The fast and the furriest

Happy Halloween, all you Halloweenies out there. Today, I'm dressed as "Peter From the Year 2006." It's spot on, let me assure you. Hardly anyone can tell that I'm not actually Peter From the Year 2006, so that's a kick-ass costume in my book.

But today is something more than Halloween, my homemen and homewomen. Yes, today is the 5th birthday of our dog Hallie. We named her Hallie because we got her three years ago today, and the shelter said she was about two years old. Poof - that's now her birthday. Also, that name is a little catchier than "Dia de los Muertos Eve-ie."

My lovely wife and I like her name and think it fits her well. It's funny, because she seems so feminine to me (even though she's missing some parts) that I find myself getting offended when people ask what "his" name is. I said "it's funny," because I just realized that I guess I would prefer that a stranger glance for genitalia than assume incorrectly. I think I'll feel differently about human children.

Back when we got Hallie, we realized early on that her name fit very well in a particular song. Within that first week, we were singing, "Oh my doggie, oh my doggie, oh my doggie, Hallie Klein." Another little while later, and we'd completed the lyric: "You are pretty - pretty silly - and we love you, Hallie Klein." We were very pleased, and if her wagging tail was any indication, she liked it too.

That was the first of many, many songs that have since featured our pup's name. Two others have stood out as the best matches. First, George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" works wonderfully. "My sweet dog (Hallie, Hallie), my my sweet dog (Hallie Hallie). I really wanna pet you (Hallie Hallie)," etc. If you know the song, then I hope you agree that that's a keeper. If you don't, then we're just gonna have to learn to trust each other.

The second of the good matches comes from "Grease:" "You're the dog that I love, you are the dog I love, ooh ooh ohh, Hallie." Not bad, eh? We can even follow that up with, "The one I feed, oh yes indeed." We do feed her, after all.

A tier lower but still good, a certain song comes up every time we have to trim the massive amount of hair on her ears. "Ear hair is everywhere" works amazingly well with "Here, There, and Everywhere" by the Beatles. "Hallie Dog" to Elvis Costello's "Allison" isn't bad either. Others have followed, but trust me when I say that you really don't want to hear all of them. (Have you learned to trust me in the span of just another paragraph? That was fast!) The thing is, I got kind of lazy and just started throwing her name into virtually everything.

My friend Dave has that problem with his pet rabbit's name. He puts that bunny's name in not just virtually every song, but literally every song. That's exponentially more interesting when you factor in that the rabbit's name is Garbanzo Bean Salad. It doesn't matter to him if the syllables even match up (with they rarely do). He'll just randomly throw "Garbanzo Bean Salad" (or sometimes just "Garbanzo") into any line of any song and think to himself, "Yeah, that one worked." I would normally want to give him a lot of shit for that, but it's gotten to be pretty funny over the years. Queen might sing, "We are the Garbanzo Bean Salads, my friend" right before Fleetwood Mac sings, "Don't stop thinkin' about Garbanzo." Ok, that one actually works.

Dusty takes the exact opposite approach. In the past five years, he and the Mills have had a dog, two rabbits, and three rats. Despite that, I only know of one song for one of the pets. Where Dave excels in the quantity department, Dusty's all about quality. When his little charcoal gray rabbit Smudge had her second birthday, Dusty had a song for her. "Ah ah ah ahhh ah, I knoooow this Smudge is two." He followed up with, "I know I know I know this Smudge is two," as is required by law. And that's it; I haven't heard any songs for his yellow lab Charlie, so he's either keeping them private or waiting for one that really kicks ass.

I like to think that I'm somewhere in the middle of those two with my songs for Hallie. All I know is that she seems to like the songs, and that's all that really matters. And since it's her birthday (of the anniversary of the day we got her), she can expect a higher than normal amount of tunes headed her way today.

As for the rest of you, if you have any songs for your pets, please share them with the class. Have a wonderful Halloween, friends. If you're dressing up, dress carefully; we wouldn't want any wardrobe malfunctions, now would we? If you're handing out candy, I don't think there's anything wrong with expecting a "Thank you" in return, but don't be a dick about it. If you're handing out pennies, you're better off just calling it a night and going to sleep. Don't do that. Whatever you end up doing this evening, be safe, and I'll see you back here in November.

p.s. Isn't she adorable?

Grown-up dress-up

Yo ho, mateys. Good to see you back again for some UOPTA action. 'Tis Tuesday, or as I like to call it, The Day of Tue. I guess that would then be written as Tue'sday, and my spellchecker hates that with a passion.

By a show of hands, how many of you know that tomorrow is Halloween? Wow, that's pretty much all of you. Great, thank you for your participation. Since I'm hyper-punctual and can't help being early in many respects, today won't be any different. I'm going to write about Halloween and costumes. If you simply can't handle that today, please feel free to check back here tomorrow and get a double dose of my thoughts.

Growing up, my favorite brother and I had some pretty kick-ass costumes. We got to be super heroes when Halloween rolled around, and that wasn't something to be taken lightly. The candy part never lived up to the hype for me. It was fun getting some, but I could always count on having half of my bounty still hanging around in a cupboard come Valentine's Day. The costumes were way more fun. (Go ahead, I can hear the "Peter likes to play dress up" comments already. Knock yourselves out.)

As the years went by, I couldn't always be too creative with my costumes. I remember being a football player once in high school, which really just amounted to a jersey and black stuff under my eyes. That year, I was totally upstaged by Dusty who poked his head through a hole in a trash bag and donned a sailor's cap. "I'm Captain Condom," he proudly told every parent who begrudgingly opened the door for teenagers.

Years before, my parents, brother, and I went to a Halloween party at the Levines' place as a family of nerds. And by "nerds," I mean "ridiculously big nerds." Ugly Hawaiian shirts, bad glasses with tape around the middle, zinc oxide on our noses, and our best impressions of the dorkiest people we'd ever met. While we were a hit, part of me thought that maybe it came too easily for us. The biggest shock of the evening came near the end though. That's when I found out that the cool girl I'd been talking to for a while was one of Greg's guy friends in drag for the night. We were only around ten years old, so it's not like I wanted to date him or anything. I'd wondered where "her" costume was, but it never occurred to me that she was a he. Good costume, I guess.

One of the most fortuitous costumes I wore was on the Halloween of 8th grade. It was pretty simple really, but it worked wonders. I had the Phantom of the Opera half-face mask, an accompanying hat, and a black cape. Nothing too inspired, right? Well, here's what happened: I was at a party with some friends, and admittedly, we weren't a part of the super-popular crowd. After playing some games and having a good time, the dozen or so of us went out to walk the streets. After a few minutes, we ran into the kids we all hated: the "cool" kids.

There's a big difference between cool and "cool," and these were definitely the latter. They would brag about their high school friends, talk about smoking cigarettes, and somehow date the hottest girls. Man I hated them. There they were, dressed only in black and with a carton of eggs. Hmmm, what could they be doing? Their leader made some comment to the others about us, and something happened. It must have been the power of the mask, because I spoke up. Before then, I'd never really said a word to these people. This time though, I called the leader an asshole. He paused for a second, then asked, "Who's under there?" "None of your business," I said, amazed that he couldn't tell. (In hindsight, he'd probably just never noticed that I existed before.) "Jason, who is that?" he asked my friend standing near me. "Don't say anything," I said. The asshole gave me one long look, then he and his crew turned and left. I felt amazingly cool, and the high-fives from my fellow middle-of-the-social-class dwellers confirmed it.

The next school day, I hesitated to sit in my English seat near the asshole. He never said a word about it for the rest of the year. Come to think of it, he really didn't say anything at all to me the rest of the year. Fine by me.

My other costumes since then have been generally tame. I've probably only dressed up at all five times in the past ten years. Among those, I've been "Cowboy With Ill-Fitting Attire" and "Pimp Magically Teleported from the 70s." That one was fun, because I had my fro going and some serious gold-chain-over-chest-hair action. Very nice.

The favorite in the past five years has to be one that came out of nowhere. My lovely wife was living with our friend Melissa (who is a Halloween freak), and they were having a party. I got there without a costume, and Melissa found that totally unacceptable. She looked through her impressive collection of Halloween attire and said, "Here!" as she thrust something in my hand. It was a Death costume, complete with an enclosed black hood for maximum creepiness.

Amber and I went to her room for a minute, and I said I wasn't sure if I wanted to do that or not. "I don't even know what shoes to wear," I told her. "I mean, I could wear these slippers I guess." Then it hit me. I walked over to a corner of her room and grabbed a beach hat, threw it over my hood, then stepped into the slippers. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I'm Death Takes a Holiday!" I announced triumphantly.

It worked well throughout the night, and being amongst grad students, they appreciated it more than I think the typical group might've. (After all, Melissa and I think taking turns reciting lines of Jabberwocky counts as a good time.) I got several laughs, and then saw those people pointing me out to others. Ah, the worst laid plans of mice and men.

Ok, gentle readers. Have a good Tue'sday, and we'll meet back here tomorrow, ok? But first, you have homework. I'd love to hear what your favorite costumes have been through the years. Don't be shy. Ok, you can be shy, but expand your comfort zone and post a comment. I know for a fact that you were all children once, and many of you were even teenagers. See you tomorrow. Shaloha.

Turning tricks

How goes it, friends? We're back on another Monday and ready to kick names and take ass. I hope you all had fantastic weekends, and it pleases me to be here with you. This week, we shall celebrate Halloween, so I figured I'd start it off by telling a couple of stories regarding tricks I've pulled off in the past. After all, you can't spell "practical joker" without P-ter.

These two stories have something very important in common. Not "important" in the "fate of the world" sense, but rather in the "I wrote 'important' and didn't feel like hitting the backspace key" sense. The thing they have in common is the fact that they both turned out to be way better tricks than I ever could've hoped for.

The first one comes to us all the way from about a year ago. My mom can correct me in the comments section if I'm wrong about that. She and my dad had just returned from a trip to China the day before. I called to see how they were doing, how they were adjusting back to good ole Pacific Standard Time, etc. When they didn't answer and I got the machine, a quick flit of inspiration hit me. In a horrible attempt at a Chinese accent, I said, "Ello, Miss Klane, this Bae Lin from Shanghai. You leave deposit in toilet. Please call." I hung up, smugly smiled at myself, and went back to work.

The next day, my mom called me and we talked for a little while. Near the end of the conversation, I said, "Oh, did you like the message I left yesterday?" She was quiet for a second, and then asked, "What message?" "The one where I pretended to be calling from Shanghai," I said, pretty confident that that would clear up any confusion. Instead I was met with three to five seconds of silence. Finally she spoke: "That was you?" "Of course that was me!" I said. "You leave deposit in toilet - who else would say that? Why, did you think it was real or something?" Sheepishly, she answered affirmatively. As it turns out, she got the message and called the hotel in which they stayed in Shanghai. "But Mom, deposit in toilet!" "I know, I know, but they don't speak English correctly and everything was that off. After being there for a while, 'deposit in toilet' could easily mean 'credit card in the bathroom' or something like that." I was very pleased with myself, but sorry that my joke had caused an international phone call. She tried blaming it on jetlag, but I wasn't having any of it. My Irish accent is decent, my Jamaican half-way decent, and my Chinese horrible. I think she should've known better, half-asleep or not.

The second story is from a summer in the late 90s. The only difficulty in staying in Santa Barbara in between school years was the fact that leases tended to all end at the same time. Therefore, I needed a place to crash while I was out of my old place but still waiting for my new place to be cleaned and officially ours. The lease changed over in the middle of my workweek, so I just stayed where I'd been staying for an extra couple of days.

One morning, though, I went over to our new place to see how it looked. I saw my roommate Jason's car in the lot, and I went in eager to greet him. As I opened the door, I heard the sound of the shower. His bedroom door was open, and I heard his girlfriend Allison call out to see who had entered. I came in and said hi and we chatted for a few moments. Then, mischievous inspiration hit me. "Hey, I should pretend I'm you and hide under the covers," I said, 20% joking. "That would be hilarious!" she said.

Right then, the water turned off. "Hurry, hide in the closet," I said. I hopped into the bed and quickly threw the heavy comforter over my head. I curled into a ball so it would be less obvious that someone about eight inches taller than Allison was in there. It was a warm morning, and the sunlight came right through the window onto the sheets covering me. I remember thinking, "There's no way she'd be under the covers when it's this warm; he's gonna know right away." The bathroom door opened and I hear a few steps coming toward the room. "Hey Al," Jason's voice said. "Hm?" I said, in as high a pitch I could get without going falsetto. He bought it. "I wanna show you something," he continued. Then I felt the covers being lifted, and I knew the time had come. I decided that I would very coolly say, "Hey Jay," as if I'd been there all along.

That plan went right out the window, gentle readers. Instead, the second the covers came off my covered head, I saw a shocked and 100% naked Jason standing over me. Before I could speak (in what would've been an immediate apology), his reflexes told him to cover himself. His reflexes must have really been working well right then, because he hyper-covered himself and essentially punched himself in the crotch. Behind him, Allison was laughing so hard that I thought she might die. I couldn't stop laughing either, although I really did feel bad that my plan worked so much better than expected.

Jason ran back to the bathroom and got a towel to do a better job of hiding his manhood. He came back in, and we all laughed and talked about the incident for a few minutes. Allison said that she almost stopped him before he got to me because she hadn't realized that he'd come out naked. Jason wasn't mad at me, but rather aware of the comedic heights as his expense. He had no idea at all that it was me, so I guess my Allison impression was better than I knew. I apologized again, swearing that I had no idea it would work that well. I promised never to do anything like that to him again. It was glorious, let me assure you.

Ah, that was a good time. I hope you enjoyed, my friends. Have a good Monday, and a special happy birthday to my former colleague Regina. See you all back here tomorrow.

FUF #37

Good morning, gentle readers. Hey, do you hear that? People are talking; talking 'bout people. I hear them whisper. You won't believe it. Let's give 'em something to talk about. How about FUF, FUF, FUF? Yes, the time has come yet again for another Follow Up Friday. These keep on chugging along like clockwork. Ya know, if clocks chugged, that is. As is customary at UOPTA, I am preparing myself to ramble for the next several hundred words. Some will be connected to previous posts, others will most certainly not be related to anything. And then the final piece (the coup de grace if you will) is the world famous Car Watch segment.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was a victim of jury duty for two days this week. While the judge was having people say their names, occupations, marital status, etc., two people really stood out. First, a guy listed his occupation as "Aspiring actor and part-time chiropractor." That got a lot of nervous laughter, and the judge asked him to clarify if he was indeed licensed to be a chiropractor. He was, and that made it far less interesting.

Second, a woman said that she had11 children. That got some oohs and ahhs, followed by the inevitable question of how many grandchildren. "26," she said, followed by, "We're good breeders." That one nearly brought the (court)house down. Needless to say, I scribbled that down on my notepad, thereby making it the most productive thing I did during those two days.

A while back, loyal reader Wendy posted a comment that something I wrote made her think of the song "Wordplay" by Jason Mraz. Recently our friend Melissa introduced us to that song, and so now I know what she was talking about. I like it; it's catchy, and it definitely plays around with words in a way that makes me smile. For example, when he refers to himself as "Mr. A to Z," it's funny and clever since his last name is M-r-a-z. I appreciate those things, and I appreciate Wendy for appreciating them as well.

Remember the hit song in the 80s called "Walking on Sunshine?" Well, I thought of that recently and then cringed because I recalled that it was sung by Katrina and the Waves. That's a bad coincidence.

Crap, this is going to be a long post. Can't stop now though. Two days ago, I wrote about stories with celebrities' names as forced punchlines. I came up with three more for your intended enjoyment:

1. A man walked into Home Depot and marched over to the do-it-yourself section. After pacing for a while, an apron-wearing employee asked if he needed help. "Yes, I'd like to build a wall out of big stones in my backyard, but I want to be able to return the pieces I don't use." "Of course, sir," said the employee, "That's the norm in rock- well, really any purchase from Home Depot."

2. A long-haired hippie chick was visiting her accountant in a large office building. Upon seeing the revolving doors, she immediately opted for that entrance over the standard push-pull type. Halfway through, she felt excruciating pain on top of her head. She looked up and saw her locks wrapped around the center mechanism. "Help!" she screamed, "My hair is in four doors at once!"

3. The CEO of Cinnabon had an idea: online purchases and deliveries. To drum up business, she lowered the price of those bought via internet and the orders started flying in. One day, a week or two after the launch, she was visiting a local Cinnabon store. A customer came in and ordered one. When told the price, he got visibly angry. "Wait a second here, you're telling me that it would cost less if I ordered it from the web browser on my phone and had it delivered to my car in the parking lot? That's bullshit! I want the Cinnabon e-rate!"

Wow, look at that, bringing it back to the FUF intro. I even amazed myself with that loop-closing ability. Ok, now it's time to throw in a couple of Car Watch items and call it a week.

My homey Rockabye sent me a text message that said the following: "License plate that doesn't work: REALT8R." I beg to differ. If someone commonly mistook that person for a fake potato, then the plate would be entirely sensible and functional. Anything other than that though and they're just a fucking moron. No offense, of course.

Rockabye saw a license plate frame that read, "Always use love all ways." I disagree, nay, I strenuously object to that command. There are several ways of loving that are not appropriate in certain situations. I just started to write out a few examples, but even I started to blush, so you can come up with them on your own.

While riding with Rockabye to our bowling league, we saw a plate that read, "N2 CHESS." I'm guessing that was only there because "N2 DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS" didn't fit. It's good to be an enthusiast of something, I suppose, no matter what level of nerdiness.

I saw a plate that read "2 KDS (Heart) ME." I sure hope she only has two kids, because otherwise that would be incredibly sad.

Another license plate read "I (Heart) THE DJ." Whew, good thing there's only one dj so we know who she was talking about. That would've been really confusing otherwise.

Ok, I'm stopping here for now. Have a wonderful weekend, my friends. Please remember that it's 100% legal to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all about anything at all. See you back here on Monday, and take care.

I just said duty

Ladies and gentlemen, today is a beautiful day. But Peter, isn't every day beautiful in its own way? Good question, Peter. But today is especially beautiful for one rather significant reason: I've successfully completed my jury duty and don't have to return today.

I received the summons in the mail, and unlike some of you out there who know who you are, I didn't just toss it in the trash can. It had been a while since I'd been called upon to do my civic duty, so I didn't feel like this was too out of line. As long as I was either dismissed or on a very short trial, I thought, it might even be fun to get to be a part of the legal system.

My previous juror history was in Santa Barbara, and roughly 100% different from this one. I can sum up the SB experience in a few short sentences. I arrived early (as I have to by Peter law) and parked on one of the nearby city streets. I sat in the jury selection room with a bunch of people, several of whom I knew from working on campus. We watched a video on the importance of being a juror, then a large group of us was ushered into the courtroom. A handful of potential jurors was called up and asked questions, some were dismissed, others were called, and then they had their jury. I wasn't called up at all, and I was excused with the rest of the folks shortly before lunch.

Foolishly, I thought this might be a similar experience. My first indication that I was way off was when I noticed that I was to drive 20-something miles to the downtown courthouse instead of the Van Nuys one a few miles away. I called to see about moving it, and I was told quite clearly that unless I only took public transportation and this was an extreme hardship for me, my request was unlikely to be granted. No problem, I said, and I got up earlier to beat some of the traffic before the 7:45 meeting time. If you're unfamiliar with LA traffic, that means I left at 6:15.

I was instructed to park about half a mile away, then led past a wrong courthouse before getting to the right one. I went through metal detectors and found my way to the jury selection room with a large group of unhappy-looking folks. We waited around until close to 8:15 when a woman came out and yelled out instructions. She explained that those of us with the beige form should be in this line, and those with the pink and white form should be in that one. She must have said "beige" fifty times over the next ten minutes, and I'm sure she does that every morning of every workday. It therefore surprises me that no one's corrected her on her pronunciation of the color. She somehow had both a hard and soft g in there, so instead of sounding like "bayzh," it was more of a "baygzh." I didn't point this out to her, so I suppose I'm equally a part of the problem.

We were then informed that under the new rules, we should expect to be there until 4 or 5pm. The woman told us that if we got called as a potential juror but excused, we were to report back there to that room to try again before the day was over. Uh oh, Toto, we're not in Santa Barbara anymore.

And then we waited. And waited. At around 10:15, they showed us a video that told us all about places to eat in downtown LA. I jotted some notes down because being horrible with directions, I wanted to make sure that I was going to find sustenance somewhere. Then we waited some more. I noticed an interesting thing about sitting in the jury selection room. The social interactions were very similar to those on an airplane. Eerily similar, in fact. Everyone was silent except for a couple of strangers talking too loudly to people who were being more polite than they should. A man sat down next to me and we nodded at each other in a way that said, "We're going to be next to each other for a few hours, we may as well be friendly." I got up and navigated through the seats to the bathroom, and coming back, people looked up at me in the same exact way I've seen multiple times on planes. Throughout the room, people stared off into space, read the paper, did crossword puzzles, and listened to iPods. It was a stationary airplane cabin, and I assure you, that's the worst kind.

Since I'm not really allowed to discuss the trial that I eventually was not chosen for (despite sitting around bored out of my mind for two entire days instead of attending to the literal piles of work on my desk), I will leave you with some quick hits of other things that happened in the jury selection room.

1. I saw at least three people asleep during the orientation part at the very beginning of the day. Only one of the three was nodding in an attempt to stave off the sleepiness. The other two owned it completely.

2. A man two rows in front of me was reading a book called "Getting The Love You Want." He at least could've taken the jacket off of it to save himself a little embarrassment. (Please note, it's not embarrassing at all for someone to get the love that he or she wants, but I believe there is some in illustrating that desire to hundreds of strangers throughout the courthouse.)

3. When a man helping people fill out the form said, "If you have no emergency contact, just write None," I first pictured "nun," which made me smile to myself.

4. I could've selected a sandwich from the little shop called the "Tuna Salad Super Triangle." I also could've died from said selection.

5. While filling out our forms, I noticed that the man next to me had a blood stain on his pants. I followed it up and saw fresh blood on his forearm. "Are you ok?" I immediately asked. "Oh yeah, I just bleed when I write," he said matter-of-factly. Uh, what the fuck does that mean? And why did I nod like I understood his statement instead of pressing him for further details? It's times like these I almost wish I were back there in that room.

Ok, I'll stop there. I think you might get the point. It was a very long two days that I will never get back, but at least I didn't die from Super Triangle Poisoning. Have a great Sorry Honey It's Thursday, and I'll see you back here tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday. Shaloha.

Game of name fame

Oh Wednesday, how you snuck up on me. Snuck or sneaked? Hmmm, that's kind of like dreamed and dreamt I think, in that I'm not sure which is right or even which one I use more often. Drank and drunk I understand, because "I drank" but "I have drunk." Or I am drunk, but I'm not drank. You know what else I am? Excited that it's another Wacky Wordy Wednesday in the wide world of weirdness.

In yesterday's post, I wrote about the Big Sur Game that I play with signs for exits and cities on the freeway. It probably didn't come to too much of a surprise that I'd do something like that. The surprising part to me was that I didn't think of it myself but rather waited for my friend Leslie to introduce me to that wonderful concept. Before her, my interactions with street signs were limited to me seeing Carlsbad and saying, "Yeah, don't mess with Carl." That's not entirely true. I also saw the street Petit and said, "Petit? I don't even wanna look at it!" every time we drove by. It's genetic too, because my favorite brother Kevin once informed me that with the letters in the street name Kelvin, he could spell his first and last name. Great Kleins think alike.

I had something very similar to Leslie's teachings happen to me a few years ago. My friend Jon was visiting me and my lovely wife in Santa Barbara when he and his then-girlfriend told us of a game they'd been playing recently. Quite simply, they would take famous people's names and build a story around them. The punchline would be something involving the name much in the way we played with street or city names. (I told you is was very similar.) The most fun part of this game was that when done correctly, no one knew where the story was going or which celeb name was about to magically appear.

Sadly, I only remember one example that they gave. I'm going to paraphrase, so if any of you were there that night, please don't waste your breath admonishing me. Here's what I've got: Once upon a time, there was a Native American village with unique cultural practices. One such practice was to crown anyone who could break a certain stone vase as king of their tribe. Most people went up and tried kicking it really hard, but that usually just hurt their feet. One day, the man who sold the tribe weapons was in town. A young man who desperately wanted to be king approached the weapon seller and told him of the feat he wished to accomplish. The weapon man nodded, reached into his traveling shed of weapons, and pulled out something that looked like a spear. "Here," he said to the young man, "Use lance. Arm strong." Ta dah!

The problem I had with creating these was that very few names have three real words in them to build a story around. Instead, I told convoluted stories in which the celebrity's name would go totally unnoticed unless I then stopped and repeated it. For example: Once there was a blacksmith who specialized in swords and knives. He made beautiful pieces for his entire town, hammering metals that ranged from Aluminum to Zinc. One morning, the town mayor knocked on the blacksmith's door. "How can I help you, sir?" he asked with a smile. "Well sir, it appears that the sheath you made me for my sword of Toledo steel has cracked. Would it be possible to make me a new one to protect my blade from the elements? Something sturdier, perhaps?" "I know just the thing," the blacksmith said, and he nodded toward a giant box with the letters Pb on it. Two mornings later, the mayor came back to the blacksmith's workshop, but there was no answer. Gently, he pushed the door open to look around and gasped in horror. There, on the floor, sat the blacksmith, slumped against the leg of his workbench and looking seconds from death. "What has happened?" asked the mayor. "I've been poisoned," he replied weakly. "Poisoned by the sheath lead germs." Ta-dah! Oh, did you miss it? Heath Ledger was in that last part. That's what I mean by my problem with this game.

The day after Jon left town, I came up with a good one (I thought). It would only work if I totally caught them off guard. I was so pleased with this story that I couldn't wait for them to come back into town so I could fool them into thinking it was a real story. Here's what my dramatic monologue was going to sound like:

Hey, I saw this fascinating story on cnn.com yesterday in their off-beat section. Apparently there's some new gang in a suburb of Chicago that wanted a lot of press and devised a way to get it. It's pretty ingenious actually. The gang is only two people, and they're named Eric and Tony. It started when they had a feud with some garage band near one of their houses. They broke into the garage and smashed almost all of their equipment. The only thing they left intact was the big bass drum. Instead of smashing that, they wrote "You Got Eric and Tony'd" in big black marker. The idea was that with the money the band would be spending on replacement instruments, they wouldn't be able to afford a new drum as well. That's how it happened, and that band had to explain what the words meant at gigs.

So the legend was born. Soon, there were "I Got Eric and Tony'd" stickers floating around, t-shirts that mimicked the handwriting, etc. Meanwhile, they were still doing this to other bands in the area, and while their notoriety grew, so did their violent tendencies (which wasn't cool at all). One of the bands was quoted in the article talking about how scary it was when Eric and Tony busted in while they were practicing and actually beat some of them up before doing their trademark graffiti. The guy was from a band called Eris, who is the Greek goddess of discord, and he made it sound like they do some metal with Gregorian chanting behind it. It sounds pretentious enough that they may have deserved it. In any case, he said, "We were just jamming when suddenly someone kicked in the door. We asked who it was, and we heard an angry voice shout back at us, 'We're gonna Eric and Tony yo band, Eris!'"

Sadly, they didn't visit again for a while. That's probably for the best, because I don't know how I would've worked that whole story in. It was the best I could come up with at the time, so hopefully by now you've at least been able to locate the celebrity's name in the final five words. When I told Dusty the story, he was quiet for a while and then asked, "How did you come up with the name Eric?" I didn't know, but if that was his only question after that ridiculous story, I consider it a victory.

Ok, folks. I've learned not to expect too much when I ask you to write things in, but I would love to hear some versions of these celebrity name thingabobs. Don't be bashful, try something out. If that's too scary, you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com with names you'd like to see me work into a story. I just might take a crack at 'em. Have a great Wednesday, and I'll see you back here tomorrow.

Windows of opportunity

Happy Tuesday, mis amiguitos. It's good to be back in UOPTA Land, which is like Candyland, but far less delicious. I want to thank Stacy for her excellent job stepping in yesterday while I was indisposed. I'm now disposed, so let's gets crazy and jump right in.

Thanks to traffic, I was in the car for quite a while on the way to Big Bear last Thursday afternoon. I was driving, and some of the roads were precipitous (as my lovely wife likes to say), so I didn't get a chance to do that much sightseeing in the process of getting to our destination. You know, safety first and all that crud. However, it got me thinking (uh oh) about the way I used to pass the time on long drives from the non-driving seats.

As a kid, I usually had the benefit of sitting next to my favorite brother, Kevin. Not only that, but we interacted a lot with our parents, so it wasn't like I was bored out of my mind and desperately in need of something to keep my attention. Still, a little extra mindwork never hurt anyone.

Sometimes I would simply count the number of call boxes during the freeway portion of our rides. I don't know how that proved to be an effective way of passing the time, but it did. "Hey look, there's another one. That makes 63!" There wasn't too much suspense in that pastime, unless I screwed up counting somehow. The best thing that came from that activity was a sense that if I ever broke down on the highway, I wouldn't have to walk too far in either direction to call someone for help. Potential help from hypothetical car trouble should never be the high point of any game.

Then I got a little more creative in my out-of-window gazing. I've never told anyone about this before, so consider yourselves very privileged. I created a game called The Runner, which involved a guy running. (I did say "a little more creative," mind you.) I imagined a guy not far from the window running along side the car. If we passed a car, he jumped up on its trunk and walked along the top of it before getting back to the road. If our car stayed even with that one for a while, he might lie down for a second to catch his breath. Occasionally he'd get very acrobatic and do a quick backflip over a car passing us on that side. This kept me entertained for a couple of years' worth of car rides.

I ran into one problem with this game, and it was all my fault. For some reason, I once thought of him being attached to a pole on the side of our car to always keep him the same distance away. I didn't like the way that looked at all though and wanted to go back to the original way. My problem was that I couldn't erase that pole from my imagination. It kept reappearing every single time I'd start having him run. I'd try to make it disappear by having him lag back a little, but it just bent to stay with him. I know how weird this sounds, but I just couldn't unimagine that one part of what had grown to be a rather enjoyable game for me. Right about now you might be understanding why it's been a private game up to this point in my life.

As a grown up now, I've moved on to a different game that I like to play on long rides when I'm a passenger. (Can I make "to passenger" a verb? I wasn't driving, I was passengering. It can be pronounced "passen-jeering" if you think that makes it better. I kinda like that more. Do I digress? Damn right I digress.) So what does Grown-Up Peter enjoy? As our favorite Danish prince would say, "Words, words, words." And class, where do we find words while driving? That's right: signs!

My friend and former co-worker Leslie taught me this game, and I've had a frickin' blast with it. It's very simple: you take the name of either a city or freeway exit and use it in a sentence. The hard part is that if there are real words involved, you can't use them as themselves. For example, if there were an exit called Oak Hill, you wouldn't be able to use either word in that incarnation. So instead, I might say, "If you give Harry Potter his invisibility clOAK, HILL disappear." See what I mean? Fun for the whole family (if your family is full of word nerds, that is). Depending on how far-fetched the sentence is, I sometimes need to adopt certain accents to make it sound a little better. That adds even more fun to the already fun equation.

A few years ago, Kevin and I were driving to San Diego to meet up with our parents. We played this game for the ride down, and I can only remember one of my sentences. The town was Leucadia, and after several minutes of thought, I said this: "The final tally for the Star Wars football game was Luke 80, a lesser Stormtrooper team, 35." That was a tough one. Let's see if I can come up with another one for that same place. "Ricky Ricardo loved to sing his hit Babalu. Katie, a backup dancer, swooned every time." Booyah Johnson! I need to take long drives more often.

Like I said, my friend Leslie taught me this game, and there's a fantastic story that goes along with it. On a trip up north, she and a carload of friends were making all sorts of sentences with the signs. One friend's new boyfriend had been real quiet the whole time, so they said, "Why don't you take this next one. It's Big Sur." He was quiet for a minute, and then he excitedly said, "Ok, I got one! 'Let's all go to Big Sur.'" Priceless. Naturally, I now call it The Big Sur Game because of that glorious situation.

Ok, gentle readers, it's your turn. What did/do you do to pass the time while passengering? (Did you pronounce it the right way in your head?) Did you do the whole "find a thing that starts with each letter" thing? Did you have a version of The Runner? If so, with or without pole? Comment away. If it's a longer story, you can always email ptklein@gmail.com. Take care, have a great Tuesday, and I'll see you back here tomorrow.

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

Well, hello again, UOPTA readers! It’s so nice to be back, I feel kind of like a recurring guest star on a sitcom. Everybody applaud as I walk through the door, okay? Thanks. A lot has happened since my last stint as Peter’s guest booger. I mean, there’s the Gonzales scandal, the Senator Craig scandal, the Britney scandal…we have many important current events to discuss. But instead I am going to talk about me.

Since last I blogged, I have starting teaching a course at Santa Monica College. The course is English 21A, and it’s for students who didn’t test into transfer level English, AKA students with pretty disappointing writing skills. Someday, I would love to teach a course on the complete works of Jane Austen (I’ll talk more about her later), but for now I get to educate the masses about the proper use of the semicolon and the difference between its and it’s.

I assign a 500-700 word essay about every other week. The most recent topic is “Describe a place that has significance to you and explain why it is significant.” Straightforward enough, right? Apparently not. All three of my immigrant students wrote about why their home country is better than the US, and home city is better than LA. I understand why an immigrant’s homeland would be significant to him, but the assignment was not "tell me how many shopping malls you have in your home city and explain why that makes your city better than LA." I got essays that contained ridiculous amounts of detail—“the table is 6 feet long by 3.5 feet wide” – but no real description. I got papers with LOTS of description, but no explanation of significance. After reading this rather disappointing crop, I had to ask myself if my assignment was as easy as I thought it was. Could I do it?

A Dingy, Poorly Lit Place

by Stacy Redd

New York City has no shortage of bookstores. There’s the ubiquitous Barnes and Noble; the slightly less ubiquitous Borders; the king-of-all-used-bookstores, the Strand; and a ton of privately owned specialty bookstores littered throughout the city. But for my money, there’s no bookstore in all of New York more worth visiting than Three Lives and Company.

“Three Lives” is located in the West Village, close to NYU. I never learned its actual address, because it’s impossible to find anything in the West Village, unless you’re a real New Yorker, and I am not. Most of Manhattan is a wonderfully logical grid; 23rd street is north of 22nd, 9th avenue is west of 8th avenue. If you can count, you can find your way around.

However, everything below 14th street is a crazy free-for-all. Instead of consecutive numbers, you see names like Mulberry and Bleecker, avenues run east-west when they should run north-south, and streets intersect at all kinds of angles. I almost immediately gave up trying to find places in the Village using silly things like addresses, and resigned myself to wandering around until I happened upon the place I wanted to visit.

Luckily, the Village is a wonderful place to get lost. Every time I went there in search of Three Lives, I would stumble upon something wonderful: a street fair, a cool little coffee shop, a pet store with puppies in the window. Getting to Three Lives was half the fun.

Once I found the right street, the store itself was always to spot. It has bright red French doors, one of which is usually open. The new arrivals are prominently displayed in the big, shiny windows, but they’re not the same books you’d see in a Barnes and Noble window. Three Lives doesn’t sell books written by Danielle Steele or Tom Clancy; it sells 1,000 page biographies of Edith Wharton. This is why I love it.

Three Lives isn’t very big, but it’s not as small as it looks from the outside. The hardwood floor is old and uneven. It’s not terribly well-lit, but this really isn’t the kind of store that encourages sitting around.

The bookshelves that line the walls are the same wood as the floor, and it’s rare to find more than one copy of any book in stock. I wouldn’t come here in search of a particular book; it’s likely they wouldn’t have it. I come when I want to find something new to read. The books on display are almost always books I have never heard of and I’ve never seen more than 2 other people (not counting the employees) in the store at a time. More than once I’ve been the only customer there.

The cash register area is elevated, like a pharmacist’s desk, and the employees seem aloof, but are very friendly if you ask for help. You get the feeling that they’ve read every book in the store, they speak Russian, and really understand what’s happening in Darfur. These are the people I hope to someday become.

A huge Nick Hornby fan, I would describe Three Lives as the bookstore version of Championship Vinyl from High Fidelity. It’s small, inconvenient, expensive, and snooty, but if you’re looking for something great, you’re guaranteed to find it there.

***********************************************************
Well that wasn’t so hard, was it? That took me about 20 minutes. I know you might argue that as the one teaching the course, of course I should be able to complete it easily. And you’re right. But so what? I still think they could have done better. Telling me that New Delhi is the capital of India and therefore the place where politicians go does not explain to me why you miss life there so much, nor does it help to me envision the city, unless it looks exactly like Washington, DC. And I have a feeling it does not.

On a slightly related note, when writing an email to friend who is planning to move to Austin, TX, I accidentally called “Real World Austin” “Real World Austen,” as in Jane. She wrote back that she would love to see what “Real World Austen” would be like, so I think I am going to write a piece about what happens when Austen heroines stop acting polite and start being real. If the thought of Elinor Dashwood, Emma Woodhouse, and Elizabeth Bennet together in the same estate is appealing to you, drop me a line (thessredd@gmail.com) and I’ll email it your way when it’s done.

UOPTA readers, it’s always a pleasure. My bro returns from Oso Grande today and will be back to blogging tomorrow morning. XOXO KIT.

FUF #36

Good morning, gentle readers. I'm feeling rather minimalist this morning. It don't take money, don't take fame. Don't need no credit card to ride this train. That's the power of FUF. (And honestly, if some fist-pumping Huey Lewis music doesn't get your morning going, then nothing will). Yes, friends, it's another Follow Up Friday. The 36th, or so says the title bar. I don't do math, but that seems like it would span quite a few months. So here we are, and I'm going to ramble a bit before we get to the so-hot-it's-almost-Mexican-food-plate-hot feature of Car Watch.

I wrote this week about being conscientious. I specifically mentioned that I let people into lanes even when they don't deserve it. The morning after I wrote that, a driver cut me off and made me brake more than a normal amount. I may have shaken my head a little, but I didn't honk or make any "What the hell are you doing?" gestures. As she exited a second later, I looked over at the car, and the driver had a middle finger there waiting for me. She was still looking straight ahead, but since she knew I was displeased, she wanted to make sure that I knew that she didn't give a shit. Let that be a lesson to you: if someone blatantly cuts you off, that means you're the asshole.

In that same post, I wrote about people not responding to my emails when I thought they should. I had a third part of that all ready to write. I found a website for a guy I was friends with in high school but lost touch with. I'm sorry, with whom I lost touch. Happy now? Anyway, my email was brief but said that I would love to hear how the last decade plus has been for him, I truly hope all is well, and nice things like that. I hadn't heard anything back at all, and I was a little frustrated by that because I thought my note was very nice. Before making it into my frustrated post, he did write back and was happy to hear from me. So he's off the hook, but Deborah Kleinpeter and that guy with the Sloan song I want are still right at the top of my list o' shit.

Someone was in our office earlier this week, and I heard him say on a phone call, "Yeah, he's still AOL." Judging by the context, he meant AWOL. He's a bright guy, so I'm guessing that he couldn't decide whether to spell out "A-W-O-L" or say "A-wall" and got caught in the unfortunate middle ground. Still, that's a big difference. A very big difference, actually, since corporate media giants and people who leave the armed forces without permission aren't too similar.

That reminded me of another similar thing I overheard a few years ago. A woman at an old job said, "Yeah, her teenage son has HD ADD." I give her some credit for trying to remember that ADD can have the hyperactive component, thus making it ADHD, but she screwed it up. Instead, I had the image of a crystal clear tv picture of a guy not being able to concentrate. Good times, good times.

Lastly, before the Car Watch that is, I wanted to announce a programming change for next week. My Bratty Kid Sister (BKS) is helping a fake brother out by posting for me on Monday. As you might recall, she wrote for me while my lovely wife and I were in Mexico for a week and did a kick-ass job. You're in excellent hands, but just in case you have any misgivings, allow me to illustrate how like-minded she and I are. This is an IM conversation I had with her on Google's chat thing yesterday before I took her out to lunch at a Mongolian bbq place as a thank you:

BKS: Countdown has begun!

me: This is my first gmail im thing EVER! I see broccoli in my future. I see...sesame seeds,noodles, and what's that? Oh yeah, overall yummy goodness

BKS: Wow I'm so happy to initiate you. I have been craving this for upwards of 4 days now.

me: we should start using "downwards," as in, "I've known him for downwards of two years." Speaking of which, maybe we can find an antonym of "nth"

BKS: Wha?

me: ya know, like to the nth degree .I'm thinking oth, pronounced like oath, but playing off the number zero since that's close to the opposite

BKS: Oh gotcha. I was confused. One time I accidentally said oneth when I meant first. I thought maybe I had told you that

me: that's indeed glorious. Like 'once' with a lisp. I can dig it

BKS: Anytime someone says "i can dig it" I always think of Whoomp There It Is.

me: Did you know that "Whoomp There It Is" and another song called "Whoot There It Is" were both in the top ten at the same time back in the day?

BKS: Shut up

me: The Whoomp variety was by Tag Team, and the Whoot one by 95 South. Gotta love the arts. I couldn't have written this any better myself: http://medicineshow.blogspot.com/2005/07/medicine-show-grudge-match-1993-whoomp.html

BKS: Whatever...it's all about Tag Team for me. Party over here. Party over there. Wave your hands in the air. Shake your derriere.

me: that's what it's all about

BKS: Exactly

See what I mean? You guys won't even know that I'm gone. I will be, though. We going to Big Bear for the weekend, and I won't have written a damn thing for Monday by the time I'd want to post for Monday rolls around.

And now the time has come for another Car Watch installment. Isn't that, like, totally rad and everything?

I saw a license plate on the 101 that read, "IVANA (Heart) U." Talk about casting a wide net. Seriously, is anyone that un-picky that s/he wants to love anyone who can read a license plate? Or maybe it's someone without the capacity to love who is saddened by that fact. "Honestly, I want to love, but...ever since the war, I haven't been able to let go enough to truly connect with someone." Ya know, that kind of thing.

BKS wrote in with something she saw. "Oh man this one was crazy go nuts. It was 'TUF2(picture of a hand)L.'" I've often wondered how people would use the hand symbol effectively on plates. When they came out with the heart, star, plus, and hand, that one always confused me. I guess it could be used as the number 5, but you could also use the number 5 in that situation and avoid confusion. Anyway, even though that plate's boasting the difficulty or slipperiness of the driver, at least it seems to be using that symbol correctly.

I saw a license plate frame that read, "Powered By Daddy's $$$." Unfortunately, I've gotten somewhat used to things like that. However, this one surprised me because as I passed the car, I noticed a guy driving it. Maybe it wasn't his, but that was the first time I've seen one of those types of stickers with a male. What's next, a guy with a "I Hate Barbie, That Bitch Has Everything" frame?

Rockabye wrote in saying he saw "BETIML8" on a plate. I'm too far on the early spectrum to handle this one correctly, but it seems to me that if someone knows that he or she is chronically tardy, maybe changing that behavior would be better than proudly acknowledging it. Again, I'm the wrong person to address this.

He also saw "SUPERQT" on a license plate. He knew what my question to that would be, so he followed it up with, "Not at all. 50 or so and was beautifully challenged." At least she has a healthy self-esteem.

Lastly, Rockabye saw a bumper sticker that proudly proclaimed, "I beat up mascots." I wonder if there was fine print below it that said, "I then go to jail for assault and battery or occasionally cruelty for animals when it's a real life mascot and not just some dude in a fluffy costume. Yeah, I have issues, and paying my debt to society doesn't relieve me of my insatiable desire to harm real and fake animals. Please keep a safe distance, especially if you're a mascot or one of those car-driving animals that I've seen in the movies. I hate those movies, by the way." He didn't get close enough to see if that was there or not.

Have a kick-ass weekend and Monday, my homepeople. Thanks again for taking over, BKS. Your real parents must be so proud.

The old ball game

Howdy, my little Thursdayers. I hope this morning finds you well. This morning is good at finding people, so there's really no use in hiding. It's like the scary eye thing in Lord of the Rings, except not at all.

Last week, I wrote about nicknames that Greg and I came up with for people we met at college. Typically, the names were superficial and didn't require much thought at all. I forgot to mention one more of those somehow, so I'll fill you in now.

By a show of hands, how many of you remember me writing about a young lady named Zoe who believed my homey Rockabye and I were brothers despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary? Hmmm, not many, not many, you guys are in trouble out there. (Not really, that's just a line from Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and it came out after the "not many" against my will.) In any case, Zoe had a friend who was often right next to her. I think her name may have actually been Megan, but I could be totally making that up.

One day, the friend jokingly said something about kicking someone "in the nards." I'm not terribly familiar with that terminology. In fact, the only time I'd really heard "nards" was in the movie "Monster Squad" from my childhood. One character kicks a werewolf character in the crotch and then says amazedly, "Wolfman's got nards," if memory serves, but that's about it. Hey look at that: the miracle of the internets:

Back to the story. Greg and I argued with this young lady that it should be "nads" if anything, because (as I so delicately put it), "I'm pretty sure I don't have gonards." Despite our expertise, she never agreed to see it our way. We'd pass each other on campus, and she'd say, "Nards" as we'd simultaneously say, "Nads." What can I say, it was a place where the country's future leaders honed their critical thinking skills. Well, it wasn't long before Greg and I just referred to her as Nards. It didn't even sound weird after a little while: "Susan, Danielle, Zoe, and Nards were on the shuttle with me this morning," for example. Her parents would've been so proud.

Why do I bring this up? Because in an effort to keep writing blog posts for a while longer, I need to occasionally resort to bathroom humor. Hopefully you prefer that to nothing at all. My dad sent me an email with some suggestions of things I could write about, and one of them was, "The time you got hit in the balls in elementary school." It was actually high school, Dad, but I'll gladly tell that story to keep hope alive. I even found a suitable intro; aren't you proud of your boy?

Ah, high school. So much can be said about those awkward years that I'll just skip over that and get to the story. In 9th grade, I was one of the rare folks who enjoyed P.E. Dusty and I had the class together, so it was a time for me to have fun with a friend while playing sports, which was one of my favorite activities. I didn't like being sweaty for the next period, but hey, it's not like I was hanging with too many ladies back then anyway.

One day during the tail end of the year, I was playing softball with our group in P.E. It was slow pitch, and you pitched to your own team. I didn't like pitching because it was a little scary (to be honest), but I took over that day because someone was out. So I'm standing there, way closer than where the normal mound is, and some big dude steps up. Since it's my team, I want him to hit it, and I lob a nice fatty right in there.

According to Dusty, here's how it played it (in present tense for dramatic effect): The big dude takes a massive swing at the ball, and it starts heading right for me. Before it reaches me, I start screaming, seemingly anticipating the pain it's about to inflict...or I'm just scared and wimpy. Bam! Right in the nuts, as if it were a Pete-seeking missile. I collapse to my knees like Roger Federer winning a Grand Slam tourney, and my hands instinctively go to my manhood to try to hold the pain in somehow. A guy from the other team runs up and grabs the ball. "That's three outs; it's out if it hits your own team. Were up now, get off the field," he says, showing a little less compassion than I expect. For a brief second, I think I'm ok. I get up, take a couple of steps, and try laughing it off. Then it kicks in, and I collapse in a heap on the sideline. Obviously, this is hilarious to onlookers, so I can't really be mad at them. I manage to get over to a bench and mutter something about someone else needing to pitch.

Dusty admirably held his laughter in while he asked if I was ok, and I told him that I should probably go to the nurse's office to lie down. I stumbled to my feet, and a long string of gum stretched from my ass to the bench. In my haste to sit down, I apparently hadn't looked carefully enough at where I landed. Even I had to laugh at that insult to nether-region injury, and I slowly headed off toward the nurse's office.

When I got there, I explained what happened. The nurse looked almost frightened and asked, "Do you need...me to...um, check on..." "No, I just need to lie down for a few minutes," I said, saving her from having to select a euphemism. 45 minutes later, I got up and slowly went to my next class. I knew that there was no way to sugarcoat what happened, so I was pretty open with everyone. I got some laughs from my female friends and some heartfelt condolences from the guys.

There, Dad, there's your story. Big Dude hits Ball at Balls, film at 11. Anyone have any kind of similar story that they feel like sharing for some odd reason? Email me at ptklein@gmail.com, and maybe we can commiserate. See you back here tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday. Be careful out there, friends.

Despondent correspondent

Hello and welcome to UOPTA on this fine Wednesday. Speaking of Wednesday, Christina Ricci (who played Wednesday Addams in those movies) has managed to do ok for herself despite being a child actress. I guess anyone comes out looking pretty good when compared to the Lohan trajectory. But then again, Lindsay looks good next to Todd Bridges and his path. What a hazardous career it is to be a child actor. I'm so glad I got out of that after my kick-ass lead in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown." I was quite the triple threat, if you don't count singing or dancing. But I digress, gentle readers. Wednesday threw me off, and I'm ready to ramble more coherently now.

Conscientiousness. It's a word, a long word, and one that proudly displays four of the five vowels. A is so pissed off right now. But it's more than a word, my friends, it actually means something as well. I try to be conscientious in almost every way I can. I often let people into lanes even when they're assholes and didn't plan ahead, I hold doors for people, and when I ask someone how he or she is doing, I actually want to know. Additionally, I respond to people when they contact me. Even when it's in error and I get an email that wasn't meant for me, I write back to inform the person that the message was not received by the intended target. Sadly, not everyone out there is like me conscientiousnessly. Yeah, conscientiousnessly. Here are two examples of what I'm talking about.

As I've mentioned several times in this space, I'm a huge fan of the Canadian band called Sloan. I have all of their studio albums, a cd single with some rarities on it, and a live double cd. When the internet busted onto the scene, I found a page that some Canadian created listing everything by the guys from Halifax, Nova Scotia. On it, I saw everything I had at that time plus one additional item: Sloan's cover of "A Case of You" on a Joni Mitchell tribute cd called "Back to the Garden." My heart leapt. That's a fantastic song, and I was dying to hear them sing it. I did the best search I could at that time, but I couldn't find anywhere that acknowledged the existence of that album, let alone the song.

Time passed, Google came out, and I tried again. No dice. The Sloan website listed that song on their discography, but there was no link to anywhere that I could buy it. Years passed, and I mentioned it to a friend who has the capacity and flexible morals to do some illegal downloading of songs from off-shore sites. "I'll find it for you," he said confidently. A couple of hours later, he admitted that he came up empty and I probably wasn't going to find it anywhere. A few more months passed, and I decided to give it another shot. Wikipedia has an entry for that album, and it even says that the album's "most successful single was Sloan's rendition of 'A Case of You.'" Bastards.

Then I struck gold. Amidst the many entries on Google, I found a link to a Canadian podcast from a while ago in which they play the song at the end. First, the guy tells a story about how hard it was to find this song. He said he finally found it on Ebay, but lost the auction to someone else. He then wrote to the auction winner, and that person actually sent him a copy. At the end of the hour-long podcast, they played it. I love it. It's a harder, rock version and it kicks major ass. Fortunately, I was able to save the podcast and fast forward to the 55-minute mark anytime I wanted to hear it. However, I figured trying something out was worth a shot. I wrote to the podcast guy and expressed my sheer wonderment at finally finding the song. I asked if there was any way possible for me to get a copy. I not only offered to pay him, but pay in advance so he could then know for sure that I was serious. After all, he'd really wanted it at some point and it took the kindness of a stranger to help him. No fucking reply. A couple of weeks later, I wrote again and gently asked if he could please respond. Nothing. I can still hear the song when I want to, but I can't put it on a cd or on an mp3 player without getting the whole hour-long boring discussion first about whether it's called "babysitting" when it's your own kids. Way to pay it forward, asshole.

The next story doesn't anger me as much, but it's in the same exact category. My senior year of college, I was working for the Office of Student Life doing some pretty basic things. One day, I had to contact someone in another office, so I grabbed the staff and faculty directory. After I found the name and number I was looking for, I did what many of you might do and looked to see how many Kleins there were. I found a professor in there, and I don't remember who else because I saw something that made me say, "Wha- what? Really?" There, right below my initial focal point was a name: Deborah Kleinpeter. Kleinpeter! Now maybe some of you have heard of that last name before, but I certainly hadn't. Try it out with your own name, hear how weird that sounds to you, and imagine my surprise.

So I wrote her an email. It was short and sweet, and was something like this: "Good morning, my name is Peter Klein and I work on campus at the OSL. I saw your name in the directory this morning, and it obviously caught my eye. I wasn't aware of that surname, and I'm curious as to how popular it is, any origin you're aware of, etc. Thank you, and maybe we'll cross paths on campus one of these days." I know I didn't specifically ask any questions there, but I was expecting something - anything - in response. Even if it was just, "Hi, I don't know the origin, but what a coincidence." Nope; I got no reply whatsoever from Ms. Kleinpeter, and that disappointed me.

Now I have "No Reply" by the Beatles in my head, so I guess that's one positive thing that came from those experiences. I knew that common sense wasn't always so common, but I'd always hoped that common courtesy was. Nope, I set my conscientiousness expectations too high, and I have no one to blame but myself. Have a good day, friends, and watch out for non-replying bastards.

Super troop-er, part II

Hey there, gentle readers. I said I'd be back here today, and I made good on that promise. Oh sure, it helps that most of this post was already written since I didn't know it would be a two-parter when I started, but it's still a kept promise nonetheless. You can't spell "kept promise" without Peter, after all. The moral of this paragraph: hello.

When I left you mid-story yesterday, Dusty and I had just finished working with our groups of Girl Scouts on particular improv games that we learned from Comedy Sportz. The girls were all ready to show off their stuff and play those games in front of the adoring crowd. I wasn't though. Dusty and I didn't realize until right then that not only were we there to teach the games and prepare them for the mini show, but we were also to be the emcees of the event. I thought to myself, "Well hell, if I can't wing this part of it, then I'm really not fit to be an Improv Expert, now am I?" We gave ourselves a two-second pep talk and walked out on stage. (And no, you can't spell expert without Peter.)

We started by welcoming the family members and the group of girls sitting and waiting for their turn. After a brief rundown of what they were about to see (in grandiose terms, naturally), we called the first group up. Dusty introduced the game and off they went. The audience seemed to be enjoying it so far, so I wasn't too worried. Then it was my turn with my Scantron group. I called up the girls, and asked for some suggestions from the audience. I then took my time explaining the rules of the game while the girls huddled and came up with their plan. The scene began, and I froze it at the most appropriate times to maximize the funny. The first stoppage had something to do with condiments, and the girls' answers were as follows: "Ketchup," "Mustard," "Ketchup and mustard," and "Monkeys flying out of kitchen cabinets." It was hilarious, because as the girl said that suggestion, she made brief eye contact with me in a way that acknowledged that she was already playing her wild card. I smiled back, and it was clear by the level of applause that crowd chose that last option. The girls had a great time up there, and even though the scene went nowhere and they were all talking all over one another, it was fun and the crowd enjoyed it. That's what really matters, right?

Some time passed, and I welcomed the Dr. Knowitall group up. I thought it would be funny to give this "doctor" one hell of an introduction, so I just started going. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages except ages that don't exist, we have a very special guest indeed for you this fine sunny afternoon; a guest with credentials so impressive that people have been known to get light-headed just from thinking about the years of schooling they required. Get your cameras ready, take mental notes so you can wow your friends tomorrow, and hang onto your hats and glasses, because we have the most famous and well-known doctor to ever grace this stage. He is an expert in-" I heard someone shout something. Was I being heckled? "She!" the voice repeated. "Excuse me?" "SHE is an expert." Oh yeah, that. Fuck. Then I got a little rattled, and therefore started doing the Rattled Peter form of talking. "Yes, SHE is an expert, for she is female and why wouldn't she be able to be a doctor especially a famous one because women and girls can do anything they want when they grow up or even before they grow up, right?" It was brutal for a few seconds, but I finally shut up and took questions for the audience. The scene went ok, but their answers stayed pretty ordinary. Boys probably would've done a better job. I kid, I kid.

When the event was over, Dusty and I got a round of applause, and everyone but me seemed to be over my gender slip-up. I really did beat myself up for that for a few hours, even though I know it was not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. It's just that I had spent so much time being ridiculously inclusive in my language while working at the university that this was almost as bad as accidentally referring to the residence halls as "dorms." Not quite as bad, but up there. We said goodbye to the kids and parents, and a few gave me some heartfelt thanks that truly felt wonderful. Even better than Thin Mints (I know, blasphemy). The event was a lot of fun, and The Mills did a great job preparing everyone and trusting that Dusty and I would just figure it out along the way. Ah, life imitating art.

So that was my one and only official experience with the Girl Scouts to date. I recently told my lovely wife that if we have a daughter in the future, she may need to join just so I can say, "You're doing a heck of a job, Brownie" at some point. She thinks that's a long way to go for a joke, but I'm willing to sacrifice for my craft. Have a great day, gentle readers, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with whatever you feel like. Shaloha.

Super troop-er

Hello, good morning, and welcome, my friends. It's good to see you back here for another week of whatever I happen to write about. First off, I want to wish a Happy Anniversary to my good friends Dave and Twilight (whom I introduced to each other). In January, I wrote about Dave subjecting us to the horrendous game called "Killer Bunnies." Even though I still don't forgive him for that offense, I'm man enough to put it aside and wish him and Twi a happy day. I'm so mature sometimes.

For years, my friend The Mills work for the Girl Scouts. She created, organized, and implemented tons of programs over that span of time. Only one of those, however, had the added bonus of one Peter Klein involved. My lovely wife and I lived next door to Dusty and The Mills during that time, and when she came over with her pitch, I was happy to help in any way she needed.

The Mills created an entire Improv Day for the scouts. The idea (as it was laid out for me) was to have both me and Dusty teach the groups of girls a few games, and then they would go up and perform later in front of whoever else was there. It would be fun, and I would have the benefit of simultaneously helping a friend and serving the community. And maybe I could get some Thin Mints out of it.

We got to the park where the event was being held, and the first thing I noticed was a larger-than-expected group of Girl Scouts. I'm really bad at estimating group sizes, but it was large enough that a local sorority sent members to be volunteers and help us out. Dusty and I picked up our name badges, and my eyes got a little wide upon seeing "Improv Expert" under my name. Here's the thing: Dusty and I were indeed a part of an improvisational comedy group for two years. However, that was in high school and this was a while after that. During the intervening years, we kept up on our quick-comedy skills by...doing nothing, really. We laughed a lot and had to be fast with our jokes before others jumped in, but that was about it. That's the benefit of having funny friends, I suppose: keeping you on your game. In any case, being an "expert" was a little scary since we hadn't really planned anything. To add a little more pressure, a lot of parents were there, along with some of The Mills' co-workers/supervisors.

We quickly came up with a kick-ass plan. We gathered the sorority sisters and taught them some warm-up activities and fun group games. Then they each took their own group as Dusty and I made the rounds, added our expertise, and took on groups of our own. It was great. We showed them an exercise in which the two people involved can only ask questions. "How's it going?" "Why, do I look sick?" "Do you feel sick?" "Am I supposed to feel incredibly bloated?" "Are you pregnant?" "You think I'm fat?" And so on. We went for a good couple of minutes, until I stumped him with "Are you trying to break up with me?" The kids had a hard time with that one, but it was great to see them try. They kept resorting to normal statements with one question word at the end. For example, "It's really nice out today...right?" Loads of fun.

I adopted two groups, and I taught them each a game to later perform. With the first group, I showed them a game called Scantron that we learned in our Comedy Sportz league. Here's the shortest explanation I can give: the ref (me, in this case) stops the scene and allows each person on stage to suggest what happens next. The audience claps, and the "winning" choice is how the scene then proceeds. Kinda like Choose Your Own Adventure, but named after a test-taking form (and therefore inherently less cool). So after I taught them how to do it, the girls were being too tame still. Why was someone home from school? Their answers were along the lines of, "She's sick," "She's pretending to be sick," "Her mommy's sick," and "She doesn't feel well." I tried helping them branch out, and said, "It can be ANYTHING at all! Why is she home? Because monkeys jumped out of the kitchen cabinets and they were having a dance party. See? Anything at all; have fun with this part and the whole scene gets to be more fun." They laughed, and I got the sense that they understood. We did another trial run before I went to my other group. Lo and behold, there were monkeys flying out of cabinets within thirty seconds of the scene starting. I reminded them that that was just an example and to really just say whatever came to mind.

With my other group, I taught them "Dr. Knowitall." This is a game in which the people on stage stand shoulder-to-shoulder and pretend to be one being. The audience asks a question, and the girls take turns saying one word each until it is answered. It's pretty funny to watch how off-course the answer gets once one person says an unexpected word. Why is the sky blue?" "The reason that the sky is blue is because the sun sneezes and wants to eat cake but didn't eat breakfast first." That kind of thing. I gave them some tips and we ran through it a few times with me as part of the doctor. " They were all set.

And now I'm all set to prolong this madness. Yes, you guessed correctly, I'm stretching this out again. Bwa ha ha. See you back here tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion. Same Klein time, same Klein channel. Have a good day, and may all of your Mondanic adventures be filled with shaloha.

FUF #35

Ah yes, we are here yet again. I have no fear though, for we can get through any work week together, gentle readers. We are young. Heartache to heartache we stand. No promises, no demands. FUF is a battlefield. (And we shall be victorious!) Yes, it's another Follow Up Friday, and I'm reading to start F'ing U, if you don't mind. As always, get ready for some rambles related to earlier posts, the random rambles that follow, and the ever-present and ever-pleasant Car Watch.

My Bratty Kid Sister commented on my post about bowling team names and individual names. I got the sense that she was upset that I'm not going by Moses in the league. I started to post this comment as a response: "I know, I know, BKS. You always called me Moses for parting the pins, leading the group, and being Jewish, but on a team helmed by a Klein, Stein, and Levine, I don't think my Jewishness stands out enough. Even so, who would the other three be? Should our team be The Old Testament? We can be Moses, Aaron, Isaac, and Abraham. I do bowl first on our team, so I could use lots of "Follow me" jokes. I could make bowling commandments too - Thou shalt not eat with thy bowling hand, etc. Ya know, you may be onto something. Why didn't I save this for a FUF?" That's where I stopped. "Thou shalt not miss the 5 pin" and "Thou shalt be ready to bowl when it is thy turn unless thou art purchasing alcohol" should definitely be in there. Got more of these, gentle readers? Come on, I know at least three of you bowl, so come out of the shadows.

When I posted something about the date on 10-10, it reminded me of something. Do you remember all of those 10-10-220 or 10-10-297 commercials for ways to get inexpensive long distance? Man, they went from having all sorts of competing commercials on at all hours of the day to disappearing completely almost overnight. Score one for the cell phone companies, eh?

In yesterday's post, I talked about frequenting (which is a great verb, by the way) the Coral Tree Cafe, or "the CTC" as I called it. I remembered another short story from that place that I found humorous and hope you will too. A young lady behind the counter excitedly greeted me there. "You were my Orientation advisor," she said. "Do you remember me?" I actually did recognize her, but I didn't remember her name. "Of course," I said, "How's everything been going?" We chatted for a little bit, and I casually checked out her nametag at some point in the conversation. It said "Jacqueline" on it, and that sounded vaguely familiar. The next time I came in, I said, "Hi Jackie," using the nickname as a way to prove that not only did I know her name, but that I was familiar enough with it that I'd moved on to that stage. I thought it was a pretty smooth move, actually. I saw her almost daily for a couple of months, and one time her name somehow came up. "Yeah, I just go by Jacqueline usually; you're the only one who calls me Jackie," she said. Crap. "Really?" I asked. "Yeah, 'cause my last name's Robinson, and 'Jackie Robinson' is already taken." She said it was ok for me to keep calling her that since I had been for so long, but I couldn't help chuckling inside about my master plan backfiring so perfectly.

In order to replenish something, must it first be plenished? I think the order has to be plenished, depleted, replenished, replete. That "ple" root is mighty active this morning.

There was a fly buzzing on a window in our office/dog's room on Monday. It was pissing me off as I was trying to concentrate on writing something for work. Naturally, I went over to the bookshelf, grabbed a book, and proceeded to swing and miss a few times. It went back to the window, and I was able to successfully smash it with the binding of the book against the window. Then I looked down at the book I arbitrarily selected to do my killing: "Way of the Peaceful Warrior." Oops, I kinda fucked that one up.

My homey Rockabye pointed out that you can't spell "three-parter" without Peter. I pointed out that it's an anagram of "Heart R Peter." He replied by saying that "Peter Fucker without Peter is just Fucker." That made me laugh, so I decided to share.

And now, the magical moment has drawn nigh and the forces of good have brought us together for the spectacle that is Car Watch. I hope you're ready, because there's no turning back now. Ooh, scary.

My oft-driving friend Rockabye saw a license plate that read "IMCOOL2." I think it's one of two things. Either this person had "IM COOL" before and this is the sequel or they're trying to tell us that they're not only beautiful and/or intelligent, but they're actually fun to hang out with also. If it's option number two, then I really don't like that person.

My mom wrote in after being a slacker last week. She saw a plate that read, "FXDNCOM." It took me a minute, because I kept getting tripped up by the "COM" at the end, but my mom's note helped: "Since it was on a late model Mercedes, I assume it is a pretty hefty one." Ah, there we go. Thanks, Mom.

Keeping with the spirit of parents, my dad wrote me to say he saw "MA BAYB" on a cute sports car. I like this one, mainly because it forces the reader to adopt an accent. The author Bill Bryson wrote in one of his books that "Scona rine" is a weather prediction in Australia. I really like that, and this reminded me of that. This is not that, but this was similar enough to that that I thought of that and decided to share this. Obviously.

Sticking with the Klein family theme, my favorite brother called me with a very interesting license plate frame report: "Keep honking, I'm reloading." Yikes, that's some serious shit there. I guarantee you I would let that person stay stopped at a green light for about thirty seconds before even considering the horn. Point taken, sir.

Sacky Christi wrote in with a plate and frame report of her own. The plate said "A007DDS," and the accompanying frame said, "007 DDS, License to Drill." Ok, we get the point, buddy: even though you're a dentist, we're still supposed to believe that you're cool. Maybe if you tell yourself that enough, you won't need to keep selling that idea so hard.

My turn! I saw a bumper sticker that I liked, and that's my only criterion for making into the FUF Car Watch. It said, "If only closed minds came with closed mouths." I appreciate that sentiment. Big ups, respect.

Dusty wanted in on the action. The plate he saw said "IB SHART." He wrote, "I'm guessing that they mean s-hart, as in sweetheart, but that's tragic." Tragic indeed, my friend.

Lastly, my favorite Car Watch item of the week comes from my Aunt Lynn. It was a bumper sticker, and it suggested - nay, told - whoever saw it to do the following: "Make Dildos Not War." Well said, my fellow American. At the very least, that sounds like a pretty cost-effective approach to dealing with foreign relations.

Ok, that's it, I'm tired. Have a weekend, and make it a great one. See you back here on Monday, and please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com in the meantime with literally anything at all that crosses your mind. Shaloha, and see you again soon.

Nickname knack, part II

Hello again, my friends. Since this is yet another part II, the phrase "pregnant pause" popped into my head. I wonder if the pause has given birth yet; I must admit that I'm not too familiar with the gestation period of silences. And I wonder who the father is...did stutter and pause finally get it on after those awkward years of pent up sexual tension? Wait, I have to stop myself here before I keep going with this nonsense. I caught a glimpse of it, and you're all much better off with me stopping now. Trust me on this.

When I left you yesterday, I was in the middle of talking about the nicknames that Greg and I came up with for people on and around the UCSB campus. There are more, gentle readers, and I saved two of the more memorable ones for today. I'm good like that.

On campus, there is a little restaurant-ish place called the Coral Tree Cafe. It's right by where I worked as a student and also later as a professional staff member, so I went there fairly often. In the mornings, I'd grab some coffee there. In the afternoons, I'd sometimes get a turkey burger or one of their fine soups (mmm, Cheddar Tomato). Greg sometimes joined me there too, and together we got to know the folks who worked there fairly well. First off, there was a worker there that I saw quite often and could not tell if it was a man or a woman.

I know sometimes people say that when they're actually pretty confident it's one or the other, but I seriously didn't know. Every time I'd be leaning one way, I'd go in there and it would be much closer to the other. "Ok, I'm pretty sure it's a woman now," I'd think, and then get blown away by the manliness the next time in. Greg and I referred to this person as They, since that was the pronoun we'd use to get away from the burdensome "he or she" that would've appeared in every sentence about They. The mystery of They may have been solved, because one of the last times I saw them, They was clearly wearing lipstick and sporting breasts that I'm pretty confident weren't there before. It appears They was in a bit of a transition, so maybe Greg and I were more observant that cruel after all.

The other nickname from the CTC was for a young lady that I saw there almost every morning for a while. She was a blonde hippy-ish chick named Jennifer and she wore a hemp necklace. We were familiar enough that we said hi to each other instead of her just telling me what I owed and me paying it. Working on campus and advising thousands of students a year, I was on a "waive and nod" basis with what often felt like the entire student body, so that was fairly standard.

After winter break my senior year, I went into the CTC and a blonde woman said hi to me. I didn't recognize her, but I said hello back in a friendly manner, because let's face it, that's who I am. She asked how my break was, and I quickly glanced at her nametag for some help. "Jennifer," it read. On my way back to her face, I saw a hemp necklace - the same hemp necklace that the other Jennifer wore. I continued the conversation, paid, and left. Greg hadn't met her before since she was on the earlier shift (while he was sleeping), but I brought him in there with me and explained the difference in the best way I could. "I guess it has to be her, but her whole face got oddly puffy and a little...misshapen somehow. It's like she had cortizone shots and Bell's Palsy or something. I know it's not politically correct by any means, but it's almost like she somehow...was made retarded." And because of my sentence structure, Jennifer (if she was indeed Jennifer) became The Past Participle.

A while later, Greg told me that he may have figured out what really happened to The Past Participle. He saw some program on the drug called "Special K" (which did not come with red berries, if memory serves), and some people had bad reactions or something that left them looking kinda like she did. "Oddly puffy and a little misshapen" is still the best way I can describe the transformation. It could've been worse: she could've been transformed into a monstrous vermin after a night of unsettling dreams, for example.

I saw a lot of The Past Participle and They that year as my coffee intake was at a high level, and Greg was always happy to report any Laker or RouMou sightings. He thought he heard that Laker's real name was Jill, but I didn't want to know for sure. We'd nod to Rope Guy and avoid Angry Guy on our way to grab a burrito at Freebird's or TA's, and sometimes we'd talk about the disappearance of Skunk and Skunk's Friend. Neither of us missed Much much though. Ah, college: where likeminded individuals can be simultaneously bright and idiotic. I sure do miss it.

Have a great Thursday, homemen and homewomen, and I'll see you here tomorrow. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with any thoughts, stories, bumper stickers, jokes, or ideas for posts.