The watching machine

Why hello there, homepeople of the internets, and welcome yet again to this week's installment of UOPTA. No, sadly, that does not stand for, "Unless Oprah's Paying...To Applebee's!" However, I believe that's Steadman's official stance on food consumption. (You see that? I just made a Steadman joke even though I have no idea what I'm talking about. It made sense though, right?) Instead, this UOPTA is where I take some thoughts and stories from my past and present and put them down in electronically-represented words. As of this moment, I have no idea what any of those thoughts or stories will be this week, but hopefully if I just keep typing, something good will happen. (Want to send in your own UOPTA? Yes, yes you do. And ptklein@gmail.com is the email address that will help you achieve that goal.)

As I go through my inbox to find little tidbits that I can hopefully turn into entire paragraphs, it feels like a sort of time travel. "Ooh, Peter from last February didn't like an AMPM commercial on the radio. And Peter from last January didn't like how a woman on a 'Law and Order' rerun pronounced the word 'negotiated.'" It's odd to feel like a spectator of my own life, and since most of the emails are random, unrelated thoughts (or license plates), that's where this exercise takes me. Oh, cool: it also made me think of something to write about this week.

It's an interesting thing, being a spectator. In sporting events, the differences between seeing something live and on tv are huge. In one scenario, you're more comfortable, not spending too much money, have better and multiple views of what's going on, hear announcers add color to the action, and can pee without trekking a half-mile and missing a bunch of action. In the other scenario, you're there! It seems like the staying-at-home option far outweighs the going one, but it all depends on your level of fandom. For example, I would rather sit in the highest row of seats at the Staples Center with a $15 beer to watch a regular season Lakers game with my friends than watch it at home. Football though? I'll take a tv and the ability to flip channels or only watch parts of the game. (Also, I'd have to drive to San Diego for the closest professional football game.) It's also the "event" side of it though. My lovely wife doesn't like sitting in the same place for hours unless it's something that really captivates her attention. A Laker game once every year or two fits the bill, but baseball is too slow and long to keep her from being antsy from the 5th inning on.

Another big difference between being there and watching from home is the communication between fans and athletes that can't hear them. At home, I'm generally pretty quiet. I stick to celebratory sounds on good plays, "He's so fucking good" about Kobe Bryant, "Get a fucking rebound" to the Lakers standing around while the other team corrals three offensive boards in a row, and "Get out! Get out!" when a ball off a Dodger bat looks like it might have the distance.

At a game, I change my entire persona. I'm always far enough away that the players have the same likelihood of hearing my words as if I were still at home, but there are other factors at hand. First off, there are kids around, so I modify my staple phrases to "He's so...good" and "Get a fffff, uh, rebound!" But there's also the entertainment factor, both for others in the party and for complete strangers. When former Dodger Brett Butler used to come up to bat, I'd yell, "Come on, Bert!" loud enough for several rows in each direction to hear. I knew his name was Brett, but I called him Bert loudly and proudly every time he came up to bat or made a play in the field. My parents thought it was funny, and I liked the fact that people near me had to be thinking, "Why isn't anyone correcting that kid? They just called him Brett on the loudspeaker but he keeps saying 'Bert.' What the hell?" I also called Mike Piazza "Mark" and Delino DeShields "Lino Shields," simply factoring out the "De"s. Fifteen years later, I went to a game with my parents and just yelled Blake DeWitt's last name so that it sounded like "Do it" every time he came up. I was entertained at least. The best example of screaming a player's name has to go to my friend Dave. At a Laker game recently, whenever Lamar Odom touched the ball, he'd yell, "Score Odom" really quickly and loudly. Go ahead, try that out. Did it sound like a part of the male body to you? Well it sure does when Dave says it, which obviously makes it much more fun.

I have another spectator-related story, and this one doesn't have to do with sports (in case that's not your thing). About a year and a half ago, I was at a commercial shoot for something. They had hired people to sit in the audience for reaction shots, but there weren't enough men. Being extremely manly, they naturally came to me for help. Even though I was there for work, I had some downtime and agreed to sit in the audience and help them out. Here's the thing I didn't expect though: they taped the crowd's reaction shots first, before there was anything we were actually spectating. So it required a little acting, and I was totally down with that action.

I don't mean to brag, but facts are facts: I was the best fake audience member in the history of the part-time profession. When the director simply asked for big applause as if someone famous was walking onto the stage, most people just smiled and clapped. Maybe a couple of people added little shouts of "Woo hoo" or something. That's child's play. I added subtle elements that impressed my fellow fake audience members to the point of them asking me how often I did this. You're interested in those elements now, aren't you? Ok, but don't go spreading these around. First, I clapped about four times. Then I gave a little point to where the person would be standing. I went back to a couple more claps before turning to my friend and I shook my head with a look that clearly stated, "Wow, this sure is an enjoyable time we're sharing." Here's the thing, that person wasn't even really my friend, but I had you believing it even through the written account of my subtle starring role. (What do you mean "subtle starring role" is paradoxical? You're paradoxical.)

Later on, we had to act wowed by something amazing that we'd be seeing on the stage. How did most people act that out? They said, "Wow." Yep, that's about it. Simpletons. Let me tell you how I kicked ass with that fake emotion as well. First I furrowed my brow a little as if I were focusing intently on the stage (but not enough to cause a crease between my eyes). Then, upon the moment of the big reveal, my eyebrows softened and my eyes got wider. This is when most people started to say, "Wow." Not I, friends. I opened my mouth and took a quick breath in, like I was a little surprised by what I was seeing. Then I closed my mouth and pushed my bottom lip up a little (which I call "The Bill Clinton") and gave a slow, meaningful nod. What was the nod's meaning? If you saw it, you'd know without a doubt that it was saying, "I'm not sure quite how you did that, but damn do I respect the job you're doing up there. Bravo." Compare that to the sheep-like wowers, and it's pretty easy to see why I stood out from the crowd. Peter Klein: Fake Spectator Extraordinaire.

And with that, let's point, shake, and nod our ways on over to the Car Watch.

Ok, this one's a little bit nerdy, but I'm going to press on anyway. I was driving with my lovely wife when I spotted a big truck in front of us that read, "Zephyr Express North" in a large font. I made a scoffing sound and said, "You see that?" She said she did, but didn't understand why she was supposed to be looking at it. "Zephyr...north?" I said incredulously. "Yeah?" "Well a zephyr is a wind from the west, so that doesn't make any sense." She was unaware of the definition, as (now that I think of it) most people might be. I know it because when we went to a minor league baseball game (as spectators!) during our year in Sacramento, we saw the hometown River Cats play against the New Orleans Zephyrs. I looked it up around that time and remembered that factoid. So now that we're all on the same page: "Zephyr Express...North?" What the hell, right? Right?

My homey Rockabye sent me this license plate recently: "WILDCPA." Ooh, let me guess, do you e-file people's taxes while listening to rocking flute of Jethro Tull? Do you tell people to deduct like the wind and let the cards fall as they may? Do you...crap, I really know absolutely nothing about accounting. Anyone got any good lines here? Please post them in the comments section and help a brother out.

Lastly, my friend Dusty sent me a plate and frame combo that makes me insanely jealous. The plate read, "20 CENTS," and the frame elucidated us with, "The 4 Nichols." Damn that's good. I wish multiple Kleins added up to something so I could make a punny yet accurate license plate. I tip my imaginary cap to you, family o' Nichols.

That's it for me, folks. I hope you enjoyed, and either way, please send any thoughts you have to ptklein@gmail.com so I can keep this thing going for a while longer. I'll be back next Friday, hopefully with an idea or two before I start typing. In the meantime: Happy half-birthday today to my Grandma Mu, a great encourager of creativity. Happy Halloween tomorrow, which is also our cute pup Hallie's 7th birthday. Happy half-birthday to our friend Jesse on Sunday, and to both Debbie and Jen on next Thursday. Take care, folks, and I'll see you in November.

Smooth operator

Hello yet again, my homepeople, and welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unwanted Orphans Progressing Through Adolescence," but I can imagine that that sadly happens fairly often. (Do I know how to get this party started or what?) Instead, I like to think of this UOPTA as a happier place, where people with or without parents can come on a weekly basis to read my thoughts and stories. So let's see what I've got for today, shall we? Hmmn, it looks like there's nothing even close to resembling a theme, so I hope you're ready for some disjointed and segue-free thoughts this week. (If you'd like to send in your own UOPTA, ptklein@gmail is how all the cool kids are doing it.)

Without getting into specifics, part of my job often involves me setting up conference calls for clients with other people I know. Over time, the process has become pretty streamlined for me: I get some times from one party, suggest them to the other, s/he chooses one, I send out a meeting request through Outlook, and then I send a reminder/confirmation a day ahead of time. Being who I am, I always get on the calls way too early and sit there for a few minutes while I await attendees from both sides. That's my fault, and I realize that. It's a combination of wanting to be there first to welcome them and a poor assessment of time. I always forget that it doesn't take three minutes to pick up the phone and two more to dial a number. What I don't get though is why 95% of the time, I'm still the only one on the call when the agreed-upon hour arrives. It's usually only another two or three minutes before someone joins, and then a few minutes after that (and some awkward, stalling chatting) before the other side's there. But the invitees are never all there when the clock hits the set time, and as a hyperpunctual person, I just don't get it.

Last week, I set a call after many emails back and forth finding the right time for two people to speak. I called in only about three minutes too early and waited. After ten minutes had passed, I sent an email to both parties making sure they had the right call-in number and PIN. After ten more minutes, I sent another email saying, "It looks like you both got caught up in something, so let's find another time this week to chat." Those aren't the most efficient 23 minutes I've ever spent in my life. On top of that, this conference line we use has had the same song rotation as its hold music for years, and I'm getting really sick of it. There's one Ray Charles song, one Natalie Merchant song, and one Sade song. That's it. Oh, and there's always a little burp of static in the same place on the Natalie Merchant song, and when I point at the phone right in time with the static, I feel as cool as one possibly could in that inherently uncool situation. Maybe those 23 minutes weren't all bad after all.

It's strange, but I just realized at 32 years old that I have a pet peeve. That's a little late in the game, right? Here it is: When someone is talking to me and I can hear that he needs to clear his throat, but he just keeps right on talking. Dude, clear your damn throat! I find myself clearing my own in that situation, partially as a subconscious reaction to make sure my breathing passages are open, and partially in hopes that the speaker will take a frickin' hint. I hear it, he hears it, and anyone within earshot hears it, so why press on? Do your little cough or double-cough; I'll still be here when you get back.

I learned a very interesting piece of trivia recently. I heard on the radio that 50% of the U.S. population lives within 500 miles of Columbus, Ohio. "That can't be," I told myself. "That's weird," my lovely wife said when I repeated the factoid. Not content to leave it alone, I went to an online map of the country, got to a size in which half of my thumb equaled one hundred miles, and set off to find Americans. Sure enough, there are giant cities in all directions of Columbus. Some barely make it, but it appears that in a straight line, St. Louis, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, New York City, and Atlanta all fall within that distance. Crazy shit, eh? Oh yeah, and Aurora, Illinois too, home to Wayne and Garth. Can't forget that.

Way back in high school, I was on an improv comedy team for two years. Even though the meat of our performances were made up on the spot, we still held weekly rehearsals to sharpen our skills. One of my favorite skills I learned during that time was the art of working backwards to create a joke. To be clear, these were usually very stupid jokes, but that's kinda what you're expecting with a whole five seconds of thought behind them. I bring this up because earlier this week, I made up a joke in that fashion. I was draining some pasta while helping make dinner, and the wheels started turning. "Hey honey?" I asked. My lovely wife looked over. "Will you tell me if a joke I just made up is too stupid to share with people?" She agreed. "Ok," I said, as I gave a quick recounting of it in my head to make sure I had it down. "Why did the rolls go to Dairy University?" "Why?" "To butter themselves," I replied. She thought, smiled a little, and said, "Not bad. It's in the Laffy Taffy category." "I'll take it!" I said.

For those of you not familiar with Laffy Taffy, it's a candy with pretty bad jokes sent in by children (or people posing as children) printed on the labels. I like to try to guess the punchlines, and not to toot my own horn too much, but I'm either really close or the joke is f'n stupid. For example, I could guess that when it asks, "Why did the skeleton go to the movies by himself?" that the answer will have something to do with "no body to go with him." But when it asks where a dentist goes on vacation, how the hell am I supposed to guess, "The mouth of the Mississippi"? I find myself trying to make the stupid jokes better sometimes. For example, "Why did the apple turnover?" one asks. "Because it was jealous of the jelly roll" is the given answer. I don't like that. If you're setting it up as a verb in the question, follow through in the punchline and make it, "Because it saw the jelly roll." Jeez, kids these days.

Speaking of creativity and putting some serious thought into words, I must say that I'm somewhat disappointed in the boring name of the greyhound. "I say, old chap, take a gander at that grey hound lying there. I created the breed myself, and I shall call it...the greyhound." If I were the old chap that guy was talking to, I would've stopped him right there and encouraged him to at least put his town's name in instead of that bland description name. (Oops, forget all that. According to Wikipedia: "The name 'greyhound' is generally believed to come from the Old English grighund. 'Hund' is the antecedent of the modern 'hound,' but the meaning of 'grig' is undetermined, other than in reference to dogs in Old English and Norse. Its origin does not appear to have any common root with the modern word 'grey' for color, and indeed the greyhound is seen with a wide variety of coat colors." Jeez, dogs these days.)

And with that, let's chase a fake rabbit down the track to the Car Watch.

My friend Dusty sent me a picture of a bumper sticker. In large letters, it read:
"Daughter - Summa Cum Laude. Cal Poly Pomona.
Son - Magna Cum Laude. USC.
Me - Dumb Shit.
GO FIGURE!"
Well, if we're just going by choice in bumper stickers, I can attest that he's at least right about one of those three.

I saw a license plate earlier this week that confused me. "D(Heart)LESS1," it read. Is that really something to be proud of? The person is telling the world that s/he is either "heartless" or "loveless," and that doesn't scream, "Put me on your license plate!" to me.

Lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that read, "POTART." I read that as "pot art," which then led me to picture blacklight posters with Bob Marley, The Grateful Dead, or the cast of "Dazed and Confused." Then I thought about it a little deeper and started picturing art featuring marijuana. It could stand in for trees in a three-dimensional painting or have little googly eyes on the outside of a plastic baggie to make it look like a person. (No, I wasn't high.) But what if I'm off base with going for the drug reference? Do people make art for/with teapots or coffee pots? They can wear googly eyes too, mind you.

Ok, that's more than enough for me. Thank you for your time here today, friends, and I look forward to hopefully seeing you back here again next Friday. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with any UOPTAs, Car Watch items, or questions about where I get the good shit that makes you start thinking about teapot artwork. In the meantime: Happy Anniversary today to my friends Suzanne and Andrew. I have my fantasy basketball auction draft this Sunday evening, so send good thoughts my way. Happy Birthday to my friends Alicia on Monday and Regina on Thursday. Take care, everyone.

Punk-tuation

Good morning, party people and non-party people. Welcome yet again to another week here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unripened Oranges Predictably Taste Acidic," but that is a truism I dare not question. (Thanks to my favorite brother for providing that UOPTA - it's one of my favorites to date, but mainly because you can spell Peter TWICE with the letters in it. If you'd like to send in your own, please do to ptklein@gmail.com.) Instead, mis amiguitos, this UOPTA is a place in which I write my thoughts and stories. Sounds simple enough, right? Then let's get into an actual themed version of a post today.

I'm re-reading the very entertaining, "Eats, Shoots & Leaves" by Lynne Truss right now. If you're not familiar with it, the book is a humorous case for the importance of punctuation and why accuracy is paramount. In it, she also gives many great examples of poorly written items. I see them myself all the frickin' time, but it takes a real whopper (or doozy, if you prefer) for me to write it down or take a picture with my cell phone. I've seen some recently that have prompted me to those extremes though.

First off, my lovely wife and I traveled up north for our friend Dusty and The Mills' wedding. The Mills grew up in a tiny town, and while I was up there, I learned that the entire county has only three traffic lights. (I originally typed "country" instead of "county," and I'm pretty sure someone would've called bullshit on that.) But small town schmall town, I always say. Grammar and punctuation is not limited to those in metropolitan areas. (Neither is poor grammar and punctuation, as we'll come to see.) So there is no excuse for an ice cream stand to have a printed and laminated sign that read, "We now have peanut's on our Sunday's." If you're scoring at home, that's three errors in seven words (an impressive ratio!), but I guess if one never learns how to use apostrophes or the difference between a dessert and a frickin' day of the week, that's par for the course. Bravo, ice cream stand, bra-vo.

Next up, I got a haircut a little while ago, and parked in my usual space. Typically, I walk past the three or four old men sitting outside of the bakery next door and then sit and wait for the barber to arrive. (I take the first appointment of the morning and beat him there every time. It's kinda my thing.) This last time, however, there were no old men holding coffee cups and complaining about the state of the world today. In fact, the entire bakery looked closed. I walked up to the front door and saw this sign on the door:

In case my needing-to-get-a-haircut reflection is blocking out the important first sentence, it reads, "This has is closed." Once again, this was a printed sign at a place of business...that apparently was devoid of proofreaders. I guess they were deciding on whether to say that the store "is closed" or "has closed," and in all the commotion forgot the all-important noun. I wish their Beverly Hills store more luck. (Oh yeah, and nice job capitalizing the state abbreviation.)

Near my office, there is a Coffee Bean that I used to frequent...frequently. (I like the verb "to frequent." It's convenient.) Now I only go once in a while, since I can make tea or coffee at my office in a less expensive and quicker fashion. In any case, I was at the register about a month ago when I saw a printed sign in a plastic holder. It was obvious that they cared enough to place it where everyone can see the sign, but they neglected to care enough to refrain from bastardizing the English language. To wit:

I can understand when someone writes something technically incorrect that sounds good in his or her head because it's more conversational in nature. But I just can't imagine, "Parking validation are only good for 20 minute additional cost will be charge after 20 minute Thank you" sounding good in anyone's head. My only guess is that some supervisor there is not a native English speaker, and everyone else was too afraid to correct him or her. I obviously loved it and wanted to take it home with me electronically. It was tricky though. After trying to think of a few scenarios in which I would rightfully have my phone out and pointed that direction, I gave up on being subtle and held it out in front of me to snap the pic. I may have even giggled; it was worth it.

The final one really gets my goat because of the number of people who must have looked at it before it reached my eyes. I was in Babies R Us (which deserves its own entry with an f'd up name like that), and I saw something that made me say out loud, "Oh come on!" Ladies and gentlemen, I present:


I kept waiting for the rest of the sentence. "My first photo's...of a puppy dog." "My first photo's...certainly going to be a memorable one." "My first photo's...subjects have their eyes closed." Nope, that was it. Keep in mind, for this item to be in front of me, it took a company to have the idea to create it, a designer to make the image/text, an executive of some kind to approve it, a buyer at the store level to place an order for the albums, and many more people along the way. No one saw a problem with this? In short: "Babies are us like photo's."

Ok, this isn't related to failed punctuation, but I rarely put pictures in the middle of my posts, so I might as well keep this one full of them. Yesterday, I got to work at my normal time, turned on the 23 light switches in the office, and put my stuff down on the file cabinet behind my desk. My eye caught something on the window, and so I looked in a little closer:


If you can't tell, that's a snail on the window. So what, right? It had rained the two days before, and they come out then. What's the big deal? Well, my office is on the third floor of the building (out of three). I can't help but wonder how long it took that little guy to get so precariously perched on the window pane. Did he start on the roof and try working his way down (as his direction would suggest)? I have no idea, but after taking the picture, I got down to work and didn't look over there again for an hour. By that time, the snail was no longer in sight. Either snails are faster than I'm giving them credit for, or their bodies are a little less sticky than necessary for those conditions.

And with that, let's leave a slimy trail on down to the Car Watch.

I saw this license plate earlier this week: "TP DNSR." My first thought was, "Toilet paper dispenser," even though I knew immediately that was wrong. "Oh, 'dancer' it's trying to say," I thought. Naturally, I tried picturing a toilet paper dancer. Then I thought, "Moron, it's probably supposed to be 'top dancer' or...no, 'tap dancer.' What's wrong with me?" I can't explain why it took me so long to get there, but I think it's safe to say that if a tap dancer instead made someone think about toilet paper, then the license plate probably doesn't work well enough.

My favorite brother sent me an email that said the following: "SENOR EL - Mr. The? Don't get it." I sure think of "Mr. The" with that too, Kev, so I'm right there with you. I like it, even though I don't get it. Maybe I'm just jealous since I've always thought it would be cool if my middle initial of T stood for "the." Peter The Klein has a nice ring to it.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that he was pretty sure would incur the wrath of Klein. It read, "PO8IC." This one's difficult, because it speaks to two different ways I approach things. On one hand, it's frickin' stupid since the word isn't "po-ate-ic." As I've clearly stated, I dislike when numbers are used in a way that doesn't serve the same purpose as the way they sound. That said, it's unbelievably fitting to allow poetic license on a license that's trying to say "poetic." If the driver was indeed trying to create a "poetic" license, how can I fault him or her for that? I don't think I can.

Alrighty folks, that's it for me. Thanks for joining me again this week, and I'll do more of the same next Friday. In the meantime, there are some things we'll pass between now and then. According to my calendar, I should wish a Happy National Boss Day today to all you bosses out there. So to Bruce Springsteen, George Steinbrenner, Mr. Hogg, and my lovely wife, enjoy your special day. Happy half-birthday on Sunday to my friend Lindsey, and another happy half-birthday on Thursday to my favorite sister-in-law, Ilyse. Have a happy and healthy weekend and week, friends. Shaloha, and go Dodgers!

On the cuff remarks

Hello and welcome, friends, acquaintances, and strangers. It's good to see you back here for another week at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Upsets Obviously Prevent Teams' Advancements," but I imagine that's true (especially in college football where one upset can derail a team's championship hopes). Also, it says "obviously," so it has to be true. Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down some things that I had only previously thought or said aloud. It's all about changing up the medium, folks. With that, let's get right into it. (If you'd like to submit a UOPTA, just send it to ptklein@gmail.com. That's where the magic happens.)

I have to dress nicely for work more often than not. Men have a fairly limited selection of what they can wear in a business environment. There aren't too many colors involved in pants and jackets, and so we're left with few options to stand out. By "stand out," I don't mean to the point of, "There's that weirdo again." I just think it would be nice to not completely blend in with everyone else, and that's somewhat difficult. I'm not one to wear wacky ties - it's just not me - and while I'm comfortable in strange or louder socks, they're far less evident to others over the course of the day (unless your office observes Shoeless Thursdays). So I've branched out where I can and expanded my self-imposed restrictions. I broadened my shirt collection to have colors previously unseen in my closet with a nice purple one and a fairly pale pink one, for example. I tend to blend in a little less with the masses when I wear those. But there's one still largely-untapped area in which I could really make my mark: cuff links.

I realize, of course, that cuff links don't normally stand out in an elevator or when passing someone in a hallway. However, when sitting in a meeting, they definitely come into play. It's a little bit of personalizing flair, and the options are far greater than I ever realized. My boss has some of the coolest cuff links I've ever seen, including mini refrigerators with doors that actually open. My main problem with busting out into this category is that I have a whopping two shirts right now with the French cuffs needed to wear said links. I plan on getting more though because of my recent foray into this arena.

One of my coworkers gave me a bag of clothes that don't fit him anymore, many of which were worn zero to one times. He has very expensive tastes, so I thought, "Why the hell not?" Sadly, they were almost all too big on me still, but my dad and favorite brother each fit into a few of them. (I'm not calling them fat, mind you, just stating the facts.) At the bottom of the bag was a little wooden box. I opened it and found a set of cuff links staring at me. I say "staring" because they were of a kinda creepy and opalescent woman's face. I originally thought that they were Medusa, but it turned out that her hair was actually just hair and not snakes. Needless to say, they weren't very attractive. I kept them anyway for some reason and put them in a drawer.

A short time later, I was at an outlet mall getting some new shirts, and I purchased the second of my two French cuff ones. The main reason for the purchase was because of some cuff links I saw while browsing the store. They were perfect: tiny little hourglasses with sand (or a sand-like substance) that really moved from one side to the other. How cool is that? (Before you answer, pretend that you're as anal about time and being early as I am. Ready? Ok, now how cool is that? Big difference.)

I couldn't wait to bust them out, and I wore my new shirt and cuff links shortly thereafter, showing everyone in my office the moving grains of whatever. I got a great reaction from them, and wearing cuff links at all made me feel a little cooler and more grown up. It didn't hit me until I was taking them off later that day, to be honest. When doing that, I felt like my actions were mimicking those of a cool character in a movie or old tv show. Has there ever been an unsuccessful character with cuff links? Usually they're shown with tuxedos and denoting a level of classiness reserved for the cooler characters, so I was digging that vibe. In fact, I wore the non-Medusa lady-heads the next week just because I liked that feeling. I even grew to appreciate them for their oddness, though I didn't show them off quite as much as the hourglasses. So what if they're a little creepy? At least they're opalescently creepy.

I noticed something interesting while recounting this tale. As I think I've made quite clear in this space over the hundreds of posts, I'm quite particular about the use of the English language at times. Every once in a while, someone points out that something I'm saying isn't right for one reason or another, and it usually bugs the hell out of me. I'm still upset from when my friend Dusty pointed out that "Guess what" is a command and not a question. Well, I discovered one little odd inaccuracy on my own, and I have no idea why it took me so long to recognize this one. If I may be so bold, I'm going to predict that the majority of you will say or think, "Whoa, he's right!" after reading this. Ready? Ok, check it out:

Why do we call it an hourglass regardless of how long the sand takes to go from one side to another? Technically, I was wearing fivesecondglasses on my cuffs. In fact, I'd venture to say that a very small percentage of "hourglasses" out there in the world are truly hour-long timers. How did that term stick? My best guess is that the first ones were crafted to let people know when an hour had elapsed, and then somehow it came to mean anything resembling that device. By that logic, we could still be calling cds "records." (Can I get a "Whoa, he's right!"?) Despite the term's vast inaccuracy, I'm still ok with saying that Christina Hendricks has an "hourglass figure." I hope that's fine with you.

Ok, I have an unrelated story to relate before getting to the Car Watch. Earlier this week, my lovely wife and I were in our kitchen together. I wanted to get past her to go to the trashcan, so we did the little "which way are you going" dance before I stepped to the right and went around her. A minute later I asked, "Honey, do think that people walk on the left side of sidewalks in England? Or walkways in malls?" "Hmmm, or stairways," she said while still thinking. "I don't know; that's a good question." "How do you think I can get the answer to that without asking a British person?" I wondered aloud.

As it turned out, I didn't really need any other option since I know a British person. My friend Suzanne's husband is from England, and he has a kick-ass accent to prove it. So I sent Suzanne an email asking if she could help set my mind at ease on this highly unimportant topic. Her response greatly pleased me:

Yep! It's all reversed over there. People move to the left to pass on the sidewalk or in hallways. Walking up stairs you stay to your left. Slow people on escalators stand to the left. They have signs in some airports near the escalators and walkways that say "keep left." It's very confusing for anyone from a country that drives on the other side of the road. That being said, because of the amount of American and mainland European tourists they get, they are pretty forgiving if you are on the wrong side. I've had many a dance with strangers as we've tried to move out of each other's way. You can talk and dress like a Brit, but your step aside instincts will give you away!

Thanks for clearing that up, Suzanne, and thanks for treating my bizarre questions with respect and dignity.

And with that, let's take the tube to the lift to the loo to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye saw this license plate recently: "ONTMOVE." I don't like it. I'm fully on board when someone wants to use the letter D in place of "the" from time to time. It's far from an auditory match, but it works. "I went to D store and I told D cashier that he forgot to give me D receipt," for example. It makes me read the whole thing in a comical accent, so that's a plus. But now try reading that with a lone T in place of each D. To me, that sounds awful and completely loses the flow and meaning of the sentence. In short, I don't like that plate.

I saw a license plate frame this week that also didn't sit too well with me. "Water employees," it told me, "Drink it right from the tap." Hold on now. Drink what right from the tap? Their consumers' water supply? Not only does that sound unsanitary, but also quite rude. On the flip side, if they're trying to be vaguely sexual like the other "Blanks do it blank" stickers and frames, then...ya know, forget it. I'm going to leave that one right where it is.

And lastly, I think it's safe to say that my favorite brother and I think alike at times. Here's part of an email he sent me about plates he saw: "BLND L8Y - Okay several problems here. First of all I hope it is blonde and not blind. That would be bad... Secondly, what is a leighty?" Well Kevin, allow me to use my Car Watch expertise to help you out here. The first word is clearly supposed to be "bland." And a l8y is the female counterpart to the 10tleman.

That is sooo it for me, friends. Let's meet back here next Friday and see what happens, ok? In the meantime, Monday is our friends Lisa and Paul's six and a half year anniversary and also Day of the Race in Mexico. (Why's it always got to be about race?) Tuesday is my friend and former prom date Alissa's birthday, and Thursday is our friends Dave and Twilight's 4th anniversary. Happy everything to all of them. Peace out, homeskillets, and shaloha. I hope T rest of today, T weekend, and T next week are full of T things you like to do.

Down the rabbit hole

Bienvenidos, mis amiguitos, and welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Uruguayans Obligatorily Pierce Their Appendages," but I wouldn't be shocked to learn that some South American natives practiced rituals like that. (My newly-married friends Dusty and The Mills are in Argentina and Uruguay for their honeymoon right now, so I'll have to ask them when they get back if they saw any pierced arms, legs, or...er, other appendages. Scratch that, I'm not asking anymore.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down some thoughts and stories and hope they turn out to be at least mildly entertaining. Hmmm, maybe I'm setting the bar too high. (Thanks to my dad for sending in that UOPTA. You can - and really should - send in your own to ptklein@gmail.com. Don't you want to be publicly thanked?)

As I've mentioned a few times in this space, I subscribe to Paste Magazine. The main reason I enjoy it is that each one comes with a sampler of about 20 songs. Of the 20, I've usually heard of maybe 5 of the artists before, so it's eye- and ear-opening. (For example, I'd certainly never heard of a band called "Throw Me The Statue" before receiving a recent sampler with a song of theirs on it. Not only do I like the song quite a bit, but I can't help but picture Michelangelo's David flying through the air while someone waits with an oversized baseball glove. That can't just be me, right?) Thanks to the 14 or 15 samplers I now have, my knowledge of fairly obscure bands has exploded, and I like that. When I occasionally make a mix cd for someone, I enjoy putting things s/he's never heard of before. In that last statement lies the crux of what I'm trying to get across. Bear with me please.

There's a band called White Rabbits. (I don't think there's a "The" in front of it, but I might be wrong.) I'd never heard of them before hearing a song of theirs on "Sampler 42." About a year later, another song of theirs appeared on "Sampler 53" by Paste Magazine. I really enjoyed it and put it on a mix I made for my friend Jon. It's called "Percussion Gun," and it's just a slightly different song than a lot of the cookie-cutter ones I hear in the indie rock genre. Well, a couple of weeks ago, my lovely wife and I got back into my car from a trip to the store, and when I turned the ignition, "Percussion Gun" came on. I looked at my radio for a good three seconds before I realized that it was on the radio and not from my cd in the car. I didn't like that. I liked it even less when I heard it three of the next five times I listened to that station. It seems that song cracked the rotation and the station is making the most of it.

Why don't I like that? Shouldn't I be happy for the band's success, which would (in theory) allow me and everyone else greater access to their music? Wouldn't that increase the likelihood of a tour stop in California at some point? Yes and yes, but I'm still bothered, and I think I've found the sentence to explain it: It's cool to live below the fold.

If you're not familiar with the term "above the fold," the basic premise is that when newspapers are displayed in a stack, the face-up part has the most important or intriguing stories in order to entice people to buy it. According to our friends at Wikipedia, "The term can be used more generally to refer to anything that is prominently displayed or of highest priority." It makes sense, right? (Wow, I feel all pseudo Malcolm Gladwell-y.) Well, let's look at my thesis sentence again: It's cool to live below the fold (or BTF as I'm going to call it going forward). What I mean by that can best be described in a few examples.

Have you ever hear someone say, "Hey, you really should check out the National Football League?" How about, "You know, the Beatles have some really good music." Or, "You know who makes a good hamburger? McDonalds." Probably not, right? It's not nearly as cool to share knowledge that already has a certain level of public consciousness. Think about the joy and excitement of sharing something BTF with a friend: a hole in the wall restaurant, a relatively unknown website, an independent film playing only in one small theater in town, a great vacation place on which a throng of tourists has not yet descended, or in this particular case, a band/song that most people in your circle haven't heard of. It's fun, and it feels cool. At the same time, it identifies the "teller" with the recommendation in a way that "above the fold" items can't. For example, when my friends go to the market and walk by salsa made by Ortega or Pace, I doubt anyone comes to mind. If they see the glorious bottle of Tapatio though, they very well might think of me. Yes, it's apparently all about me.

So why does the rising fame of White Rabbits bother me? What felt like insider knowledge and something cool to share with friends is becoming mainstream, thereby limiting (or erasing) my BTF knowledge. I saw this happen years ago with the band Everclear, and the results were disastrous. My friend Adam played their first tape (yes, tape) for me while on a class trip in Europe, and by the end of the excursion, I was ready to get all of my friends as pumped about this new band as I was. It worked to a large extent too. By the time their second album came out, good friends Greg, Jon, Lisa, and others all were totally into them. I clearly remember someone during my freshman year of college saying, "Hey, you like that band Everclear, right? I heard a song of theirs earlier; they're pretty cool." It felt great to hear that.

Then their next album came out with some real promotion behind it, and next thing I knew, things were headed downhill. (In hindsight, it was rather appropriately named, "So Much for the Afterglow." The one before that was maybe even more appropriate - "Sparkle and Fade" - because it encompasses both the rise and fall.) The rough and cool band I had rocked out to just a few years prior suddenly had a video on MTV with the rockers all pretty-looking and bouncing around in black suits. Then they totally fell in love with what had made them successful and made every song going forward sound exactly like their previous hits. I'm not kidding: same beat, very similar lyrics, and having either "Hey hey" or "She said" repeated at some point. A very short while later and they had lost me completely. I didn't buy their albums after that (and this was a band I had LOVED). I was so down on the direction they took after appealing to the masses that when Lisa and I actually saw them sitting in an Alabama airport at our gate, I just kind of shrugged and said, "That's interesting." (In fact, the guitarist ended up sitting directly in front of us on the flight, smelling like alcohol and sleeping the whole time. We joked about things we could've said to him like, "You guys used to be really cool when you made more than one song over and over again." I don't think that would've gone over too well though.)

Back to my original thesis: When you're touting something BTF, it's almost a no-lose situation. If it takes off, hopefully people will remember you as an early adopter and think of you as someone with an eye for talent. If it never takes off (be it a movie, restaurant, etc.), then you can always claim that it was too quirky/niche/esoteric/intelligent for the masses. Ergo, it appears that it's both cool and a smart bet to live BTF. Thank you. Q.E.D. and ipso facto, or something. (Hey, you know what's a pretty good beverage? Coca-Cola!)

With that, let's ride some sugary bubbles on over to the Car Watch.

My Bratty Kid Sister sent me a license a couple of days ago. It read, "(Heart) T SING." To me, there are three possible readings of this. One, the person loves to sing and is abbreviating the "to" with a form closer to how it's said in, "I love t'sing." Two, the person loves teasing and has that written as plainly as possible. Or three, the person loves both singing and teasing and somehow found a brilliant way to express both hobbies in one amazing plate. (I could force a fourth possibility with "hearty sing," but I'll spare you the nonsense.)

My homey Rockabye saw this bumper sticker earlier this week: "Isn't it baseball season yet?" Uh, dude, I don't know how to tell you this, but we're in the last few games before the playoffs. The season's been going on for like six months now. Geez, where have you been?

And lastly, my lovely wife saw a plate that she couldn't wait to tell me about: "SATIS5D." I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with the word "satisfived." (Neither is my spellchecker, apparently.) What the hell? I don't easily jump to hate, but this driver's really tempting me. Does he con5d in his friends? Did the water in his freezer solidi5? Sorry, maybe I'm being unfair to the driver and shouldn't be vili5ing him so much.

Ok, that's it for me. I'm out of here, but I'll be back next week with more stuff and stuff. In the meantime, happy half-birthday today to my co-worker Rob, and happy half-birthday on Tuesday to Sacky Christi. That's all I've got. Remember, you can always email me at ptklein@gmail.com with UOPTAs, Car Watch items, or any random items with which I might identi5. Take care, friends.