FUF #29

If you printed this post out and are currently reading it while going to the top floor in a large building, one might say you have...FUF in an elevator! Yeah, that was pretty forced. I said about a month ago that I'm running out of these things, and if you don't help me out by sending ideas to ptklein@gmail.com, you'll be subjected to more badly formed puns like that. That's not good for anybody. Good morning, my friends. It's good to see you again. Yes, today is another Follow Up Friday, so let's get right to F'ing U.

I spent the entire week talking about different food things, so some of my FU pieces of this FUF will also center around that staple of existence. First of all, I couldn't find a place to write specifically about my sushi-eating evolution. I can very clearly remember being at my friend Suzanne's old apartment for a party and deciding that I would try a California roll for the first time. I dipped it in a lot of soy sauce, asked if I was supposed to eat it all at once or bite it in half, then popped it in my mouth. I kinda liked it, which opened the door to me eating more California rolls over the next year or so. I then slowly branched out to the tuna family, and still eat regular and spicy versions of tuna, yellowtail, and albacore almost exclusively. Who knows, maybe five years from now I'll be having some smelt egg on unagi. I highly doubt it, since even typing that made my gag reflex say hello to me.

I wrote a bunch on Monday and Tuesday about spicy foods, and I failed to mention my relationship with Tapatio. I've brought it up somewhere in this blog before because I see I have a tag on the righthand side for "tapatio," but I should've included it somewhere this week. It's a great sauce, and it adds a great kick to whatever I put it on. I have a bottle at home and one at work with me, which comes in handy. If my co-worker Rob and I split a breakfast burrito in the morning, I'm able to make it even more glorious than it already is with a couple drops here and there. Cholula is very good too, but I'm a Tapatio guy. It cracks me up, because a bottle of it is around 70 cents at the market, and it lasts me a good deal of time. You just don't get that kind of value often enough nowadays, my friends.

Newish-but-very-loyal-reader Wendy wrote me an email this Wednesday to tell me that she noticed one of her co-workers was wearing white pants. White Pants Wednesday lives on! That made me very happy. I guess it's only a matter of time before all of my blog oddities (bloddities?) spread throughout society. I can't wait to see Paul Moyer end his newscast with "Shaloha," or hear a Sportscenter anchor yell "Watchoyos!" after a big dunk.

My boss's daughter was working in the office a little over the summer, and one day she was extremely bored and asked if I had anything for her to do. "Actually, yes," I said. "You know how PETA is the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals? Well I'm looking for a good 'ER' so PETER can stand for something similar." Naturally, that wasn't what she was expecting to hear. Still, she stuck with it and provided me with a few good ones. People for the Ethical Treatment of Emo Rockers tickled my fancy, as did Elderly Rockstars. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jagger, but I can't let you go on another tour. I'm here from PETER, and we think that would be detrimental to your health." I suggested that Erroneous Rabbis might need some protection. If they accidentally say that Isaac said something instead of Abraham, that could lead to quite the angry congregation. "Stand back, everyone. Rabbi, come with us; we're from PETER and we'll take you to safety." Gentle readers, I'm not being rhetorical here: what do you think the ER could stand for? Please comment away.

Last week, I wrote about the disclaimers at the end of radio commercials and how they bug me. A couple of days ago, I heard a commercial for McDonald's that ended with, "Breakfast available during breakfast hours only." I sure hope stating things that are that obvious doesn't become a trend. I'd hate to hear a commercial for Lakers' basketball end with, "Laker games only available on television during times that the Lakers are actually playing basketball. Some restrictions apply. Void where prohibited."

And now, will you please welcome to the stage...Car Watch!

First off, I was behind a car with a license plate frame for Aston Martin of Beverly Hills. The thing is, it was a frickin' Nissan Sentra. How does that happen? The two were so incongruous that I actually laughed out loud in my car. "Ha!" I said. Just one "ha," so it wasn't hilarious or anything.

I also saw a plate that read "IN2CARZ." At the same time? That's almost physically impossible. I looked pretty carefully and only saw the driver in one car, so I think he was full of shit.

My lovely wife saw a car in a parking lot with "(Heart) 2 PMS" as its plate. What else could that mean? The 2 really seals the deal for me. Just "I (Heart) PMS" and I'm willing to say it's someone's initials. Unless this is someone who loves two different Prime Ministers (say, Thatcher and Blair, for example), it's gotta be a woman with her tongue firmly planted in her cheek. The day after Amber told me about this plate, we saw it together in another parking lot. At least now I know that she doesn't make stuff up just to get a FUF shout-out.

My homey Rockabye sent me this plate that he spied: "GODSPRP." I'm asking seriously here - what does that mean? Is the person a perp for God? Is it an abbreviation (and a bad one) for "God's purpose?" Does the person think God is purple? I honestly don't know and request any insight you may have on this, gentle readers.

Rockabye also saw "MOC3" on the plate of a Porche. Even though they're exaggerating just a bit, I'm willing to let it slide. I wouldn't be so kind to a Nissan Sentra with that plate.

I'm pleased to announce that my longtime homeboy Silver sent in his first Car Watch item. The plate: "VEHICLE." I think he put it best himself when he wrote, "Really? I wouldn't have guessed that from the fact that someone was sitting inside the 4-wheeled contraption, going from Point A to Point B." Well said, my friend. I don't mean to nitpick, but that car could use a bumper sticker that says, "This vehicle can only be classified as a Moving Vehicle during times in which it is moving." Otherwise, people can get all screwed up.

Lastly, I saw a Nebraska license plate. That's it. I just don't see those very often.

Have a great holiday weekend, my friends. Ladies, if any of you are very pregnant out there, I think going into labor on Labor Day would be a hoot. Just a suggestion.

The house of T

Good morning, fellow computer-users. First off, today is my friend Ceil's birthday and I'd like to publicly wish her a very happy one. "Public" now means "in front of 8 - 10 people" apparently. I call her Foca, which is Spanish for 'seal' which is homophonic with her name. I get all sorts of crazy like that. So Happy Birthday, Foca, and I hope the day is a great one.

Food week continued! I love it when a plan comes together. Every time I'm able to stretch out a topic over a couple of additional days, an angel gets its wings. I heard that somewhere, and I'm inclined to believe it. So check it out, yo. I wrote a bunch this week about foods I like and dislike. Everyone has their own particularities in cuisine, so most people are pretty understanding when I say that I don't like certain foods. For example, I don't get any kind of grief or weird look for saying that I don't like olives or sour cream. I've tried them both, and sometimes they're ok if they're a part of a whole, but they're just not my thing. No big whup, right?

However, there are two items that get major reactions from people. The first is cheesecake. That will be on a dessert menu, and I'll casually mention that I don't like it before someone jumps in and orders it from our server. "What do you mean you don't like cheesecake?" I'll be asked. "I don't like the way it tastes," I usually respond, figuring it's hard to argue with such a logical reason. That's not enough for these people, though. "But it's so good! It's cheesecake!" "I understand," I'll say, "but it's just not my thing." "Do you like cream cheese?" they ask. "No, which is probably why I don't like the cake made with it either." After another back and forth, they eventually ask if there is any dessert I do like, as if I must hate even the thought of sugar because I don't like one kind of cake. I'm telling you, this turns into a way bigger deal than it should.

Even more flabbergasted are the folks who find out that I don't like guacamole. Frankly, they go apeshit, and I've almost lost friends over it. The first question is always the same: "Well do you like avocados?" I tell them I don't, again erroneously thinking that I may halt the ensuing conversation before it gets started. "But it's so good! How can you not like guacamole? Have you tried it?" I tell them I have indeed tried it, but it continues for a little while. I eventually have to resort to telling them, "Hey, that just means more for you" in order to end the topic, which usually does the trick. Greedy bastards.

This leads me to a story. It's one I've wanted to write about for a long time and I finally have an appropriate intro with this food stuff. Excellent, Smithers, simply excellent. Here goes: Growing up, my favorite brother and I did virtually everything together. We went to elementary school together until I was in third grade, went to the same summer camp, and generally hung out a lot in the same places. One day though, I went to a classmate's birthday party without him. The boy's name was Michael T., and the party was at his house. My memory fails me a little, but I clearly remember watching "Return of the Jedi" on the far right end of a couch and some kind of fun attraction like a moonbounce in the backyard. Everything else is fuzzy for two main reasons. First, this was over twenty years ago. Second, I've made up so many things about this party that I can't distinguish fact from fiction anymore. Allow me to explain.

Kevin overheard me telling someone once that I had tried avocado. Being the older brother that he was, he eagerly jumped into the conversation to prove me wrong. "Where have you ever tried that?" he asked. "At Michael T.'s house," I calmly answered, knowing full well he couldn't contradict that statement. Did I actually eat that there? I can't honestly say. Part of me can picture chips and dips on the coffee table in front of me while watching the movie, and part of me thinks I've retroactively created that memory to fit a lie I told. Disirregardless, I realized that I had a goldmine of an alibi on my hands. Over the next few years, I did all sorts of things that one day at Michael T.'s. It drove Kevin crazy for a while, because he so badly wanted to prove that these things never happened but couldn't. "Sure, I've ridden a jet ski before...at Michael T's house."

Over the years, it's become quite the running gag. I did such amazing things at Michael T.'s that anyone who wasn't there should think himself cursed that he missed it. I stuck my head in an alligator's mouth at Michael T.'s. I learned to scuba dive at Michael T.'s. I built and then drove a go-kart at Michael T.'s. I watched hip replacement surgery on closed circuit tv at Michael T.'s. I even went on a short trip to Guam at Michael T.'s. It's the alibi that keeps on giving, even to this day. I wish everyone had their own "Michael T.'s house." I can see it now: "Your honor, I request that my client's sentence be reduced to time already served. He was on house arrest at Michael T.'s for two months, which more than covers his debt to society."

Someday, someday. Have a great rest of your days, gentle readers, and I'll see you back here for another FUF piece tomorrow. If you have any questions, stories, thoughts, or Car Watch items, ptklein@gmail.com is your main domain, man.

The food groups

On Monday, I wrote very briefly about not being exposed to certain foods as a kid. Subsequently, Adult Peter didn't eat the food that Child Peter was unfamiliar with. I therefore had two options: stay the course or branch out. My brother took Option 1 and to the best of my knowledge, he still eats the same food that we were raised on. That's fine, of course; we ate a lot of good food with a decent variety back then. I've managed to branch out a little more, and I think all of my new foods came about in one of three ways.

Category 1 is something I mentioned ever so slightly in Monday's post. I shall call this the "I've Never Tasted the Food I Don't Like" category. These are foods that were sometimes around what I was eating but I avoided because I "didn't like them." The one that immediately jumps to mind for this is a little something I like to call the sweet potato (or "sweet potatoe," as a certain former VP might write). At around age 28, I was having dinner at my parents' house with some family, and amongst other types of food, there were sweet potatoes that came with whatever we brought in. Someone started to pass them my way and asked if I liked them. "No," I said, "although I can't say that I've ever had them." We went around the table, and my mom, dad, and brother all echoed my exact sentiments. Feeling a little bold, I went for it and took a bite of one. "This is going to sound really stupid," I said as they all watched me, "but this actually tastes like a sweet version of a potato." Naturally, they all made fun of me for a minute, but then I encouraged them to follow in my trailblazing footsteps. After one bite, my mom said, "He's right; it's just like a sweet...potato!" The same was true for the others too, and we all wondered why it had taken so long to try that harmless little yam out. (I'm still not on board with putting marshmallows on them - that looks nasty enough that I might not try it until I'm in my 60s.)

Not all branchings-out are successful though. The whole world seems to love cream cheese, but my family didn't. In actuality, I hadn't ever tried it because no one ordered it in my family and it certainly didn't make its way into the house. So one day, someone brought bagels and cream cheese into a class of mine without any other options. Butter, margarine, or regular cheese would've been fine, but none were there for my ingesting. "What the hell?" I thought. "Everyone likes this crud, so let's give it a shot." Yeah, it's not my thing. I didn't like the aftertaste at all, and I ended up throwing away the rest of the food. Oh well, I tried. (This is the point in which one of my friends can't wait to post something about the time I enjoyed cream cheese frosting on some cake before I knew what it was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I was childish, and once I knew it was in there, I could taste it and therefore didn't like it anymore. It wasn't especially good frosting to begin with.)

The next category shall be called "Peter, the Daring Taster." These are items not even remotely related to things we ate in our house growing up. First off, the whole subject of fish must be addressed. In the Klein household growing up, the fish I ate consisted of frozen fish sticks and canned tuna. That's it. I remember Kevin and I tried and liked fried shrimp as kids, but I think that was more to do with the "fried" than the "shrimp." Due very largely to the influence of my lovely wife, I now enjoy many types of fish. It started slowly with a taste of salmon here, a bite of halibut there. I grew to really like it (especially swordfish), much to the confusion of my immediate family. They can't understand how I like sushi - which I do quite a bit - and my mom makes a face every time I mention it.

The other item that comes to mind in this category is tofu. My mom still makes a face for that one too, and I can understand because I made that face myself years ago. Also because of my lovely wife, I took a chance and tried it. It went from "ok" to "not so bad" to "I actually enjoy it" in a pretty short span. It's become a regular item in our food repertoire, and we'll order it in place of chicken in certain Thai dishes every time and gobble it up.

If tofu weren't so weird to my immediate family, it would belong in my third category: "Indifference Becomes Enjoyment." This one is reserved for foods that have always been around the food I ate growing up, but I managed to avoid it. It wasn't that I "didn't like" them, it was truly indifference. The prime example of this one is broccoli. I'd occasionally order stir-fry at a restaurant or have it at someone's house and broccoli would be in there. It was the type of thing where if it was on my fork with something I wanted to eat, I'd eat it. At the end of the meal though, there would be a little pile of the uneaten veggie sitting there. I'm not sure how it happened, but it went from just being ok with broccoli to seeking it out in the stir-fry. A little while later, I was even ordering it. It was a fairly quick progression and one not spurred by anything in particular. My indifference toward broccoli just dissipated and I realized that I actually liked it quite a bit. (By the way, Dana Carvey is singing "Chopping Broccoli" in my head now and probably will be for hours. It's a funny SNL sketch if you haven't seen it, and I'm sure it's online somewhere. Let's try this out.)





Overall, I'm very pleased with the way my food options have grown. I'm still a very unadventurous eater compared to a lot of people, but I'm the daring food rebel of my immediate family. Gentle readers, do any of you have foods that fall into one of the categories I've made up? You must, right? I'd love to hear about them, so comment away. Have a good day, everyone, and I'll see you here tomorrow for another Sorry Honey It's Thursday.

The spice is right

Ok, I left you hanging a wee bit yesterday with my tale of spicy food, so let's jump right on into it, ok? Welcome, blah blah blah Tuesday, blah blah blah gentle readers, blah blah blah bad pun.

Fast forward all the way to the year 2000 or 2001. Ok, now hit Play. Thank you. I was living with a couple of friends in downtown Santa Barbara, and we walked to many of the local eateries on the weekends. One afternoon, Dusty and I made our way to Chilango's, a nearby casual Mexican food place. It was an odd time of day, so I just ordered one taco and Dusty didn't get anything. The man behind the counter asked which of the salsas I wanted on it, and I pointed to one that looked like it tasted good. "No, you don't want that one; it's very spicy," he said. Before I could select another, Dusty started calling me names for being afraid of the challenge. "That's ok, I'll have that one," I said. "Are you sure?" he asked. I'll admit that I was frightened by the fact that he felt the need to ask me twice, but I said I was sure. One carne asada taco with just cheese and salsa would be ready soon.

After my number was called, we took a seat and I prepared for my first bite. I saw a lot of salsa on it, but remained confident that I could handle whatever spice level I got myself into. "Here goes," I said, and I took a large bite. Immediately, my eyes opened wider than they ever had before. Dusty picked up on this, and asked, "Do you want a drink?" I nodded as emphatically as one can nod. He was only gone for about thirty seconds as he purchased a cup for the fountain drinks, but it felt like forever. Seemingly in slow motion, he put ice in the cup and then pushed it against the lever that dispensed Coca Cola. He came back to the table and I immediately reached for the cup. "Oh, you want this?" he asked as he pulled it back. "Hold on," he said, and he took a sip and pretended to contemplate it for a second. I didn't find this funny, and I grabbed the cup from him and started gulping.

"Come on, Pete," he said, "It can't really be that bad, can it?" I pushed the plate toward him, and for reasons unknown, he took a bite from the other side of the taco. Please note: I am not exaggerating here. I do occasionally, but this is an accurate retelling of the tale. For the next half an hour, Dusty and I sat there passing a cup back and forth, refilling it, then passing it back and forth some more. Half an hour. Every time we thought the unbelievable burning sensation was over, we'd take one breath and realize that it still hurt like the dickens (or like reading Dickens, at least). Our eyes were watering, our noses running, and our stomachs very full of soda. We didn't talk for that entire time, because when I'd start to, I'd have to reach for the drink again immediately after one word.

After that half hour, we were able to speak a little and breathe with it only burning a little. One bite each, and that's what it did to us. We noticed the guy behind the counter laughing a little at one point, and I wanted to yell at him but that would've involved the ability to talk. On our way out, I very softly said to him in Spanish, "If other gringos ask for that salsa, please don't serve it to them." He said that he put it on everything and didn't find it very spicy anymore. I think Dusty and I both had the same thought: "Dude, fuck that guy."

On the walk home, in very short sentences, we talked about how unbelievable that experience was. In a heartfelt tone, he apologized for not giving me the drink right away. "I didn't know it was that serious," he said. "It's ok, man, you had no idea." "Why did I take a bite?" he asked. "Got me, but I'm kinda glad you did."

With normal people, the story would end there. We're frickin' morons though, so it continues. When Dusty and I got back to the house, we told Jon and Dave all about the experience. It turned into a rather heroic tale, so it was only a matter of time before we were all planning to go back as a group to each do an entire taco. I wish I could explain that logic (or illogic in this case), but I can't. All I know is that it went from a harrowing, awful experience to one that I was looking forward to doing again with more of my friends. It was going to be like a club - an exclusive club for complete idiots, but a club nonetheless.

A little while later, Greg was up in SB visiting us, and we knew the time had come. We marched into Chilango's with nervous smiles and each ordered one taco with the really hot salsa and a large drink. We pushed a few tables together, had napkins and drinks easily within reach, and dove in. After my first bite, I just chewed and swallowed as fast as I could. I took another big bite immediately after - before my brain could protest - and then another until it was gone. My thought was that if I let it all build, I could eventually ride it out. If I paused too long between bites, there would be no way in hell I'd be able to go back for more. The five of us sat there, sweating, drinking, and communicating solely via eye contact for the next twenty minutes. "You guys weren't kidding," one of them said. "How is that even legal?" asked another. The club was formed.

"Technically," Dusty said that evening, "Pete and I have each had one more bite than you guys, so you need to go share a taco to get to our level." The next week, Jon and Dave did just that so we would all be on the same level. Another week later, Dave got his roommates Brian and Adam to each eat a taco and join the club. They kind of cheated in my opinion, because they ran across the street to an ice cream shop to get fire-quelling assistance from the cold dairy products. It didn't really spread much more than that, from what I know. I'm totally fine with that, because a club is only as good as its stupid members.

Part of me really wants to go back there next time in SB to see how I'd hold up against the salsa. My lovely wife doesn't understand why I would want to put myself through something like that more than once, and I can't blame her. It doesn't seem to make any sense. The way I look at it though, it's a challenge that I can meet head on and overcome. It's not easy, which is good, because then there wouldn't be much sense of accomplishment. I don't bungee jump, skydive, or even snowboard, so eating the Chilango's taco is my adventure sport. My next trip up there, I think it might be time to come out of retirement. I can almost feel the burning from here.

Enjoy your day, friends, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. Remember, no one's holding you back from emailing ptklein@gmail.com with Car Watch items, stories, questions, yo mama jokes, or anything else in your head.

Accounting for taste

Ahoy, mateys. Does "mateys" mean "little mates?" If so, shouldn't it be spelled "maties" instead? Maybe it is and I just haven't gotten that far in my Pirate Lanaguage correspondence course yet. I'm only in Chapter 2 in my Intro to Piratology text, but I've already learned that one should add a little pineapple juice to one's rum to avoid scurvy. Arrrren't you glad I'm stopping this train of thought here before I go way too far off the deep end? Yes, yes you are. Good morning, gentle readers. Here we are on another Monday, fresh from the weekend's festivities. I hope you all ate, drank, and were merry. I once heard that a transvestite's three favorite things to do were eat, drink, and be Mary, but that's really neither here nor there. Where is it then? It has to be somewhere, right? I need to stop this paragraph now before I get even weirder.

Ah, thank you blank space between lines. I feel better now. As I've mentioned in this space many a time, I take after each of my parents in various ways. Some have become more noticeable as I've grown older, and some have been present almost since birth. One important yet often-overlooked aspect of genetics is the passing down of food likes and dislikes.

A large part of this is undeniably due to food exposure. My parents never took us out for sushi because their parents never took them out for sushi, etc. I grew up "not liking" many things that I'd never actually tried, and some of them I actually learned to like quite a bit. For food that I was exposed to, however, there were clear lines of delineation.

In the Klein household growing up, my dad liked certain foods that neither my brother nor I could stomach. The most important item in that category is clearly mustard. My dad enjoys mustard and I hate it, pure and simple. You may have heard rumblings of my dislike for that condiment in the past, or it may be your first time visiting UOPTA. Welcome. My dad also likes asparagus, and I really, really don't like it. My mom, in full-on saint mode, would sometimes make that nasty smelling and ugly veggie for my dad even though the rest of us wouldn't be having any. I just don't like spears, whether in the form of a vegetable or a Britney.

Then there's the category of things that my dad liked and I alone inherited the taste for. First off, we have sour dill pickles. Mmm, I love 'em. There would be a jar of the pickle chips in the fridge that were just for us, and we'd pile them onto our burgers as the other two would make faces. When I was working in my dad's office for a couple of weeks in between jobs, he took me to a place that had a big glass jar of these giant, very sour pickles. We brought one back to his office and cut it in pieces for whoever wanted some. It ended up being mainly just the two of us who kept coming back for more. Good times, good times.

And then there's the biggy (biggie?): the appreciation for spicy foods that I inherited from my dad. While my mom has grown to like somewhat-hot food in recent years, growing up it was just me and my dad tackling spice monster. When my mom would make fajitas for dinner, she and my brother would stay far away from the glorious red sauce that we'd drip all over our loaded tortillas. Mmm, fajitas.

It should come as no surprise then that on a family trip to Catalina, my ears perked up when a waitress told us that the restaurant was famous for their buffalo wings. She came back a little later, and I happily ordered them. "Mild, medium, or hot?" she asked. "Hot," I said. She made a face and replied, "Are you sure? Last guy that got the hot ones almost had smoke coming out of his ears." My mom suggested that maybe I should go with the medium instead, and I begrudgingly agreed.

When the food came, I dove right into my wings. Something was different about these though. I placed it almost immediately: they were as hot as the f'ing sun. I kept plugging away, beckoning the waitress for more water every thirty seconds or so. My dad had one, and even though he can handle a higher spice quotient than me, he said after one bite, "Wooo, these are spi-cy!" They sure were. A lot of people (including my lovely wife) don't understand how eating very spicy food can be enjoyable when you spend the whole time burning, sweating, and sniffing. It's a labor of love, gentle readers, and I loved those wings to the best of my ability. When the burns on my lips felt like they should be upgraded to second-degree though, I hung up my napkin and called it a day. It was just too darn spicy for me, as much as I hate to admit it. For the entire meal, the same thought was running through all of our heads: "What could the hot ones possibly be like?" Though part of me wanted to go back there just to satisfy my curiosity, that never happened.

One might reasonable assume that I learned my limits once seeing that they existed in the world of spice. Oh sure, I stayed away from jalapenos, bought medium salsa as often as spicy, and limited the number of pepperoncinis that I'd eat in one sitting. But being human, I was prone to the occasional lapse in judgment. Guess what? You'll get to hear about my greatest lapse tomorrow. Yes, I'm unabashedly stringing you along.

Enjoy your Mondays, little mates. May all your socks be arrrgyle and all of your movies rated Rrrrrrr. Ooh, I think I just made up a pirate joke that can have three different punchlines: Who is a pirate's all-time favorite late-night talk show host? It can be Jack Paaarrrrrr, Arrrrsenio Hall, or Johnny Carrrrson. Pirates are versatile! I'll see you tomorrow, friends. Remember, you can always write to ptklein@gmail.com if you wish to share anything about anything.

FUF #28

Hello and good morning, my homies. I don't really know what I'm writing about yet, so I might just be...making FUF out of nothing at all. Making FUF! Out of nothing at all. Making FUF! Sorry, and I further apologize if you all have Air Supply in your head for the next few hours. That's actually a really good song, especially when the electric guitar kicks in after the "make all the stadiums rock" line. Moving on, welcome to another Follow Up Friday. I intend to ramble and then settle down in time for this week's Car Watch, presented by...oh wait, I don't have any sponsors.

First off, and most importantly, I want to wish a Happy Anniversary to my favorite brother Kevin and my favorite sister-in-law Ilyse. It's now been four years since Weezie officially became part of the Klein family, and more importantly, four years since the best Best Man speech of all time. Happy Anniversary you two.

In yesterday's post, I wrote about the subset of jokes that are super-duper-contrived and annoy me quite a bit. In writing that, I remembered a couple of other jokes from my childhood that made me laugh. I'm about to get R-rated, so if you're easily offended, it's been nice having you here as a reader. There were jokes that started like this: "So there's this boy named Johnny Fuckerfaster." And we're just supposed to accept this! "Ok, yeah, I've met some Fuckerfasters before so this premise is reasonable enough for me. Please continue." Amazingly, he ends up having sex with someone when a parent or teacher walks in and yells his name. He replies with something like, "I'm trying, Mom, but I'm getting tired!" And scene. Is there anyone out there who hears the beginning of that joke and honestly has no idea where it will end?

Oh yeah, there were jokes featuring "Johnny Deeper" also. As Gob would say, "Come on!" Who approved these jokes? I guess kids of that age aren't too good at picking up on foreshadowing. Why not go all the way with this and have jokes with "Johnny Stopdonkeypunchingyourteacher" as your protagonist? We could create an entire series of misadventures. We could always change it to "Jimmy" if there were any objections to the name.

On Wednesday, I wrote about how I'm annoyed by the ten seconds of cover-your-ass mumbling at the end of every radio commercial. Even though I find it unnecessary, I can still see where they're coming from to an extent. What I can't get behind whatsoever is what happens when I want to leave a message on someone's cell phone. After the whole, "Hey I'm not here; leave me a message and I'll call you back," I'm accosted by superfluous information. Some lady tells me, "At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press pound for more options." Sometimes there's even another sentence tacked on. Riddle me this, gentle readers: who, at this point in our electronic revolution, does not know to wait for the beep? I just want to leave a message, lady; please stop talking and let me go about my business.

A couple of final items: My mom thought the term was "inclimate weather" also and had never seen the word "inclement" in writing. Please let me know if we're the only two who thought that or if it's a pandemic. We need some strength in numbers here, folks.

Also, I mentioned somewhere in this past week about someone making a very confused face. My dad made the ultimate confused look last weekend when my lovely wife's friend said that she was getting her advanced degree in Art Therapy. It was a classic moment, I tell ya.

Car Watch time!

Here's one you don't see every day. I did a double-take upon spying a bumper sticker that read, "Stay Home, Don't Vote." Really? I didn't think there was anyone on the other side of that cause.

While out to dinner with my parents and our good friend Ellie, my dad noticed a car for sale across the street. On its window, it boasted, "Runs Ext!" We guessed that it's supposed to be an abbreviation for "excellent" (albeit a wrong one). I joked that you only get the car for the listed price in it's current, non-working condition. You want it to actually run? That'll cost ya extra.

I can't tell if I saw this one or if someone sent it to me because my text message to myself was ambiguous. I'm gonna say it was all me. I, yes I, saw a plate that said, "FEELOVE." If it's "feel" and "love" sharing a consonant, don't you think that's a weird command to be issuing to everyone around you. A nice sentiment, don't get me wrong, but "love one another" does the same thing without telling people to get felt.

My often-driving friend Rockabye sent me a plate that said "AMOROMA." He pointed out (rightfully) that it's a palindrome. Essentially, they're saying "Here's some Spanish love frontwards and backwards, baby." It's either that or a combination of "amor" and "aroma," thereby making it "the smell of Spanish love." I'll let you decide on that.

He also saw another plate: "DUBLE07." Normally, I'd just think that was somewhat cool. This time though, it was on an Aston Martin, so that's really almost as cool as cool can be. I know cool, cool was a close personal friend of mine, and that car is cool.

My dad wanted to get in on the sweet Car Watch action, and really, can you blame him? He saw "S1ERFUL" on a license plate. Yeah, it truly is wunnerful. Come on, man, if S1DRFUL or S1DERFL are taken and you can't think of another accurate way to say it, just let it go.

The last two of the day come from my friend Dusty. First off, a bumper sticker report: "Pride is everything. Buy US made and 'Get ya some!'" I'm not positive, but I think that guy is offering sexual favors in exchange for people buying things made in this country. I don't want to be classified as a traitor, but I'm going on the record and saying that shit ain't right.

The other one from Dusty was a Toyota license plate that says "IGOTGAS." Bastard! That's who got that plate before I could. Dusty was quick to point out that it wasn't a Prius or other hybrid, just a Corolla. How cute that he actually thought it was about fuel.

Ok, that's it for now. It's been nice talking at you all week, gentle readers. Feel free to chime in at any point by either commenting or writing to ptklein@gmail.com. I'll see you back here on Monday, and may your weekend be filled with Shaloha.

Some kind of sick joke

Ah, Thursday, how you tempt me with your near-end-of-week-ness. You are the fruit to Tantalus, the top of the hill to Sisyphus, and the Trix to the silly rabbit. What a tragic character that rabbit is, come to think of it. What's so fucking important about that cereal that the kids won't share it with him? I know it's for kids, but it's not like a little taste is going to kill him. After all, he's closer to being a human than any bunny I've ever met, so I'm pretty sure his digestive system can handle it. Give the rabbit some Trix, kids. Stop being so mean-spirited already.

Sorry about that folks; I'll get off my soapbox now. Something positive did come from that tirade though. It led me to a topic for today, and it's one that differs from that which I thought I would be writing. Here goes! It doesn't happen too often, but whenever I hear or see, "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids," it makes me think, "Silly Rabbi, kicks are for Trids." Does that mean anything to you? If not, allow me to enlighten you.

There's some ultra-contrived joke about some society of creatures called Trids, and there's a hideous monster on a mountain that kicks them off when they try reasoning with him. They consult a rabbi (obviously), and he agrees to have a word with this monster. After not budging on his stance, the monster simply tells him the rabbi to leave. "Aren't you going to kick me?" he asks. Punchline. Uproarious laughter.

It's stupid, incredibly forced, and an offense to humor everywhere. Unfortunately, it's also one of many such jokes that exist not only in nature, but also in my mind. I hate these jokes. It's so obvious that they were created backwards after someone mis-spoke or mis-heard something. I wish there were a word that meant "super duper contrived," because that's the word that would be featured about a dozen times in this post. Want another example?

There once was this toad that was all yellow. His friends, family, and everyone else were completely green, so he stuck out like the sorest of sore thumbs. He wished and wished that he could be green so he could fit in, and one day a magical fairy appeared. "You want to be green, do you?" she asked. "More than anything!" he said. Poof! Like that, he was green. Except...for some reason, his penis was still yellow. "Uh, I don't mean to be too picky, but can you change this too?" he asked. "Oh geez, I wish I could, but the policy is one wish per customer per day." "Well what am I supposed to do?" he asked, getting a little upset now. "I know," she said, "the Wizard can help you." With that, she gave him a map and sent him off on his way. An hour later, a purple elephant who had been wishing and wishing that he could be gray got a visit from the same magical fairy. "You want to be gray so badly?" Poof! But his trunk was still purple. "Ma'am, I appreciate you trying to help me, but can you take care of this as well please?" "Oh, I'm sorry. One wish per customer per day. The Wizard can help you though. Geez, I only had one map and I already gave it to someone else, so you'll have to...Follow the Yellow-Dick Toad! Bwahahahahaaha.

I sure wish I didn't know more of these. Sadly I do though. To prove that I am a blogger of the people though, I'm just going to tell you the punchlines of the others with very little setup.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Lobster, "but I can't join you. I left my harp in Sam Clam's disco!"

"How did he know?" her husband asked. "Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear."

All because he wiped it off. The moral of the story: If the foo shits, wear it.

And she ended up having two children. The moral of the story: The squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the sum of the squaws on the other two hides.

Trust me, gentle readers, I just spared you a couple hundred words of agony. I have an idea: To illustrate how ridunkulously easy it is to make these stupid jokes, I'm going to create one of them on the spot. Let's see...ok, I have a phrase...I've slightly changed the pronunciation of a couple of words...and we're clear.

There once were these Siamese twins names Neeng and Naang. They were world famous because they were bowling prodigies at the age of five. If there was a pin on the right side, Neeng would pick it up; on the left, and Naang was all over it. One day, their parents thought it would be best to separate them. The operation was technically successful, but there was one small side effect: they both went crazy. Without other options, their parents sent them away to an asylum to be cared for. Not just any asylum though - one with a bowling alley so they could still do the one thing that brought them joy. The brothers grew to hate each other over the next few years, and things finally came to a head when Naang challenged Neeng to a bowling match right there in the asylum. Being crazy, they prepared for the match in odd ways. Neeng covered himself in flour so he was as pale as pale could be. Naang took a different approach and covered himself in maple syrup. People came from all around to watch the match between the two crazy bowling brothers. After nine frames, the score was tied. Naang had a great tenth frame, so Neeng needed twenty-one pins to tie, twenty-two to win. After checking the scoreboard, Naang starting jumping up and down in joy. "I won! I won!" he yelled. "But the match isn't over yet," said his mom, who had been watching from the gallery. "Oh yes it is," said Naang. "White Neeng never strikes twice in the sane place!"

God I hate those fucking jokes. Have a good Thursday, my friends. See you tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday.

This post is not a toy

Hello, hello. Fancy meeting you here. Seriously, go ahead and fancy that. Pretty crazy, eh? That's what I thought. I don't just use the verb "to fancy" willy nilly; I mean it. It's Wednesday, and it occurred to me two days ago that we've spent all of these Wednesdays together without me telling you a Wednesday-specific story. So here it is:

I took a class fall quarter of my sophomore year called "Intro to Hispanic Linguistics." As I've documented in this space before, the lower-numbered classes in the Spanish department had a larger percentage of non-native speakers, so I wasn't yet in my "hiding in the corner" phase. There was a fellow gringo named David who sometimes sat next to me. I'm having trouble picturing him and keep getting Chris Richardson from last season's American Idol in my head instead. He did look like that, but not exactly. He wasn't as annoying either.

In any case, David and I were chatting in class before the professor got there one morning, and he stopped mid-sentence. I followed his gaze over to the door as a female classmate of ours was entering. "Everything ok?" I asked. "Oh yeah," he said, "It's just White Pants Wednesdays, that's all." Like most of you would have in this situation, I said, "Uh, what?" "Yeah, that girl, she's so hot, and she always wears white pants on Wednesdays." This was about four weeks into the quarter, and the class met on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I didn't doubt that he had ample statistical evidence to support his claim.

Naturally, I started noticing her attire. Sure enough, it was White Pants Wednesday the next week as well. He was definitely onto something, but I can't give him all the credit in the world. You see, she also wore white pants on some of the Mondays and Fridays too, which made his observation a little less mind-blowing. By the end of the quarter, I only remember one Wednesday in which she didn't follow suit (or follow pants in this case, I suppose). That led to a funny-sounding conversation about "no white pants on White Pants Wednesday" that probably confused the hell out of eavesdroppers.

I never know why some things stick more than others, but this one was all sorts of sticky. This was 11 years ago, and I find myself using that phrase all the time still. If I see a woman wearing white pants, I say aloud, "Hey, it's not Wednesday!" Sometimes I end up seeing white pants on an actual Wednesday, which usually leads to me saying something more along the lines of, "Hey, it's not - oh wait, it is! White Pants Wednesday in the house!" Juvenile? Oh sure. Completely out of my control at this point? You know it, sista.

Out of curiosity, are any of you wearing white pants today? If so, please let it be known in the comments section, for there would clearly be some powerful forces at work here.

Being a Wednesday and all, I often use this time for some random stuff in the realm of words. In chatting with my co-worker Rob, I went from talking about a word to ranting about a couple of things that piss me off. Care to relive that journey with me? Tough shit, here it goes:

I wondered aloud if the words "void" and "devoid" were basically the same thing. Or does the prefix in "devoid" make it mean "without without" instead? I have since looked it up and learned something in the process. No, they're not. "Devoid," as our friends at http://www.m-w.com/ tell us, means "being without a usual, typical, or expected attribute or accompaniment." The examples they use are "an argument devoid of sense," and "a landscape devoid of life." I never thought of it that way before, and I find that very interesting. That sort of thing is my bag, baby.

That topic of conversation led me to tell him how I don't like the phrase, "Void where prohibited." Well no shit it's void where it's prohibited. Basically all that phrase tells me is that someone has the ability to say that they're not honoring whatever deal is being advertised. What would happen without that warning? If McDonald's didn't say that their special on Big Macs was void where prohibited, would I have the right to demand that same deal at every McDonalds (even the airport ones)? I guess that was the basis of some lawsuit and now everyone puts it on commercials and ads to cover their asses.

On that same topic, I can't get over how ridiculous it is to put, "Warning: Contents may be hot" on an empty cup. It's a cup! What do you mean the coffee I ordered might be hot when this cup is used as the vehicle to get it into my stomach? The incredible degree of ass-covering that goes on blows my mind. At the end of almost every single radio commercial, they now spend up to ten seconds mumbling rules and restrictions as quickly as possible. I can fully understand a company saying, "Some restrictions apply, please call for more details." I'm fine with that. But rattling off three or four sentences so quickly that no one can understand them is solely for the purpose of avoiding lawsuits. They're not even pretending that it's to further inform the consumer anymore, just blatant ass-covering.

Last one before I stop, breathe deeply, and get my blood pressure back to normal (or 'alone pressure' according to the predictive text on my cell phone). "This bag is not a toy." Let's think about that for a second. Who is that warning for? There's only one answer: stupid people. Small kids who could possibly mistake a bag for a toy are too young to read that. Smart people already know that they should keep bags away from kids without being reminded. It must be for dumb people and dumb people alone. Should we really be directing all of our efforts at the lowest common denominator? That doesn't seem to be the most productive way to grow as a society to me, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe more people need reminders that their hot coffee is hot than I realize.

Ok, really last one: the whole "void where prohibited" thing made me think of another similar item that bugs me. I understand the reasoning behind it, but I always laugh at the mini candy bars or other similar foods that say something like "Not for Individual Sale" on them. Let's say a guy has a bucket of mini Three Musketeers bars that he's selling for $0.50 each and I want one. Before buying it, I realize that it says "Not for Individual Sale" on it. How does that change my position whatsoever? I still want it, and I still can only have it by paying for it. What am I going say? "Sir, you are not supposed to be selling this item in this fashion, and I am therefore confiscating it on behalf of the FTC." How many seconds do you think there would be between me finishing that sentence and me being threatened with violence? I say five tops. It would be less, but the sellers would probably need at least two or three seconds to get the confused look off their faces.

Now I'm really done. I hope you enjoy your Wacky Wordy White Pants Wednesday, gentle readers. Wow, it was almost an entire UOPTA post devoid of a "gentle readers" sighting. That was close. See you all tomorrow.

Night moves

Happy Tuesday, my peeps. Not the marshmallow kind, but the human, living and breathing kind. I don't like the spelling of marshmallow, by the way. It really should end with "mellow," don't you think? Yes, you do.

Yesterday morning, we took our sweet pup Hallie to the vet before work so she could have a thorough teeth cleaning that had been recommended by different vets over the past year plus. We felt really bad doing this to her, especially since she had to be put under for the procedure. The only time she's been put under anesthesia before was when she was fixed, and it made her nauseous and super lethargic, so there was some basis to my concern. I kept picturing her lying there asleep, and wondering if she'd be twitching like she does during natural sleep. I know it's a common dog thing, but I swear Hallie's little twitches are the cutest. Only she knows what those dreams are about, but I have a feeling she's chasing flies in a good amount of them. You should see her hunt them; it's really quite impressive.

The thought of her in-sleep twitches made me think of similar things that have happened with me and my human companion, my lovely wife. Right as she's falling asleep, Amber twitches a lot. Much more than the average human, I believe. Sometimes they wake her up, which always results in the same thing: she'll look up at me and proclaim, "I fell asleep." "I know," I'll say with a chuckle, since I had been expecting that exact phrase.

It's not always so sweet and nice though. Like the time she punched me in the face, for example. We were sleeping, facing toward each other, and suddenly I felt a hand hitting me square in the face. I opened my eyes just as Amber was doing the same. She realized what happened and apologized. I asked if her subconscious was mad at me, but she didn't know. That's why it's the subconscious, I argued, and she told me to go back to sleep. To be fair to her, it wasn't a hard punch at all, but it was her hand moving toward me and hitting my face, so I think I'm allowed to still call it a punch.

I'm not immune to the twitch monster myself. My movements alway have to do with the same topic though: sports. More precisely, me playing sports in a dream and my body wanting to play along. My most common nocturnal move is to be passing a basketball to someone (since I'm a team player), then wake up when my arms get in on the action and try passing in real life. If it wakes Amber up, she knows what I mean when I say, "I was passing again."

A couple of weeks ago, it was another sport that tricked my half-asleep body into trying to play. I was on my back with my arm around my lovely wife when we were both awakened by my hand hitting the top of her head. "Sorry," I immediately said. "I was bowling." Yes, gentle readers, in my efforts to have a nice follow through and shake hands with the head pin, I unintentionally shook hands with my wife's head. Big difference, I know. I'm beginning to think it's a good thing I don't dream about professional wrestling; I wouldn't want to accidentally suplex my wife.

Ok, here's a story for you. It's related to sleep and half-awakedness, so I find that's close enough to put in this post. That coo wit you? Sweet.

During a break from college, I was sleeping over at my parents' place. I still have a bedroom there, while my brother's room became an office within two seconds of him moving out. What can I say, they like me more. In any case, it was just a little after daybreak that I awoke. I was on my stomach, and my right arm was tucked under the pillow. Suddenly, I felt something with my hand also under the pillow. I was confused, so I investigated it a little further. As I touched this object more, a very scary thought dawned on me: it felt like the head of a snake. I opened my eyes a little wider. "There's no way it's a snake," I thought to myself. "Be rational." With that in mind, I touched it again. This time it felt EXACTLY like the head of a snake. I moved my thumb around the front of it and felt its smooth mouth area parted at the lips. Then I touched around the top of the head and felt the bony points on each side of the skull. "Holy shit," I thought, "There's a fucking snake under my pillow! Ok, ok, here's what I'm going to do. On the count of three, I'm just going to jump up quickly and get away from the bed to let it escape." I took a deep breath and then slowly counted to three. Quickly, I leapt from the bed and started to back away. As I did that, a dead weight hit me in the stomach. I realized what it was almost immediately: my very asleep left arm.

I replayed the scenario in my head and figured it all out. Apparently, I had both arms under my pillow. My left arm was so asleep that it couldn't feel anything whatsoever. My right hand came in contact with "a snake," but it was really just my sleeping thumb. I kept touching it but never felt the sensation of being touched. My mind went a little crazy, and that was that. I'm telling you though, it really felt exactly like a snake.

Every once in a while when we're holding hands, Amber will stroke my thumb with hers and say, "Ooh, it's a snaaaake!" I guess I deserve that, because it would sound pretty ridiculous to just say, "Peter once thought his thumb was a snake" without any explanation. I know I'd mock me, at least. It's kinda like the time I thought my leg was a dolphin. Not really, just seeing if you're paying attention. Have a great Tuesday, my friends, and you'll be glad to know that Hallie's doing just fine. See you all tomorrow.

Got any sleep-related or non-sleep-related items to share with me? ptklein@gmail.com is there for the clicking.

Wordsnobbery

According to the cartoon as I watched as a young child, "Monchichi" means "happiness." While I doubt the veracity of that claim, I'm willing to let it slide since it was in a catchy tune. They don't say anything about what "Monday" means though, so we're going to have to speculate. I think it means, "Oh crap, we're here again already?" At least that's what it feels like today so far. And yet, I'm happy to be sharing this glorious morning with you, gentle readers. I hope today finds you all well. Shaloha.

In the comments section either last week or the week before, my Bratty Kid Sister said that she saw graffiti somewhere that said, "Real lies, Realize, Real eyes." It's funny, because I was all set to write about something somewhat similar to that and the accompanying story before her comment. Then my camp story about Kanita kept going, and lo and behold, here we are in a whole new week. ("Lo and behold" is a very interesting phrase, by the way. I know Helena in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" uses "lo" without "and behold" in a line, but I'm not sure I've seen or heard it at any other point. Yes, I'm that drama-geeky I suppose.)

Before I get to the story with similar aspects to what BKS wrote in, I'm going to start with another connected story. And you can't stop me, so there. As you have no doubt come to learn from being a reader of UOPTA, wordplay is a gimongous part of my life. Every once in a while, there's something that comes along that I feel is (or should be) right in my wheelhouse. When I lived with my buddies in SB, our friend Sharyn crashed on our couch for a few weeks. To repay us, she did some chores around the house and got us a subscription to Maxim magazine. It was all her idea, I swear. One of the items in Maxim was a "Caption This!" segment. It was a funny or bizarre picture, and we were to write in or email with what the caption should be. The top three were printed in the next month's issue.

We usually looked at it and came up with some funny things for our own amusement. We never sent them in, which allowed us to say that ours were so much better than the crappy ones they were printing. One month though, I was pretty stumped. The picture had a large woman, a pig, and a sandwich somehow involved. Dave and I were at Super Cuca's eating burritos and attempting to come up with captions. I kept trying to think of something good along the lines of, "Wilbur didn't realize that his combo meal automatically came with a side of extra large thighs," but nothing was really sticking. Then Dave said, "How's this: Babe 2, something out of this world." According to Dave, I got a very angry look on my face immediately after those words came out of his mouth. "What?" I challenged. "Something out of this world? What the hell does that mean?" He started laughing. "No, I meant that we say 'Babe 2' and then put something really funny after it. I didn't mean that we'd actually put 'Something out of this world' in the caption." I felt a lot better, and he was quite struck with how truly angry I got because something wasn't funny when it was supposed to be. To commemorate the event, Dave once named one of his fantasy sports teams, "Something Out of This World."

That's not the only time I've been word-snobby at other people's usage attempts. At least I just misunderstood what Dave was saying. In this second situation, the person was serious. I've purposely avoided writing about my real job in this space, but I'm going to have to touch upon it in order to tell this story. Here are the bare bones of the story: there was a computer product for which a co-worker and I were trying to come up with names. I'll call said co-worker "Will." The undetectable program allowed people to view everything happening on another computer, from seeing emails and IMs to recording keystrokes and passwords. One could only legally put the program on a computer that s/he owned, by the way. In any case, we went back and forth for a day with all sorts of names.

Finally, I said, "I have an idea that I want to run by you, so hear me out. We take a word that ends in -ize but we spell it 'eyes' instead since the program is watching you. I just need to find the right word." Will understood, but thought it would be too confusing for the average consumer. I continued thinking about it, but everything I thought of sounded like an optometrist's office. I went through "OptimEyes," "ComputerEyes," and several others before I came up with my favorite. Here was my pitch to him: "Realize who your children are talking to online. Realize what sites your spouse visits while you're away. Realize when your employees are looking for other jobs before it's too late. Now you can with RealEyes Pro." I thought adding "Pro" would make it sound more like a computer product since the name itself didn't. Will thought it was ok but still too confusing, and I actually saw his point.

The next day, he came into the office beaming. "I've got it!" he said. "What?" I asked. "A name for the program - and the kind you were talking about too." "Well let me have it!" I said, obviously excited. He took out a piece of paper and started writing. After a few seconds, he pushed it over to me to see. Staring at me, quite literally, was the word "Watcheyes" with drawings of eyes where the Es belonged. Will looked at me smiling and nodding as if to say, "Yeah, I'm the shit." I snapped just a little. "Watcheyes? Watcheyes!? That's not a word! The point was to take a real, existing word and change the spelling of the end. You just put two related words together! And those eyes you drew mess it up more since they look nothing like Es. They're closer to Os, so it looks like you wrote 'Watchoyos' on that piece of paper. What the hell is Watchoyos? Protect your family's computer with Watchoyos!" He quickly took back the claim that he'd found the answer we were looking for, but for the rest of the time he worked there, I never let him live down the whole "Watchoyos" thing. We still say that in the office, and I even call a restaurant whose name I can't remember "Watchoyos" because it's kinda similar.

The thing that really gets me is that it's a frickin' catchy word. Way catchier than "Watcheyes," which still makes me shake my head in disgust. "Watcheyes" was even worse than even the joke ones I threw out there, including "Youth in Eyes" and "Sodom Eyes." Ok, maybe not worse that those two. I told my friends about the whole Watchoyos ordeal, and I think Dave's even busted it out where "booyah," "booyah shaka," "booyah kasha," or "Booyah Johnson" would normally go in everyday speech. Well, my everyday speech at least. It's a great exclamation, and I'd love to remember to use it more often.

And so, gentle readers, those are two stories linked by the common thread of me not appreciating others' attempts at specific wordplay. I usually try not to hold people to high word standards so I'm not constantly disappointed, but those two evoked such knee-jerk reactions that they stood out in my memory banks. Got more things that might piss me off? Send 'em to ptklein@gmail.com. I can't believe I'm literally asking for it. Enjoy your Monday, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. Watchoyos!

FUF #27

And in the end (of the work week), the FUF you take is equal to the FUF you make. At least I think I heard that somewhere once.

Happy Follow Up Friday, friends and friends of friends. As is customary, I shall spend this post a-ramblin' about things that are related to this week's posts, things that are completely unrelated, and then dazzle you with the hottest trend since going to rehab: Car Watch.

I spent a couple of posts talking about the Rope Trail. There's an epilogue to that tale that I didn't find a place for, so it's about to get FUFfed. Later in the summer that we found the trail, there was a "find the hiding counselors" game one afternoon. We gave them time to hide and then set out to find them and secure their signatures as proof. After going around with the rest of the campers for a while, my buddies and I decided to check out the Rope Trail just in case any of the counselors knew about it. As we started climbing the hill, one other kid ran up and started following us. "Just don't tell anyone about this place because we want to keep it secret," we begged him. He agreed, and we got up to the landing part. There, right in front of us, was not only the hill with the ropes in all of its glory, but also a counselor holding onto one of them and about a dozen kids chasing him. How did everyone know about this place? We felt both saddened by the realization that our "secret place" wasn't secret and stupid for ever believing that it was ours alone. At least it impressed the girls when it really mattered.

Earlier, I also wrote about how I said "Howdy" a lot for a week of camp. I was a strange kid, and I often said strange things. In 6th grade, I even had my own catch phrase. I say "my own," but it was really the Beach Boys' phrase. I'd exclaim, "Help me, Rhonda!" in class at opportune times and get laughs from everyone (including the teacher). It was a great tension breaker, and I busted it out maybe once a week. Hmmm, I've been sitting here for about five minutes now trying to paraphrase what I'd use it in place of, but I can't think of how to do it. If I could only remember some examples of times I said it, that would help, but I'm coming up blank. Gentle readers, were any of you in sixth grade with me? Crap. I'll IM my friend Cheryl and see if she remembers. She helped me remember the one line I couldn't recall from our school song, so I have faith in her.

Last weekend, I played some golf with my buddies. By "played some golf," I mean "was physically on the course but did very little that resembled actual golf." While we were waiting for the group ahead of us to tee off on the first hole, the starter was checking our receipts to make sure we paid, etc. Another group was driving up in their carts, and a guy said to the starter, "Can you move up a little?" "You have enough room," the guy replied without looking. The other golfer slowly accelerated and then made it through with over a foot to spare. After a second, I said, "Looks like he got through just fine." "A retarded girl could've gotten through," he said gruffly before driving away. Dusty turned to me and asked, "Do people sense that you write a blog and purposely say outrageous things around you?" It sure seems like it sometimes, my friends.

Hey, did anybody else ever think the word was "wheelbarrel" as a kid? No? Just me? Fuck. Actually, I'd love to hear what words you all mis-knew either as kids or adults. Here, I'll go again to hopefully make it easier. Up until a few years ago, I was way off on a word. "Inclement," which very well might be an Auto Follower, was something very different in my head. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I always thought it was "inclimate weather," which not only makes zero sense but is also missing an n. I wish I could explain where the made-up word based on the mispronunciation of an established word came from, but I got nothing. I wonder if I ever wrote that in papers or something and confused the hell out of a teacher.

Car Watch!

I didn't receive too many Car Watch items this week, and I didn't see too many on my own. Fortunately, Rockabye was on the case. First off, he saw "LTSTNGO" on a license plate. Oh sure, it's probably, "Let's Tango" but it could be "Let Stan Go!" (Those are the same exact letters when all spelled out too, which I find cool.) The thing is, if I had a relative named Stan in jail for a crime he didn't commit, I'd consider getting that plate to support his plight. Imagine how pissed off I'd be to try to get it, only to find that it was taken by someone who just wants to dance. I'm so glad that's not the case, for Imaginary Stan's sake and for mine.

Rockabye also saw "1800GOD" on a plate. I'm completely thrown by this one. I've spent a lot of time complaining about 800 numbers with more that 7 letters, but I never thought I'd see the opposite. Maybe it's not supposed to be a phone number at all, but rather a date. Who was like a God in 1800? George Washington died in December of 1799, so it's not him. Pope Pius VII was ordained that year, so that's a possibility. Maybe it's a reference to someone who can pound a bunch of Cuervo 1800 tequila without puking. That's certainly not me. I give up.

He didn't stop there, folks. He also sent me, "IBGLFIN," and clarified that the person was not in fact golfing. So basically, the dude's a liar every single time his car isn't parked at a golf course. Do you think he always offers to drive others to the course so he can be factually accurate every so often? In my version of the story, he begs them to let him drive. I like my version.

My dad wrote me and said that he saw "MS SHUGI" on a plate. In his words, it is "Yiddish for mishugina or mishugi, meaning crazy." I'm not 100% sold on that, since it could easily be someone who just misses rap mogul Suge (pronounced like "shook" but with a G at the end) Knight since he's frequently in and out of jail. I'm just saying.

Two final items, and these are both from my own observations. First off, I saw a van for a heating and air company called "Temperatures Unlimited." Really? Unlimited? Ok then, make my house five hundred degrees. Better yet, make it absolute zero. Yeah, let's see how these f'ers work with the Kelvin scale. Beeotch!

And lastly, I saw a plate that read, "D FLMAKR." To me, that could be one of two things. Option 1: It's someone who is pompous enough that he (it was a he, by the way) wants to be knows as "THE film maker." No others, just me! Option 2: It's a D-Film maker, as in movies so bad that they're somehow two levels worse than B-movies. I hope it's the second interpretation, because I would love to see what a D-movie is like.

That's it for this week, my dear, sweet, gentle readers. I hope you all have kick-ass weekends, and that you're well-rested and ready for whatever I throw at you on Monday. I don't know what that is yet, so I hope I'm ready for it too. Got anything on your mind in the meantime? Send an email to ptklein@gmail.com, and maybe, just maybe, all of your dreams will come true (provided that all of your dreams revolve around sending an electronic message to ptklein@gmail.com and having it received by yours truly). Shaloha, friends, and I'll see you soon.

A woman scorned

Good morning, gentle readers. Since Elvis died 30 years ago today, this one goes out to him and his family. Mainly Priscilla, because even though she looks all weird and plastic now, she kicked ass as Lt. Frank Drebin's love interest in "The Naked Gun." Anyone who pulls off the, "Thanks, I just had it stuffed" line so perfectly is ok in my book.

When I left you yesterday, you had puppy dog eyes and didn't want me to go. Oh wait, that was my dog. I always confuse you two. When I ended my post yesterday, Kanita had just heard me tell a group of people that I didn't like her. I worried that I had maybe set myself up for a hard rest of the week, and I was pretty spot-on with that assessment.

The very next day, we were in co-ed groups rehearsing skits to be performed at the end of the week. My memory might be playing tricks on me, but I recall that I was somehow playing Santa Claus in our scene. Disirregardless, I was standing precariously on a wheelbarrow, since that's the way Jewish Santa Clauses roll, and reading my lines. Kanita walked by and, without making any eye contact, "accidentally" bumped into it, causing me to fall flat on my ass. "Sorry," her mouth said, but her eyes said, "How could you?" I wanted to believe the mouth, but I knew it was pointless. A more mature Peter would've walked up to her, apologized for hurting her feelings, and suggested that we act civilly toward each other for the remainder of the week. By "we act civilly," I would've meant, "you don't hurt me." I was not a more mature Peter though, so I just laughed it off and hoped nothing of the sort would happen again.

I managed to pretty much avoid her from that point on. That is, until the last night at camp. My friends and I were all hanging out in our cabin with a young German kid named Jay who looked like a mini Hulk Hogan and talked funny. What more did we need? There was a knock on the door, and then Kanita entered before we could even ask who it was. First of all, girls weren't allowed in there. Second of all, it was after the time allowed to be out of one's cabin (yeah, I know, I'm such a stickler when I want the rules to apply).

Everyone froze, confused my Kanita's presence. Her eyes met mine, and she looked equal parts crazy and angry. "You don't like me?" she said with a clenched jaw, and she started to take a step toward me. "Uh, Kanita," I stammered, and she took another couple of steps and raised her hands as if she were about to choke me. "You leave Peter alone!" shouted little Jay, and he ran up to her and grabbed her leg with all of his might. She tried to keep moving toward me, but the commotion had brought our counselor in to see what was going on. I don't think he expected to see the scene before him, and his face confirmed that. He snapped out of it though, ordered Kanita out of there, and told her there would be disciplinary action tomorrow. We all knew that was full of shit since we were going home right after breakfast, but it still got her out of the cabin. I vaguely remember referring to her as a "she-bitch" right after that, but I don't even know what that means. In hindsight, I really wish I had said something like, "Kanita can-eat-a dick!" I'd still be getting commended on that one to this day if I had managed that in the heat of the moment.

We spent the next hour or more talking about what had happened, and even though it was past "lights out" time, the counselor let us keep talking. In the morning, our topic of conversation didn't change, and we sat at breakfast looking over to Kanita's table often to make sure she wasn't coming back to finish the job. We got out of there and went back to finish packing, which is when Jason N. came up with his song:

"Kanita,
Everybody loves to beat her.
Kanita,
Kanita loves Peter.

One da-ay,
Down at the flagpole,
She tackled DJ,
Kanita's an asshole.

Kanita,
Everybody loves to beat her.
Kanita,
Kanita loves Peter."

It was catchy, and now I'm kinda pissed at myself since I know I'll have it in my head all day. Great slant rhyme with "flagpole" and "asshole," don't ya think? It totally makes up for the forced "beat her" line in my opinion. I finished packing and said goodbye to everyone as I waited for my parents. They showed up and began asking all of the usual questions. As we were walking to the car and I was telling them that I had a fun week, I looked up to the area where the girls' cabins were. Sure enough, there stood Kanita, watching me. Sadly, she raised a hand to say goodbye, and I nodded back to her while trying to hide it from my parents. I've always thought that her little wave was an apology for going overboard, but for all I know, she could've been trying to activate some poison-tipped arrow launcher hidden in the shirt.

And so, gentle readers, that is my long camp story. I've told it many times over the years, but something just occurred to me this time: all of my troubles with Kanita began after my friends and I broke our pact and invited others into our special, hidden place. The whole thing strikes me as very "Twilight Zone" meets "Monkey's Paw" meets the smoke monster from "Lost." I'm sure you agree, if you can accept that she was inhabited by the angry spirit of the Rope Trail and was hell-bent on revenge for those who took the awesome beauty so lightly. What happens when you share what should never be shared? Kanita! What happens when the body ascends to a place the young mind cannot yet reach? Kanita! Who probably would've gotten some sweet Klein action if she hadn't worn a turtleneck? Kanita! Someone get M. Night Shamalamadingdong on the phone; this can't be any worse than "Lady in the Water."

Have a great day, my friends. I'll see you back here tomorrow for yet another FUF piece. If you can't wait that long, just email ptklein@gmail.com and hopefully that will cool your jets long enough that you don't make any rash decisions in the midst of your UOPTA withdrawals.

The road not taken

Welcome to the middle of the week, everyone. Saying that reminded me of a very, very strange scene in a Monthy Python movie ("The Meaning of Life" I think) in which they randomly prance around and welcome viewers to the middle of the film. They make faces, noises, and do some genuinely odd things before returning to the movie. I'm not going to do that, but I thought you'd like to know what I reminded myself of.

So, when I bid you adieu yesterday, I had just told you about the Rope Trail and the beautiful valley we surprisingly found from atop it. We agreed to keep the trail as our secret and not tell counselors or others about it. Well there's one minor thing that I may not have explicitly stated yet about this camp: it was all boys. Therefore, when we attended a week in which the neighboring girls' camp was staying there with us, everything changed. We were now 12 or 13 I think, so this was a momentous week for us.

Day 1 of having the girls at our camp, the secret was already out. Drew, who was always the only ladies man in our group, started chatting it up with a few girls. Before long, he and I were acting like morons and getting laughs, so things were working splendidly. Then Drew got an idea and called the guys over. "What do you think about inviting the girls to meet us at midnight to go up the Rope Trail?" he asked. As if our pact had never even existed in the first place, we gleefully jumped on board. After all, what was the point of having a secret place if not to look cool disclosing it? So it was in hushed tones that we told them about the awesome trail and where to meet us. They agreed, and we spent all of dinner trying hard to contain our excitement.

Personally, I didn't think it would happen. There were too many variables involved. We had to successfully sneak out of our cabin without waking our counselor, the girls had to do the same, we all had to move quietly enough to avoid detection, and then sneak back into our cabins and bunks stealthily. Miraculously though, the plan went off without a hitch. When my digital watch hit 11:55, I quietly scootched to the end of the bunk and climbed down. The others followed my cue, and with flashlights in hand, we went to the rendezvous point. (Did you know that the plural of 'rendezvous' is also 'rendezvous'? I like that.) A minute later, we saw the glowing lights of an oncoming party. It was the two girls we'd met before plus a friend of theirs.

We greeted them, and DJ and Chrissy introduced us to their friend. I've never written out her name before, but it was pronounced "Kuh-NEET-uh." I've always pictured it as "Kanita," so that's how I'll write it in this space. Amid all the stifled giggles and shushing, we made it to the Rope Trail and took turns climbing up. Once we were all at the top, we took them over to the view of the valley and sat down. Although it was dark out, they could still see enough of the area with the flashlights to know how beautiful it was. There we sat for probably an hour, just shooting the shit and having a good time. Not to sound too immodest, but my friends and I were on fire. Full of great jokes and quick, witty responses, we felt really cool and were soaking up every minute of it (since it was such a rarity).

After the hour or so, we made our way back down the ropes and were about to head over to our respective cabins when Kanita stopped me. "I like you, do you like me?" she asked. It was more of a statement, really, and it caught me off guard. Here's where I think I differ from some of my male counterparts. Instead of stopping, surveying the situation (Drew and DJ were clearly hitting it off, as were Adam and Chrissy), and maybe having something of a real girlfriend for the week, I said this: "Uh, the thing is, I don't really know you. I mean, you only said like two sentences while we were up there. I'd like to get to know you though." She understood and said that we'd be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. I was intrigued and a little frightened by the possibility.

The next day, we had some free time again and were hanging out by the flagpole area in the middle of camp. DJ snuck up behind me and took my baseball hat off as a joke. My hair was a mess, so I was about to ask for it back. Before the words could come out though, DJ was knocked to the ground with a forceful shoulder to the mid-section by a magically-appearing Kanita. She bent down, scooped up my hat, dusted it off, and said, "Here you go," with half a smile. "Thank you?" I said, before looking over at a stunned DJ to make sure she was ok.

A couple of days passed with the same kind of intense attention from Kanita, and she was really beginning to frighten me a little. Drew kept pushing me to kiss her, but I really didn't want to because I just didn't like her like that. Also, her neck was freakishly long and it really weirded me out. We had a dance one night, and I slow danced with Kanita once at the urging of everyone, making less eye contact with her than with my friends behind her. She was wearing a turtleneck after all, and that only accentuated her problem area.

After our dance, she asked if I wanted to go outside to talk, and I agreed. I guess I was more into looking cool in front of my friends than taking personal responsibility. Oh well, such is the way of the adolescent boy. We sat on a bench near the cafeteria/auditorium and talked for a little while. She told me where she was from (which I think may have been Denver for some reason) and how many siblings she had. I told her a little more about myself, and then we went back in to the undeserved hoots and hollers from our friends.

Then I messed up a little. I was hanging out with the guys and Chrissy, and talk somehow turned to Kanita. Jason N. said something about how I was probably going to marry her, and I replied, "No way, I don't even like her!" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a long-necked girl walking away quickly. "Uh oh," I thought, "This could be trouble." And trouble it was, gentle readers.

Tune in tomorrow to get the end of the story...if you dare. Yeah, sorry, it's another "to be continued" one. I must think I'm Dan Brown or something.

Off the beaten path

Hello Wednesday! Wow, this week is just flying by, and man am I glad to see you! It feels so good to be back here on Hump Day after putting up with those first two crappy days of th- huh? What's that? Oh, not Wednesday. Riiiight. Sorry, Tuesday. I, uh, I really didn't mean that stuff. It was the booze talking, yeah, that's it. You know, the beer I had on Saturday is just catching up to me now and it makes me say some crazy shit. Sorry 'bout that. Let's try this again.

Happy Tuesday everyone! It seems like only yesterday that I was writing you about certain parts of my sleep-away camp experiences. Damn, that was yesterday. What's wrong with me? Well, I've got some more camp stuff to talk about, so I hope you're willing to read more on that topic.

After attending the camp for three or four weeks per summer over the course of a few years, my core group of friends and I really felt like we owned the place. I was always there with Jason N., Drew, and Adam, but we also had our friends Silver, BJ, Sammy, and others join us every once in a while. That's a pretty sizeable group, and since we were among the oldest campers and all of the counselors liked us, we probably got away with more than others would have.

Our last summer there was an eventful one. None of us knew it was our last one at the time, because we all expected to come back as Counselors in Training at some point, but that never happened. The first major event was that we found what we'd come to know as "The Rope Trail." It was during some free time on the first day of a session, and we went exploring on a different side of the camp than we had before. We started behind the spooky Cabin 13 and climbed a hill that seemingly had nothing interesting atop it.

(Here's a quick side story that I feel like interjecting - sorry about the herky-jerky nature of this post. Another week, we stayed in Cabin 13. It was usually left vacant, which led to its scary reputation, but it was a full camp that week and they stuck the older kids there. One night, a few people from our cabin were coming back later than I did, and they heard a noise in the bushes. They looked, and according to them, saw what looked like a glowing mask and heard a sound that they described as "ching ching." I initially thought this was funny, but they were really spooked by it and didn't appreciate our laughter. Another cabin mate suggested that it was nothing more than two animals doing the nasty while wearing a suit of armor and a metal condom. They didn't find that funny either, but the rest of us sure did. It at least explained the "ching ching" more than the glowing mask did. We never found out what it was, but I always assumed that it was just something like a raccoon hitting a sprinkler...repeatedly...with a metal condom.)

So we were on that unknown hill behind the creepy Cabin 13. It was a little more treacherous than the other hikes we'd been on, and there was no sign that anyone else had been there for quite a while. No well-worn paths, no man-made steps; just nature in every direction. When we got to the top, we quickly surmised that it wasn't actually the top but rather just a stopping point. We followed a little path off to the right, and then we saw it: in front of us was another sizeable hill, but this one had ropes hanging down from the top. It looked really cool, and we knew we had to climb it. After giving a couple of tugs on the ropes to make sure they could support our weight, we scaled the mini cliff one by one. Now I'm not the biggest "adventure sport" guy, but it felt really impressive to emulate Batman climbing up a skyscraper. ('Skyscraper' is a fantastic word, isn't it? Kudos to whoever first put that together.)

Once all of us were up there, we took a look around. I think it was Drew who called us over from out of view. We had to jump over a few places where a walkway was missing, and you'd better believe I felt like Indiana Jones. There, off to the left, was a gorgeous, lush valley that was completely incongruous with the rest of the scenery. We felt like we'd stumbled upon the Garden of Eden for it looked so untouched by man. We knew that someone had put the ropes up, so we clearly weren't discovering anything, but maybe they'd been sitting there unused for years. We made an executive decision right then and there: this was our spot and our Rope Trail. We weren't going to tell anyone else about it and would only go there for special occasions when no one else was watching. No telling the counselors and no telling our fellow campers; just our special place.

As you can probably guess, things didn't end quite like that. I'll be back tomorrow to finish this bad boy up. There's too much to squeeze into today, so I hope you're alright with that. Got anything you want to share? ptklein@gmail.com is the way to do it. See you tomorrow, friends.

Happy camper

Good morning, one and all on this glorious International Left-Handers Day. A special hello to my gentle readers who are fellow southpaws. BKS, Silver, half of Dusty...crap, that can't be it. Who else is awesome out there? Speak up, my peeps; there's nothing to be ashamed of. Similarly, there's nothing of which to be ashamed.

Well howdy, gang. I hope this Monday morning post reaches you in good spirits. By writing "howdy," it got me thinking (uh oh) of two things. First, as is probably the most common reaction, I thought of Howdy Doody. Heh heh, I just said "Doody." That never gets old! Second, I reminded myself of a time back in the day that's led me to today's topic.

I very rarely use "howdy," probably because Californians have an extra weird gene instead of a howdy gene. However, there was one week in my childhood that I was saying it a lot for some reason. I was at sleep-away camp, and that was just my greeting du jour. Or "greeting du several jours," if you will. At one point, a kid was walking up to me, and I said with a thick and very fake drawl, "Howdy!" He paused ever-so-slightly before replying with, "Ten." Apparently my bad accent made that one word sound like, "How old are you?" That's not an easy feat, my friends.

It's almost reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen's talent of fitting as many words as he wants to into a line. Here's an example: In "Spare Parts" on the "Tunnel of Love" album, there are two lines that are the same length in amount of time it takes for him to sing them. Same amount of music, same everything. The first is, "Meanwhile in South Texas, in a dirty oil patch." The second is, "Bobby heard about his son being born and swore he was a-never coming back." There's even time for a real big breath after that line and room for three extra words before the chorus kicks is. Do I digress? Damn right I digress. I'll get back to camp stuff now.

As you likely know, camps have songs, and the lyrics seldom make any sense. There are only so many times one can boast about the amount of spirit he has or say the phrase, "A boom chicka rocka chicka rocka chicka boom" before realizing that it's moronic. In any case, there was a song that said, "Let's get a little bit rowdy, R-O-W-D-Y!" I believe my Bratty Kid Sister knows a similar song from her camp but with slightly different words and tune. Disirregardless, it was a catchy little ditty, and so it was no surprise to hear our cabin-mate David singing it to himself on his bunk a couple of hours after an assembly. What was surprising was the way in which he was singing it: "Let's get a little bit rowdy, D-O-W-D-R!" Let's also get a little bit illiterate, I guess. 15-20 years after that, I asked my friend Adam if he remembered the way David sang that song. Sure enough, he rattled off "D-O-W-D-R!" exactly as I had without any hesitation. Good times, good times.

As is tradition with camps such as this one, there were secret rites and ceremonies that had to be strictly followed. If I had to give a name to my camp's theme, I'd have to say that we were "pseudo Native American." (Either that or "shabby chic.") The counselors all have names like Running Bear, Broken Arrow, and my mom's favorite, Sudden Thunder. They told clearly-fake stories about how they got their names "from their tribes," and everything had the respect-Mother-Earth feel. Also, each meal started with the whole camp saying, "Oh great spirit in this hearth, may the flame of friendship always burn." Basically, it was all done in the spirit of shaloha.

The one ritual that I recall most clearly is the end-of-the-week ceremony. Each cabin had one kid nominated to be Straight Arrow (which now sounds a lot like "straight and narrow" to me but didn't at the time). It was usually the kid who did something good or just didn't piss the higher-ups off too much. Then in the ceremony, some kids are "honorable mentions" and sit back down, while two runners-up and the week's Straight Arrow stay up there. The Straight Arrow is handed a specially decorated arrow to keep as a reminder of this awesome honor. The three kids then go up one of the mountains with a couple of counselors, learn the secrets of the camp, and then come back down with paint on their face and a vow of silence until the morning.

My very first week at the camp, I was nominated from my cabin and had no idea what was going on. I was relieved to be handed my honorable mention certificate and sit back down. A couple of years later though, I must've done something right in the eyes of the counselors. My name was called as Straight Arrow, and I gladly followed the counselors to a secret little fire pit up in the mountains. Bursting with anticipation, I sat on the bench and awaited all of the secrets of the camp. "So," began one of the counselors (named Puma), "what do you guys wanna know?" I already knew almost all of the counselors' real names, but there were a few I hadn't gotten yet. They willingly forked over the info. "What else?" Puma (Anthony Ferguson) asked. We sat there in silence for a minute, before one of the runners-up spoke. "Is the story of One-Eyed Willie real?" "No, that's just a ghost story," was the reply. We were stumped. The highest honor in all of camp, and we couldn't think of anything good to ask. With that, they applied the ritualistic paint on our faces and told us not to speak again until sunrise. We agreed and went back down to the cabins.

When I got there, my friends thought it would be funny to keep asking me questions and to take my silence as confirmation of whatever they asked. Despite my violent head-shaking, they were laughing telling everyone which girls - and boys -I liked. There's nothing like good friends. I did fine with the no-talking thing, although I did open my mouth to speak when I unexpectedly ran into my friend Drew in the bathroom. (A year later, when Drew was Straight Arrow, he actually said a full sentence to us before sunrise. We agreed we wouldn't tell on his though, because it would be a plague upon our entire cabin.)

When my parents came and got me the next morning, I was happy to explain all of the dried paint on my face. It was a good time, and I hadn't thought about for a while. Basically, I was the top kid that week at camp, and it rocked. It was the highest honor they could bestow upon a camper, and not talking was my only official duty. Heh heh, I just said "duty."

Have a great day, everyone. Righties, cut your southpaw brethren a little slack today, ok? You get the rest of the year to show off how neatly you use scissors, wind your watches, and write in spiral notebooks without jabbing the wires into your arms. Today is ours, and we shall do it justice. See you tomorrow, folks.