FUF #33

Shaloha, friends, and good morning. You never close your eyes anymore when you read my post. That's right. you've lost that FUFing feeling. Whoa-oh that FUFing feeling. Yes, gentle readers, we're back again for another Follow Up Friday. If I can read numerals correctly, this is the 33rd of its kind. That's crazy-whack-funky, if you ask me. Being a FUF means that I shall ramble about things from previous posts, maybe ramble about completely unrelated items, and then bask in the glory of another Car Watch. Get comfy, because I'll include the stories from reader challenges (in Monday's comments) at the end and make this the longest FUF of all time. I've had enough ado so far this morning, so without further ado, let's launch right into this bad boy.

To begin, I posted a picture of an eye chart earlier this week. When I was searching for one on the goldmine that is Google Images, I first typed in the words "eye" and "chart." I know, I'm crazy like that. I found a few good ones but nothing that had the look I wanted. Basically, I wanted one that had the "DEFPOTEC" line showing. If that means nothing to you, congratulations. My family is weird, granted, but even I think it's bizarre that we all know that DEFPOTEC is a line on the standard eye chart. My bro can say it backwards quickly too, incidentally. So on a whim, I looked up "DEFPOTEC" on Google Images and a bunch of the same pictures and even better ones came up (including the one I eventually selected). Not only that, pictures and links from people talking about knowing that line came up and even a band with that name appeared. How do you like that: words and music coming together again for the FUF. I really enjoy that name, because it sounds like some cool European rock with some electronica mixed in but it's actually just a thing weirdos and nerds know.

Sacky Christi wrote me with a link to an article about the demise of the hyphen. Apparently there are several words that had hyphens but won't in the upcoming version of the Oxford English Dictionary. Here's the problem though: I don't think I would've put a hyphen in any of the words they mention. For example, they list "bumblebee," "leapfrog," "crybaby," and "logjam," amongst others. Listen, I'm as hyphen-crazy as the next guy, but if I wouldn't have considered them in those words, then that battle's been lost already for a long time.

A thought occurred to me. If I beat someone up, you could say I gave him a beatdown, correct? Why can't "up" and "down" get along like that with other words? "Wow, the Dodgers really gave a fuckdown to that pennant race." "Dude, I can't believe you complimented our boss on his cufflinks; maybe you could give him a bigger suckdown next time and say you like his cologne." What do think, guys? Will this new phrasing take off?

Ok, let's do a brief Car Watch now so I can get to the stories that some of you have been waiting for since Monday. This is going to be an all-Rockabye edition, because he really outdid himself this week in texting the hell out of my phone.

First, he saw a plate that read "IBSOBR." I sure hope so. Does the driver think that the plate will save him if he's swerving a little and the cop is on the fence as to whether to pull him over or not? "Whoa, looks like we've got a drinker here, let's turn on the - oh wait, nevermind, the guy's car says he's sober." Sure thing, buddy.

Rocakbye saw two bumper stickers on the same car. First, "Knitting is sexy." If you have to tell us that something is sexy, it probably isn't. Second, "Honk if you don't have gonads." He said it was for having your pets spayed or neutered, but I prefer to think that it's for eunuchs.

Here's an interesting license plate frame: "Honk if you're cute, bark if you're ugly." Does the driver really want either of those things to happen? It would be unsettling to have ugly people pull up beside me (or give me a pulldown, if you will) and start barking.

Lastly, in the category I often cite: "Divers do it Deeper." Nicely done, stranger.

Ok, it's story time. First, here's the one to address the gauntlet thrown down by loyal reader Wendy:

Right now

The sun is still low enough in the sky that I can look directly at it without hurting my eyes. Dawn in the big city is unlike any other time, and I’m taking all of it in. I bring the coffee to my lips and sip insouciantly, savoring my final few moments of solitude before I let my thoughts invade. Before long, the serene scene outside will give way to the cacophonous rumblings of industry and progress-for-progress-sake. Then I must turn from the hotel balcony and rest my hands upon the keyboard in hopes that something trickles down and out through them. If I just capture that one evanescent thought before it flees, I can rightfully count the day as a success. Right now though, right at this very minute, there is nothing but peace and anticipation behind my half-closed eyelids. I can see the crumpled piece of newspaper beside the trash can, the fractal of stones set in the street, and the steady blinking of hazard lights without contemplating them further. Right now they are only things and nothing more, but the spring in my mind is loading. Dawn in the big city: the archetype of potential energy.

Melissa’s was definitely harder because since the words were so bizarre, I had to sort of define them in the story so people would know that I was using them correctly. This one's a bunch longer, and in a very different tone.

Liam the Wanna-Be Shepherd

Once upon a time just outside of Dublin, there was a young man named Liam who was on the verge of beginning his own career as a shepherd. He came from a long line of shepherds, and it had been his goal to follow in his ancestors’ footsteps ever since he was a wee hobbledehoy who couldn’t hold a stick. There was one problem though: he only had one lamb and it was therefore mighty difficult to show off his skills. So he and his pet traveled throughout the region, hoping he might find someone who would hire him to tend to his or her animals.

After two unsuccessful weeks, he was on the verge of giving up when he heard a voice. “Oy,” it called, “oy, young man.” He turned, and an old scary man with a look of otherworldliness stood before him. “That’s a very fine lamb you have there. I wonder if you might be interested in striking a deal with an old man.” “Oh, I’m sorry sir, but she’s not for sale.” The old man lifted the brim of his hat a little, and Liam saw a glint in his eyes that could only be described as…magic. “Please allow me to make you an offer,” the old man said with an eerie yet still kind smile. “In exchange for your little cosset there, I can provide you with an unlimited supply of food for the rest of your life. I have…ways to do such things,” he said, and he tapped a long, yellowed fingernail on a glowing green gem set in his necklace.

“Oh, I don’t think I-” Liam started to say, but then he had a thought. “My whole life I shall spend working so that my family may have food. Think of all the things I could do if the food were already there! I’d hate to give up little Siobhan here, but it’s not as if she has helped me realize my dreams yet. Maybe she's even been holding me back.” Liam looked at his lamb and ran his hand through her mellifluous wool, knowing that this was probably goodbye. He glanced in the old man’s eyes, then down to his necklace, and then back up to his eyes. “Ok,” he said, “I’ll do it.” Immediately, the old man pointed at the lamb and she disappeared in a puff of smoke. “Where’d she go?” Liam asked. “That’s my business now,” the old man said, without even a trace of the gentle ambience he exuded just seconds before. “Enjoy your sustenance,” he said with a wry grin, and then he too disappeared. All that was left in his place was a single ceramic bowl.

From that day forward, all Liam had to do was tap the bottom of the bowl and it would instantly fill with porridge. It was never anything else, just bland and disappointing porridge. He missed Siobhan, and he knew after day one of his new life that his pyrrhic victory was definitely not worth the price he paid. Worse yet, his dull diet combined with his yearning for his fluffy companion had caused the oddest form of synesthesia for him: every time he saw wool or even a wool-like substance, he would immediately taste porridge in his mouth. It was a cruel trick of the mind, forcing him to constantly relive the worst decision he’d ever made in his life.

All was not lost, however. Liam found that he felt better when telling others about his tale of woe. Eventually, his friends convinced him to write an autobiography, and it soared to the top of the best-seller lists. He made enough money from his book that he was able to smash the ceramic bowl and buy himself 20 sheep for some recreational shepherding. The name of the book: “Where There’s a Wool, There’s a Whey.”

On that note, have a great weekend folks. I'll be in Vegas for a conference on Monday and Tuesday, so my posting times may be off, but I'll be here as soon as I can. Please feel free to comment on anything and/or write to ptklein@gmail.com.

Musically speaking

It is morning, and it is good. Therefore, I can say "good morning" without even a hint of malfeasance. All feasance here, baby. So chickity check this out: I wrote about certain song lyrics yesterday, and I'd like to continue with that and keep this hey-look-it's-a-theme going strong. I'll give you to the count of three to speak your mind and alter my path before I continue on. One...two...three. Suckas! It is so on.

Ok, here's the deal: I love words, especially those which are well-placed near other ones. I love music, especially the kind that connects with me in one way or another. Therefore (much like my "good morning" equation earlier), it's safe for you to assume that I have a particular fondness for good song lyrics.

I remember having a conversation with my friend Lisa years ago about this. She asked which was more important for me to like a song, the music or the lyrics. At the time I said the lyrics, but I'm here to rescind that a little. Without a doubt, I will love a song for my entire life if the lyrics move me or make me think. However, I can hear the Beatles belt out "Why Don't We Do It in the Road" over and over again and it doesn't stop me from liking the song. If the music is well done or particularly catchy and the lyrics aren't horrible, I can still easily like the song. After all, I like "Dominique" by the Singing Nun and I don't understand a word of it (besides "Dominique").

At the same time though, I'm a lyrics snob. I've used this space to decry the songwriting of both Alannis Morissette and Joan Osborne loudly enough that you'd think they personally assaulted me. Here are a couple of stories about me and lyrics that I'd like to share.

In 1989, the New Kids on the Block had a hit song with "Hangin' Tough." I remember hearing it on the radio with my mom and telling her I didn't like it when they sang, "Get loose everybody 'cause we're gonna do our thing/'cause you know it ain't over til the fat lady sings." "That's a real phrase though," she said, thinking that I didn't like it because it didn't make sense to me. What I didn't have to vocabulary for as a 12 year-old was that I didn't like it because it was way too easy and trite. Anyone can use an entire line of a song on a long, very common phrase, so this wasn't anything special. To top it off, those two lines are the only two lines in the verse before they go back into their chorus which is comprised solely of "Hangin' tough" and several "ohs." It was catchy and popular, but I didn't like that they took the easiest road possible with those lines.

My second story involves one of my favorite bands. I was just recently telling this story to my co-worker Rob, and I realized in the middle of telling him that it was a pretty telling story about my relationship with lyrics. When Counting Crows burst onto the scene with "Mr. Jones" during my high school years, I liked that song. I didn't love it, but it was good enough that I picked up a copy of the cd one night while out with my friend Jon and a girl named Sara. We got back to Jon's place, and Sara said that she needed to talk to Jon privately for just a minute. I went into his brother's room and waited. After it was apparent that it would be more than just a minute, I opened up the cd. This was still the early 90s though, and his brother didn't have a cd player in his room. I know, the horror. So I sat there for the next hour reading and re-reading the lyrics to songs I'd never heard and fell in love with them. Specifically with "Anna Begins" and "Round Here," I said to myself, "It almost doesn't even matter what the music is like. These are some of my very favorite songs already." It was poetry, it was beautiful, and it made me not care at all that my friend was probably making out with a pretty hot girl on the other side of the wall. That's some powerful shit, my friends. When I got home that night, the accompanying music didn't disappoint, and that cd hasn't budged from its extremely high position on my all-time favorite list (which doesn't actually exist).

Lastly, and briefly, the same Jon made me a cd with some songs he thought I'd like. I popped it in and gave it a listen while driving home from work. A song started by the Alkaline Trio, who I'd hadn't yet heard of. I looked at the hand-written case and saw that this was one of four or five songs by them on there, so I hoped I liked it. When the second verse started with, "If you're up to your ears/in blood-" I had a quick thought. "If he says 'blood, sweat, and tears' here, I don't think I'm going to like this band." It kept playing: "In blood, sweat, and wasted years." I was thrilled. Not only wasn't it the trite phrase anyone else could've thrown in there, but it was a nice turn of that same phrase, telling me that I could trust them to do this thing right. That song and the others are indeed good, and I guess Jon knows my taste.

Ok, really "lastly" now, I'd be remiss if I ended this post on lyrics without mentioning the Indigo Girls. Not only are they my lovely wife's favorite band, but Amy and Emily are fantastic lyricists. Their songs are so packed with good lyrics, that half of one line in a verse of the song "Ghost" is, "I am baptized by your touch." If almost any other band thought of that powerful phrase (seriously, absolving someone of Original Sin with a touch is a pretty loaded metaphor), they would've built the entire song around it. It would've been the first and last line of each chorus, the name of the song, and probably the name of the album. They're so good that they can afford to put it where it might get missed.

Ok, I'm going to stop here because I went on longer than expected. Here's the moral of my stories: Lyrics - good lyrics - mean a lot to me. There's a reason I like Bob Dylan, and it sure as hell ain't his voice. Bad lyrics, therefore, piss me off more than they probably should because I take personal offense to them. "Really, Train, you're gonna rhyme 'life' with 'life' and 'life' in your chorus? Fuck you." Ok, I'm really stopping now before I get my blood pressure up again.

Have a great day, gentle readers. I'll be here tomorrow with another Follow Up Friday, including a story to meet the challenge that reader Wendy presented in the comments section of Monday's post. See you then.

Timely tunes

Ok, so here we are on another Wednesday. In the past, I've often tried to write about words on Wednesdays in order to force the alliteration of Wacky Wordy Wednesday upon you, but I don't know about this time. I already wrote about words on Monday and Tuesday, so maybe some of you are looking for a change of pace. I'm not sure I'm ready to switch gears yet, but I have to decide quickly before my babbling becomes too lengthy.

As I try to find a topic for the day, I wanted to briefly comment on two songs currently playing on some stations here in L.A. First off, the Foo Fighters have a song out called "The Pretender" right now. Aside from the fact that chorus reminds me (and I'm sure a whole bunch of other folks) of a Sesame Street song, there's one line that I really approve of: "I'm what's left; I'm what's right." I truly enjoy that usage, and I tip my hat to Mr. Grohl (if he indeed writes their lyrics). The second song I want to talk about is by the band Interpol. I was listening to it and thought it was catchy, and the dj at the end say, "That was Interpol with 'No I in Threesome.'" What a great title! Coming from someone who spends way too much time looking at what letters comprise what words, I think that's glorious. I just heard the song again this morning, and the part that I thought said, "Let us be free" might actually be, "Let us be three." Eeeenteresting.

Aha! And like that, a topic was born. No, not threesomes, but rather words and music. Sorry if that disappoints you...sicko. If I'm reading the calendar correctly, today should be September 26th. Therefore, I expect to hear Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" about a dozen times before Monday rolls around. The stations tend to do that kind of thing, and while I understand why, it can still be a bit of overkill.

In a couple of months, get ready for "A Long December" by Counting Crows to be all over the air waves. It's a great song on a great album, and I'll prepare myself by purposely not playing it in my car for at least a month prior to December. If we're lucky and get some rain during that time, I'll expect to find Guns N' Roses singing "November Rain" at least twice that day (plus the obligatory headlines on the news referencing that song).

And then we have the days-of-the-week songs. It makes me wonder if Mama Cass ever thought, "I'm glad 'Monday Monday' became a hit, but I didn't realize that it would only be played on one-seventh of the days." I'd like for you to keep your ears out, gentle readers, and report back to me if you'd be so kind. Do any stations play that song or "Manic Monday" by the Bangles on any day other than Monday? How about the Carpenters' "Rainy Days and Mondays," for that matter? Technically, they should at least be able to play that one on a rainy Wednesday, right?

While we're on that specific topic, I feel like I've heard the Cure's "Friday I'm in Love" on many days of the week, but I need to pay attention now. They do mention all seven days in the lyrics (even if the weekend days have to wait until the bridge), so they really shouldn't feel too pressured to limit that one to Friday.

Lest we forget, here is the granddaddy of this topic: Prince's "1999." The song was in a normal rotation for years before December of 1998 kicked it into hyperdrive. That whole year, it was on somewhere at all times. When December of 1999 came, I'm pretty sure it set some records by being played a ridunkulous amount of times. (I still don't get why he says, "Two thousand zero zero" though. Isn't that 200,000?) I'm pretty sure I won't be around to witness it, but Zager and Evans will have their day in the sun when "In the Year 2525" breaks the radio playlist record. Ya know, if they still have radios then.

You know what I should do? Cement my legacy right now. I should write a catchy but not too trendy song about 2015. I can find plenty of good rhymed with "fifteen" while also being able to use the "one-five" pronunciation to rhyme with "feel so alive" or something. That's right, we're going to celebrate like...ooh, I just thought of something even better! I don't use exclamations lightly, folks, so you should take note of that one. It's a lot harder to rhyme with 20 (which I believe I've already tackled in this space), but check this shit out: I write a song about how clearly I can see my future and have it full of 20-20 double-meanings. Oh yeah, it's so on. Since I actually have perfect vision, I can write directly from the heart, and that always helps the audience connect more.

Why stop there though? While I'm inventing a new career for myself as a songwriter, let's get the less-represented days in the mix. I can hear the chorus already: "But everything will be alright/When I'm with you on Thursday night." I may need to add a line about being a little sluggish on Friday morning for work but being totally worth it. Yeah, that's the ticket. Now I just need to learn how to write music and then wait for the dough to start pouring in. This is going to kick so much ass. (My spellchecker suggested "kick so many asses" instead, which I find delightful.)

Last but certainly as far from least as possible, I want to welcome two new humans to the world with whom I expect to be close. On Sunday, my cousins Daniel and Beth had a little girl named Bailey, and then yesterday our good friends Lisa and Paul had a little boy named Nolan. Congratulations to both families, and I can't wait to meet the new additions.

Have a great day, everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for another Sorry Honey It's Thursday post. Go shorty, it's a Thursday; we gonna party like it's a Thursday. Sorry.

Contextual orientation

Top of the frickin' morning, y'all. I'm back and badder than ever (also knows as "worse than ever). One of my favorite rap lyrics of all time is when Run DMC refers to a big bad wolf and then tells us, "Not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good." You know your slang is having issues when you have to spell out that you don't mean the exact opposite of what you're trying to say.

In yesterday's post, I wrote more about my fondness for playing around with words. Somewhere in there I mentioned that words can be powerful. While we all know that words can start revolutions and yadda yadda yadda, I was referring more to the fact that word choice in conversations can have a subconscious yet profound effect on people. The penis mightier than the sword, indeed. Damn, where'd the space bar go when I needed it?

Much like a hot plate at a Mexican restaurant, I've very briefly touched on this subject before. Now, though, I shall now expand my thoughts. (Cue the expanding sound.) While working for Orientation, we were hyper-sensitive when it came to the language that we used on a daily basis. For example, we referred to the students as men or women instead of boys or girls. This may seem like either an obvious or a negligible distinction to you, but we had our reasons. The parents at these orientation sessions were often not completely at ease yet with the thought of their "babies" leaving home and living without them. By referring to them as men and women, the idea was to (even subconsciously) subtly remind the parents that their babies were adults. I'd often have the students themselves tell me, "But I still call myself a girl, so what's the big deal with insisting I'm a woman?" I understood their point, and if they were failing to grasp mine, I'd ask, "If you made the basketball team, what team would you be on?" They'd think for a moment and then say, "Yeah, the women's team." "It was the girls' team in high school, but you're now men and women and we will treat you as such." I know, I dole out such tough love. A lot of it was empowering them to start acting like adults as well. If they wanted to go get a burrito at 2am, no one would be calling and asking why they hadn't finished their homework yet. With great power comes great responsibility, no?

The other word choice we'd use is one that I still think of with great frequency. Students would always want to know how to "get out of" or "get rid of" certain requirements. My fellow professional staff members and our student workers used different vocabulary though. "And this is how to satisfy that requirement" we'd say. Sometimes we'd use "fulfill" as well, but the point was always the same: we were using words with positive connotations instead of negative ones to plant whatever seeds we could.

There were yet more choices that we consciously made in our daily speech, but they were of a different variety. There were departments that preferred to be referred to in a certain manner, and as some of the first people these new students would be meeting, it was our job to follow through on that. The largest one in this category involved "dorms." The Office of Residential Life wanted the buildings referred to as "residence halls," because that gave more of a community feel to the living area instead of just the rooms themselves. In their defense, they did have tons of programming and offered much more than just a place to crash from 2am to 9am.

This insistence on using certain vocabulary led to some hilarious discussions with parents. Here is a sample one that probably happened word for word a hundred times in my five years total with Orientation:

Parent: Are kids allowed to drink in the dorms?
Me: No, students are not allowed to have alcohol in the residence hall rooms, and there are Resident Assistants and professional staff there to enforce the rules.
Parent: What if a kid is caught with alcohol?
Me: Students caught with alcohol are written up and then subjected to rules of conduct for the residence halls.
Parent: How many kids are in the dorms?
Me: It varies, but this residence hall has around 400 students in it.
Parent: Do boys and girls live next door to each other in the dorms?
Me: Some residence halls have special interest floors in which men and women can be next door neighbors, but the rooms and bathrooms are always either all male or all female?
Parent: Will my kid be next door to a boy?
Me: You'll have to ask your student whether she is on an all-woman floor or not.

And so it would go, almost indefinitely. Boys? Men. Dorm? Residence Hall. It got to be such a running joke with us that as soon as we'd get behind closed doors, we yell, "Boys and girls have sex and do drugs in the dorms while they get rid of requirements!" To us, that was high comedy. To you, eh, maybe not so much.

Ok, I think that's it for now. Have a great day, gentle readers, and please write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all. I've said it before and I really mean it now: I am near the very end of things to write about, so fire away and maybe something will stick and give me enough blog fuel to extend this thing for another week or so. Thanks and shaloha.

Some choice words

Why hello there, homemen and homewomen. I don't know where that came from, but I like it quite a bit. I guess homeboys should grow up eventually, right? I have to remember to use that more often. "I was talking to my homeman Greg last night..." It will likely confuse the hell out of people though. "Oh, is he your realtor or something?" No, you silly hypothetical person not understanding my hypothetical conversation with you. I don't think we should hypothetically hang out anymore.

It should come as no surprise to any of you who have visited UOPTA more than once that I enjoy the world of words. They're simultaneously powerful and fun to play with, much like a bear cub. (I could've gone many, many ways with the end of that sentence, but you should trust me that "bear cub" was a much better choice than other things that I was tempted to write.) Today I shall write more about the "playing with them" side of things, as I am wont to do.

In college, I took four different creative writing courses, and I loved them all. I've always had an easy time with form, and meter's always made my heart grow warm. So in the beginning of my second class, I started challenging myself to do more. For example, I wrote a sonnet about waltzing and made the rhyme scheme ABC ABC ABC ABC DD as a way to mimic the 1-2-3 beat of a waltz. I know I just lost half of my audience, but if you follow me at all, you hopefully see what I'm talking about. This ended up backfiring just a little, because by the end of the quarter, people were guessing what I "really meant" in some poems in which I'd actually been straightforward. That's ok, because the exercise was almost always just for my own personal gratification.

As my mother reminded me recently, wordplay has been a big part of my life since I was a kid. In 7th grade, I had an English class with one Mrs. Greenberger. (The next year, incidentally, I had Mrs. Bluestein. I've confident that if I had stayed there for 9th grade, they would've hired someone named Mrs. Yellowbaum to keep the color-and-Jewish-suffix streak alive.) She would provide us with a list of vocabulary words each week, and we would have to do the same thing each time. First we'd define each one, and then we'd have to make up a story that included at least five of them in there. I loved this, and I wish someone still gave me a task like that every week. I don't have any of those stories left, and but my parents and Mrs. Greenberger herself thought they were great. I almost felt like a professional athlete or actor might in that I was doing something that I loved and other people were getting joy from it. Ya know, minus the millions of dollars of course.

In high school, crazy lady Mrs. Dunlop gave us vocabulary lists as well. She just wanted us to define them and then write one sentence for each. This didn't afford me too much room to maneuver creativity-wise, but I did what I could to still have some fun with it. I remember some of the words from that year because I think of my exact sentences every single time they come up in conversation. Here they are:

Ephemeral: The ephemeral mayfly's life expectancy is only 24 hours.

Ubiquitous: In the movies, Superman is portrayed as ubiquitous whenever danger occurs.

Formidable: Ron rolled up his sleeve to show off his formidable bicep.

Cumin: My health-conscious aunt ate the whole family's cumin.

I know none of those are earth-shatteringly original or anything, but those full sentences have accompanied those words in my head for the past 16 years. That's a long time to have the same words floating around, don't you agree?

The next year, I forced my wordplay upon my friend Jon. Back then, he was still in his shell a little and I was the outgoing one of the two of us. An MFA in Acting later, I think the roles have switched a bit. In any case, he had a history assignment in which he had to write about Abraham Lincoln's decision-making in the time of the Civil War. I was over at his place, and I suggested that we have some fun with it. He was against the idea at first, but when I offered to implement my ideas (i.e. do his work for him), he eventually acquiesced.

My idea was to find two random words and somehow incorporate them into the two-page essay. I kept flipping through the dictionary and pointing blindly, but the first few attempts landed me on very common words which weren't any fun. Then I hit "aquifer," a word neither of us had heard of or really have since. Our friends at Merriam Webster tell us that it means, "a water-bearing stratum of permeable rock, sand, or gravel." Naturally, I constructed a contrived sentence about Lincoln using his generals like disseminate his instructions, much like an aquifer delivers water. Did it make sense? Not really, no, but he let me keep it in there.

I then opened Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night," which I have since come to know and love through the years. After a few attempts, I landed on the lovely "cross-gartered," which is how Malvolio dressed up for Olivia because the fake love note told him to. In any case, there was no way to easily associate someone wearing garters with our buddy Abe, so I changed its definition to one meaning "confused." I said something about conflicting reports leaving Lincoln feeling cross-gartered and unsure of how to proceed. Again, Jon let me leave it in there. I'm not positive, but I seem to recall a red circle around that and a "Word choice?" comment in the margins. I didn't care though; I had fun with it and it wasn't my grade being affected.

So there you go, homepeople. My wordnerdiness has been around for a while, and all signs point to it remaining with me indefinitely. Have a good day, and I shall be back here again tomorrow. Feel free to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything in the meantime. Shaloha, friends.

FUF #32

Good morning, or "goof morning," as I first typed it. If you printed out this post, sent it back in time 40 years and introduced it to the notion of Flower Power, then I think you could rightfully say, "We've got a groovy kind of FUF." You can't argue with the facts, man. Yes, it's another Follow Up Friday, and I think you might know what that means by now. In case you don't, I'm going to ramble about some stuff, ramble amount some different stuff, then get down to the dulcet tones of the Car Watch.

On Monday's post about my trip to Vegas with my lovely wife, I wrote about trying the "$20 tip upgrade trick." My mom called me later and asked if I felt sleazy doing that. Absolutely, but I think that even the sleaziest that I get is still very low on the Vegas Sleaze scale. My mom and I both agreed that my Grandpa Leo's advice of, "You don't ask, you don't get" has proven to be true several times. My buddy Jon and I once got to our room in Vegas only to find that it hadn't been cleaned yet. I went back down to registration, and as they were apologetically finding us a new room, I asked if there were any upgrades available. She checked and then said, "No, I'm sorry, but I can give you some food credit at the buffet." I thanked her, and we ended up with about $50 worth of food just because I asked.

In yesterday's post, I mentioned watching the Lakers as a kid. It reminded me of a little story that I don't think I can stretch into a full post. This is the place for such stories. While working at UCSB, I was a T.A. for a freshman course that introduced them to the roles and values of things like critical thinking and diversity in a university setting. Each T.A. had a student co-leader, and there was a selection process for those interested in becoming a co-leader. The night of the group interview, we were all encouraged to interact with the applicants to get a feel for who we'd like to work with. I was in a group with four hopefuls, and we were given the instruction to talk about a happy memory from our childhood. They all looked at me and asked me to go first. I had a happy childhood, so it was pretty tough to choose just one thing. "Well," I said, "I'd have to say that the year of 1988 was especially happy for me. Sports are big in my family, and that year saw the Lakers repeat as champions (when no one had done that for decades) and the Dodgers win the World Series, including Kirk Gibson's dramatic homerun. The four of us got a lot of shared joy out of those moments." They all nodded, and then a young woman spoke up. "I grew up very poor with my mom and four older siblings. When I was 15, she bought me a pair of jeans, and it was the first time that I had a new article of clothing that was just mine. It was a very special moment and I'll never forget it." And like that, I felt like privileged and shallow asshole. The other students' stories were much more similar to hers than mine. If I had gone last, I might've chosen something different that sounded more heartfelt and played it up a bit. Still, '88 was a fun year for me and I'll stand by my story. Go Lakers and Dodgers!

My lovely wife just obtained a copy of a cd by Evanescence. In their previous cd, their biggest hit had a guy repeating, "Can't wake up" several times throughout the song. He's no longer in the band and therefore not in this cd she just got, so I said, "I wonder if leaving the band has cured his...unsomnia? Somnia?" She didn't know what the right term would be, but now that I think about it, "coma" might be right.

Are you ready for some Car Watch action?

I saw a plate that read "AZN BABE" in traffic on the freeway. I made sure I could get a good look at the driver, and she was in fact an attractive Asian woman. I was impressed by her self-awareness.

Next, I was behind a car with "ISLBSKT" as its license plate. I really don't know what it is and I'm asking for your opinions. I feel like it has to be either "I sell basket," "I sell biscuit," "Isle biscuit," or something totally obvious that I'm missing. Help me out, yo.

Now this one I understood fine, but I still had a problem with it: "BSBL PHD." Really, buddy? You're going to put that on your vehicular resume for the world to see, knowing that any cursory background check would prove you to be a liar? I think that's careless, personally.

Last FUF, my homey Rockabye sent in a plate that misused the heart symbol on a plate. I saw one this week that isn't quite as good, but it still caught my eye (hence Car Watch). "MYKDZR(Heart)," it read. Either her kids are heart or her kids are love, and either way I am piss off.

My favorite brother called me to tell me about a license plate frame he was behind. It was on a Saturn, and it proclaimed, "My Saturn Will Kick Uranus." I actually approve of this one, even though it's an overused pun and it doesn't fully work as well as the driver probably hoped. The moral of the story: Peter finds the word "anus" funny.

But oh, I'll take misguided puns over misguided-hyper patriotism any day. Rockabye saw a plate that read, "USAFYEA." In case you missed that, it's short for, "U.S.A. Fuck yeah!" I wonder if he or she knows about the "America, Fuck Yeah" song in "Team America: World Police" making fun of uber nationalism. Damn, does anyone know where the umlauts are on this keyboard? I have an accentless resume and an umlautless uber. Hmmm, I see a fantasy sports team called The Umlautless Uber somewhere in my future. In any case, that same movie lampoons the "Freedom isn't free" sentiment. They agree that it isn't free and say it costs $1.05 (and if you don't pay it, who will?). Quality flick.

Ok, friends and friends of friends, it's time for me to head out. It's my Grandpa Harold's birthday this Sunday, and I'll tell him you all wish him a happy one. I'm good like that. Have a great weekend, and I'll see you back here on Monday.

Might as well face it

Greetings and salutations, mis amiguitos. I hope this morning finds you well, and I hope that the coffee finds my brain very soon or this could get messy. I've only written as Pre-Coffee Peter (affectionately known as PCP) once before, and I'm pretty sure it was even more disjointed than usual. One very good thing has already come from this paragraph though: I was going to write about something completely different but have caused myself to veer off into another direction. I love it when that happens. It makes my dwindling list of things to write about stop dwindling for a day. Today, we shall be dwindle-free.

Today's story is about my relationship with coffee. Wonderful, loveable, kind coffee. Like with many relationships, there have been some rough patches, but love conquers all. Let me start by taking you back in time. Oh yeah, did I mention that I can do that now? It's a pretty powerful tool, so I try not to overuse it.

As a child, instant coffee was always around. Even at a fairly young age, I enjoyed the taste and would sometimes have a cup of decaf while watching a Laker game with my family. I guess the real positive association started back then, sitting with my family as Magic, Kareem, Worthy, Byron, Rambis, A.C., Coop, and the rest of the crew tore up the Western conference. It was a golden era, and an awesome time to be a kid in L.A.

Once high school came around, I was drinking a cup of coffee every morning. My parents' house has a special tap in which near-boiling water comes out, and it just made the java-imbibing process way too easy. I never felt that the caffeine was having any real effect on me, and I tested this theory at times. On weekends, my friends and I would sometimes go to Denny's and split some appetizers or desserts and just generally hang out. Yeah, we were real party animals. I'd get coffee, and it quickly became a challenge to see how many cups I could have in a given night. I remember having nine one evening, and then I went home and fell asleep half an hour later. I don't know if my body was just in shock, but I wasn't even slightly jittery.

And then, one night while staying at a friend's uncle's place in San Diego during our winter break, the wheels came off. I had about seven mugs of strong coffee, and then I wasn't feeling so hot. It hit me hard, and I even felt a little pain where I think my kidneys reside. I laid on the couch all night in discomfort and hoped I'd be ok the next day. I wasn't; I was worse in fact. My head was pounding like it never had before, and I spent the next three days basically glued to the couch with my hand on my head in hopes that it could somehow relieve the pressure. I was having serious substance withdrawals.

They say that for heroin users, the ritual of preparing the drug and everything pre-use is a huge part of the actual addition. I fully understand how that can be the case. When I have a warm mug in two hands and slowly bring it up to my mouth, it's a feeling that I can only describe as comforting and right. That said, I made a decision right then and there: no coffee for six months. No regular, no decaf, none of the hot brown goodness that had brought me so much joy. Six months from that date would be my high school graduation, and that seemed to make sense somehow. After that, I would make a decision on how to proceed.

Time passed, and I handled it remarkably well. Coffee still smelled great to me, but I had no problem sticking to my guns. The hardest part was that drinking coffee had become such a part of my identity that I felt a little like a stranger to myself. When the night of graduation rolled around, I treated myself to a single cup of decaf. I had proven that I could do it, and that was my reward. Going forward, I would drink only in moderation.

During college, I started drinking a cup or two again every morning, but no more benders in the evenings. I wasn't addicted again, and I say that because I didn't have coffee on Saturdays or Sundays and got through them without any headaches. After college though, we had a coffee maker and it became an everyday thing again. I still only drank it in normal quantities, but I could feel the onset of a headache coming if I slept in on Saturday and didn't brew some joe right away.

I think that's where I am now. I drink coffee daily and love it, but I feel the effects and limit myself to a normal amount. I will sometimes have a little more in the morning or an extra cup in the afternoon if I'm particularly dragging, but I don't get crazy. I know that with a good bottle of Advil, I could stop drinking coffee again whenever I choose, but I don't see myself making that choice unless a doctor strongly recommends it. It's just too good.

Hello, my name is Peter, and I loves me some coffee. Have a great day, friends. If you have anything at all that you feel like sharing, ptklein@gmail.com is just the place to do it.

A time of the signs, part 2

Hello again, my friends. Glad to have you with me on this Wednesday. Seriously, I don't make that shit up. When I left you mid-story yesterday, a campus police officer had just noticed the stolen signs around my room. Remember that? Wasn't that fun? Without further ado, here is the conclusion to that story. There will be no further commercial interruptions.

The officer continued questioning the young lady, who had started to come down from her massive amounts of hallucinogens. She didn't ask her any of the questions that television officers would've asked, but rather seemed to chat to determine if there was any medical danger of any sort. Upon concluding, the officer turned back to me. "Normally I'd be filing a 'Stolen Items' report instead of an 'Items Found' one," she said. "I'll talk to your Residence Director about this and let him decide how you should be punished. This was a unique situation since you were actually helping someone, so I won't get us further involved in this matter." She took all of the laminated signs with her and left. I thanked her profusely for her leniency, especially since I knew the RD well and couldn't see him throwing the book at us.

The next day, Rockabye and I went to the RD's office. His name was also Peter, but since he was about 6'5, everyone called him "Big Pete." He was a great guy, and I really should look him him up. (Oops, that was almost a commercial interruption. Sorry about that.) He couldn't help but smile a little as he told us, "Come on, you guys know better than that." He asked if the officer took everything or if we still had some property in our room that belonged to the University. "Well, she didn't take the Institute for Crustal Studies sign," I said, hoping that he'd say there was no harm in keeping it. I was wrong, though. We apologized again, and he let us off very easy. He told us to write a letter apologizing to that office and turn it in with the sign. That we could do, we said. As we were walking out, I turned back and asked, "Um, do we have to sign our real names?" He thought for a second, and then with an all-too-knowing smile, shook his head no. "Just apologize and turn it in."

For many folks, they would scribble "Sorry" on a sheet of paper and call it a day. My friends and I are not like many folks though, and we were looking forward to the task. So that night, we typed up a couple of paragraphs. I'm paraphrasing here, but it went a little something like this:

To Whom it May Concern:
There comes a time in which every man must face his own demons. For us, the demons took the form of the attached property that we are now returning to you. For weeks, we walked by this building and marveled at the sign that told of Crustal Studies - Crustal Studies, for Pete's sake!

Then the whispers started. We knew they were likely coming from the devil on our shoulder and not his angelic counterpart, but we could not ignore them. The whispers got louder and louder. "Take it," they said, "Take it. It should be yours." When our resistance wore down and we succumbed to the pressure, we freed the sign from its brick and mortar prison, and we started a new life with it in our home. But love and freedom were not enough for the sign, and so it must make its way back to you.

We apologize for taking what was never ours in the first place (despite the obvious connection) and for any inconvenience as people wandered aimlessly around campus in search of a place to study crust. It is with a heavy heart that we return this sign to you. We can only ask for your forgiveness and a promise that you will treat the sign well.

Apologetically,
The Crustal Bandits

For artistic reasons and a proper sense of closure, we slid the letter and sign under the door to the office at midnight. A week later, it was up again in the same place. This time though, it was joined by four screws to make a second heist more improbable. We could've done it, of course, had we not been reformed. Over the next five years, I smiled every time I saw the sign, and I couldn't help imagining the person's face who received our letter. He probably looked around briefly for any sign of someone near, then read the letter, shook his head, and said, "Fucking weirdos." Man I wish I could've been there.

So there you have it, gentle readers. My friends and I had a nice, peaceful relationship with the sign until drugs got in the way and screwed everything up. It's the standard American tragedy. See you tomorrow.

A time of the signs

Good morning, and welcome once again a Tuesday edition of UOPTA. These tend to actually fall on Tuesdays, so it's not just a catchy name (it's functional too!). I hope you all had bearable Mondays and are pleased to see 20% of the workweek already behind us.

As I wrote yesterday, my lovely wife and I drove back to L.A. from Las Vegas on Sunday. On the way there and back, the sign for Zzyzx Rd. always stands out. Not only is it just cool to see and say, but it reminds me of "Captain Zzyzx" and "Doctor Syntax," two books that I've ready by an author named Michael Petracca. One is a sequel to the other, but I'm not positive of the order right now. The sign also reminds me that my friend Adam once said that he wanted to throw a party somewhere in the middle of nowhere off that exit just because it would be a cool meeting place. Lastly, seeing that cool sign reminds me of my history with signs.

During my freshman year of college, my friends and I occasionally were known to...aw hell, there's no way to sugarcoat this, we stole signs around campus. It started off pretty harmless, really. If there was a laminated single sheet of paper taped to a door saying something that we thought was funny for one reason or another, it might end up in our backpacks. If a similar sign was just hanging out on top of some stanchions or leaning against a counter, we thought it might need a better home. I particularly liked ones with arrows on them in to help direct people in unnecessarily confusing hallways (like to the student mailboxes or the post office in the University Center). Over the first few months, we'd amassed a pretty nice collection of signs and put them up in our residence hall room as mini trophies.

And then, one day, we saw the Mother of All Should-Be-Stolen Signs. There, on a wall right outside the entrance to the Girvetz building, it called to us: "Institute for Crustal Studies." How were we supposed to resist something like that? There was a problem though: this was no flimsy, laminated sheet of paper. Au contraire, this was a large, hard plastic sign stuck to a brick wall with some very strong adhesive. We then had to make a choice. Either we allow ourselves to be content with walking by the sign and laughing from time to time, or we step up our game and plan a more difficult heist. Oh readers, you know me so well.

The night of the extraction arrived. Even though no one had been near that building since about 6pm, we decided that doing it at midnight would decrease our chances at being spotted (and it sounded way cooler too). We dressed in dark clothing, but not in all black, because that would be too conspicuous upon returning to our hall. With a couple of people watching the bike paths for any signs of movement, the others went to work. With a mini flashlight and screwdriver to use for chiseling and leverage, we slowly got through all four sticky corners. With half of the sign conspicuously sticking out of a backpack, we made it back to the room I shared with Rockabye and celebrated our victory.

A couple of months went by, and the sign was proudly displayed in our room (with all of the other liberated ones) and it was quite the conversation piece. "Where'd you get that thing?" people would ask. "I don't know what you're talking about," I'd say. "What are Crustal Studies?" they'd ask. "I prefer not to know," I'd say. "How is it that someone can be so wise and yet so humble at the same time?" they'd wonder. At least that's the sense I got; they were probably too shy to ask that one aloud.

One fateful night, things on our floor got a little different. A young lady with whom I was acquaintances and a friend of hers decided to get "really fucked up." I'm not a drug connoisseur by any means, so I had to take their word for it that taking a lot of vitamin C before doing 'shrooms would enhance the effect. (My previous experience with mushrooms was limited to Super Mario.) What I do know is that they were bombed out of their mind. It got so bad and uncomfortable for them that one of them asked their friends to call campus police. Someone thought it would be a good idea to separate them, so the friend (who I had never met before), was arbitrarily stationed in our room. She laid down on Rockabye's bed and sweated and cried as I spent about an hour telling her everything was going to be fine. She thanked me once every thirty seconds for keeping her calm, and eventually and officer showed up to check her out. I've never seen someone on drugs so excited about seeing the police, but she wanted an authority figure to tell her she wasn't going to die. Don't do drugs, kids.

The officer was a middle-aged woman who asked the young lady a series of questions and kept reassuring her that she'd be ok. I remember feeling impressed that the questioning seemed free of judgment and really just coming from a place of restoring order. She also thanked me for my help in this matter and keeping the young lady calm. As I started to tell her it was no problem at all, I saw her eyes start to scan the room behind my head. "I assume you're planning on returning these items on your walls," she stated. "Yes, officer," I told her. I thought to myself, "Well wouldn't that just be great if I get busted for being a good Samaritan?"

Dun dun DUN! Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion tomorrow, folks. I know you hate it when I pull that shit, but I'll take any opportunity to turn one post into two if there's a logical break in the action. See you back here tomorrow, homies.

Guessed services

Hello and good morning, you web browsers with web browsers. You see what I did there? I know, sometimes my grasp of humor overwhelms you. It's ok, you're not alone. Here's the deal, gentle readers. As I write this, my lovely wife and I have not yet left for our Las Vegas weekend. I know we're going to have a wonderful time, because frankly, that's what we do. What I don't know, however, is what the makeup of this weekend will be.

Allow me to explain. I've been to Vegas more times than I can count since I turned 21. As I've written before, my buddies and I used to go a few times a year because it was relatively easy to do so. I went once with my lovely wife about eight years ago, but every other time has been without her because Vegas just isn't her thing.

I can tell you almost exactly what would happen on an hourly basis this upcoming weekend if it were me and my homies. Since this is a little getaway just with the wifey, it's uncharted territory. It will be wonderful, but notably different from my last dozen trips. No six-hour stretches at the same blackjack table, no Burger King at O'Shea's at four in the morning. Our itinerary is as follows: Get there Friday, eat at a Japanese restaurant Amber's co-worker recommended, see Zumanity Saturday night, drive home on the early side Sunday to avoid traffic. That's all I got. Therefore, I shall spend this post predicting what will happen this weekend. Then, before posting this on Monday, I will go back through it and say how accurate/inaccurate my predictions were. After all, you can't spell "predicted" without Peter. That just leaves you with "dicd" and no one wants that. Below I will list the Powerfully Bold Prediction By Peter (PBPBP) followed by the Trip's Real Unfolding of Events (TRUE).

PBPBP: We hit the road, and although there were a lot of cars around us, everything was still moving at a good pace. We realized that we probably could've made it to Barstow with the amount of gas we have, but since Amber had to pee, we stopped earlier to fill up and then again in Barstow for some food. We saw a Subway, but I seemed so happy with the thought of going to Del Taco that Amber talked herself into getting a chicken taco that ended up being decent. We got back on the beast that is the 15, and everything went smoothly until it slowed a little around Baker. It picked up again for a bit, and then remained steadily decent until we hit traffic in the outskirts of Vegas itself.

TRUE: I'm already wrong right out of the gates. Traffic was actually fine the whole way, so I got that going for me. My wife's bladder gave a record-setting performance though. Not only did we get to Barstow without her needing to pee, but she said she could wait all the way to Baker (another 60-odd miles). Also, we had enough snacks that we didn't eat anything except a cup of frozen yogurt. I was way off. I was right about me liking Del Taco at least.

PBPBP: I sucked up my discomfort and tried the "$20 upgrade trick," in which one folds a $20 in between the license and credit card while checking in and asks, "Are there any complimentary upgrades available?" The young gentleman checked but said they were unfortunately at capacity and he couldn't help me out. At least he returned the cash.

TRUE: Much closer this time; almost perfect in fact. I did suck up my discomfort and attempt the trick. There were no upgrades available and I did get the cash back. The only difference was that it was with a young lady instead of a young gentleman. She reacted as if every single person tries that trick, so I felt a little dumb, but that's ok.

PBPBP: The room was notably nicer than the last few I'd stayed in, and we put our stuff down and washed up a little. We then walked around the MGM for a while, and I sat down at a $10 blackjack table with $100 in chips. I hovered around even for a while, got down to $40 and made Amber uncomfortable, then cashed out with $80 at the end of the next shoe. Worth the price of entertainment, but I should've gotten something when the cocktail waitress came by.

TRUE: The room was notably nicer than the last few I'd stayed in, and we put our stuff down and washed up a little. We then walked around the MGM for a while, and we each put a $20 into some video poker machines. Unlike normal Vegas visitors, we cashed out once we were both ahead for a combined profit of $50. More than worth the price of entertainment (since they paid us), and we each had an Amstel Light.

PBPBP: We ate at the Japanese restaurant, and it was mighty tasty. Not as expensive as I would've imagined either. That's probably because I couldn't justify ordering much of their pricey alcohol when I can get it for a $1 tip just outside at the tables.

TRUE: The Japanese restaurant was more than just might tasty, it was spectacular. It seemed pretty expensive while we were ordering, but as far as nicer dinners go, the damage wasn't that bad. We split a large hot sake and talked about our food for the entire rest of the trip.

PBPBP: I gambled a little more that evening and was sitting at a net profit of $45. We walked around and looked at a couple of the nearby casinos that have sprung up since Amber's last trip to the Strip. We did a fair amount of people watching, successfully avoided the people trying to hand us porn pamphlets, and went to bed close to 1am, which is saying something since we got up in the 5s that morning.

TRUE: I gambled a little more that evening and we were sitting at a combined net profit of $75. We walked around and looked at a couple of the nearby casinos (Paris, New York New York, etc.) and were constantly accosted by massive cleavage. We did successfully avoid the porn handouts as predicted, although Amber thought it was unnecessary for me to say "No thank you" to each person instead of just shaking my head or ignoring them like everyone else did. We ended up going to bed somewhere in the 11s, which is hands-down a Peter-in-Vegas record. I often don't get there until 11 with my friends, and that's just when the stupid boy stuff gets rocking.

PBPBP: For Saturday, we spent about an hour and a half out at the pool in between breakfast and lunch. We walked around the Wynn, and I couldn't reach my friend who works there on her cell. We had an early dinner since Zumanity was at normal dinnertime. I mentioned that I knew where a Burger King was, but we ended up finding a little place in Paris to grab a sandwich. I think I would've preferred one at the BK Lounge, but it was ok.

TRUE: I'm off again, but hey, that's part of the point of this blog entry. I had no idea what to expect, so it makes sense that I'm not 100% accurate. We did go to the Wynn, but I didn't even try calling my friend. We also checked out the Venetian and some other casinos before grabbing lunch. I got Chipotle (mmmm, Chipotle) and Amber had a little Panda Express and some of my food. We hung out at the pool for a while and had a drink while watching drunk people act like morons (which is fun for both parties). For dinner, we ate at a Mexican restaurant in New York New York, right near where the show was.

PBPBP: Zumanity was great. Weird and highly-sexual, but great. The old dude next to me seemed a little more into it than I was comfortable with. The performers did things with the human body that most likely shouldn't be possible.

TRUE: Zumanity was enjoyable. Weird and highly-sexual, but enjoyable nonetheless. We knew it was the "sensual side" of the Cirque shows, so we were expecting a lot of suggestive acrobatic moves. While that was a part of it (and highly impressive), they also had some bizarre naked comedy routines thrown in there that confused me. No old dude next to me, so that's a big plus.

PBPBP: I gambled a little more that night and had a couple of Bud Lights before we headed back to the room, and I was now about even. I split 8s against a 6, and she hit to 21. Without that one hand, I would've still been ahead in the game. Amber played a couple of hands of blackjack but decided that she enjoyed nickel video poker more. She ended the night down $7.

TRUE: Nice try, Peter From Last Week. I played some blackjack and we played some video poker together, and we ended the night up $70. I had a couple Captain and Cokes, and we called it a night pretty early again. All told, I played less than half an hour of blackjack and won $85. Extrapolate that out, and I could make over $350,000 a year as a pro blackjack player (with weekends free, no less). Honey, I smell a career change.

PBPBP: Sunday morning, we packed up, grabbed a quick bite, and hit the road right before 10am. I thought about getting one more shoe of blackjack in but Amber reminded me that leaving even is like winning in Vegas. "They don't build these casinos by having people push," I added in agreement. Surprisingly, traffic was very light the whole way back, and that afforded us the luxury of vegging out for a couple of hours and doing laundry before having to get ready for the work-week. Ta-dah!

TRUE: Pretty close, actually. We grabbed a quick bite and headed out at almost exactly 10am. We each put in ten bucks for a final stab at video poker, figuring we'd either make more money or end up an even $50 for the trip. Yep, we ended up an even $50. Traffic was very light the entire ride, and we did a few loads of laundry to get all of that smoke out of the clothes.

So, my friends, that was the trip that was. The final verdict: We had a good time as expected. The trip was considerably different than ones with my friends, but it was nice to see what Vegas is like sober and well-fed. Even though she had a very nice time, Amber doesn't see herself wanting to go back anytime soon. Sometimes a little Vegas is enough to hold people over for a while. That said, she can totally understand how my friends and I have a blast every time.

I hope you all had wonderful weekends too, gentle readers. If any of you have seen Zumanity, please email me at ptklein@gmail.com with your thoughts on it. Have a great day, and I predict I'll see you here tomorrow.

FUF #31

Good morning. This post may be a little brief compared to previous ones, and I apologize. After, you may find yourselves thinking, "It must've been FUF, but it's oooover now." Ah yes, nothing like a little Roxette to get this party started. I personally prefer "She's Got the Look" by them, in case you were wondering. It's a Follow Up Friday, folks, so let's get right into some F'ing U, some random bullshit, and the almost unfathomably entertaining Car Watch.

I spent the largest part of the last two weeks talking about driving, and unaccustomed as I am to such things, some readers emailed me with stories about being pulled over. I think crazier things have happened, but I'm not positive. First, my mom wrote in to remind me that she's been pulled over three times and been let off the hook all three times. When speeding, she said that she was really sorry, and the cop let her go. She didn't stop for a pedestrian at a crosswalk and got pulled over for instance #2. She told the officer that his car was blocking her view of the person, and he let her off with a warning. The third time, she was clocked at 56mph in a 40mph zone and still no ticket. She swears there were no sexual favors involved, and I guess I have to take her word for it and assume she's just incredibly lucky.

RighterLady, my favorite reader from the Garden State, sent me a story about not getting a ticket as well. After having a horrible, horrible day at work, she was bawling in her car when she got pulled over. I'll let her tell it: "When I finally managed to explain to him what had happened, he not only passed on writing me a speeding ticket, but offered me a police escort home...apparently I was quite the mess...He made it a point to tell me, 'You know, when women cry I usually automatically write them a ticket, but your story is awful. I'm really sorry for what happened to you today. Are you sure you'll be ok?' Nice to know that I wasn't overreacting...." I wonder if he has a standard response for men crying.

On the flipside of the whole non-ticket thing, I have two reader stories. First, my dad knows someone whose wife received three tickets in one day. The first one for speeding, the second for rolling through a stop sign, and the last one for double-parking so she could run and put something into a mailbox. Call me crazy, but after two tickets in a day, I wouldn't get back in the car until the next morning, let alone double-park somewhere. Honestly, Wife of Friend of Dad, what were you thinking?

Lastly on this topic, my homey Rockabye didn't send me an email on this, but I remember him telling me about his brother getting two speeding tickets in a matter of 8 minutes. If memory serves, they were listening to a Matchbox 20 cd and had only gotten about one more song into it when there were more lights behind them. That's just shitty. Personally, I blame Matchbox 20.

Ok, ready for some random shiznit? My brother called me to say that he saw a staffing agency with a "Now Hiring" sign in their window. Way to go, guys. That's glorious.

Last Friday, I stepped up and helped my co-workers out in a time of need. After, I said to them, "You know why I did that? 'Cause I'm a team player. Oh! Check this out! Ready? (Ahem) And you can't spell 'team player' without Peter!" I was so proud of myself for realizing that while in the moment that I built it up a little too much. I still think that's pretty f'n cool though.

My friend Kelli Walters (who I mentioned last FUF) wrote me again thanking me for using her full name another time. She hopes that it increases the likelihood of her finding herself on Google instead of others with her name. "Suck on that, high school track star Kelli Walters!" she said. I'm glad to be of service, Kelli Walters. Kelli Walters.

Why does every store tell us that they're "conveniently located" somewhere? Convenient for whom, exactly? People who live nearby? Or is it convenient for us that they actually have a location? In truth, it would be inconvenient to hear about a store I want to check out and then learn that they don't exist. Those wily bastards.

I realized for the first time earlier this week that "dame" is almost certainly from "Madame." Did you guys already know this? It's probably either, "Yes, but I don't really care about those things" or "No, but I don't really care about those things." I think it's interesting that both "Madame" and "dame" have a positive and negative connotation each. One thing's clear: that Judi Dench is some dame. Hot damn.

And now, as if you're not already fully saturated with words about cars and driving, it's Car Watch time! (Cue the music. What's that, no music? Aw man.)

I looked over at the car next to me on the freeway two days ago, and the driver was wearing an eye patch over the only eye that I could see. I'm assuming the other one was viable and in the process of seeing the road, but I got over a lane just in case. Doesn't that throw one's depth perception off? I guess just as much as not having an eye, come to think of it.

I saw a sticker that read, "Die MTV Die." That's a pretty strong stance to take against a network. I would think "Don't Watch MTV" or "MTV Sucks" would get the point across without wishing death upon it.

You may recall that I enjoy seeing the "(Blank) Do It (Blank)" stickers, such as "Thespians Do It on Stage" and "Makeup Artists Do It on Your Face." Two have caught my eye recently. First, the un-punny "Italians Do It Better." This genre is usually so full of pun that it made me laugh to see just a blanket statement like that. The other was more commonly punned: "Environmentalists Do It for Future Generations." How true, how true.

I spied a license plate frame that made me chuckle: "I'm not speeding...I'm qualifying."

Ok, just a few more. My homey Rockabye saw a frame that read, "My other vehicle is UNMANNED." I'm hoping it's just something like a paper airplane and not an 18-wheeler.

He also saw a bumper sticker that he felt was dumb and I fully agree. "I L(Heart) Vermont." Really? Do you lheart it or do you llove it, because I can't tell. I lhate you.

Last and probably least, I saw a non-vanity plate that began with "4SKN" and my inner 14 year-old thought it was hilarious. The outer 30 year-old thought it was pretty funny too, I must say.

Ok, gentle readers, here's the deal. My lovely wife and I are driving to Vegas this afternoon for a weekend getaway. I just spent the last week writing about me not getting tickets, so I feel like I totally jinxed myself. Maybe by bringing that up, I'm actually reverse-jinxing myself and everything will be fine. Hmmm. My wife always tells me that "things don't work like that," but it sure was interesting to receive a jury duty summons a day or two after we discussed the lack of those in our lives recently. I'm just sayin'. Have a wonderful weekend, and I'll be conveniently located back here on Monday.

License and nervous breakdown, please

Good morning, my people. I hope this Sorry Honey It's Thursday finds you in good spirits. This, my friends,should be the final installment of the Klein Driving Chronicles, presented by...oh wait, I still don't have any sponsors. I have another story for you, so buckle up. Ha! Buckle up! Like a car! Oh man, I'm on fire today.

This one requires some back story, but if you hang on long enough, I promise I'll get to a part that involves a car. Deal? Cool. I was a pretty good kid growing up and managed to avoid trouble primarily by not actively seeking it out. That said, I wasn't a little angel the entire time either. As a very young adult during my early college years, I pushed the boundaries of legality a bit.

I drank a fair amount of alcohol in college; probably way more than some and definitely way less than others. When I was under 21 years of age, the act of getting the alcohol to drink was sometimes a challenge. If I went to a party where there were kegs,the standard practice was to watch my female friends get cups and ushered to the front of the line while my male friends and I waited patiently to see if we'd be allowed to partake. Of course, I knew some upperclassmen who were happy to help my group out from time to time, and we always appreciated that.

Then one day, my favorite brother gave me his old, expired driver's license. (Mom, don't worry, everything works out fine in the end.) Here's the thing: it didn't look like me, that kind of license wasn't current anymore, and it had expired over a year before he gave it to me. At least it didn't say "McLovin" on it. I'm a rule follower by nature, and so I wasn't sure if I was ever going to have the guts to try it out. Some older friends told me that certain liquor stores in the area would only glance at the license and not care at all that it was expired. After some encouragement from my friends and a couple of boring nights that we would've gladly spent drinking crappy beer, I decided to give it a shot.

The movies actually get this scene close to accurate. I walked in trying to look as calm as possible and picked up a few beverages. I added a pack of gum so that I was clearly not just there for alcohol, and then walked to the counter as if this was a very standard practice for me. I was maybe a little chattier than normal, but I thanked the guy and tried hard to just walk out normally without breaking into a sprint. It had worked, and a new age of underage drinking had begun. Over the next few months, I did the same thing every so often without any incident. Once or twice, the counter person commented that my license was expired, and I expertly said that I had the extension in the car if they wanted me to go get it. They always said it was ok and just to bring it next time. I was king of the fucking castle. And then, one Friday in the early evening, things didn't go quite as smoothly.

As was routine, I went to the liquor store that had served me well and then walked back to my car with a couple of plastic bags full of various bottles. I put the bags in the back on the floor behind the driver's seat and drove over to two friends' place to pick them up and head back to my apartment. Once they were in, we were on our way for what would only be about a two-minute ride. As I approached an intersection, the light turned yellow but I still went through it. It was questionable, but I felt ok with my decision. I told my friends, "Hey, the car behind me wen talso...and he just turned his lights on. Fuck."

I quickly assessed the situation and told myself that as long as the alcohol wasn't in plain view and I fully complied, it would just be a ticket for running a red light (which I really thought was still yellow). Just as the wave of calm was settling in, another thought hit me. "Oh shit," I said, "I still have my brother's license in the front of my wallet." In order to look official in the liquor store, I had put my license in some back flap of the wallet and put Kevin's in the traditional license plate. I normally changed it back as soon as I was out of sight of the store, but I had forgotten to do so this time. I signaled to turn left onto the next side street (there was no shoulder and no right turn where we were), andI started panicking a little. "Ok, as soon as I stop, I'll get my wallet and try to quickly ditch Kevin's license and have mine out like I'm just complying or something," I said.

And then, for reasons I'll never ever know, the officer didn't get in the turn lane behind me. He kept going straight, lights still a-flashin'. My first thought was that it might look like I was trying to ditch him, so the panic was still very much there. I turned left and knew enough backstreets to easily wind my way to our apartment. Was the officer turning at the next street and doubling-back to find me, or was I just scared shitless for no good reason? I proceeded with extreme caution for the next couple of minutes until I made it to the apartment. I made ridiculously complete stops, I signaled way in advance of turns, and I didn't get within 10mph of the speed limit. We were safe; stupid and lucky, but safe nonetheless.

My pulse and breathing eventually returned to normal, and I vowed to use the fake ID only as a last resort in the future. My 21 year-old friends would just need to step up a little for me. That night though, I tossed an extra one or two back in honor of my near-costly mistake. See, Mom, I told you it would all end ok.

Fined and dandy

Well well well, welcome as we watch words wander wearily to Wednesday, where...wings won't...wonder... to Wisconsin...with...wascally wabbits. I should've stopped that alliteration long before it ever began. Happy Wednesday, my friends. I hope that I find you all in good moods, because as I start typing the post, I have no idea yet what it will be about. That's always a hoot, now isn't it?

So far, my hey-look-it's-a-theme-of-the-week has been driving, much like last week's. I sure hope that hasn't bored you too much, because I've got some more in that genre ready to spew out. Let me warn you up front: these stories are not as entertaining, but hey folks, they can't all be, right? How's that for lowering expectations?

Here's the first one: I was driving back to my place in Santa Barbara after meeting a friend for dinner downtown when and - poof! - a cop with his lights on appeared behind me. I had no idea what the proposed infraction was, but I calmly pulled over to the shoulder. "Good evening," the officer said. "Good evening, officer," I replied, because that's the polite thing to do. "I noticed that you veered a little out of your lane a while back there," he said, apparently done with the pleasantries. I told him the absolute truth: "Yes sir, my car's been pulling to the left a lot recently, and I have an appointment with Toyota tomorrow to have them take a look at it." "Ok, good," he replied. "Just make sure you get that taken care of." He looked like he was about to leave before remembering that he had to ask me something else: "Have you been drinking at all tonight?" "No, sir," I told him. "Ok, drive carefully." See? Not very interesting. Just another case of me calmly explaining my situation to an officer and having him send me on my way.

While this next story isn't fabulous either, it did piss me off, so at least we've got that going for us. I was sitting in mild traffic, going about 20mph in Santa Barbara (which is a rarity, since the freeways were normally pretty wide open). Poof! The law enforcement fairy appeared. The officer pulled up next to me, and through my window, I smiled and nodded. A second later, he was back behind my car and turning his siren on. As I dutifully was pulling over, these thoughts went through my head: "I wasn't speeding, I wasn't veering, I didn't even change lanes. My registration is current, I didn't have loud music on...maybe I just match the description of someone who did something bad. Or maybe he didn't like my smile and nod."

The officer walked - nay, sauntered - over to my car and asked me, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" "Honestly, officer, I have no idea. I was just wondering that, in fact." I know that sounds rife with smartassery, but I assure you it was sincere and sounded as much. He nodded, and I read it as one of those "man-I'm-good" nods. "Your windows are too tinted," he said, in a manner much like how Sherlock Holmes would reveal which person in the room was the killer. This was a shock to me, and I politely told him as much. "Really? I just got this car from my brother recently when he got a new one, and he never had any problem with that. Why would companies tint things illegally?" I was asking myself more than him, but he answered: "If you'll pay them, they'll make it as dark as you want and let you sort out the fines. This is just a little bit over the limit." I nodded, and it was more of a "touché" nod than anything else.

He wrote me up a fix-it ticket and said to, ya know, fix it, then have an officer sign the back to prove it was taken care of, and then go to the courthouse to pay the fine. As I drove away, I replayed the entire scene in my head and then got a little angry. "Really? You didn't have anything better to do than pull me over in traffic because my windows were a little bit darker than they're supposed to be?" Then I remembered my smiling and nodding at him through my window, and that just pissed me off more. A law is a law, but I did feel a little silly at the courthouse, waiting in line to pay when the people in front of me were there for much more serious offenses.

Since then, I've seen countless cars with windows way darker than mine were. What do these people do when they see police officers? I guess they either have to roll down their windows or just hope that the officers have more pressing needs than pulling them over for that. It just seems silly to me to modify one's car illegally - noticeably illegally - and then have a likely chance of needing to un-modify it. I guess I'm not that risky.

On that note, I shall leave you all on this Wednesday and trust that you'll make it over the hump just fine. I'll see you here tomorrow, and remember to email ptklein@gmail.com with anything that you think might fancy my tickle. You know what I mean. Have a good First of Ramadan, Rosh Hashana, and eveything else September 12th is to you.

A lot of frustration

Hello and good morning everyone. As I certainly don't need to point out to you, today is September 11th, and it's almost hard to believe that it's been six years since that tragic day. I just want to spend a few sentences on this before getting into my normal routine, if you don't mind.

I'm sure we all remember many details as to where we were and what we were doing as the events unfolded. The combination of very different emotions was a powerful one, and that day became the "Where were you when..." for an entire generation that was too young for JFK's assassination, surpassing my life's landmark events of the Challenger explosion and Princess Di's car accident. I very briefly want to mention something that happened a couple of days after September 11th. I was on the phone with my mom, and she told me that the list of victims' names (to date) had been released. On the list, there was a man named Peter Klein. Peter Anton Klein, to be exact. I don't know anything about this man, his family, or what his life was like before that day, but seeing his/my name on the list of the dead brought it all much closer to home for me. It made the act feel even more senseless and the individuals' deaths more random. I don't have any grand conclusions or summarizing thoughts to pull this aside together, but I wanted to share what I was thinking with you.

And now, like a 14 year-old sneaking out with his dad's car, I'm going to violently and unprofessionally switch gears. Here's an attempt at a transition: There were countless heroes in the police and fire departments six years ago today, but my story involves someone who unfortunately didn't do his uniform justice.

During my senior year of high school, I drove three or four other people to and from school. Two lived on my street, so there wasn't any hardship at all, and two friends of mine lived right near each other on the way to ole Birmingham High School. One afternoon after the last bell rang, we all met back at my blue Bronco 2 in the parking lot. As I approached it, I saw something that looked like a ticket on my windshield. "That's impossible," I thought, and it should've been. When I got there though, I saw that it was indeed a violation. "No Permit Displayed," it read. I looked back up at my car, and my parking permit was on my windshield, right where it had been for months.

I asked my friends if I was reading something wrong, but they confirmed that the ticket was saying that the sticker in front of us wasn't there. There wasn't anything on the dash obstructing the view of the permit or anything like that, so I couldn't for the life of me understand why I had this ticket. "Do you guys mind holding off for a minute while I see if I can find someone about this?" I asked. One got a ride from a friend, and the others agreed to wait.

I found the office of the campus police, and I very politely asked if I could speak with someone. A gruff man who clearly was unhappy with his station in life barked at me: "Whaddya need?" "Well, this ticket was on my windshield saying I don't have a parking permit, but I actually do have one and have since September." He snatched it out of my hand. "Yeah, I wrote this. You didn't have a sticker." "Um, sir, yes, yes I do." He sighed, clearly implying that I was a nuisance that was forcing him to exert more energy than he planned at this time. "Fine, I'll humor you and walk out to your car." Yes, he actually said that.

Walking over to the lot with him, I was very curious as to how the scene would unfold. Presented with the proof, would he admit his error? He'd better, I thought, because otherwise it would come down to his word against mine. We got to my car, and I pointed to the sticker. He paused for a moment, as if to choose his next words carefully. "I'm not calling you a liar," he started, "but I was standing right here when I wrote this up...and that puppy wasn't on there." "Um, it actually was, officer," I said, remarkably politely even though I felt like strangling him. "No, I remember this one. I even walked around the car because some kids like to put it on the back even though that's not where it's supposed to go. Nope, that puppy wasn't on there."

If you know me at all, you can probably guess the two things going through my mind at that time. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," and "Stop calling it a fucking puppy!" My friends were watching me carefully, worried that I might snap since my normal tools of logic and reason were failing me. Instead, I calmly told him again that it has indeed been right there for months, and I asked if there was any way I could prove that to him. He walked up to the car and looked carefully at the inside and outside of the where the sticker was. Slowly, he dragged his finger along the windshield, probably just as he would've if he'd passed his detective exam. He held up his finger with some dirt on it - dirt that wouldn't have been there on a newly-placed sticker. I quickly realized what this meant, and I was hoping the ordeal would now be over. Instead, he boldly uttered the following: "I don't know how you did that," he said, "but that permit wasn't on the car when I wrote this ticket."

It was utterly preposterous! (Hey, you can't spell that without Peter either. Wow, now I have persistent, perfect, pester, reporter, profiteer, predetermined, and preposterous. I'm sure there are more.) I felt like saying, "Let's consider the options. I either snuck out here sometime this afternoon, placed this sticker on after you gave me a ticket, and somehow made the dirt on the back of it match the rest of the dirt on my windshield without leaving any fingerprints around the area...or you were mistaken." I didn't say that, and instead I asked again how I could prove that he was mistaken, and I offered to swear on whatever he could think of. This time, he provided me with an option: "If you can bring me a receipt that shows me that you did in fact purchase this permit in September like you say you did, I will consider voiding that out." I told him I'd do that and see him tomorrow.

The next morning, the office that sold me the permit had no problem whatsoever providing me with that receipt. I marched over to the officer's quarters and showed him, trying my damnedest to keep any smug smirk from slipping out. He shook his head like I had somehow just written up that receipt, and then uber-begrudgingly, agreed to take care of it. A couple of months later, I received something in the mail saying I had an unpaid fine. I went to the appropriate office again, and they said that I needed to fill out a form and have the officer sign - he could never have just "taken care of it" on his own without that form. I followed the procedure, and it was finally over with.

I think I speak for all of you when I say, "Dude, fuck that guy." I don't know what the deal was, but I would've fought that high school parking lot violation all the way to the Supreme Court if I had to. What? They don't take those cases? Well they should. In any case, I'm pleased to report that justice prevailed. For the rest of that year, the officer correctly saw my permit without incident, and that puppy probably angered him every time he saw it.

That's it for today, gentle readers. Just like Teenage Peter, I urge you to continue to fight for what you know is right, stick to your guns, and don't let The Man hold you down.

Friends, I wish you all a good, safe, and healthy day. My calendar tells me that tomorrow is not only the beginning of Rosh Hashanah at sundown, but also the First of Ramadan. I like that; I'll see you then. Shaloha.

Peter of the pack

Good morning, everyone, and welcome to another Monday here at UOPTA. Last week, I wrote about getting pulled over a couple of times by the police. I said there were more times, and I'm a man of my word. I recall another from back in the day that I wish to share with you all, if you'll indulge me.

My senior year of high school, I became very active in the drama department. I was in a couple of plays and some festival scenes that I've briefly mentioned in this space before, and I really enjoyed being a part of that community. So when our teacher wanted to organize a trip to drive to Ashland, Oregon for the Shakespeare Festival, I was among the first to be totally on board with it.

And so it was, after a bunch of planning of our teacher's end that a group of about 15 of us were set to embark on the drive from Los Angeles to Ashland. There were five cars going in total, and we eagerly met up early in the morning at our high school to load everything into the vehicles. After half an hour of trying to force and shove everything in there, we ended up tying a bunch of luggage to the tops of the cars. Now might be the right time to mention that four of the five were to be driven by crazy teenagers. Does that sound like a dangerous recipe to you? Oh, you're wise, gentle readers.

I was joined in the car I was driving by three young ladies from our Play Production class, while Dusty, our teacher, and two classmates helmed the others. I'm a fairly cautious individual, and I was pretty nervous about getting on the road for a few reasons. One, I was driving my dad's car instead of mine since it had more storage. Two, I'm horrible with directions and this was in a land before cell phones. We were forced to communicate archaically by holding up signs in our windows. "FOOD????" etc. Three, this was hands-down the longest driving trip I'd ever taken. And four, I really didn't put too much faith in the way the luggage was tied onto the roof and was having terrible visions of possible consequences.

The time came, and we were off in a cloud of dust. Technically, we were off in Dusty's dust, as he sped away faster than even I anticipated. "Uh oh," I thought, "I hope I'm not going to be speeding for the next several hours." It was a dilemma: either I speed with the rest of the group and feel anxious the entire time about being pulled over, or lose the rest of them and end up somewhere in Wyoming. I opted for a modified version of the former: I would speed with the other cars, but try to refrain from being last in the pack in case a cop went after that person.

After less than an hour on the road, it became evident that my plan wasn't going to work. I was in the back of the group, driving as cautiously as possible while still keeping the others in view. While in my view, two of the cars thought it would be fun to drive recklessly. The teacher's car had to stop somewhere, and Dusty and I stayed back as the other two confirmed all suspicions that teenage drivers are morons. One car passed a water bottle to the other through the open windows at 80mph, they tailgated each other, and generally behaved idiotically.

And then, I said the following sentence aloud: "Uh, there's a policeman behind me...and he just turned his lights on." I was pissed off. Here I was, trying to drive carefully while my peers were being jackasses, and I'm the one getting pulled over. I slowed and went to the shoulder and waited for the officer to walk up. I knew I had been speeding, so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be getting that ticket. Anything else though, and I was going to kill my classmates.

"How are you all doing today?" the officer asked. "Fine, sir," I replied. "Looks like your buddies left you," he said. He was right: the other cars had all continued on their way, thereby meaning that I would be getting both a ticket and completely lost. Fantastic. "Where are you headed?" he asked. "Our drama class is going up to Oregon for the Shakespear Festival, sir," I told him, without that slightest hint of kissassery in my voice. He paused for a minute, then asked very matter-of-factly, "Do you have any beer in your car?" "Beer? No, why would - no, of course not, sir." My subtext was perfect: we're not old enough to drink beer, so I'm confused as to why one would ask me that. We didn't have any alcohol, but I wanted him to be very clear that we were good kids.

"And how's the drive been going so far?" he continued. "Ok, although I was concerned that the luggage on top wasn't stable enough. Does it look ok now?" He took a look, and very bravely, I got out to check with him. He helped me tighten one of the straps and said we should be set. I got back in and wondered how the next part of conversation would unfold. "We got reports that there were some people driving crazy around here, ya know, passing things to each other and stuff like that. Have you been a part of that?" "Absolutely not, officer," I said, full of resolve and conviction. (Maybe 'conviction' isn't the best choice of words, come to think of it.) He stared at me for a second, and then ominously asked, "So what now?" I wasn't sure what he was getting at, so I presented the scenario I wanted to see the most: "Well, sir, we will proceed cautiously and at moderate speeds and then enjoy our time on our school trip." To my surprise, he nodded, and then said, "Ok, just drive carefully and stay out of trouble." "We will, sir, thank you. And thanks again for your help with the luggage."

I merged back onto the freeway, and my passengers and I all relived the experience word by word to make sure we had the specifics down pat for when we were inevitably asked by our peers. Speaking of those bastards, they hadn't actually ditched us as much as I thought. Instead, they were waiting at the next onramp to get on when they saw us approaching. The rest of the drive went pretty smoothly, and when we stopped for food, I made sure I had complete directions so that I wouldn't freak out if I lost track of the speed demons.

The trip itself was fun and might get its own mention on UOPTA one day. More importantly for this post, the ride back was almost completely uneventful. The highlight was stopping at an Arby's in Lodi and me chastising my car-mates for not knowing the CCR song about that city.

So there you go, friends. It was a near miss with the law that should never have even happened in the first place. Slow and steady wins the race, my ass. Have a great Monday, and I'll see you back here tomorrow.