FUF #42

Good morning, gentle readers. I'm glad you came along, I dedicate this song, to all the words I've FUFfed before.

I have another: 'Cause when the lovin' starts and the lights go down, and there's not another living soul around, then you woo me until the sun comes up and you say that you FUF me.

There, you get two of those today. Speaking of today, it is the one year anniversary of my first post on UOPTA. As I've mentioned a few times, this will be my final weekdaily post (that word really should exist), but I shall continue to post something every Friday until I decide to stop that for some reason.

As an English major, I was trained to look for meaning in everything, whether intended or not. Therefore, I can't help but be pleased to see that this is FUF #42. To some of you, that number has no real significance. To others, you see it and think, "Oh, that's the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything." You're absolutely right. According to "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," that is indeed the Ultimate Answer. Then they have to find the Ultimate Question, but that's a whole 'nuther story. Those are great books, by the way. So, I find it fun and fitting that my final FUF is numbered such. (Also, 42 is a multiple of 6, which is my favorite one-digit number, and it's 24 backwards, which is my favorite two-digit number.) Have you written anything today that is associated with the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything? Slacker.

As tradition dictates, my FUF will be comprised of things related to previous posts, some random ramblings, and then an edition of Car Watch. Here we go:

I wrote earlier this week a little about modern art. That reminded me of something from my freshman year of college. A friend on my floor was in a beginning Art Studio class, and they all had gone over to a place where some guys were skateboarding. There were two halfpipes next to each other, separated by about six inches. The T.A. turned to the class and asked, "How many of you think this is art?" Shockingly (to me), a couple of hands went up. "You see," the T.A. continued, "My first thought was that it wasn't art either, but then I saw the space between the two halfpipes and it changed my mind. That little space there made it art to me." I am so glad I never took one of those classes. I don't think I would've gotten through week one without yelling, "What the hell are you people talking about?!"

I also wrote earlier about my trip to Spain in high school. Another highlight of that trip (besides Spain Cat) was the disco that my friend Dusty and I checked out. That was memorable for three reasons: One, drinking J&B whiskey for some reason (and calling it "jota y be"). Two, we heard a techno version of "Chariots of Fire." If I could replicate that in type with several "duns" and "booms," you know I would. Third, some of the weird techno songs had English thrown in. We heard people repeatedly singing the only line in a song we'd never heard. The line? "I want your pussy." Dusty turned to me and asked, "Uh, they don't know what they're saying, do they?" They clearly didn't, but we didn't want to break the news to them.

Raise your hand if you remember me saying that I had a story on Wednesday but instead pushed it to the FUF. Good, good. Here it is: I was working at Orientation and chatting with some parents at the Parent Social that took place on the first night of each session. It was always hilarious to see the same parents who were freaking out about alcohol on campus tossing a few back themselves just an hour or two later. In any case, I was chatting with a few moms and the topic of dogs came up. One said that they had had three Pomeranians. "Aw, those are cute," another mom said. "Yeah, but they're not very sturdy," she countered. We obviously asked for more information. "Well, the first one we had got away from my daughter on a walk and was hit by a car and died. And then the second one, well, my daughter was practicing for cheerleading one day, and when she was doing a flip, the dog snuck in and she landed on it and broke its back." "Was it ok?" someone asked, sad and concerned. She shook her head and said, "He took his last breath right then and there." It was silent for about ten seconds, and I finally erupted with a hint of nervous laughter: "That's a horrific story!" I said. Everyone agreed. I kept picturing the poor girl who had been responsible for two of her dogs' demises and how awful that must've been to, ya know, cheerlead one to death. Happy Friday, by the way.

My favorite brother called me a couple of days ago to say that while unable to sleep, he set his mind to finding an Auto Follower for me. He came up with "unbridled," which is good, but not perfect. I think that can still be used to talk about horses, even though it's almost entirely used with "passion." I look for real true ones though, and actually stumbled upon one the following day: Kindred. Pretty f'n perfect, no?

Ok, now it's time to say goodbye to all our ramblings. C-a-r (aren't you glad you stuck around?) Double-u (you wouldn't skip out now, would ya?) a-t-c-h...yeah... Car Watch! Damn, that song almost worked all the way through. Here goes:

My co-worker Rob was behind a truck for a florist company and he sent me an email about it. The company's name was "The Empty Vase." To me, that should be the mortal enemy of a florist, not its namesake. That's like a dairy naming itself "Lactose Intolerance." (I just thought of a bunch more of these, but I'd love to hear your versions, so please comment away.)

My dad wrote me after seeing a license plate that read, "RUFLNME." When I first read it, I thought it was "Ruffling me," which didn't make any sense. Then I figured it out and wrote him back saying, "Well I guess you'd have to be, no?" I've got a point there, eh comrades?

I saw a plate that told me to "STA HNGY." Initially, I wondered what "Stay hangy" could possibly mean. Then I quickly jumped to someone pleading with Martina Hingis not to hang up her tennis shoes. Finally I realized that the person's just a fucking moron who decided that something being even slightly close to the message he wanted to put out there was close enough in his book. Grrr.

I saw a plate that said, "405 BYTZ." This was great for a couple of reasons. First, yes, the 405 has horrendous traffic and I admire that person's commitment to disliking it. Second, I saw this car on Sepulveda, the street that runs parallel to the 405 that people take as an alternate. Way to go, fellow L.A. driver. I admire when people stick to their very public proclamations.

And now for my homey Rockabye's sights of the week. He had some great ones that I'm pleased to share with you. First, he saw a bumper sticker that said, "Live every second as if your ass is on fire." Really? Every second just like that? How unproductive would our world be if everyone just ran around screaming, fanning their butts, and plopping down into puddles or sinks to stop the burning? I can tell you one thing, it would certainly make these presidential primary debates more interesting.

Next, he saw another one that offered advice with which I disagree: "Drive it like you stole it." Oh sure, that makes perfect sense. We all know that car thieves are among the safest drivers out there, so let's all emulate them. Man I hate people sometimes.

Lastly, he saw one car with three bumper stickers. They were, "Cover me, I'm changing lanes," "I think, therefore I'm single," and "Anger management graduate: What the hell are you looking at?" I didn't ask if it was a man or a woman, but I can't see a man having the second one. Therefore, I'm going to refer to the driver as a she. If that makes me a sexist bastard for one paragraph, I can deal with it. Imagine this woman pulling into an office parking lot for a job interview. Her prospective employer pokes her head out and sees the car (yes, bosses can be women too, you assholes). Does she think to herself, "Hmmm, she seems like a good fit for this office," or something similar? No way in hell. She thinks, "Ah, an angry, bitter, bad driver who thinks ever happy person in a relationship must be an idiot. This should be interesting." I can understand people using the messages on their cars to announce hobbies or even how odd they are to the world, but it's the people who proclaim how miserable they are that really confuse me. That's not going to stop the cycle but rather reinforce it because people will assume that you're hell to get along with before ever speaking to you. Does anyone have any insight on why people do this? Help me out here, because I'm at a loss and getting a little worked up here over some very inconsequential shit. I need a stiff jota y be to calm me down.

And with that, my friends, I'm closing the book on my first year as a blogger. It's been a labor of love, and while I'm sad to see the daily aspect of it go away, I'm also looking forward to having a little extra time for other possible creative outlets. I'll keep you all posted of course. In the meantime, please comment away, email anything and everything you want to share to ptklein@gmail.com, and I'll see you back here next Friday. Shaloha, and have a great weekend and upcoming week.

In vino un-veritas

Hello and welcome on our final Sorry Honey It's Thursday post. Let's hope we all get through this SHIT painlessly and with a smile on our faces. So far, if there's been any semblance of a theme this week, I'd have to say it's "travel," even though yesterday didn't touch on that at all. Therefore, I shall attempt to lead into my real story with a forced intro on travel. Let's see what happens.

My lovely wife and I enjoy drinking wine from time to time. We're not enthusiasts or connoisseurs per se, but we like a glass here and there. Our unsophisticated palettes can detect really only two things: we like it or we don't. That hasn't stopped us from visiting wineries and tasting rooms all along this fine state of ours. We've hit several great ones in the Central Coast area, visited Napa and Sonoma many times, and even found cool wineries in Sacramento and the famed town of Lodi.

I may have undersold our tasting prowess a bit. We can tell you why we like or dislike the way a wine tastes as well. It might be a peppery syrah (mmmm) or too sweet of a chardonnay (yuck), for example. What I can't do though, is identify all of the things that the descriptions say we'll find in our sips. However, once we're away from the wineries, I like to pretend I can. I'll take a little sip, swish it around a little, and say something to the effect of, "On the nose, I find a hint of oak, black currant, and the faintest hue of sun-ripened loganberry." My friend Greg does the same thing incidentally, and I seem to recall him throwing "a touch of leather" in there sometimes. Good call.

And so it was this past weekend that my lovely wife and I went on a date. We each had a glass of wine, and after the first sip, I stepped up my game a little. Remembering something that a wine expert had told us in a tasting room years ago, I said, "Ah, I've now created a mental picture of this wine on my palette so I can recognize it with future tastings." Here's where it gets interesting. My poor wife is faced with this question several times a day, every day of her life: "Do I simply smile at that or do I play along?" It's a fine line, because too much playing along and we'd never have any actual conversations. This time, I think she made a wise choice. "What's the picture of?" she asked.

I just went with it. "It's an old man sitting in a canoe," I said. "Where?" she asked. "On a large stretch of gravel, unfortunately." "Why is he there?" "Well, he wanted to throw something overboard to hide it in the water, but he can't now because it would just be sitting there on the gravel next to him," I said. "What is it?" she asked, fully invested in playing along now even though both of our faces were stone serious. "A lava lamp - a real one, with real lava inside." She asked where he got it. "In a grab bag," I said. And then I added a caveat that accidentally complicated things: "He had #1 and chose that gift." "But why would he choose it if he obviously didn't like it?" It was a good and reasonable question, and I need to switch paragraphs to answer it.

"You see, he works as a welder in a lava lamp factory - the plastic kind. His crazy cousin got this real one as a gift and regifted it in the grab bag specifically with him in mind. When someone opened it, everyone said, 'Oh, don't get too comfortable with that,' meaning that he was going to steal it later. So he felt pressured to take it even though he doesn't really like lava lamps at all - real or plastic." She asked about the cousin and what she did for a living. "She's unemployed right now, but she had been working at an old-age home. It turns out that it was actually just a volunteer position but everyone thought she was getting paid the whole time she was there." "How does she have any money then?" Amber asked. "Ya know, a lot of people wonder about that."

She shifted back to our protagonist: "Why can't he just hide it somewhere?" "Since his divorce about ten years ago, he's been in a tiny apartment and he really just doesn't have any room for it. No one visits him there, so he doesn't have to worry about having it on display." "Where does he live?" "Just outside of Cleveland, obviously." "Can't he just wrap it in a trash bag and throw it away?" She then realized the fallacy in her own question: "Oh wait, it's real lava so if it broke, the whole trash would catch on fire." "Exactly," I said.

I continued on. "So he came up with a plan to sign up for a canoe trip and toss it off the side into the water. That way he could dispose of it safely and end the whole ordeal." "What went wrong?" she asked, looking genuinely concerned for a moment. "Well, the company he signed up with was really just a bunch of scam artists. They took his money and then put him on a cheap canoe in a big van. Then they said they'd arrived, and they slid him down a ramp - not into water, but in the middle of a huge gravel lot 45 minutes from his home. The scam artists ran back into their van and sped off before he could get them. He had to be careful not to drop the lava lamp after all." "So what's he going to do?" "They said they'd be back in an hour, but he can't exactly believe them seeing as how they distinctly mentioned 'water' in their description of the trip."

She nodded and then paused for a couple of seconds. "What's his name?" she asked. "I'm not sure, but I'm getting a strong 'Jerry' vibe." She looked confused. "How can you not be sure?" "I don't know any of these people; this is just the mental image I get when I drink this wine," I said. "That's right; that's how this whole thing started," she said smiling, and we both knew that the story was over.

The food came, and both our meals and the rest of our evening were lovely. Neither of us mentioned "Jerry" again that night or since, but I thought I'd share that story with you so you could get a glimpse into what life with Peter is like sometimes. She does a wonderful job balancing the "smile and nod" with the "play along," and I just think it's great. Ok, back to reality. I'll see you back here for a final Follow Up Friday before switching to Friday-only posts. Have a great SHIT, everyone.

Chillin' with a lesser dog

Good morning yet again, gentle readers. It's weird how we keep having these mornings almost every single day. It's kinda like clockwork or something. Anyway, I'm back and pleased to report that I have a story to tell that reminded me of another story. Together, they should be able to join forces to create an entire post. I guess we'll have to wait and see, now won't we? Bwa ha ha. I don't know why I thought an evil laugh was appropriate there, but it just kinda came out. You know how it is.

Last Sunday, my lovely wife and I took our pup for a walk around the neighborhood. She loves being outside because all of the smells and the ability to go to the bathroom anywhere. Our dog enjoys the walks too. (Ba dum ching!) So we were on the final stretch back to our house, and we saw in the distance a little fluffy dog right around our driveway. We waited for a person to appear right after, but it didn't happen. When we got there, the fluffiest little Pomeranian I'd ever seen came up and greeted our dog Hallie. "Hey little thing," I said to the smiling furball. "Where's your person?" Amber asked it. It didn't respond, but just kept playing with Hallie and doing the kind of panting that little dogs do by virtue of breathing alone. Amber bent down and noticed that there wasn't a collar on the dog. We walked to the corner to look in all directions for a person, but this dog was clearly on his or her own.

We saw a neighbor across the street and asked if he knew to whom the pup belonged. "No, but there are signs up all over for a lost dog with a $300 reward," he said. "We just want to help her find her home," my lovely wife said, and the man laughed a little as if he didn't believe us. I asked where the signs were, and he told me where he'd seen them. I said to my wife, "There usually aren't stray Pomeranians just running around, so this dog clearly belongs to someone, right?"

We devised a plan of action. We let the dog in to have some water, and starting calling him/her "Fluffy" in lieu of a proper name. There was way too much fur to see if it was a boy or girl dog, so we fluctuated between "it" and "her." Amber would keep an eye out for any people walking by and I would take the dog in the car with me to look for the signs and call from my cell phone. Here's the thing: we don't like small dogs. We don't think they should count as dogs but rather some other (and lower form of) breed. Fluffy was very cute and sweet though, and this confused us. Amber picked the little pup up and put him/her in my backseat. "Good luck," she said, "and call me with any updates."

I drove around for a little and looked back to see how Fluffy was doing. Adorably, the dog was way too small to poke a head out the cracked window, so instead s/he just sat there and looked up to get as much wind as possible. I finally found a sign, but it was for a Shih Tzu and had a picture that clearly wasn't of Fluffy. I couldn't find any more signs, so I called my wife to talk about implementing Phase 2 of the Klein Plan.

Our vet is in a 24hr office near our house, so I went over there with Fluffy (who was being very good, by the way). I parked and asked them if they could scan her to see if there was a microchip or not with the owner's information. Our dog has one, and so it was worth a shot. With Fluffy wagging her tail in my arms, the guy came back with something that looked like a price scanner and moved it all along Fluffy's back. Right when I was about to give up, it beeped and something popped up on the display. "Cool, just have a seat and I'll be back in a minute," he told me.

I sat there, holding the collar-less dog in my arms like a baby, petting her and telling her it was going to be ok. Other people in the waiting room had a Bulldog and a Boxer, so I kept a pretty tight grip. After close to ten minutes, the guy came back. "His name is Bear," he said, "and I left a message on the owner's machine saying that we found him." He told me that they would take him and wait for the owner to call, but that I could leave my contact info if I wanted. A little invested in this dog now (even though we spent all that time together without him telling me he was a he), I left our home number because I wanted to make sure he would be ok.

I got home and told my wife what happened. She asked me all of the questions that I hadn't asked. "How long will they keep him? What happens after that? Can we take him at that point instead and find him a home?" So I called the vet's office and asked those questions, and found that they would keep him a day or two and then take him to a shelter that would continue calling the owner. They couldn't release Bear to us because we weren't his owners. I didn't argue that point, though I found it full of absurdity. Amber and I talked about how sweet that little guy was and how cute he was with Hallie. Confused with herself as she said it, Amber uttered, "I kinda wanna keep him." "I know," I said, "but that would probably end the first time I heard him bark." That's the thing with little dogs: they sound like little dogs.

The next day, Amber called and found that Bear's owner called back and was coming to get him. The problem was that it was Bear's previous owner who had given him up for adoption because he barked too much. This guy didn't have the most recent owner's information anymore, but he would come take Bear and make sure he found another good home. The old owner called us later to ask exactly where we found the dog and gave us his number if we knew anyone who would want him. Bear, if you're reading this somewhere out there, holy shit - you can read?!

So, we did a good deed and hope that the little smiling furball is in a good home soon. And by "good," we mean "one that puts a collar on him and cares about his well-being." I know I said that this reminded me of another story, but I'll just push that into this week's Follow Up Friday instead of making this post gimongous. Is that cool with you? Have a great rest of your day, and provided that there's another morning tomorrow, let's meet back here. Shaloha.

Speaking from the art

Hi everyone, and good morning on another beautiful Tuesday. I know what you're thinking, and yes, today is my five-twelfths birthday. I appreciate the warm wishes. So let's dive right back into the thick of things, eh? Yesterday, I wrote about a blunder that my lovely wife and I made while traveling. Today's story has to do with our travels as well, and while there are some slightly similar aspects, I think you'll agree at the end that it was a pretty unique experience.

The summer after college graduation, we took a trip to France and Spain together. It was wonderful, and though I'd been to both places before, it was as a high schooler who cared more about the dead mouse we saw than the history and architecture of the places.

That actually reminds me of a little side-story, if I may be so bold. One of my most vivid memories of my trip to Spain was meeting Spain Cat. Our class was waiting outside somewhere (again, I didn't sweat the details), and a skinny and sickly-looking cat slowly made its way toward us. Someone bent down and put the remaining bite of a ham sandwich on the ground for the cat, since he looked in need of it (I'm saying "he" instead of "it" from now on even though I didn't inspect him for genitalia). As if being replayed in super slow motion, the cat pawed at the sandwich and finally took a bite. We couldn't believe how slowly he was moving, and we stood there mesmerized as he took probably three bites in five minutes. My friend Jon said, "Watch this," and he walked up to the cat and snapped loudly right near his face. The cat stayed looking right at him completely frozen until three whole seconds later, when he finally blinked at the snap. We couldn't believe that his reflexes were so slow (especially with "cat-like reflexes" being in our vocabularies), and it was really a highlight of the trip. What can I say, we were highly-cultured individuals.

Back to Peter the College Grad. So my lovely now-wife and I had gone through our "Let's Go" book in great detail and had a nice selection of things we wanted to see in each city. When we arrived in Barcelona, we put down our big backpacks and started planning out our next couple of days. "This could be interesting," one of us said in reference to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It wasn't necessarily our thing, but something specific in the description caught our attention and we thought it could be really cool. More on that later.

We arrived, and it was even contemporarier than I imagined. Yeah, I said "contemporarier." I'm cool like that. Here's an example of what I mean: One room had a gigantic thumbtack in it. By gigantic, I mean the size of our kitchen table. Then, around that room were pictures of that thumbtack in various locations. The adjoining room had a gigantic frame in it (maybe 20ft by 20ft) and pictures of that frame around the room. We saw the frame on the ocean, on sand, etc. Contemporary? Yeah, a bit.

We got to the really out there stuff a little later. After hearing some electronic house music, we followed our ears over to a darkened room. We went in, and there were cool lights flashing and a huge screen on one wall. On that screen, it was a scene of a person dancing in a disco. She looked a little bored and just moved back and forth to the music. That, my friends, is art.

But I've saved the best exhibit for last. We walked past a pretty large room and stopped in our tracks. On the far wall was another large screen. Rather than a dancing bored European, this just had a black-and-white close-up of a man's mouth. It looked like he was saying something over and over again, but we couldn't hear anything. Then we noticed on the side wall that there were about a dozen pairs of headphones. Cautiously, I walked up to the wall and put a set on. I must have had a very confused look on my face, because Amber asked what I was listening to with an equally confused one. I couldn't explain but rather motioned for her to try on a pair of her own to experience this exhibit. She did, and we both stood there for a couple of minutes shaking our heads as we watched and listened. The man said what sounded like, "Boosh, tee...Boosh, tee...Boosh, tee." That's it. We kept waiting for it to change in one way or another, but that's all he kept saying over and over again. Our response after taking our headphones off was probably what 90% of you would say in the same situation: "Okaaaaay."

We realized that we'd seen then entire museum and were about to head out. Then we remembered the thing that caught our eye in the description of the museum that made us want to go there in the first place. "Where are the rotating exhibits?" I asked. "Yeah, I was looking forward to those," my lovely now-wife said. We lamented the fact that they must not be there then for a second before the realization hit us both at the same exact time. "Unless they just mean...ya know, that the exhibits change instead of ones that spin around." "Uh, let's not tell anyone about this."

So here I am telling you all about it. I feel like eight years is enough time that it's ok to share now. It's funny (to me at least), because we never would've gone there without misinterpreting that blurb. But then I wouldn't be able to look at my wife every so often and say, "Boosh, tee...Boosh, tee," now would I? It's the gift that keeps on giving.

Have a great Tuesday, my friends. Got any modern art stories? Send 'em to ptklein@gmail.com and you just might get featured in this week's Follow Up Friday. Take care, and I'll see you back here tomorrow.

Monumental decisions

Hello, fellow Monday dwellers. I'm back after a nice long holiday weekend, and I already know that this week is going to feel twice as long as it actually is. That's ok, and I'll gladly accept that negative byproduct of the holiday-shortened workweek. I know a good deal when I see one. So, this is my last full week of UOPTA posts (if that's news to you, check out Thursday's post), and I have a couple of items still on my Sheet O' Potential Topics. Here's one that I hope you enjoy:

My lovely wife and I are fond of traveling, and we've gone on some wonderful trips throughout our years together. We know each other very well, so we've gotten into some patterns as time has passed. For example, whenever we're going anywhere out of our normal vicinity, it's understood that I'm driving and she's navigating. I'm horrible - absolutely horrible - with directions, so that makes a hell of a lot more sense than the other way around. It's not even discussed anymore but rather just rightfully assumed. When it comes to plotting our way to a destination in a foreign city, I just follow her instructions. At the end of the day, she may point to a map and say, "This is where we went today." Aside from that though, I'm just literally a lost cause.

When it comes to planning what activities we'd like to do, we're both very active in that decision-making process. Not to get too mushy, but it's really wonderful to see how well we work together in that regard. We'll state our preferences and then each instinctively try to find a way to incorporate the other's desires into the plans. "Well, is that museum anywhere near that monument? If so, we can do both of those that day," I might say. "No, those are four hours away from each other," she might reply. In any case, the point of today's post isn't about how perfectly suited my wife and I are, but rather about a blunder we made. Oh sure, now you're interested.

A year and a half ago, we visited our friends who lived in Washington D.C. for a few days before attending a wedding in Virginia. Before the trip, we did our usual chat about the places we wanted to see while we were there. We agreed on pretty much everything, except I was particularly vocal about wanting to visit the FDR memorial that hadn't existed when I was last in the District.

When we got there, we made our way down to the heart of the city. We went to some great museums, some mediocre museums, and saw a lot of the monuments we wanted to. When we were almost done with everything, I reminded Amber about my desire to see Roosevelt's memorial as well. I had the map in my hand (even though that's never a good idea), and I pointed to the Roosevelt memorial. "That's weird," she said, "I thought it was somewhere else for some reason. That's ok, if we go to the Vietnam memorial and then the Lincoln one, those will be on the way to the Roosevelt. Then we'll head back, ok?" Sounded great to me.

And so we walked to the two stopping points before continuing on to our only four-termer's monument. We consulted the map again and embarked on what seemed like just a little walk. Our first problem came up right away when our path abruptly ended. We crossed some grass and found another path that looked like it would lead to the main road we were supposed to take. At this point, we're both already sweating and openly wondering if this would be a better idea for our final visit the next day. "Nah, we're probably almost there," I said.

Amber got us to the road, but it turned out to be less of a road and more of a highway/bridge. We re-consulted the map, and it looked to be not only the right way, but the only way to get from where we were to where we wanted to be. We pushed on, and it was probably thirty seconds later that we saw the "No Pedestrians" sign. "Should we keep going?" "I guess...it's not very far." So we did. (If this happened today instead of back then, I would've made a comment about how you can't spell "pedestrian" without Peter. I just thought you'd like to know that.) Sweating like pigs, we walked along the shoulder some more waiting for our exit to arrive.

After trudging on several hundred more feet, depleting our water supply, and fully acknowledging that we were idiots, we saw another sign: "Welcome to Virginia." "Um, we just crossed state lines. I hope that's legal," I said. Then, finally, we saw where we wanted to go. We hurried (as best we could) down the ramp and to a main street. Our first order of business was to get cold drinks the first place we could (and hopefully dry some of the nastiness we accrued on our journey). We found a Baja Fresh and got their largest iced tea. We took turns chugging it and talking about how good it was for about five minutes before Amber brought the map out again.

And then I saw it. "Oh fuck!" "What?" I pointed at the small words on the map near our destination: "Theodore Roosevelt Memorial." Yeah folks, that's the wrong Roosevelt. We braved the perils of interstate foot travel for the wrong memorial. We spent the next several minutes berating ourselves for our idiocy and talking about how we could've been cuddled up on a couch instead of sweating profusely in Virginia.

We surveyed our options, and unanimously concluded that even though we were right there, we didn't want to see Teddy's memorial. We had never wanted to see it in the first place, so proximity didn't play a large factor. Instead, we found the nearest metro station and took it to the closest one to our friends' apartment. Every minute or so, we'd look at each other and shake our heads, unable to believe what we had just erroneously done. Amber showed me where FDR's memorial was on the map and how much easier it would've been for us to get there, and that just made us more upset with ourselves.

The good news is that we made it back, rested, and eventually started laughing at our thousands of missteps. We went to FDR's memorial the next day and it was very impressive. Of course, we came from the wrong direction and saw his presidency from term 4 to 1 instead of the correct way, but it was still very deserving of a trip.

So there you go - our perfected science of sightseeing on vacation was compromised. Ah, when smart people go dumb. It's ok, we just double- and triple-check the names of our destinations now. If that saves us from anything remotely like that error, it's well worth the extra seconds.

That's it for now. I'd love to hear any of your stories of vacation errors if you're feeling bold, so email ptklein@gmail.com and we can laugh at ourselves together. Have a great beginning to this long-ass week, and I'll see you back here tomorrow.

FUF #41

Hello and good morning on this day after Thanksgiving. As is tradition on this day, be prepared to help yourself to some leftover turkey and FUFfing. Booyah Johnson! Totally nailed that one. Yes, it's another Follow Up Friday for you folks, so tell the trytophan to take a hike and get ready for some ramblings. Like other FUFs, I'll write about some things from previous posts, some unrelated things, and then close with a rousing rendition Car Watch.

First off, I'm a little mad at myself that I had a post on Thanksgiving yesterday and forgot to mention a story from high school. The was a dumb girl in a class with both me and Dusty, and it was the day before Thanksgiving. She heard me say something to him about celebrating with my family the next day, and she quickly whipped around and had an astonished look on her face. She said, "Peter, you don't celebrate Thanksgiving - you're Jewish!" The days, weeks, and months of ridicule that followed (mostly behind her back) were totally justified.

In yesterday's post, I had the tag of "so excited" listed at the bottom in reference to the embedded video from "Saved by the Bell." That reminded me of a little story. In college, a friend of mine dated the same guy on and off for several years. One day, I could tell something was upsetting her. "Well, Ty and I were talking about the formal I have coming up for my sorority," she said. "I asked if he was excited about it, and he said he was. I asked, 'Are you SO excited?' And he said, 'Well, I don't know if I'd say I'm SO excited.' So I broke up with him." Yeah, they were a little rocky and although they got back together in time for the formal, they didn't last too long after that.

A week or three ago, I wrote about television versions of movies getting dubbed and the interesting choices that the networks make. Last week, my lovely wife and I caught "The American President" on a regular station. We know this movie extremely well, so they weren't going to be able to put anything by us. In the scene in which Sydney Ellen Wade is at the White House and comes out just wearing a dress shirt, they cut to the next scene after just a line or two. They felt it was too suggestive I guess to have one of my favorite interactions from the movie. President Shepherd asks if she's nervous (about the impending lovemaking session), and she says she's not. He then says, "My nervousness exists on several levels," and they have some great back-and-forth about tempering her expectations despite the fact that he's the leader of the free world. Nope - all gone. I didn't like that, and I have trouble understanding exactly why they cut it out. We knew they were going to "do it," so what was the harm in including the well-written dialogue that preceded it? Censoring bastards.

I wrote about trying to choose a bowling team name and having four appropriate names for ourselves, but I never told you what we decided on. Our team is "Sweep the Leg," and we all have names of the Cobra Kai bad guys from "Karate Kid." We even got cool shirts from a site that Greg found that say "Sweep the Leg" on the back. We wore them last week and got a lot of positive feedback from people, so it was a good choice. I can't help but think of others for future league seasons though. So far, the two leading candidates in my book are related to "Anchorman" and "Major League." We could be Ron, Brick, Brian, and Champ as the news team or Vaughn, Dorn, Taylor, and Serrano or Mays Hayes as the shitty Cleveland Indians. I'm looking forward to building a reputation as good team namers so that other people are eager to see what we choose. (In my head, that's how this all plays out.)

Lastly, I wrote about bad job applications and interviews, and I have a little more on that. My friends Dusty and Dave have a company together, and they received two applications that Dusty just had to forward to me. The first one was from a woman who sent it to both their company and another company at the same time. That's a surefire way to look like you really want a job. The second one was incredibly detailed about all of the positions the guy had held in the past. My favorite part was at the bottom of the very last page, though, where it read, "Page 7 of 6." Nice.

Ok, now it's time once again for the thunderous-applause-inducing feature known as Car Watch.

I saw a license plate that said "NO KDNG." About what exactly? I had no reason whatsoever to think that the driver was kidding about anything, so that caught me off guard.

A couple of days later, I saw a strange bumper sticker: "If Kerry loses, can we impeach Cheney first?" First of all, I don't get it. I mean if this person really didn't want Bush to win, why wouldn't he want to impeach Bush? Second, there was a pretty narrow timeframe in which someone could've put that sticker on, so he was clearly on top of the issue then. How, then, can he leave it on three years after the election? I'm confused.

My homey Rockabye told me about a plate that said "FIRPRF." First of all, if that does indeed say "Fireproof," then it's just inaccurate and begging for an arsonist to put it to the test. Or I suppose it could be an arborist who teaches, thereby making him or her a "Fir Prof." I'm just saying.

He also saw a sticker that read, "My child shops better than your honor roll student." Really? I mean, really? What the hell is wrong with people? This person is telling the world, "My kid is dumb but spends money well," and I'm embarrassed on both of their behalfs. Behalves? Spellcheck says "behalves!"

Lastly, my lovely wife saw a license plate frame that read, "Don't follow me, my dog is driving." So, is the dog bad with directions or something? Does he frequently forget to signal and veer into the next lane? Does he stick his head out the window while driving, thereby often not leaving enough distance between him and the car in front of him? I have so many questions I'd like to ask, but it turns out that the guy was driving and therefore just a liar. I hate it when that happens.

Have a great weekend, gentle readers. I'll be back here on Monday for the beginning of my final week of posting on every weekday. Shaloha, and enjoy a couple of more days off. As always, please feel free to email ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Uh oh, I'm thanking again

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all. Even as an occasionally-cynical bastard, I have to admit that I like that idea of setting aside one day each year to reflect on things for which we are grateful. It's a nice touch, and good way to make us pause for a moment in our hectic lives to think a little.

In elementary school, we had music class a couple of times a week. We'd all grab one of the various percussion instruments and sit around the music room singing for an hour or practicing whatever play we had coming up. I very clearly remember a couple of songs from the book, and they were great. There was the "Big Rock Candy Mountain" song, which was briefly mentioned in the movie "Runaway Jury." I always thought of it as "Big Rock...Candy Mountain," as if the mountain of candy was named Big Rock rather than being a big mountain of "rock candy." It's kinda like how I say Santana's song could be about a magic woman who happens to be black.

I also remember the very strange song about the cat named Don Gato. Are any of you familiar with this one? It was a lot of fun to sing because of the various "Meow meow meow" sections, but the plot could've been better. Basically, Don Gato got a love note from some pretty kitty, and he was so happy that he fell off a roof and broke his everything. The doctors tried to save him but couldn't, and the funeral was a sad event. There's some verse thrown in at the end that refers to him coming back to life, but I think that came about when someone said, "Oh shit, this is supposed to be a kids' song and we just killed off the protagonist. Should we rewrite the whole thing? Naw, let's just make him a Christ figure instead."

Lastly, and pertinently, I remember a song about Thanksgiving. (You can't spell "pertinent" without Peter, dontcha know.) There had to have been verses to this song, but I only remember the chorus. It was brilliant, actually. The chorus went, "I'm thankful for... I'm thankful for... I'm thankful for... And I'm thankful to be me." In those ellipses, we were to yell out whatever we wanted. It was awesome. I usually inserted things about my friends and family, and maybe even said the music teacher's name to kiss a little ass now and then. But I can picture where I was sitting one year in that music room when I turned to my friend Adam and told him to listen to what I was about to yell. When the chorus came, I sang, "I'm thankful for OPTIMUS PRIME!" I was only half-kidding, for he and the rest of the Autobots had provided me with a good deal of joy. Being a kid was a pretty sweet gig.

And now, a very special holiday announcement, not to be confused with a very special "Saved By the Bell" in which Jessie gets hooked on caffeine pills and only reaches the step of acceptance by the power of The Pointer Sisters. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you must be older than me. Please allow me to enlighten you:

Back to the very special announcement. Gentle readers, I just can't keep this daily posting thing up anymore. It's been a hell of a lot of fun, but I've been scraping the bottom of the barrel for a while now (as evidenced by many more two- and three-parters) and it's time to change things up. Not quite yet though: I want to go until next Friday (the 30th), because that will be my one year anniversary of starting UOPTA. I honestly can not believe I was able to keep it going this long, and I'm extremely thankful for everyone's thoughts and suggestions along the way.

So here's the new plan. After the 30th, I will post something new on every Friday. I will stop using the FUF numbering system because I won't be following up on anything really. I don't know exactly how this will work because I'm kinda out of stories. I may have some more in there somewhere, but I'll be focusing more on things I've thought about or noticed rather than full on stories. As much as I've enjoyed this (and I really have), it's been very demanding on my time. I've had other thoughts about side-projects I'd like to start (including a screenplay based on a short story I know and love), but those things take time that I haven't had. So, I'll include a Car Watch still, unless I get multiple emails saying to do away with that feature. Maybe I'll throw in some "Guess the Fakey" games like I had before, put a poll or two up there, and...I honestly don't know. What I do know is that more than ever, I'll be looking for help from you all since it'll be easier to incorporate your thoughts into this format.

Friends, and friends of friends, I'm thankful for you. While it's entirely possible that I would've kept this going for a little while just for my own creative outlet, I never would've gotten nearly this far without your support. Every comment and email has truly meant a lot to me, and I thank you. I'll see you back here tomorrow for my penultimate Follow Up Friday. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and may you all fill your own ellipses several times over.

What not to say

Top of the morning to you on this lovely Wednesday. Wednesday? How about Rightnowsday! Damn, that sounded a lot better in my head (and honestly, that was iffy at best as well). That happens a lot; good thing I never invested in one of those fancy shmancy backspace keys. In any case, I'm here and ready to continue my hey-look-it's-a-theme of the week. So far, you've read all about certain application processes of which I've been a part. It's never fun, and my heart goes out to anyone who is interviewing anywhere for anything.

That said, I don't feel too bad making fun of people who have screwed up in an application process one way or another since I've been there myself. Today's post is about some of my favorites in that category, and I hope you enjoy.

When I was one of the two Student Coordinators for Orientation Staff back in the 90s, my "Co-Coord" Suzanne and I took turns pairing up with one of the directors to interview the 80 applicants (for interview #1 of 5 for those who went the distance). One afternoon after a string of three or four interviews, it was Suzanne's turn to take over. She went in the conference room to prepare and I sat out at the front desk. A young lady came in and said she was there for her interview. I asked her name, checked the list, and told her to take a seat and they'd be out in a minute for her. "If I might ask," she said, "who are you in this process?" I introduced myself and told her that the Coords were the direct supervisors of the staff members. "So you'd be my boss then?" she asked. "Yes, one of them, but yes," I said. "Well," she said, as she pulled her elbows back and thrust her chest out at me, "I really want this job." Keeping my composure, I replied, "Well, just um, be yourself, and I'm sure it'll go fine." I then excused myself and replayed the moment over again in my head from the back area of the office. And that's how I met my lovely wife!

No, not really. That would be an even better story though. Here's how this one ended: After the interview was over and the young lady had left, I told Suzanne what had transpired. Giving the applicant the benefit of the doubt, I said, "Maybe it was just a really bad time to do that particular stretch coupled with a really poor time to say what she did." "But right after you said you'd be her boss, she stuck her breasts out and said she really wanted the job?" "Uh, yeah. How'd the interview go?" "Not so well," Suzanne said, and that was great news. I didn't want to lose a good candidate just because she was overtaken by my masculinity and instinctually resorted to base, ritualistic attempts at mating. With great power comes great responsibility, after all.

In all honesty, I hope I misread her words and gesture. I'm not above accidentally making sexually harassing statements. Allow me to explain: In that same selection process, we were discussing a particular candidate who everyone thought was kicking ass through the process so far. Without hearing the sentences first in my head, I said aloud, "She seems like she'd be really good. I'd love to have her on my staff." That was followed by me turning beet red and stumbling through apologies and rephrasings for the next ten minutes.

Let's fast forward a few years, shall we? I was working in the academic advising office for a couple of years when my co-worker and good friend Twilight left her position to go to grad school. Since she was the person I spent 90% of my day with at the job, I wanted a say in who would be replacing her. Therefore, I let my preference be known and I was allowed to be on the selection committee for the new Twilight.

During one of the interviews, there was a man who seemed pretty friendly and capable. He was asked the following two-part question: "This position deals with a large number of rules and requirements. How are you at handling large amounts of information? And what methods do you use to help you in situations like this?" His response was as follows: "I do really, really well with large amounts of information. I have an excellent memory. In fact, my friends call me "The Professor" because I seem to retain everything. And...what was the second part of the question?" He was dead serious, and I almost exploded from holding in a very loud, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" He didn't end up getting the job, and it was for more reasons than just that hilariously contradictory response. That said, it was the highlight of the entire process for me.

There have been other great missteps in interviewing history that I've either been a part of or heard great accounts of after the fact. Maybe I'll include those sometime down the line. For now, I'm calling it a day and bidding you a fond Thanksgiving Eve. I'll be back tomorrow with a very special holiday edition of UOPTA. Until then, have a good one and try to avoid turkey at all cost today.

The wrong man for the jobs

Hello and good morning yet again, gentle readers. It's Tuesday, and for many, it's the last full day of work this week. I'm all for super-long holiday weekends, even if that makes the following Monday morning thrice as difficult. I plan on having posts all week (provided I have the topics to support that claim), so consider yourselves warned.

In yesterday's post, I wrote about one specific job application I turned in back in the early 0s. At the end of the post, I said I'd be back here today with some stories about unsuccessful job application processes. I'm a man of my word, and here they are. (By the way, have we ever decided what to call this decade? It's almost over, so it might be too late, but it's very confusing. I usually just say "The Ohs" and people know what I mean, but we should really have a standard name for it. Speaking of which, the next decade isn't so clear either. Sure, we'll have "The Teens" for most of it, but what about 2010-12? I can see myself referring to them eventually as "The Pre-Teens," but I'm not yet sold on that. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this decade and the next, so please comment away.)

After college graduation, I knew I wanted to stay in Santa Barbara and find a job there for several reasons. I had a lot of contacts on campus, but didn't want to limit myself to working there. One of my old bosses told me about a position that was open at a private school in town to be some kind of administrative assistant. Back then (it was still 99), they only accepted applications via fax. I didn't have a fax machine, so I printed out the cover letter and resume versions specific to that position and went to the local copy place to have them fax it. I filled out the cover sheet, and handed it to the guy behind the counter along with my other documents.

He faxed it all off, and when he came back, I noticed something awful. For some stupid reason, I brought earlier drafts of the cover letter with me instead of just the right one. Naturally, the one I handed him was an old version. By "old," I mean it still had a typo in the school's name and referred to the "company" instead of "school" a few times. Realizing my mistake, I asked him to please send the right one and I scribbled an apology note on the cover sheet explaining my error. Yeah, I never heard back from them. I can't blame them one bit; if the applicant can't even send the right application in, he probably isn't the one you're looking for. My bad.

A couple of unsuccessful weeks later, I had an interview with some kind of marketing company that did some kind of stuff that wasn't extremely clear. It seemed a little shady, but the guy interviewing me seemed nice and frankly, it was a job and I needed one. He reminded me of the actor David Cross, in his pre-Tobias Funke days, so I obviously liked him. We chatted for a while, and it sounded like something I could probably see myself doing (whatever the hell it was). At the end of the interview, he said he wanted to set up another interview with me, but that I should take a day to think about it first. I said, "I already know that I'd like to continue in this process," but he said to sit with it for 24 hours and call to set it up the next day.

I was very happy leaving that interview. I felt like I had the job in the bag and I couldn't wait to stop being unemployed. I got back to my lovely girlfriend's apartment (where I was staying until I got a job), and I was so excited that I had the sudden urge to do a cartwheel in the living room. I actually attempted one, but I knew that I was oh-so-close to seriously injuring myself, so that stopped right there. Early the next morning, I dropped off a thank you letter to the interviewer and then called his office to schedule the second interview. The woman who answered said that he was out and to try again the next morning. I did, but he was out again. I tried that afternoon, but he was "busy." The next morning, he was "busy" again. Same with that afternoon. The next morning, when he was still occupied, I was frustrated enough to ask if I was ever going to be able to set up that second interview. "I'm sorry, but that position was filled a couple of days ago," she said. I immediately pictured my half-assed cartwheel and felt as stupid as a coach who gets a Gatorade bath only to have the other team come back and win in the final seconds. I guess you can't spell "Jumper of the gun" without Peter.

Lastly, after five years of solid, good work at the university, I was out on my own trying to get a job in Sacramento. I applied all over the place, including quite a few colleges in the area. I also tried some more marketing or advertising positions, and I had this exact conversation with a few different companies:

Them: Do you have any sales experience?

Me: Well, in a way that's a big part of what I was doing at UCSB in the Orientation office. It was my job to sell the thousands of students and parents on their decision to attend that school and make them comfortable with that decision while also preparing them for the challenges ahead.

Them: So, that's a "No" then.

Good times, good times. All worked out in the end, but I'll always remember those trying times. That's it for now. Tomorrow, I'll be back with some tales from the other side of the interviewing desk. Have a good one, friends.

Applying myself

Good morning and welcome yet again to another Monday edition of UOPTA. This is a special Monday, I must admit, because today was my dating anniversary with my lovely wife back when she was just my lovely girlfriend. We had been dating for a long time when we got married, and it bothered me a little to have to start our counting over again. I'd always try to let people know that so they didn't assume we were just some inexperienced couple who married on a whim. "Well, technically we've only been married for..." Fortunately, our marriage number keeps getting higher so that won't be an issue for long at all. Disirregardless, Happy Old Anniversary, honey.

Let's get to a story, now shall we? This past Saturday, it was my good friend Suzanne's birthday. She currently holds the position at UC Santa Barbara that I did for three years before her (Assistant Director of Orientation Programs). It's a great job and I was thoroughly pleased to see someone I knew and trusted to take over for me when I left. That's not what today is about, but rather a loosely-related opening thought. Sorry if I misled any of you. To make it up, I shall attempt a transition sentence that makes t seem like I'd planned this all along: Suzanne's application and interview process started after I left UCSB, but I have a feeling it didn't go quite like mine.

When I found out that the Assistant Director position was opening up, I had the biggest "Oh my God that would be sooooo cool" moment of my life. I had worked for Orientation for two years as a staff member and a student supervisor, and I loved the program. The thought of being a part of it year-round, training and working with new student staffs, and helping thousands of parents and incoming students each year made me giddy with anticipation.

However, when the application process officially started, I found myself in a little bit of a tough spot. You see, having worked both there and in other positions on campus for years already, I was going to be interviewed almost exclusively by people I already knew (and knew well). Therefore, my standard cover letter and resume would have been very stuffy and much more formal than my existing relationships with these people warranted. Additionally, the position I held at that time was literally less than one hundred feet from the Orientation office, so I saw those people every day and exchanged casual pleasantries.

I sat down and hammered a few versions out, but nothing sounded like I wanted it to. I knew how it "should" be, but it just seemed so forced to be coming from me. And then, an idea popped into my head. "Uh, I don't know if I can do that," I immediately told myself. "Just try it out, see how it works, and go from there," I countered. The idea was as follows: I was to start with a little paragraph formally stating the position for which I was applying. I would then say something along the lines of, "Rather than simply reiterating the experience listed on my resume, I would like to use a format that will illustrate my ability to be creative within an established structure. Below, please find an Elizabethan sonnet that explains why I am the right choice for this position."

I then wrote a sonnet in very plain language stating the things that would've been in a standard cover letter. I acknowledged my previous experience with the program, the jobs I'd held since then, and the way those positions prepared me for this next step. I added a sentence at the end tying it together with the structure of the position requiring fresh and new ideas, and then something about how I looked forward to an interview and to please contact me with any questions. I read it over several times but still couldn't decide if the idea was great or horrible, so I showed it to my colleague and friend Regina for her opinion. After realizing what I had handed her, she looked up at me with her mouth agape before going back to the paper. I couldn't decide if that meant, "What a marvelous idea!" or "You arrogant bastard!" When she finished reading, she looked back up and said, "It's perfect, and no one else would dare to pull that off."

After a little more encouragement and several "Are you sure?" questions from my end, I turned in my application with that cover letter. After two weeks, a phone interview, and a three-part in person interview, I got the call from Human Resources offering me the job. After happily accepting and discussing the salary and starting date, I thanked her for the call. "You're very welcome," the woman replied. "And by the way, we all loved your cover letter."

I took a risk and it paid off. The thing is, it was a very low-risk/high-reward situation that afforded me the luxury of messing around a little. Knowing the interviewers like I did, I feel like it would've taken some off-color remarks about their family members or racial epithets to not be granted a first interview. Therefore, I made the most of my advantage to stand out while everyone else followed the unofficial rules.

Not every job application I've submitted has turned out that glorious. In fact, some have been downright disastrous and never materialized into first interviews. I think I'll write about some of those tomorrow as well as stories from other people's interviews that I know of. Sound good? And now, the pun I've been waiting all post to use: There must be fifty ways to weave your cover.

Have a great Monday, everyone, and remember to email ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

FUF #40

Good morning. If this post magically appeared in the middle of the Broadway version of "Jesus Christ Superstar," the actors might get confused and ask, "What's the FUF, tell me what's a-happening, what's the FUF, tell me what's a-happening." I would then explain to them that I don't know how to FUF them.

Yes, friends, it's another Follow Up Friday, and I'm here to FU. I'm warming up my fingers to dive into some items that are loosely related to old posts, other items that I just feel like writing about, and then the magical world of the Car Watch. I hope you took your Dramamine, 'cause this ride's about to get rocky.

If I can do math correctly (and studies have shown that I can't), then yesterday's post was my 250th. To quote Chazz Michael Michaels from "Blades of Glory," that number is "mindbottling." I truly never expected to come within 240 of that number, so I guess it's fair to say that I think about a lot of stuff.

In yesterday's post, I wrote about my overseeing of the magazine section of my high school yearbook. I found another feature in there that I had forgotten about: "People We Never Knew Were Related." All I did was find funny (or strange) pairings of people with the same last name and print them. Here were my favorites:

Axl/Pete Rose
Karl/Groucho Marx
Homer/O.J. Simpson
Nolan/Meg Ryan
Rodney/Stephen King
Bruce/Robert E. Lee
George/Denzel Washington
Pope John/Ru Paul
Ben/Aretha Franklin

I signed it as Peter "Calvin" Klein as a final ba-dum-ching! I would think that Klein was commonly known enough that the references to Calvin would have died out by now, but I still get it fairly often. "Any relation to Calvin?" they'll ask. Depending on my mood, I'll either answer with a terse "No" or say, "Nope, though that wouldn't be too bad." I've been tempted to answer affirmatively one of those times, but it hasn't happened yet. "Yes, and my mom is Anne Klein. Kevin Kline, the actor, is my brother but spells it differently to be funny, and Henry Winkler's character of Coach Klein in 'The Waterboy' is my uncle." That would probably elicit a response in the realm of, "Geez, sorry I asked."

By a show of hands, how many of you remember what Auto-Followers are from several months ago? Oh good! For the uninitiated, those are words like "scantily" that always seem to precede one word and one word only. I found a new one, and it's definitely a Class 1 Auto-Follower in my book: ulterior. I'm proud of that one, and it's going on the Post-It on the inside cover of my planner with the rest of the good ones.

I was in the Coffee Bean awaiting my iced coffee (half regular, half decaf) when a man walked up to the register. "I'd like a small Colombian," he said. Out of the side of my mouth, I said to my co-worker Rob, "I sure hope he's talking about a coffee drink." I realize now that I could've made a funnier joke referring to either Angelina Jolie or Madonna, but it's probably too late. What's the secret to timing? Comedy! Damn, I screwed that one up too.

And now, put your hands together for this week's edition of the Car Watch. Seriously, put your damn hands together. I hardly ever ask you for anything; is that really so difficult that you can't just do that to make me happy? Thank you, I appreciate the effort.

RighterLady, still my favorite reader from the Garden State, wrote in saying that she saw a plate that read "ONE MSM." She claimed that neither she nor her husband could figure out its message, but I find that hard to believe. It's so clearly "One More Sausage, Ma'am" that she must just be pulling my leg.

I saw a plate the read "2 LYFF." That's not blogworthy on its own, but the license plate frame brought it to that level. It read, "It Says...To Life." Here's an idea, if you have to twist what you want to say so much that you're unsure if people will understand it unless you quite literally spell it out for them, maybe you should choose something else. I guess "TO LIFE," "2 LIFE," and "LCHAIM" were already taken.

Quite similarly, my friend Greg called me to say he saw a plate that read, "SWTHRKY." After he and his girlfriend Ceil tried figuring it out for a while (Southwest Thurkey? Sweat Her Key?), they got close enough to see it say that it was in loving memory of "Sweet Horky." And that brings the grand total of people I've heard of named Horky to a whopping one.

I was walking with my co-worker Rob last Friday when I saw a plate that read, "TGIF 01." I was very pleased to see that, because it's only accurate one-seventh of the time and I happened to catch it then. Go me!

I saw a bumper sticker that was so classy it just had to be included: "Get off my ass or I'll fart." Unfortunately, I was behind him trying to get onto the freeway in traffic, so I just had to cross my fingers.

My homey Rockabye saw a plate that read, "DUK DSY." He was confused that it wasn't the other way around to refer to Daisy Duke from "The Dukes of Hazard" and short shorts fame. I feel compelled to remind him that Jessica Simpson played that character in the movie version, and she would probably find nothing wrong with that license plate whatsoever.

My lovely wife saw a license plate frame that she forwarded on to me: "Dr. Dr." on top and "The Mental Dental" on top. It's either someone with a PhD in Psychology and a DDS degree or Steve Martin from "Little Shop of Horrors."

Lastly, my favorite brother called to tell me that there was a car with lights on top behind him that looked like a police car. When it passed him, he saw that it said, "Postal Police" on its side. The Post Office has its own police department? Why? "Sir, back away from the envelope. That zip code is illegible and it is highly unstable." In all seriousness, does anyone know why this exists? More importantly, are they hiring?

Have a great weekend, mis amiguitos. I'll be back here on Monday for more of the inane things that jostle their way to the front of my brain. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all. Shaloha, homepeople.

I second that demotion

Good morning, gentle readers. It's Thursday, and do you know what that means? Me neither, but it was worth asking. Whenever possible, I like to extend an unintentional theme throughout the majority of a week. This week is no exception, and after two days talking about Yearbook Camp, I'm going to delve into some stuff that happened in that world after returning from the getaway. It's a tale of tough choices, backstabbery, vengeance via procrastination, and ultimately the dawn of a new creative age. (That makes it sound a hell of a lot more intriguing, no?)

Chapter 1: Tough Choices
As I mentioned earlier this week, I spent my junior year of Yearbook Staff working on the underclassmen pages and setting myself up to be one of the Co-Editors in Chief the following year. When the time came for the teacher to name the two new Editors, I fully expected to be one of them because of the work I had done. There was a difficult wrinkle in there though: the main Yearbook class period was the same time that the only Advanced Placement Spanish course was offered. I knew this would be a sticking point in the mind of the teacher, but I had come a long with my language courses and did not want to give up something that I could potentially continue scholastically in college in exchange for an extracurricular activity. I talked to him about it and hoped he would appreciate my tough decision. I played up the internal struggle a little more than it actually existed, and I left the conversation feeling like my chances were as good as ever to still get one of the positions.

A couple of days later, the teacher announced that due to some scheduling complications, we would have three Co-Editors for the first time in Yearbook Staff history. Two would be in the main period and one would be in another one. We each had other large sections we'd be in charge of to offset the fact that we were dividing the Editor duties in thirds instead of halves (I would have the magazine section in the middle of the book). I felt like that decision was a little slap in the face, and sensing this, the teacher told me that I had made my priorities known and this was a consequence. I had put him in a tough position as well, and I didn't harbor resentment for long at all.

Chapter 2: Backstabbery
The resentment came back though, let me assure you. I set my schedule and put Yearbook in an open space. I told the teacher where it would be (he had told me that it didn't matter), and he asked why I couldn't do it in fourth period instead. "I have Play Production then," I told him. He made a dismayed face, clearly unhappy that I had chosen something else "more important" than his class. It didn't take long after that. About two weeks into the new school year, he pulled me aside. "Let's just agree that this isn't working out," he started. I had no intention of agreeing, but I allowed him to continue. "You obviously have a lot of other commitments with Spanish, the drama stuff, and your improv group, so let's call it what it is and just let you be the Magazine Editor while the other two take over the larger duties." I was about to be completely fine with that decision, fully acknowledging that it had been difficult to oversee projects when I wasn't physically with a lot of the staff. But then he added, "Don't worry, you can still put Editor on your college applications if you want," as if that was my motive from the beginning.

Chapter 3: Vengence Via Procrastination
I'll be the first to admit that my actions from that point on were of the passive aggressive nature. I knew that the teacher (who really was a nice man whom I respected) got very antsy when projects weren't completed well in advance. Therefore, I took my sweet time. The magazine section was my baby, and I told him it would all be done in time and done well.

Chapter 4: The Dawn of a New Creative Age
While most people formed ideas with the teacher, wrote articles, and then went out with a photographer to get appropriate shots for that feature, I took a different approach. I came up with an idea, looked through the box of discarded photos that no one was using, and found a way to make those fit something in the piece. If they didn't fit, I'd change things around so that they did. This afforded me an amazing amount of creative freedom with the smaller time commitment necessary, and I had a lot of fun with it. Since the teacher was so fed up with my process, I don't think he proofed my projects well enough and a few things slipped in there that were questionable. Allow me to illustrate both the part about the pictures and the questionable content:

I created a list of "The Most Requested New Classes" on one of the pages. After coming up with 15 funny titles, I went to the box of photos and flipped through. There was a picture of two guys in a class, and one has his eyes closed from blinking at the flash. Most would discard that photo, but I manage to tie it in. The caption reads, "As Larry Cox reads his Hypnotism homework aloud, he accidentally causes William Gutierrez to slip into a deep, semi-conscious trance." Ta dah! As for "questionable content," I still can't believe that I was allowed to print such course titles as "Hands-On Sex Ed," "Body Piercing 101," "Self Mutilation," "Weapon Shop," and "Self Gratification 101."

Other "articles" included a list of bad jokes, made-up band names for the future, random facts ("Loss of life is the leading cause of death for people ages 25-40"), pick-up lines, and little articles about the year in music, movies, and fashion. It was all very well received, and that magazine section was hands-down a precursor to UOPTA. Lack of preparation? Check. Very loosely tying things together? Check. Writing about things that I find interesting without considering if others might? You know it, sista.

So that's my story. Judging by the word count, I think it's fair to say that I successfully stretched the theme out for another day. Yay me. Have a good rest of the day, friends, and I'll be back tomorrow with another Follow Up Friday.

Camp Nerdtime, Part II

Whaddya know, we're back again. Not to brag, but I actually predicted this yesterday. Yep, I saw this one coming a mile away. So here we are, and I said that I would continue my discussion of Yearbook Camp by actually talking about the yearbook part of it all. Sound good to you? Word.

We attended the camp to help us become better at our jobs on the highly-coveted Yearbook Staff. First and foremost, we needed to come up with a theme for that year's edition. The theme should be something that we could carry out through the entire book, while also hopefully being somewhat catchy. We had a few decent options, but I wanted to come up with one that everyone could rally around. Therefore, I was eager to go to a workshop with my friend Jason on that first day specifically about forming themes.

The workshop instructor opened by using her old high school as a sample school for which we would create a theme. She was from DeKalb, Illinois, and she gave us a few facts about the school and the city. Most importantly, Cindy Crawford was from there. She didn't say that was most important, but I know she meant to. Secondly, and almost as important, she said that barbed wire was invented there. It was such a part of the culture there that even her school mascot was the Barbie Crow. She told us that there were a lot of tenuous budget issues going on and that everyone was anxiously waiting to see which way things would fall. Oh yeah, and there's lots of corn there.

One wiseguy suggested that the theme should be, "Shucks!" in reference to the corn. No, it wasn't me. She laughed but said that a good theme is more specific to that particular year for the school than something that could be used any year. Someone clearly didn't get that point and suggested, "Corn on DeKalb." She reiterated that getting more specific was key. We talked through the issues more, and we eventually all agreed that "Bird on a Wire" worked pretty well since it tied in with the precarious nature of their budget situations (and the Barbie Crow, naturally). Not bad; not mind-blowing, but not bad.

I got two good things out of that workshop. First, it helped me more clearly wrap my head around how to brainstorm for themes. Secondly, it gave me the power to scare the shit out of a couple from DeKalb when I met them. Seriously, that was great. I was working for Orientation Programs at UCSB and two parents had nametags that said they were from DeKalb. I saw that, and it took me a minute to contain my excitement. Once I composed myself, I very casually glanced at the nametags and said, "Oh, DeKalb, that's where barbed wire was invented, correct?" They looked absolutely shocked. "Yes! Wow, how did you know that?" I ignored the question and kept going: "And if I'm not mistaken, there's even the Barbie Crow as a school mascot." "That's amazing! Are you from Illinois?" they asked. "No, Cindy Crawford and I are tight, and she told me all about her hometown," I said with a smile. Yeah, they didn't buy that for a second. I told them the truth and assured them that I don't know that much information about every city.

Back to camp! So after learning how to go about coming up with a theme, Jason and I sat down to talk specifically about what made this upcoming year different than others. We quickly realized that a lot was different. There would be a new principal, a new magnet housed on the campus, a new block schedule format on some days, and a new locker policy in which no one would be allowed to use one for fear of hiding weapons. (I love L.A.!)

After talking through it some more, one of us commented that there was a whole storm of issues. We both lit up at the same time and agreed that "Eye of the Storm" made sense, especially if we made the argument that the yearbook was there in the middle of everything, calmly reporting what happened. Eager to share this with our teacher and other staffmates, we hurried in the direction of our residence hall. On the way, we ran into one of the head presenters, some teacher whose books always finished in the top ten nationally of...whatever yearbook rating system there is. We told him what we had come up with, and he said, "Ya know, if you want to get really crazy with it, you can bring it all back to the individual student and make it 'I of the Storm' instead." We thought that was the most brilliant thing we'd ever heard, and when we told the others, they all heartily agreed. (Please don't confuse the others with The Others from "Lost." We wouldn't have been nearly as excited to share things with them, because they're pretty creepy with their mindgames and blurred motives.)

And so it was that for the '94-'95 yearbook, it was all about the "I of the Storm." It's funny, but now when I look at that, my first thought is, "There's no I in Storm!" I need to work on that. Regardless, irregardlesss, and disirregardless, that's my story for today. Have a good Wednesday, and I'll see you back here for another Sorry Honey It's Thursday. Shaloha, my homies.

Camp Nerdtime

Hello again, mis amiguitos, and welcome on this jam-packed day. "Jam-packed" is awfully strange, don't you think? Does it really mean "packed with jam?" If so, how do you think jam got the nod over jelly, preserves, or any other fruity spread? I can only really think of one thing that could literally be referred to a jam-packed, and that's a jelly doughnut (not a jam doughnut, mind you). I guess a packet of jam would count as well. Ok, I've spent way too long on this already. I need a new paragraph to right the ship.

Why is today so packed with jam? It's my Grandma Zelda's birthday, my loyal reader Aunt Lynn's birthday, and my oft-mentioned friend Dave's birthday as well. Crazy shit going on here, friends. Happy birthday to you all, and to all...a happy birthday, I suppose.

Ok, it's story time. So far in this space, I have talked at length about the sleepaway camp I attended in my youth. I also attended a regular summer camp with friends, in which we did the standard camp things. Those times were fun and fairly typical components of the American youth experience. I attended another camp though, and this is one that I don't always tell people about because of the inherent nerdiness. Yes, I attended Yearbook Camp.

In junior high, I was on yearbook staff for one year and enjoyed it. When I got to high school, yearbook staff was reserved for juniors and seniors, and I looked forward to joining as soon as I gained eligibility. Two years passed, some stuff happened, and then poof - I was a junior. After showcasing my cut and paste skills (quite literally in those days), I was assigned to be co-editor of the underclassmen pages. This might all sound incredibly boring, but it allowed me to create certain articles and features while also positioning myself to be one of the Co-Editors in Chief the following year. Not too shabby, eh?

I'm going to skip over lots of stuff here so I can get to the camp part instead of all of the inner workings of the staff and my jobs therein. More time passed, other stuff happened, and at the end of the year, I was named one of the Co-Editors in Chief. Do I know how to build suspense or what?

The summer in between my junior and senior year, a group of us in Yearbook and our teacher signed up to go to the annual camp. It was held on the campus of UC Irvine, and I was super excited about it for a few reasons. First, it was camp. Second, I was 17 and hadn't been to any camp for a while, let alone a sleepaway one with friends of mine. Third, as one of the Editors, I was somewhat representing our entire school and found that to be a pretty cool responsibility. Fourth, I was excited to be on a college campus and preview what my life would be like not too long after that. And yes, I know how nerdy all of that sounds.

We drove down to Irvine, and I almost immediately had a new reason to be excited about this adventure: girls. I'm not sure why, but the ratio was heavily in my favor and I wasn't complaining. Who knew Yearbook was so dominated by the females? Oh, all of you already knew that? I'm just slow I guess.

And so it was very early on at camp that my friend Jason and I started hanging out with a group of five or six girls. They were from some school in Middle of Nowhere, California. Seriously, it was some city that I've still never heard of. I know California is all ocean and tofu to the rest of the country, but I can assure you that that's certainly not the case. My first clue of that was when one of the girls asked, "So are you all a part of FFA at your school?" "What's that?" I asked. "Future Farmers of America," she rattled off. "It's the biggest club at our school." That was news to me: not only that a club like that existed, but also that anyone would want to be in it. Up to that point, I always thought that people were born into farming, much like blacksmithing or Republicanism.

In any case, we hung out with those girls for a couple of hours that first night. Neither Jason nor I were interested in any of them, but it was still fun to be the coolest kids in a group for once. That certainly wasn't the case in other circles, so we soaked it up. Their idea of fun was to play a game called, "Honey I Wuv You." It was fucking ridiculous. Here are the directions: people sit in chairs, and one person is "it." That person has to sit on someone's lap and then make the sat-on one smile. The catch: the sittee could only say, "Honey, I Wuv You." Sounds great, if you're into sexually tense imbecilic Duck Duck Goose knock-offs. One of the young ladies, Jeannie, clearly took a liking to me. She couldn't wait to hop on my lap, make a pouty face and repeat the name of the game several times. I just shook my head as if to say, "Sorry Toots, but this cat ain't cracking." (Yes, that's how cool I was compared to that lot.) It was a thrilling time, I assure you.

At the end of the camp, Jeannie asked if we could exchange phone numbers. I didn't see why not, so I acquiesced. She called me the next day and asked for my address so she could send me her school picture. Then she asked me an odd question with an even odder follow-up. "Are you Hispanic?" she asked. "Um, not that I know of," I answered. "Oh good," she said, "because you spoke Spanish at the camp and I wasn't sure. That's really good though, because my parents don't want me to be in an interracial relationship." I was speechless, but I couldn't decide if I was more taken aback by the overt racism or the statement that we were in a relationship. Sadly, I think it was the latter.

Two days later, a picture and letter came from Jeannie. On the back, she wrote something about her black eye in the picture and saying it was from sports. I looked again, and sure enough, there was a shade of a dark circle under one of her eyes. It was classtastic. We only spoke one or two times again after that, and then we just lost touch. More accurately, she stopped calling me and I had never started. She probably told her parents that we "broke up," which was remarkably painless on my end.

That's it for now, folks. Tomorrow, I'll actually write about the yearbook side of Yearbook Camp. Just like in high school, girls distracted me. Have a good day today, and we'll meet back up here tomorrow. As always, ptklein@gmail.com is just a click away.

Puzzling days

Hello, and good morning to one and all. I'd like to wish a very happy birthday to my longtime friend Dusty. We're going on two decades of friendship now, and that blows my mind. Quick aside: In the board game "Loaded Questions," we were asked what we bring to a friendship. No one gives normal answers in that game, but Dusty's response of "friend life-preservers" for the "friend ship" made me laugh. Good times, good times.

I hope you had a good Veterans' Day yesterday, and I'm sure I'm not alone in thanking those who have served for their duty. Being in the military is probably one of the least-Peter activities out there, so I'm eternally thankful for those who join to defend our country. But today is about something else, folks, and I'm ready to launch right into it.

As you may know from previous UOPTA posts, I enjoy doing crossword puzzles from time to time. They get my brain going, give me a sense of accomplishment, and occasionally wow me with excellent themes and puns. Back in either 2000 or 2001, my friend Dave and I would sometimes work on the same puzzle separately, and then compare answers to create one completely-filled one.

There was one week in which the theme was about different holidays. When we put our puzzles together, we had almost everything done, and some of them were great. One clue was, "A marshal arts star's holiday?" It ended up being "Jackie Chanukah," for the movie star and the holiday combined. Get it? Good. Another theme questions was, "An ice skater's holiday?" Even with only one or two letters filled in, I knew it was going to be "Michelle Kwanzaa." Naturally, I loved these.

And then there was one that was stumping us. I saw that it ended in "Mas." My first thought was, "It can't be Jesus Christmas, right?" The clue was, "An actor's holiday?" "Hmmm, what actor's last name ends with Christ?" I thought. Dave and I talked through any other possibilities, but neither of us could think of any other holiday that could be a part of that answer. We decided our best option was to see what other letters we could get to shed some light on this for us.

A little while later, we got a minute amount of help. We now knew that the clue started with "ST" and that there was an "M" as the sixth letter. I stared at it for a minute, and then I said, "Ok, I know this doesn't make any sense, but 'Steve Martin...mas" would fit there." "Yeah, it would, but for what holiday?" Dave asked. We spent the next several minutes trying to find holiday names in those letters. "Maybe it's St. Eve Martinmas," I offered. "No, it's Ste...Vemartinmas," Dave countered. After a few more attempts to get some additional-letter help, we put the puzzle down and called it a day.

The next day, we eagerly opened up the paper to the crossword puzzle section to see the solution to the previous day's puzzle. Lo and behold, it said, "Steve Martinmas" for that particular answer. "What the hell?" we both asked. So I turned to the internets for an answer. Sure enough, it told me a little about the holiday called Martinmas. Celebrated on November 11th, it is the feast of St. Martin. (With the way the web has exploded in the intervening years, I now how much more information about this holiday at my disposal. Here's a taste: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martinmas.)

I would've been perfectly fine to just take that new bit of knowledge and stop there, but Dave opted to have some fun. He sent both me and Dusty an email about the holiday of "Vemartinmas." In it, he created customs for this made up holiday. The Vemartinmas Fairy would give people apples, and there was something about everyone having a Vemartinmas sack. I don't remember much more than that, but tradition has continued to this day (or more specifically, to yesterday).

The next Vemartinmas, Dave and I bought apples for each other without discussing it at all first. The following year, I saw him and Dusty a day or two before and brought them each an apple. The next year, I had moved farther away, so we send pictures to each other's phones. I sent a picture of an apple, and he sent a picture of an Apple computer. The year after that, I received a photo on my phone of singer Fiona Apple, and he got a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow holding her baby (named Apple for some reason). This year, I emailed him with a map of New York City (The Big Apple, naturally), and I got a picture back from him of a woman with a tattoo of an apple on her lower back.

Oh the games we play. I love it when my friends play along with my strangeness, and even more when they initiate. And so, my extended network of friends, I hope yesterday proved to be a good Veterans' Day, Martinmas, and Vemartinmas for you. I hope your sacks were filled and that your apples symbolized the fruit of the upcoming Vemartian year. See you all back here tomorrow, folks.