birthday, so in honor of one of the greatest wordsmiths of all time, I'm picking that one up again. Maybe all of us should start using it. Hmmm. Seriously, how tough would that be see it on tv or something? We could all sit back in our frumptfy outfits and say, "We did that." Someday, gentle readers, someday.

Ok, that's it for me. The sleepwalking isn't wearing off, so I must turn to my old friend, More Coffee. Have a good Monday, everyone. Remember, ptklein@gmail.com is only a click away for any thoughts, questions, or stories.

FUF #10

Do you ever print out my Friday posts and put them in your pocket for later reading? If so, you might say you FUF and fold. Here we are with yet another milestone, folks. The 10th FUF since I started that trend. The Steve Miller Band was right: "Time keeps on slipping (slipping, slipping) into the future." And "I really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree." A true visionary if you ask me.

Are you ready for some random thoughts from myself and my 8-10 readers followed by a longer-than-usual Car Watch? If you answered "Yes" to that question, then you're in the right place. If you answered "No"...sorry, I guess. That's what's happening here.

A funny thing happened on the way out of the bathroom this week. I noticed a few times that I had a particular song in my head: "Ultraviolet" by U2. After the second time, I remembered that this has happened before with this song, and then the light bulb went off. You see, I've recently restarted taking multi-vitamins in the morning. I didn't intentionally stop before, I just forgot for a month or three. In any case (and I apologize for being freshmanic), my urine has been particularly luminescent of late due to the vitamins, and "Ultraviolet" immediately pops in my head each time. The mind is a powerful thing, my friends. Fortunately, I like the song a lot, or else I'd have to stop taking them.

We have some fond farewells to announce here. First, and most obvious, is the departure of Mr. Sanjaya Malakar. We hardly knew ye, Sanjayjay. Next, I have learned that the TV Guide channel chose not to renew the contracts of Joan and Melissa Rivers. If you recall from an earlier post, I hate Joan Rivers with almost every ounce of my being. I'd rather hear ten Sit N' Sleep commercials back to back than watch a three-minute segment of her "interviewing" someone. Goodbye, Joan, and I hope that this leads to your overdue retirement.


Car Watch time, Car Watch time, everybody loves Car Watch time! (There's a tune to that, but I'm not good with musical notation.)

First, folks, I saw a license plate with PFK as the letters. This most likely means nothing to you, but it made me smile and think of a trip my wife and I took a few years ago. We were in the province of Quebec, and on the side of the road I noticed a Kentucky Fried Chicken. At least that's what it looked like - same colors, fonts, etc. Instead of "KFC" though, it said "PFK." I first joked that it stood for "Peter Fucking Klein!" Then we thought about though, realized we were in a French-speaking locale, and decided it must stand for "Poulet Frit Kentucky." Same company, but they translated their own name to help the locals understand. I thought that was interesting enough to share. Was I right? Actually, don't answer that.

On the surface, a license plate that reads "GYNO TOY" is simply bizarre. But when you factor in that the model of the car was a Probe, it takes on a whole new meaning. I guess I should thank my mother-in-law for telling me about this, but I keep just thinking, "Ewwwwwwww" instead.

She also saw a license plate frame that read, "My Other Auto is a 9mm." You can't teach "classy" folks, it just happens naturally.

My bro was driving and saw a bumper sticker that read, "What are you looking at?" I kinda like that. To me, it's the "Whatever you do, don't think of Abraham Lincoln" of bumper stickers.

My lovely wife saw "I'd Rather Be Sleeping" on a plate and so wholeheartedly concurred that she had to tell me about it. I like a good sleep as much as the next person, but this driver apparently would always prefer sleeping to anything else. That's a little sad, don't you think? There are a few benefits to being awake in my book.

A couple of mornings ago, on a really beat up car, I saw "This is NOT an Abandoned Vehicle!" I wonder how many times one has to be towed before buying that sticker. Two? Five? I don't know.

As always, a FUF would not be complete without Car Watch items from my homey Rockabye. This week, he was almost overwhelmed by the bizarre things he saw. First, a bumper sticker that read, "My Honors Student Never Pays Too Much for Gas at Arco!" I don't get this. Are they saying "By getting gas at Arco, my kid always gets a good deal" or "My kid never gets gas at Arco because they overcharge?" I keep re-reading it hoping one of them will become the leader in the clubhouse, but it's not happening. I think it's the former, but I'm not sold.

Rockabye also saw "MMLJ: Make Me Like Jesus." Who is the owner talking to? That is, who has the power to make someone like Jesus? Furthermore, which "like" is it? Make me similar to Jesus or I don't really like him but I want to. Please, please, make me like Jesus? I don't know, but I don't really see that one catching on.

Lastly for this edition of Car Watch, Rockabye saw "Where the Hell is Martinez Lake?" I guess that's a form of an ad campaign in that they want people to look it up or something. I personally don't know where Martinez Lake is, and it didn't cause me to find out either. It's either that or the person was so lost that he had time to make a sticker in hopes of someone rolling down their window with directions. Ya got me, man.

Two final thoughts for you all. In two weeks, I'm going to my aunt and uncle's house. Why is that interesting? They live in the house I grew up in, and more specifically, the house that has a wall in which Greenie, Grassy, Bob, and Chris lived. I'm going to look for them, and I'll report back with my findings.

And lastly, my sister-in-law Weezie's 30th birthday is this Sunday, so Happy Early Birthday! We're all going out to Lawry's for dinner, so my Monday blog might smell a little like prime rib. Sorry, I just re-read that sentence and realized how disgusting it sounded. Too late now.

Have a great weekend, everyone, and keep the emails and comments a'coming.

Sentimental Centennial

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and children of all ages, today is a very special day. We are all bearing witness to something I never ever saw happening. Today, April 19th, 2007 marks my 100th post on UOPTA. (It's ok to scream in excitement, I won't judge you.) How the hell did this happen? My best guess is a combination of a dire need for a creative outlet, support and encouragement from loved ones, and the fact that you can't spell "persistent" without Peter. (Yes, I'm planning on working that in around once a week. Because I'm persistent, you see.)

I was just about to launch into a whole fake acceptance speech, but I wised up and stopped myself before I got too far into it. There have been many fabulous acceptance speeches through the years, but one doesn't get enough play in my mind. Basketball player Carmelo Anthony won the "Best Male College Athlete" award on ESPN's award show, and he ended the speech by thanking himself. People started laughing a little, but he kept on going, saying that he's the one who put in all the hours of hard work, etc., so he wanted to publicly thank himself. That, my friends, is comedy.

In all honesty, I do want to use today to thank everyone who has been reading, suggesting, commenting, and often inspiring during these hundred posts. I wouldn't have any interesting stories to tell without such a great network of immediate family, extended family, lifelong friends, more recent friends, and complete strangers, and I'm truly thankful for all of you. Mostly though, my lovely wife deserves thanks for all of the reasons I've mentioned before in this space. In addition, when I wondered aloud last week how long I can keep this up, she was there to remind me that I said the same thing after 30 posts. Thank you, my love.

There are four more people who also warrant mentioning. They have had a big impact on my life since very early on, and I owe a lot to them. Growing up, they lived inside one of the walls of my bedroom, and their names are Greenie, Grassy, Bob, and Chris. Here's a picture of them:

As you can most likely tell from the picture, Greenie and Bob are boys and Grassy and Chris are girls. And I don't want to freak any of you out a la "The Sixth Sense" or anything, but they're not actually real people. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.

You ok? It's true; they're imaginary. I know many of you out there had imaginary friends when you were young, but how many of you had four of them? I wasn't an only child or a latch key kid or anything, so I'm not sure why my imagination worked so hard to create that number of companions.

I have zero idea how I came up with their names. I have a feeling that Greenie and Grassy's names are related, but that's the extent of it. I'm proud of young Peter's ingenuity though, especially his ability to use Chris as a female name (and Grassy, for that matter). My friend Lisa thinks their names are the funniest things she's ever heard. No matter how bad a day she's having, if someone were to whisper GGB&C's names to her, she'd bust up laughing. I'm going to have to try that one out, and if it doesn't work, it's her fault.

While I admit I'm overstating their role in my life a little, having four imaginary friends did positively affect me. My parents never discouraged this show of creativity one bit, no matter how frightened they might have been by it. My grandparents were also very supportive, and my Grandma Mu asked me to draw her a picture of my invisible friends so she could see them too (see above). Correct me if I'm wrong, but stick figures don't normally have stomachs, right? If they did though, wouldn't they all be roughly in the same place? I'm pretty sure Chris has a necktach or stomeck. Greenie's head looks pretty much like how I'd draw a person to this day, although the ears might be a little different. The other three though, man, they look more like Raggedy Ann dolls after being strung out on crystal meth and living on the street for two weeks.

But let's talk about something more important: their fingers. Seriously, what the hell was that all about? No one could've stopped me after the first one to tell me hands don't look like starfish? Greenie and Bob look like they're holding some kind of mutant insects or frogs. Chris (and her stomeck) appears to be holding two other stick figure people upside down. And Grassy looks like she's in "West Side Story" and ready to cut me.

Regardless of the lack of talent that's obvious to even the least-trained eye, that picture is the first evidence of my creativity on paper. (Sure, I was 17, but I was a late bloomer.) When my mom told me she had it a little while ago, I knew I had to write something about it here. I figure number 100 is as good a time as any.

Thanks again for reading, everyone. Please continue (or start) writing to ptklein@gmail.com to keep my mental fridge of ideas fully-stocked. See you back here tomorrow for another edition of Follow Up Friday, and have a great day today.

Hair apparent

Hey everyone. I've gotten a later start here this morning, so hopefully you've been able to patiently wait for this mornings edition of UOPTA. I know that it's like a drug to many of you, and I'm happy to be your pusher.

I've gotta be honest with you - I still have no idea what I'm writing about today. I think this might end up being more of a mishmash of ideas than anything even close to cohesive. I'll let you debate later in the comments section as to whether mishmash, hodgepodge, or potpourri best explains this post.

I'm going to start with something on my list of topics that I turn to when nothing else is kicking around in here, and maybe that'll lead to something else. (If so, this will be the first time in history that "one thing led to another" didn't refer to sex.) As with any other teen, I was one who wanted to be an individual. There were always the cool kids who instinctively knew the upcoming trends and the super nerds who never got those memos. As someone somewhere in the middle, I had to choose what I would adopt very carefully. The truth is, I knew I couldn't pull everything off, so I wasn't going to try it all.

Let's start with earrings. They were very, very cool for guys to have in the late-junior high through high school years. I remember several times seeing one of the cool guys walking in, having people notice his new stud in the left ear, and thinking, "Man, he really is cool." There was no sarcasm there. They were hip, they knew it, and therefore we all knew it too. I could never get an earring. I never even brought it up with my parents, so I don't know what their reaction would've been if I had asked to get one. I knew I couldn't pull it off; I wasn't one of those guys. Some other guys in my level of coolness tried, and the results were as expected. People looked at them, and the thought that was clearly on their mind was, "Really? You thought you could pull that off? No one stopped you? I hope it didn't hurt too much, because it looks stupid on you." I didn't want those looks, so I avoided "accessorizing about my status," if you will.

But being a teen, I still needed to rebel in my own ways. A tattoo has never had any appeal for me. I know plenty of people who have them, and some are pretty cool, but it is soooooo not my thing. I remember a girl in high school getting a rose tattoo with her boyfriend's name on it. "What happens if you break up?" I asked. "The artist said he can put another rose over his name, so I'm not worried." Sure enough, they broke up within a month or two of that conversation.

Another girl in junior high was even less intelligent, and I think you'll agree. She gave herself a homemade tattoo with a heated up paper clip. Already sounds really dumb, right? It was more of a scar than a tattoo, and it said "NKOTB" on her ankle in block letters. Yes, as in "New Kids on the Block." Even as a 12 year old, I asked her what would happen if she stopped liking them or if they (gasp!) broke up. She swore that she would always love them, so she was happy to have that be a permanent part of her. To me, something that permanent at that age seems stupid, almost regardless of what it is. I say 'almost' because I understand someone wanting to honor someone who has passed away in that manner, but it takes that level of permanence to really make sense to this conservative, not-cool-enough guy. That Chinese character you think is so hot now though might not represent your life nearly as much in a few years. That's all I'm saying.

So how did I rebel? With my hair. It was perfect! I could do virtually anything to it and only suffer the consequences for a short amount of time. It started with a trip to London and Paris with a high school class. My friends Jon, Adam, and I all went to a salon and told them to shave it 0ff. It was exhilarating to feel like a rebel, and to know that I would shock people back home. It did, but a lot of people liked it too, so I did it a few more times afterwards.

Later, on a trip to Spain, Dusty and I both dyed our hair. Mine was reddish and his was more purplish, and neither was too obvious indoors. Out in the sun though, I was quite maroon. I had a goatee at the time (another "I'm kinda cool but not trying anything too daring" move), and I had that dyed the same color too. I felt awesome, even if it just looked ok.

By this point, it was almost "my thing" to do something to my hair when I left the country. Naturally, when I went to Mexico with my buddies after my sophomore year of college, there was only one thing left: bleaching. I have dark brown hair, so changing to a bright whitish blond was a huge difference (especially with my dark eyebrows unchanged). I looked so weird to myself, and I shocked a whole bunch of people with that one. I didn't really like it, but after one haircut when it was only bleached on top, it started looking a little better.

Lastly, for years I would do something for special occasions: The fro. I would brush out my hair, and if it hadn't been cut for a while, it got pretty big. By having the fro going on and wearing cool sunglasses, I easily assumed a different character. I would do this in Vegas sometimes, and find myself turning to complete strangers to ask them, "Can you dig it?" Yeah, it was strange, but it allowed me to be temporarily different.

I've stopped all that now. There weren't any repercussions going to school looking different, but being more of a businessman now doesn't jive with that. My plan is to keep my hair as it is as long as it complies and stays on my head. If it backs out of our deal, then I may have to reconsider. It was all great fun though, and I have pictures that allow me to look back fondly on my faux rebellions.

That's it, folks. Looks like I was able to stretch that one topic into a full post after all. How do like them apples? In a pie? Fine, I'll bake you a pie. Now, one final message. I'm pleading with you, gentle readers, I need more ideas. I love the license plate and bumper sticker reports you're sending in for Follow Up Fridays, but why stop there? Email me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. If you think of something that I might find interesting, send it along. If you hate a particular song or commercial or tv show - that might be just what I need to get something going. One thing led to another...and then I wrote a post. Thank you all - all 8 to 10 of you - and have a fantastic Wednesday.

Tales from the Cryptic

Tuesday, Tuesday. Not much to say about Tuesday, is there? It's thankfully not Monday, and that's about all it really has going for it. It's a shame, now that I think about it. Two days start with T, and they're both basically known just for not being their neighboring days. Thursday is "almost Friday" and Tuesday just "isn't Monday." Compare the T days to the S days, and I think you'll find that they're on exact opposite sides of the Day Prestige Spectrum. Gotta love the DPS.

Man, I'm a weirdo. I just re-read that paragraph and even I don't know what the hell has gotten into me. At least I stopped myself before turning this whole post into arguing the exact order of a made-up scale. (For the record, Tuesday nabs the penultimate spot because of its relationship to elections; Thursday ain't got shit.) Instead, I'm going to talk about other things that don't make any sense.

It was in the year 2000 that a very strange thing happened. Well, I'm sure several strange things happened, but I'm just talking about one right now. Dave and I came home from getting some food (98% probability that it was a burrito) and were just going to chill the rest of the night and watch some tv. Dusty and his old girlfriend had left earlier to go up north for the weekend, and the two of us were just going to be lazy slobs the whole time. First, I went upstairs to my room to see if I had any messages. There was one. I listened to it, then went out into the hallway. "Um, Dave?" I yelled downstairs, "Can you come up here for a minute?" He came in and asked what was up. I hit the play button again, and a oddly-affected Dusty's voice started speaking. Here's what we heard, "Uh, hey Pete, blrubnaebgirwj, hit a bear, smackiden, toad'll deduct, pretty shaken up, we're both ok though. Talk to you later."

"What the hell was that?" he asked. "You see why I called you up here?" We listed again and again, turning our ears toward the machine as if that would help us grasp the situation better. After the third time, we were sure that he had hit a bear with his truck. After the sixth time, we realized it totaled the truck. "Is he saying 'smacked it dead?'" we kept asking each other. After another five or six listens, we agreed: "Hit a bear. Smacked it dead."

The next day, we got the full story. A bear had been driven out of the woods by a forest fire and had wandered onto the freeway. It was pitch black out there, and Dusty managed to swerve a little at the last second, or else it would've been even worse. His car was very messed up, but he and his girlfriend were ok. The bear was not ok, although Dusty denies that he said "smacked it dead."

There's a silver lining to this story: Dusty learned that he can torment me with cryptic messages. Years later, I got a text message that said this: "Ambulance was waiting for me when our plane landed. Everyone let me go first, probably because of the dried blood all over my shirt." That's it. I didn't even know he was going anywhere, so I really wanted to hear what was going on. Instead, I had to play 20 questions with him via text message to get the whole story, because he refused to just tell me.

A couple of months later, I got another text message: "Lawyer said I could plea down to avoid jail time. Might have community service." He knew that amount of information alone would drive me crazy, so another round of questioning went on. It wasn't actually anywhere as interesting as his text message made it sound, but that was part of the point.

I got one more of his cryptic messages, but I can't remember if I ever found out the story behind it. "Fulfilled another life dream: made citizen's arrest." I need to follow up on that one. If I had to guess, I'd go with some hit and run where he followed the guy while on the phone with the police. I'll let you know how close I am.

Happy boring Tuesday, friends. It's the 1 month anniversary of St. Patrick's Day, at least. And the 46th anniversary of the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Ooh, it's the 21st anniversary of something I've never heard of (gotta love Wikipedia): Today, in 1986, the treaty was signed to end the Three Hundred and Thirty Five Years' War between the Netherlands and the Isles of Scilly. Wow. That's not a typo, and I really wish I were creative enough to make that up. That's my favorite fact of the week. Ya know what, Tuesday? I have the feeling you'll be climbing the DPS in no time.

Honest Reaction

Happy Monday morning, folks. I'm back after a relaxing weekend in the Palm Springs area and ready to bloggy woggy woggy til I just can't bloggy no more. Sorry, I don't know where that came from.

I mentioned in Friday's post about my honest, natural reaction to my brother reading me a bumper sticker he saw. That reminded me of a game I played with Dusty a few times. It was imaginatively called "Honest Reaction," and we would've played more often, but we were busy talking about other more important things like our bowels.

Sidebar, your honor: Writing "Honest Reaction" got a song called "Common Reactor" in my head by Silversun Pickups. I got their cd recently, and I like it quite a bit. They're kinda early-Smashing-Pumpkins-esque, so if you like that sort of thing, check them out. The only problem I'm having so far with the album is that I'm big into lyrics, and I just can't make out a lot of what the lead singer says. I thought I knew one line of one song, and I sang it loudly and proudly in my car: "And there's no way to know, a beautiful scenario." Then I looked at the back of the cd and saw that the song was called "Future Foe Scenarios." As it turns out, I didn't even know the one line I knew. Oh vell.

Let's go back in time, shall we? My friend Twilight and I went out to lunch with some of our co-workers one day in 2000 or 2001. On the way back to the office, she and I were sitting in the back seat together. Twilight was glancing out the window, and she said, "Wow, we must be really close to the airport because that plane almost looks like it's going to land on us." Knowing I wouldn't be able to see it out her window, I leaned back to look out the rear windshield. What did I see? A gigantic plane with it's landing gear down, about...ten feet from the car. At least that's how close it looked. I jolted forward, turned my palms up to the air, moved my arms back and forth, and loudly said, "A goo goo!"

Twilight looked over at me and smiled, thinking I was mocking her for saying the plane was close. A minute later, I confessed: "Uh, Twilight," I said, "before when I said 'A goo goo!'...that was my honest reaction to seeing the plane." She thought that was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "Really? Come on," she said. "I'm serious. In fact, my heart rate is just calming down now." "And that's the sound you made?" "Apparently. I'm just as shocked as you are."

The story quickly spread throughout my circle of friends. For a while after that, anytime there was something even remotely scary, someone would yell "A goo goo!" to mock me (unless I could self-mock before they got to it.)

So Dusty and I turned that bizarre outburst of fear into a game. We were driving somewhere, and there was a slow car in front of us. Using my Jedi mind trickery, I told the car to get over one lane. It did, and we were both impressed by my powers. He suggested that I try something bigger, like making something explode. I pointed to an old likely-uninhabited building and said, "Explode." It didn't, and we shrugged it off. "What would you have done if that really happened?" I asked. He laughed, not thinking I really wanted an answer. Seriously, what would've been your honest reaction if that building burst into flames there? He thought about it for a second, and then full of shock and wonderment yelled, "Wha- wha- oh my God!"

"Not bad, not bad," I said. "Your turn." And a game was born. "Ok," Dusty muttered as he tried thinking of a good Honest Reaction card to play. "What if my head exploded right now while I was driving?" (Yes, boys like explosions.) I thought about it, and then replied, "First I'd scream a little, then upon realizing the dire nature of the situation, I would yell 'Shit' a couple of times as I grabbed the steering wheel and tried guiding us to safety." That wasn't good enough for him, so I had to then act it out (minus the steering wheel part). I won him over with the masterfully sad yet adrenaline-filled yellings of "shit."

This went on for a while, and I realized that I would jump to either "Oh shit!" or "Holy shit!" in almost every one of the situations. At first Dusty thought I was just being unoriginal, but when I put myself in the moment, that's what came out. It didn't matter much if Dusty had a leg sprout out of his forehead or if a chicken flew out of his mouth, my surprise-expletive-of-choice is "shit." Well, that and "A goo goo!"

It was a fun game, and I wish we had played it more. At the very least, I feel like I'm a little more prepared now for unexpected events. Ya know, just in case Dusty ever turns into a cartoon for five seconds, I can react with the strength of someone who's seen it before. Have a good Monday, gentle readers. I have to go look up some lyrics now because not knowing them is killing me.

FUF #9

If you get so into reading my Friday posts that you block out all the sounds around you, could you say that you're using EarFUFs? Technically, yes, but would you though? I didn't think so. I have a lot of things to cover in this FUF, and none of them are related to each other. Strap in and prepare for yourself for a new high in UOPTA disjointedness.

I want to begin with a fond farewell to one of my favorite writers of all time, Kurt Vonnegut, who passed away on Wednesday. The man really opened my eyes in high school to the notion that reading could still be fun for adults. After being assigned Dickens for a year, I picked up Breakfast of Champions in 10th grade and loved every single word of it. It was fascinating and absurd, and just what I needed at that stage to keep "reading" on my list of hobbies. I later read several more of his novels and two books of short stories, and I can clearly remember reading Slapstick and having to stop, put it down on my chest, and laugh out loud several times throughout it. That, my friends, is a reading experience.

I was actually thinking of Vonnegut while I was writing yesterday's post about looking for patterns in the world. He has a short story called "Report on the Barnhouse Effect" that I've read at least a dozen times. In it, Professor Barnhouse is able to make things happen by thinking of certain sentences and concentrating. I couldn't find a way to work it into the post, but I'm happy to include it here in my mini tribute. He was a fantastic and fantastically bizarre writer, and I'll be re-reading his works again soon.

Sticking with patterns, my old boss Kim once said that she had one that seemed to be 100% to her. If you put chapstick on in front of someone who uses it regularly, they will use theirs too...100% of the time. I think she's on to something, because just writing that made me reach for my chapstick. Hmmmm. Did it make any of you do that too?

Time for a story about foosball. When I was about 15, I called my friend Greg's house to say hi. His mom answered, and when I asked if he was there, she said, "No, Greg's out with his friends playing foooooosball." I remember thinking that was a little weird, but it did seem like it could be a fun game. I hadn't really tried it before, but if Greg was playing, how bad could it be? Three years later, we're freshmen in college hanging out in the lounge of my residence hall. I saw the foosball table off in the corner, and asked Greg if he wanted to play. "No," he said, "I don't really like foosball." "But you played it with your friends," I said, a little confused. "What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. I told him the story, and he looked at me like I was crazy. "I never went out to play foosball with my friends; I don't like foosball." "Then why did she say that?" We went back and forth for a while, and we finally agreed that she must have said "foooooootball" for some reason. I remember this all clearly because the look he gave me was priceless as I assuredly told him that he liked something that he didn't. It was a combination of confusion, thinking, and smelling something bad. Try it out!

In response to my post about Forgotten Word Syndrome, my mother-in-law told me a story about an acquaintance who referred to the condition as "Some-heimer's," as opposed to Alzheimer's since it happened sporadically. I thought that was pretty clever, although I would've called it "Some-zheimer's" to maybe make the connection clearer.

Another instance of FWS happened years ago while playing Taboo with my friend Dave on my team. I gave the perfect clues, saying it's a physician who uses a scalpel. "Oh," he said, "surg..." I started nodding to let him know he was right. "Surg..." he continued, with a suddenly frightened look on his face. "Surg...ist? Surgist? I can't remember the word!" "Come on, Dave!" I yelled, glancing at the timer. He paused, looked down, then lifted his head and said, "Surgist?" Time ran out and we didn't get that card. Well played, Dave, well played.

Car Watch!
I got an email from our friend Candice about a license plate that wouldn't have stood out to anyone else I know. In her field of working with data, EOF stands for "end of file." If that's in a dataset and there's an error, you can't read past that point and "the program yells at you." Her boyfriend Scott's license plate is some number followed EOF911. To Candice (and maybe only Candice), "It's like oh no EOF!! Call 911!" She did follow that up with, "It makes me and my datanerdiness smile every single time," so at least she's aware of her condition. I wonder if datanerdiness.com is taken yet...

What would Car Watch be without Rockabye writing in? He saw "Hit me, My Son's a Lawyer" on a bumper sticker. That disturbs me on several levels. One, she's painting all lawyers as people who extract exhorbitant sums from others. Second, she's literally asking for trouble. Third, it's just fucking stupid. Yeah, nevermind my first two points on this one. I think the third sums it up nicely.

My mom saw the vanity plate "S8TEN." We both thought that was an interesting choice by the driver and by the DMV to let that through. On the complete other side of the spectrum, my brother saw a bumper sticker that read, "The More You Complain, The Longer God Makes You Live." He called to tell me that, and my natural response was, "Yikes!" I guess I get that being in heaven is the ultimate reward for many people, but it just seems very weird to use God "making you live" as a punishment. Anyone have more insight on this one?

Just this morning, I saw a bumper sticker that made me immediately text message myself so I could include it in today's FUF: "One Nation, Under Educated." I was impressed by the way that was crafted, especially in the face of so many blunt and sophomoric bumper stickers that hit you over the head with their message. (How did "sophomoric" end up being that term? They're more mature than the first-years, right? So why isn't it "freshmanic" instead? I could look it up, but I don't feel like being angry this early in the morning.)

And now, the moment three of you have been waiting for: this week's Guess the Fakey answer! Once again, nobody was correct in their guesses. The one I made up was "Hippy-Go-Lucky," which seems obvious by itself, but not amidst all the other weird titles Jon Gries has actually been in. Thanks for playing, we have some fabulous parting gifts. Uh, what's that? No gifts? Oh, well then a "thanks for playing" will have to suffice.

Last but not least, my lovely wife and I are attending a black-tie gala this weekend. On one of the invitations, it said something about the after-party theme being "Midnight at the Oasis." The song by that name (sung by Maria Muldaur) is easily - EASILY - one of my least favorite songs ever. And yet, it's so damn catchy that it's in my head for hours every time I think of anything remotely close to it. If you don't know the song, mazel tov. If you do, I'm sorry if it's in your head too now, but thanks for joining me. "Cactus is our friend," indeed.

Have a great weekend, gentle readers. Please send ptklein@gmail.com an email with things for future Car Watch editions or anything else that might help me prolong the blog experience.

Pattern-ity tests

Good morning, everyone. Before I launch into any story or thoughts, I first have to announce something that I should've announced a week or two ago but didn't want the media frenzy: I am baby Dannielynn's mother. There, I finally got that off my chest. Oh, they already have proof that Anna Nicole was the mom? Nevermind then. In all seriousness though, why do so many people care about that story? I guess when "news" has elements of sex, betrayal, drugs, and rich people, it's bound to be a hit. Yay, America!

And now, today's top stories. Guess what, everyone? I'm a strange person and I do strange things from time to time. If I haven't illustrated that enough in this space yet, maybe this story will help. I look for patterns in the universe. I want to discover some if-then statement in our existence that is accurate 100% of the time. What do I mean by that? I'll tell ya. (Fade out)

(Fade back in) I can trace it all back to me shooting baskets at home as a kid. I'd make a shot, and then I would try to replicate the exact situation and try it again. If my tongue was in a certain spot in my mouth when I made the first one, it would be there again for the next attempt. If I had a particular line of a song in my head when the ball went through the hoop, I'd go right back to that line. I wasn't looking for "lucky" things that equaled more made baskets; I was looking for a pattern. Therefore, if I missed the second shot, I didn't try that method again. 100% or nothing.

Years later, I remember being at a blackjack table in Vegas with some friends. I had picked up one of my $5 chips and noticed I was rubbing it with my thumb as the dealer busted and I won the hand. The next hand, I stayed in the same exact position and rubbed the chip the same exact way. I won again. Next hand yielded the same result. And the next, and the next. This went on for eight straight hands, and I didn't change a single thing about my approach. Then I lost the next hand, and that was that. I know that might seem ridiculous to give up on that method when it was working so well, but I'm not looking for something that works 88.89% of the time.

During the Laker run of championships, I thought I had found one. For big games, the following things would have to happen: I would wear certain boxers, I would watch the game with Dusty, and we would drink Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Go ahead and laugh, but we were victorious the first ten times we did that. We really believed in that combo's power, so we didn't over-use it. Only for very big games did we bust it out, lest we would appear greedy. Then, against the Pistons, it came up well short. There was no pattern there after all, so there was no need to try that again.

My attempts nowadays are generally unnoticed, but they still happen. If I hear a bird chirp right as I lift my arm, I'll lift it again a second later to test it out. If I bowl a strike with a song in my head, that song's staying in my head until I leave a pin standing. These aren't superstitions but rather attempts to figure something out about the way things are interconnected in the world.

Whenever this comes up, my wife tells me that she doesn't think the world works that way. "But what if I found one?" I ask her. She agrees that it would be groundbreaking and shake the very fabric of everything we know to be true. So if I repeat a sentence because a car backfired the first time I said it, so what? That's not too large an impact on my life, and the potential far outweighs the minor inconvenience. I don't expect to find anything, but could you imagine if I did? Seriously, how cool would that be? I'd share it with you all, of course (once the proper paperwork was filed).

I thought of sharing my quest for patterns with you all because I need to give an overdue shoutout to my sister-in-law, Weezie. She won the Klein Invitational College Basketball Pick 'Em Tournament Bracket Game this year. She doesn't regularly read UOPTA, but she still feels like she deserves a mention in cyberspace. We had 12 people in the "league," and Weezie ended up in the 99th percentile of the 2 million plus brackets on Yahoo's site. The thing is, she knows nothing about college basketball. More impressively, she won the previous year also. The year before that? Dead last.

At the time of her first victory, I thought the "worst to first" storyline was poetic and I openly rooted for her (once my bracket was all red-lined out). After that first win though, she was like the Yankees, and espn.com's Bill Simmons says that rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for the house in blackjack. But she won again. This time, she even started talking shit to the rest of us, suggesting that we do this for money next time. I'm publishing this prediction on the internets for all to see (or the 8-10 of you who read this at least): Weezie will not win next year. How can I be so sure? We found her secret, and for the first time, I'm trying to prove that a pattern doesn't exist.

This year and last year, Weezie named her team after her son (and official UOPTA nephew) Shawn. That has spelled victory 100% of the time for her. So normally I'd be encouraging her to do it again and see if the magic holds up. This time though, I want to see how the universe will cope with two teams named after the Shawny Man. What about 5 teams? We have to wait until March 08 to see how that will play out, and I can't wait. By the way, if every team named after Shawn ties for first place, I'm pretty sure my head would explode.

I turn to you, gentle readers. Do you ever search for these patterns of which I speak? Found any yet? While the gambling one or basket-shooting one surely would've had its benefits, I'll gladly take any pattern I find. (Actually, I did notice recently that every time I push the center of my steering wheel, I hear a car honk. Do you think that counts?)

One final note before I depart this glorious Thursday: Happy Anniversary to our good friends Lisa and Paul. They have about a year on us in wedded tenure, but we have a taller Average Couple Height, so there. Our ACH is about 5'8 and a half, which is pretty solid.

I pity the foos!

Ok, fine. The peer pressure has finally gotten to me, so I'm going to join the masses. Sanjaya. There, I said it. Now his name has appeared on every webpage ever created. Are you happy, America? I would've held out longer, but the threat of 30 million complaint emails scared me too much. Yes, I was afraid, and I'm man enough to admit it.

After work last week, my lovely wife and I stopped by our friends Candice and Scott's place for a few minutes to say hi. I always like going over there, not just because they're cool people, but because that means it's game time. Two times ago, I played Tecmo Bowl on old-school Nintendo against Scott and almost managed to hold my own against his superior skills. Before that, a group of us played the board game "Time's Up," which always equals a good time in my book.

Most importantly though, they have a foosball table. I'm not so good at the foosball, but I rather enjoy playing it. I just try to avoid scoring on myself and have a good time. Scott gets all fancy with his passes and stuff, and sometimes that leads me to try to copy him instead of sticking to my normal gameplan (i.e. hit it hard). My forte is accidentally moving my goalie out of the way of the ball at the very last second to let my opponent score. My wife is unusually good at the game, by the way, and once earned the respect of our old neighbors by beating up on them. Me though? Not so much.

I had a brilliant idea of what Scott should do with this foosball table, but so far he hasn't taken me up on it. I want him to tape or glue pictures of his friends' faces onto the players. How awesome would that be? Right now, I'm busy yelling, "Come on, dude, block that!" to the nameless, faceless players. With the Klein Plan in effect though, I could be yelling at Keith or Stefanie instead. I even told him that I'll be one of the back defensemen, letting others take the glory positions up front who make most of the goals. I don't need all the popularity and fanfare that comes with scoring goals, but I'll be there to get in the way of some pesky striker and make one of those key plays that don't show up in the boxscore the next day. That's right, I'm a team player.

Speaking of being a team player, I'm reminded of a time in which I did something that epitomized "taking one for the team." It was during our year in Sacramento, and I want to share it with you, since I feel like we're friends. Are we? Are we friends? Oh good. I'd hate to just put that out there and then find that it's only one-sided. What a relief. Moving on! In Sac-town, one of my wife's friends had a strange Victoria's Secret coupon. It said that if six people come in together with this coupon, each one would get a free pair of panties. Five people? No panties. It had to be six. We're all at the mall, and one of the friends couldn't make it, so they all turned toward me and the other man there. He gave a look that said, "Aw hell no." So I said, "Sure. I'll be your sixth," exhibiting a level of selflessness that hadn't been seen since Chandler pissed on Monica after the jellyfish stung her.

The six of us strode into Victoria's Secret and a young lady started helping us. She brought us over to the section that had the specified underwear and asked what sizes everyone wanted. After the five women went, she looked over at me quite confused. "A small please," I said, deadpan and in a slightly deeper voice than normal. She started to laugh a little, but then saw that I wasn't joining her and stopped. "Um, are these really for you?" she asked. "Why? Do you think I'm too fat for a small?" I asked. She had no idea how to answer that, which was evident by one of the longest blank stares I've ever had directed toward me (and trust me, that's really saying something). After what seemed like a whole minute elapsed, she nervously started looking through the stack for a small. This whole time, the other man of the group was waiting outside, too uncomfortable to even step foot in the store. Not me. The ladies needed an extra body for their coupon to be functional, and I stepped up. I took one for the team, and it wasn't even my team. That's the type of dedication you get with Peter Klein on your side.

Man, did I just sound like an auto insurance company or what? In any case, have a great day today, gentle readers. I'd gladly step up and get women's underwear for each of you too, because that's how much I care. Please remember to post your stabs at yesterday's Guess the Fakey and email ptklein@gmail.com with bumper stickers, random thoughts, questions you'd like to see me answer, or things you hate - those always make me smile.

p.s. Since today's date is 4/11, I suggest we all call it "Information Day." Deal?

Bye bye wordy

It's Tuesday, or as our British friends call it, Tuesday. I wrote about some problems that people have with words yesterday, and I'd like to continue to with trend. I already wrote a bit about typos and words not looking right after staring at them for too long, so I'm branching out into two new categories today: Forgotten Word Syndrome and The Almost Typo.

Nearly 3 out of every 4 Americans suffer from occasional Forgotten Word Syndrome. FWS is most often found in men and women over 40, who call it by its street name, the "Senior Moment." People planning on playing board games should avoid FWS at all cost. Should a word remain forgotten for over four hours, consult your dictionary immediately.

Before I give you an account of my personal struggle with FWS, I want to differentiate it from the classic mental block. For example, my mom can't remember a certain singer's name. She knows he was in the band Genesis and that he had an album called "No Jacket Required," but she has the hardest time remembering his name. (When you finally get it, Mom, post it in the comments section. Until then, we'll all be pointing and laughing at you.) This is different from FWS, because FWS strikes quickly and without any warning at all. Allow me to explain.

My junior year of high school, I was on the phone with my old friend Missy. I had just stated something very obvious, and she sarcastically responded, "Oh gee, you picked up on that, eh?" Playing along, I said, "Yeah, I'm really ob..." I stopped. "Hold on," I continued, "I can't think of the word. Observ...sive? Observatory?" She found this lapse hilarious, until she suddenly couldn't remember the word either. "Oh shit," she said, mainly because she couldn't make fun of me if she was in the same boat. We sat there on the phone for another ten minutes, desperately trying to think of every suffix imaginable. Well, she did at least. I kept saying "observsive" and "observatory" over and over. Eventually (she swore she didn't cheat), she yelled out, "Observant!" I don't know how it happened, but that word temporarily left my vocabulary. I'm now a FWS surviver, and while I take strength in that, I don't want anyone else to have to experience that feeling of helplessness.

The Almost Typo is a different ailment with almost more serious consequences. The Almost Typo happens when there's a slip of a finger in an important email or letter, but the error isn't caught by spellchecker because it's also a word in English. Therefore, it's only caught by proofreading, which may or may not happen depending on time constraints. I've had two experiences with The Almost Typo in my life, and each would have caused some problems. The first occurred when I was writing to a very high ranking university administrator to ask a favor of her. I wrote it carefully, did the spellcheck thing, and was about to hit "send" when something in the first line caught my eye at the very last second. I had typed, "I've noticed how busty you are this time of year." Needless to say, I took out the offending extra letter and then super-carefully re-read every single word to make sure it was the only error of its kind. That would've been bad, but since I caught it, it remains in The Almost Typo category.

The other experience with The Almost Typo wouldn't have affected me as much as the good friend I was trying to help with something. My friend Sara had just completed her required hours to be a licensed massage therapist. The people who certify such things needed some reference letters before the process was officially over. She asked me if I could write her a letter. I had never received a massage from her, so I said that maybe I wasn't the right person. "No, it's not about that, they just want to know that I'm a moral person who wouldn't do inappropriate sexual things as a masseuse." That made sense, and since I'd known her for a few years and supervised her in a position, I felt comfortable writing that. I opened with how I knew Sara and for how long. Then I wrote, "Through the years, I've known Sara to be a fine and oral citizen." Yikes. I had already printed it out, signed it, and was in the process of folding it to mail away when I gave it one last glance. The word "oral" caught my eye, and fortunately, I re-read that sentence instead of just continuing on. At the very least, I may have received an awkward follow-up phone call on that.

Hey, you know what that brings us too, boys and girls? Guess the Fakey time! I'm pretty sure that the majority of you won't know the actor Jon Gries by name. However, he's been in some pretty big things. Recently, he was Uncle Rico in "Napoleon Dynamite." He was also in "Get Shorty," if you're familiar with that movie. More might know him as Rusty, the homeless man who stole the rickshaw in a "Seinfeld" episode. To me though, he was always be Lazlo Hollyfeld who lived in the closet in "Real Genius." To me, that's probably the most underrated movie of the entire 80s, and I should devote much more time to it in a future post. In any case, below are 11 movies. Jon Gries appears in 10 of them, and I made up one of them. Your mission is to Guess the Fakey and post a comment with your guess. I will reveal the answer in this week's Follow Up Friday. Here goes:

Hippy-Go-Lucky
Four Eyes and Six-Guns
Bicentennial Curious
Number One with a Bullet
Pucker Up and Bark Like a Dog
More American Graffiti
Kill Me Again
Ed and His Dead Mother
The Sasquatch Dumpling Gang
Joysticks
Sledge: The Untold Story

Have a great day, everyone. Remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything you think I might find interesting. Questions, comments, bumper stickers, moronic actions of our fellow man - anything at all. They can each become posts or segments for FUFs. I'm not quite observatory enough on my own, so I appreciate the help. Observsive?

Word problems

Good morning, everyone. If a Denver bound train leaves Santa Fe at 3:05 am and has an airborne pathogen on it that kills those near it in 47 minutes, how glad are you that you took a plane instead? Sure, it cost more, but think of all the benefits. No, gentle readers, that's not what I mean by "word problems." Rather, I speak of the inevitable strains that people have with our language. This is their story.

I was walking to get some food for lunch last week, and I passed by a store that had really ramped up their Easter items. They were doing everything they could to increase foot traffic: cute things spilling out the door, bright colors, and a sandwich board on the sidewalk to ensure that everyone knew they were there. I found one minor problem with the display though. On the big, hand-written sign designed to lure those in need of goodies into the store, it read: "WE OPEN!"

I know it's an honest mistake, and I've probably done similar things more times than I'm aware of, but it still struck me as humorous. I felt like walking in and saying, "I'm so glad you open. I in need of stuff you selling." I didn't though, because it would've been unnecessarily mean and (more importantly) I was pretty damn hungry.

I've seen many hilarious typos through the years. Sometimes, it's a language barrier thing and not a typo per se, but they're still pretty funny. I know it sounds mean of me to make fun of non-native English speakers' use of said language, but ask yourselves this: If you owned a business in a country where you didn't speak the language well, would you advertise with just your limited knowledge or would you run it by some native speakers before sending it out to prospective customers?

For example, one of my favorite menus my family has ever received in the mail was for a Chinese restaurant. It had not one but two fantastic errors on it. First, it announces to would-be patrons, "We delivery!" Second, and much better in my opinion, is this assertion: "For your dinning pleasant!" At least they got the first two words right.

In a somewhat similar situation, my wife was once in a Chinese restaurant in another country. Naturally, that means they had a doubly-hard task of getting their English correct. Still, translating "hot and sour soup" as the baffling "soup and hot soup" makes me laugh. In fact, neither of us has called that soup by its correct name for years upon years now. We never order it, but we always point out to each other that "soup and hot soup" is on the menu.

One of my all-time gaffes though is from something my mom and dad once saw. Someone who was billing herself as a mind reader of sorts had this to say about her services: "I am a true physic!" You don't need the gift of second sight to see that there's a spelling error in there. While it's a minor one, it still turns a would-be Carnac the Magnificent into Stephen Hawking. Big difference, no?

I'm sure everyone out there has seen errors of this kind in his or her lifetimes. Which ones have stuck? Lay 'em on me, brothers and sisters.

It's hard for me to be too tough on people for making these errors. We've all been there, I'm sure, when a word just doesn't look right even when it is. I most remember this happening with the word "problem." I was making a poster for a science class in high school and needed to outline the scientific method. The first step was defining the problem. I typed out that word on my computer, printed it out on my dot matrix printer, ripped off the holey things on the sides, and was about to rubber cement it on. But I stopped first, because the word didn't look right. Problem. Problem. The "blem" part in particular just seemed wrong to me. Not just wrong - it seemed totally made up. There I sat for a solid five minutes contemplating the problem that "problem" presented. The more I stared at it, the more made up it felt. After those five minutes, I was convinced that the word didn't really exist. It did of course, and my mom came in soon after and confirmed that it was spelled correctly.

I'm sure this happens to each and every one of you out there. Can you remember any words in particular that got you? "Deny" almost always makes me pause and question its authenticity, for example. (Honestly, I so badly want to plug it into Word and do a spellcheck right now, because it just looks so fake to me. How can that be how to spell that word?) I can't explain it, but I'm really hoping this is something that occurs in more heads than mine.

That said, I'm off to do real work. Have a great Monday, folks. I'll be back with more problems with words and a new installment of Guess the Fakey tomorrow. How do I know? Physics, baby, physics.