There's a New Sheriff In Town

Hello devoted UOPTA readers! As you are by now well aware, Peter is out for the week, and has asked me to guest blog during his absence. This is just about the most illustrious honor a man can bestow upon his fake sister, and I will do my utmost to uphold the quality and consistency that I know you UOPTA readers have come to expect.

So who the hell am I, you might ask? As I would have said when I was a UCSB Orientation Staff member, “My name is Stacy Redd and I’m a 3rd year Literature major from Santa Rosa, California.” Peter was my boss for two years when I was an Orientation staff member in the early 00s. I’m pretty sure most of you knew PK during his O-staff days, but in case you didn’t, I will tell you that Orientation is a very time-consuming undertaking, requiring its participants to spend copious amounts of time in each other’s presence. I quickly realized what a wealth of information and hilarity Herr Klein can be and would often seek his advice for non work-related topics. I would sit in the yellow chair in his cube, raid his stash of Cheez-Its, and benefit from his wit and wisdom. An only child, I quickly realized that Peter was the big brother I never had. A younger brother, Peter simultaneously realized that I am the little sister he never wanted. Et voila, the nickname Bratty Kid Sister (BKS) was born.

For my inaugural post, I would like to share one of my favorite Peter memories. After about 3 weeks working for Peter, it became apparent to all of us that he is a man who likes things a certain way. When it came to grammar, I completely agreed with his stance. When it came to punctuality, I thought he was a little more exacting than I would be, but I respected his position. When it came to bowling, I thought he was out of his ever-loving mind.

While I was working for Peter, Student Affairs (the division that houses Orientation) organized a bowling league. Each department in the division had a team of professional staff and student workers that met weekly to bowl and trash talk. Now, I am a lousy bowler, but had also recently turned 21 when this league was organized and still found drinking legally in public establishments quite novel and exciting. “Come for the booze, stay for the bowling,” was my motto in regards to the league.

Little did I know that “Come for the bowling, stay for the triumph,” was what Peter had mind. Homeboy was in it to win it. Word had it that there was a trophy in store for the winning department, and Peter wanted it bad(ly). He was not going to tolerate a lackluster effort from anyone on his team. He himself is an incredible bowler. Fellow student-worker-bowlers Tricia (the ex-wife of Booyah Johnson), Jenn, and I nicknamed him “Moses” because he could split the pins. And he’s Jewish. But that’s neither here nor there. The man was good, he wanted to win, and he was incredibly disappointed by our performances.

To that end, he taught us some handy bowling tips, like “Shake hands with the headpin.” (Which I continue to refer to as the “kingpin” much to Peter’s dismay. I blame that Woody Harrelson movie.)” When he noticed that my ball almost always veers to the right, he had me stand on the far left-hand side of the lane when bowling, and lo and behold, I actually started scoring in the triple-digits once in awhile. We were steadily improving, and it seemed like Team Moses had a real shot at that trophy.

Then came the day when one of us decided to order some chicken fingers.

The league met on Sunday nights, right around dinner time. Normally, I would steer clear of bowling alley fare, but this particular establishment, Zodo’s of Goleta, had recently been upgraded from “janky college town bowling alley” (RIP Orchid Bowl) to “swingin’ hot spot with full-service bar,” and thus, its food offerings were considerably more edible. As I was happily munching on said fingers while waiting for my turn to bowl, Peter turned to me with look that was half horror, half fury.

“Are you eating with your bowling hand?”

“What?”

“Are you eating those chicken fingers with your bowling hand?”

“You mean, my left hand?” (Because I, much like my brother, am a southpaw. Kill righty.)

“DO NOT EAT WITH YOUR BOWLING HAND!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Peter went on to explain that eating food while bowling was a sure-fire way to mess up one’s game. Touching greasy chicken fingers (or French fries or pizza or basically anything else served at a bowling alley) would surely have a negative effect on one’s bowling. The other student-worker-bowlers and I chalked this up as yet another Peterosyncracy and continued on our merry eating ways.

Turns out the bastard was right. All of us who had been eating with our respective bowling hands noticed a significant difference in the way we bowled that night. Whether this was psychosomatic or a direct result of eating with our bowling hands, I’ll never know. What I do know is that all of us now eat with our non-bowling hands only, or avoid eating and bowling completely. Additionally, none of us ever bowl without thinking of Peter, and we’re all better bowlers for it.

We ended up coming in 2nd in the league and the reason we didn’t get first place will always be a spot of contention (a Student Affairs Bowling League team should be comprised ENTIRELY of Student Affairs Division employees, don’t you think? If SOME departments played by the rules, we would have won), but Peter did end up with a trophy for being the best individual bowler, probably because he always took his own advice.

If anyone else has any stories about Peter being both irritating and right at the same time, I would enjoy hearing them. My email is thessredd@gmail.com. The BKS Reign of Terror continues tomorrow.