Uh oh, Peter's thinking again...

That's all, friends

2009-11-27T02:41:00.000-08:00

Good morning everyone, and thank you for joining me on my final post here. I think I'm going to start by giving you a little background into my decision, talk a bit about the future, and then see what happens from there. Is that all ok with you? Excellent.

My decision to end UOPTA is based on four key factors. One: I'm really running out of things to form entire posts around. I'd been saying that to friends and family for months, but it truly is the case. In fact, I've ended up writing about a few things that I never planned to because I'd wanted to save them for potential projects down the line. So that's the main thing. Two: It's been feeling a little more like a chore to post something each week. This is all my fault, I realize. Somewhere along the line, I felt like each post had to be between 1,500 and 2,000 words, with an intro, acronym, body, Car Watch, and closing. I'm still pleased with how almost all of it has worked out, but I don't want to get to a stage where I have my self-imposed deadline and nothing to say. You see, I didn't do this quite right. Instead of treating it like an actual blog, it was more of a weekly column over the past two years (and an every-weekday column for the year before that). I maintained it for waaaay longer than I ever expected, and I feel good about that. Three: As all of you who know me in person are already aware of, my limited free time is about to become non-existent. My homey Rockabye sent me a bumper sticker that sums this third reason up perfectly: "Got Sleep? No. Got Twins." Yes, my lovely wife and I will be welcoming not one but two tiny humans into the world. We're obviously very excited, and our worlds are going to be turned upside-down. If the blog's been tough for me to write recently, it'll be impossible on no sleep and an overwhelming desire to be with them instead of at my computer. Along those same lines, I don't want to write a blog about raising kids and the cute things they do. There are roughly a brazilian sites out there already doing that, and hearing stories about other people's kids is probably on par with hearing stories about other people's fantasy drafts or poker hands. They just don't pack the same punch. Four: Today marks three years and 365 posts here on this site. Those are good numbers, and ending it now feels like the right time. (I originally thought that 365 was a coincidence, but my lovely wife pointed out that it makes perfect sense. Five days a week for a year, and then once a week for two years should equal seven times a week over the course of a year. Therefore, I'm leaving you with a year's worth of posts if you feel like you need a steady morning ritual.)

I'm not quitting cold turkey though. (By a show of hands, how many of you are eating cold turkey today left over from yesterday's festivities?) I thought long and hard about what I could do to still have an outlet for the thoughts and stories in my mind. After discussing possible options with a few friends, I was thrilled that we found something that made sense as a next step. Here it is: Nothing To Read Here. (Ooh, irony.) That, my homepeople, is an actual blog. By that, I mean there will be posts of small, medium, and large length, and not on any regular timeframe. Better yet, it's not just me. I have three like-minded friends in on this with me, and the four of us will all post when we have things to share. We're a new team, and I already really like what we're putting out there. (Since there's no regular schedule, you can either just go to the site from time to time to see what's new or subscribe in a box on the right-hand side to get an email every time a new post is up. How convenient!) While I may be running out of actual stories from my past, I plan on having new thoughts for a long time, and that new site is where they'll show up. We'll all be using pseudonyms on the new blog site - I'm P-Dawg by the way - and I'm confident that you'll find my friends as funny and interesting as I do. So this really isn't a goodbye at all, but rather just an end to how we're used to interacting.

That said, I don't expect to continue with what have become regular features of my posts here. Therefore, I plan on using all that I'd stored up of those right here, right now. Buckle up, because this might take a while.

First, I've come across quite a few words and phrases that can not be spelled without "Peter." Usually, I'd write something and then pick a phrase out of that paragraph to highlight my name, but I'm switching it up this time. Instead, I'm going to try to write a little story with each of the items in it. And what the hell, I'll put them in bold so you don't have to go sorting through the letters while you read:

Decades ago, I see an important meeting in American history unfolding just like this...An inventor walks into a company called Superior Marketing. "Sirs and madams," he says as he taps his cigarette into an ashtray, "I have created the ultimate in adult party entertainment." He lays out the blueprints and begins his pitch. "No matter who you are, from the President to the Jones family in Cooperstown, New York, you want your visitors to be quite impressed when they come over for an evening of fun. Out of soda pop, peanut butter, and crackers? That's just a temporary setback. Late in the evening - the preferred time for this product - you bring out this baby. It's real pretty, isn't it? Have the ladies put on some patent leather pumps and you're ready for a wild and memorable evening. I have all of the intellectual property locked up, so the market's already cornered. What do you say?" The execs look around at each other for a moment before one speaks up. "I like it. I don't see it for homes though as much as possibly licensing it to chains all around the country. Probably some strong international prowess as well. Do you have a name for it yet?" The inventor smiles and says, "How could I forget? I call it...the Stripper Pole."

Ah, I can delete a whole bunch of notes to myself now. That actually feels good. Let's see if I can recreate that feeling by plowing through some unused Car Watch items, shall we?

A long while ago, I saw this plate: "UMM NO." On the license plate frame, it said, "Princess." Wow, I feel like I already have more than enough information to say that she's probably a bitch. Way to put that out there.

I also saw a license plate frame that read, "Volleyball Monthly. 'Set' for life." I don't know if the first part is a command for how often I should engage in the sport or the name of a publication. However, I approve of the pun in the second part enough to include it here. Nicely done, demanding coach/magazine.

This plate was interesting: "I (Heart) SNU P." That's very different than "I (Heart) CNU P," don't ya think? It's nice to know that one letter can turn a lover of a cartoon dog and make him a bathroom voyeur. By the way, I heard the instrumental song that I only know as "The song from Peanuts where they all dance and Snoopy puts his chin up in the air" recently and it made me happy. What a fun little tune. Maybe I should make that my ringtone instead of "Cop Killer" by Ice-T and Body Count. So hard to choose.

I have two very different readings of this plate: "NEON8TS." To me, it's either "neonates" or "neon 80s." (Seriously, if there was one decade known for having neon, it's the 80s.) If it's the first reading, then there's a superfluous T in there since "N8S" is already "nates." If it's the latter, "8T" is a pretty cool way to write "80" if that was taken. I've been holding onto this plate for about two years because I keep going back and forth as to which one the owner was trying to say. If it's somehow both of them, then that's the coolest thing I've heard all day.

I hate to go along with sweeping generalizations, but what are the odds that someone with the plate, "INFNT BS" is a lawyer? (That has to be "infinite" and not "infant," right? I don't think infants engage in bullshitting. I guess I'll find out though.)

If you have "1 DITZ" as your plate, there's no way you want people to take you seriously, right? I wonder if "IM DUMM" was already taken.

Just as the driver suspected, I was behind his or her car when I spied this plate: "UCMEB4U." True dat, my fellow Angelino, true dat.

About six months ago, I saw two cars next to each other with plates that made me laugh. The first might've made it on its own: "RNDM WMN." To me, that phrase is never used in a positive light. Wow, I'm so right. I just did a quick Google search for "random woman," and these all came up on the first page:
"Random woman kicks random man in street."
"Jude Law has gotten some random woman pregnant."
"Man douses random woman with urine."
"War with Iraq...and a random woman."
"Tila Tequila and random woman!"
"Another random woman wants MJ's kids."

Yes, that was all the first page of search results. Nice plate, by the way. The second one, side-by-side with the random woman, said, "FAJITAS." That's it, just "FAJITAS." I didn't get close enough to the car to hear if it was sizzling or not, but I highly doubt it smelled as good as I would've hoped.

And lastly from my backed-up stash, I have a little story. My lovely wife and I have lived in our house for a little over three years. Shortly after moving in, we were walking around our neighborhood when I saw a parked car with the plate, "RUFFN8R." My first thought was that it was some guy whose last name started with "Ruff" and his nickname (either for himself or given) is, "The Ruffinator." Well, we started seeing that car every time we took a walk, so I had more time to think about it. "I wonder if the owner is a rough version of Ralph Nader," I said once. The next time, I pretended to punch and kick an imaginary enemy as I said, "Grrr, we need renewable energy sources!" My lovely wife looked perplexed for a couple of seconds before realizing that that was my "rough Nader" impression. The next time: "ELECTRIC CARS NOW!" I yelled as I manhandled imaginary foes. After that, "I MAY HAVE LOST OREGON FOR GORE IN 2000!" And so on. I still see the car very often (and even rode next to it on the freeway once coming home from work), and it always makes me laugh.

Now, as you may have guessed, here are some plates in my inbox from my homey Rockabye.

First up, "IMVRYL8." Is that the built-in answer to the officer pulling that car over for speeding?

Next, he sent me a plate that read, "SNEEZ DR." Would that be an Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor? They do a hell of a lot more than treat sneezes, so it wouldn't be a very flattering self-descriptor. Or maybe a "SNEEZ DR" is one that works with a specific dwarf? Yeah, that's probably it.

"MM HMMM," another plate told him. I don't know what he asked it first, but I'm glad he got the affirmative response. That's still a weird thing to put on one's license plate, don't you think? Wouldn't you like to at least consider the question first? I guess not.

There's no way to tell if this one was accurate or not: "QT BOO T." We'll take your word for it, ma'am.

I like this one: "MRRR 007." When I read it, I hear the old announcer for the Chicago Bulls introducing Sean Connery to the arena. "And now, all the way from Scotland, put your hands together for Misterrrrrrr 007!" The crowd would naturally go wild.

This one really speaks volumes: "MELOOOW." I don't doubt for a second that the driver is truly a mellow person. I'd say it's the opposite of something like, "ANGRRRY." I'd believe that person too.

I rather enjoyed this email from him but had nothing really to add to it, so it just stayed in my inbox until now: "License plate frame: 'BLOOD TRIBE. BEE YEE YOUK TO WALKIE.' Not going to lie, I'm clueless." Amen, brother.

Here's an interesting bumper sticker: "Highland dancers do it-" Actually, I'm going to pause here. Let's think about all of the ways this one could end. Remember, the best "(blank) do it (blank)" stickers are the ones that actually make sense for the subject and have a good sexual double-meaning as well. This is best illustrated in my mind by, "Makeup artists do it on your face." So, how exactly could highland dancers do it? Some of them wear kilts, so maybe something with that? Or since they're dancers, any generic dancing thing like, "...with rhythm," "...in groups," etc. would work. So what did they go with? "Highland dancers do it for real." God I hate them.

And lastly, he asked for help on this one: "SPT LVR." I see the problem here. I really don't want to think it's "spit lover," but there aren't many other viable options. I don't know why someone would love spit, but would s/he be more likely to love a spot or a spat? I don't think so. I'm gonna assume that SPT are someone's initials, because I really don't feel like researching salivaphiles right now.

Hey, remember when I first wrote about what I call Auto-Followers? Well, I'm pretty sure I found a new one: Glom. Dictionary.com says it can be a stand-alone verb without "onto" following it, but I've certainly never heard that. Anyway, that's food for thought.

Well, those are things that were sitting in my email account that I doubt I'd be using in my next endeavor. I still have a bunch of smaller thoughts that will surely show up there in time. Before I head out and hopefully see you at the new blog, I'd like to thank everyone who has been a part of these past three years at UOPTA. From the people who randomly find my site after searching for bizarre things to the few regular readers I've never met: thank you. I don't know who you all are - "RNDM WMN" maybe? - but Statcounter tells me that since July of 2007 (when I created my free Statcounter account) I've had about 12,000 pageloads. That number astounds me since my Friday posts regularly attract between 20 and 30 unique visitors. In any case, I appreciate all of the eyeballs and hope you were entertained. Next, thank you to my friends and family who have been reading consistently throughout my time here. Even though I've been the one writing, I feel that sharing all of these thoughts and stories with you have brought us even closer. A big thank you to my homey Rockabye for always making sure I have a good supply of Car Watch items. I've included three items in every post over the past two years, and he's always had at least one of his represented. It was comforting to know that I'd have something to write about when I got to that part, so thanks again homey. Heartfelt thanks go out to my favorite brother and my adoring parents. Not only did they help supply me with ideas and read every post with gusto, but their comments entertained me and validated every reason I started this thing in the first place. Mom, you are hands down the Commenter Extraordinaire of UOPTA, and I truly appreciate the thought you put into your witty retorts. And lastly, I must thank my lovely wife her unconditional support, love, and patience. For example, we had both just awakened this past Wednesday morning and were still lying in bed. Out of nowhere I asked, "How do you think you spell the symbol above the 6 on a keyboard?" "That's a good question," she said. (Right there already tells you how wonderfully-matched we are.) "You mean is it a 'carrot' like the vegetable or a 'carat' like the jewelry measurement?" "Or even a third way," I added. "Huh, I don't know. What made you think of that?" (The answer, according to Merriam-Webster and Dictionary.com is "caret," by the way.) My lovely wife is bombarded with out-of-the-blue questions like this far too often, and yet she has always provided loving encouragement. As early as four or five months into writing this blog, I said that I didn't think I could keep going. She believed that I could, and knowing that she was on the other end of my keyboard smiling at my words was all I needed to push on. Thank you, my love.

And that, my friends and homepeople, is all I have for you today. I encourage you to check out Nothing To Read Here to see some of the posts we've already put there to welcome you. As always, please feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com (or pdawg@nothingtoreadhere.com) with anything that comes to mind. You probably have a good sense of what I find amusing, clever, irritating, and stupid, so I always welcome more fodder.

Thank you again, shaloha, and I wish you all health and happiness.

Prediction addiction

2009-11-20T02:41:00.000-08:00

Good day, folks. I hope you're all doing well as I welcome you yet again to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Ukuleles Offer Pleasant, Tuneful Amusement," but man is that an apt description or what? The famous "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" version by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole is certainly both pleasant and tuneful, and since that's the only ukulele song I can immediately think of, I'll assume my sweeping generalization is accurate. (And yes, I had to look up the exact spelling of his name. I always forget that it's A before E in Israel.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write my thoughts and stories and wait for my mom to comment.

I was a junior in high school when Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain killed himself. (Oops - spoiler alert.) It was obviously big news, but (in my opinion) not the generation-shaping news that my history teacher thought it was. He, with a keen sense of the moment, spent our whole class period telling us that we'll always remember where we were when we heard this news, going as far as likening it to JFK's assassination. He asked us what this meant to us as teenagers and how we would carry this with us going forward. To me, it was sad and I liked their music quite a bit, but I clearly remember sitting there and thinking, "You might be taking this one too far, buddy." I also remember a conversation I had with a couple of friends later that day. "Mark my word," I said, "Kurt Cobain's almost two year-old kid is going to be a hit singer or big movie star by age 21." I knew the kid's name was Frances Bean Cobain, but I didn't know if it was a son or daughter. I just looked into the future and thought there was no way I was wrong with my prediction.

Well friends, Frances is a she, and she's now 17 years old. The fact that I had to tell you that means that my prediction has not yet come true. But what if she were a big star? I doubt anyone would remember me "calling it" way back in the day, and it wouldn't seem super impressive for me to say that I knew this would happen. Therefore, I've had to keep reminding people of my prediction every couple of years so that I'll be recognized for my prescience if/when it actually happens.

With that in mind, I had an idea for what I think would be a kick-ass website: Heard Here First. I'll explain my vision and then you tell me if it's as brilliant as I think it is. Everyone signs up and creates a user profile, a la MySpace or Facebook, but with fewer apps and modifications. Basically, you have a profile picture, a name, hometown, likes/dislikes, and friends. What else? Your list of predictions.

There would be some pre-populated categories from which to choose (as well as create-your-own ones). Each prediction would have to have an end date, so there would be a definite right-or-wrong aspect to it. Once you predict something, it would be time-stamped and put on your profile along with the time remaining until it will be decided. Emails would be sent to you as completion dates near (or as often as you want them). Once they're done, there would be a section that listed all of your previous predictions, the status of each one, etc. We might see, "Correct but outside of the predicted timeframe," "Marginally correct," "Way off," etc.

Why is this fun? Here's the way I look at it: I can tell you that the Lakers will win the 2010 championship after beating the Cavaliers 4-1 in the Finals. But anyone can say that, and many people already have I'm sure in their NBA previews. But let's think bigger. Will Jack Black be nominated for an Academy Award by 2020? If I memorialize that call in 2009, how amazing would it be if I were right? How about saying that some little-known senator or governor will be Vice President in 2016? What about a prediction that life on another planet will be discovered within the next five years? The bigger the gamble, the cooler the predictor is who prognosticated correctly.

Smaller ones would be cool too, especially for family and friends; they can even be used as motivational tools. "I will go to Australia by the time I'm 40," "I'm going to get straight As next semester," "I'll finish my novel by this time next year," "I'm going to run the L.A. Marathon in a personal-best time," etc. Big or small, putting predictions out there tells others about the way you think about things and your sense of the world around you. Who knows, maybe there would even be some minor celebrities made out of correctly predicting a few big things. They would be heralded for their amazing foresight. "Hell, it's practically 5sight," I'd say. And there would be much laughter and applause.

So why am I just telling you all about this idea instead of doing it? Well, I did buy www.heardherefirst.com, which currently forwards people right to this page. That's all I've done though. You see, we're talking about a shitload of work here and an equal amount of technical expertise that I certainly don't have. Think about the bandwidth a site like this would require to have profiles for everyone who wanted to sign up and upload a picture. Also, I'd be afraid that people would start using the site for predictions with which I'm not quite comfortable. "So-and-so is going to die," for example. I don't like that. I also wouldn't want to see mean things written about/to fellow high school students, like, "Brian Danning is going to get his ass kicked after school next Wednesday." (Hey look, that came true!) So would I need to only allow people to predict things in pre-populated categories? That's not fun, and it's impossible to think up every good one. Another problem is that no one can really verify the smaller predictions. If I say that I got all As that semester, who's going to say I didn't? People in a comments section under each prediction? Maybe each self-regulated prediction would require another user to verify it. That just opens the door for personal relationships to get in the way of the predictor's accuracy.

As you can see, I haven't fully thought this through except for the fact that I believe it's a good idea. I think it would have to be a free service for people, which means any money I'd make would have to be from advertisers (who wouldn't come a-knockin' until the site already had a crazy amount of daily pageloads). Who agrees with me that this idea makes sense? My feelings won't be hurt if you don't. (I'm often out on an island with things I think are good ideas. I'm the guy who thinks a Citizen Kane-like black and white close-up of a guy's mouth saying "Roast beef" instead of "Rosebud" would be a good commercial for Arby's, by the way.) I turn to you for your thoughts, homepeople.

And with that, let's waft like the delicious aroma of a Beef N' Cheddar on over to the Car Watch.

I was behind a plate on the freeway earlier this week that read, "HITSMKR." I assume that the owner is trying to say "hits maker," but I first read it as "hit smoker." That mis-reading could have two separate meanings. First, someone who smokes things in hits (versus deep drags I suppose), and second, someone who physically hit a smoker (either with a fist or with the Hit Smoker car itself). By the time I finally got around to what was likely the intended meaning, the car was nowhere in sight. Too bad, because maybe I would've seen some puffs of smoke coming out of the window or pieces of a smoker lodged in the grill. I'm just sayin'.

My loving mother-in-law saw what might be the most depressing license plate ever to grace my little slice of the internets: "NO HOPE." Unless that's an anti-Obama slogan that I somehow missed, I feel pretty bad for that person. Much like Jell-O, there should always be room for a little hope.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a plate that falls into the "I see what you were trying to do but it just didn't work" category of automobile expression. It read, "BON TCHR." I first read it as "bone teacher," as in the probably-illegal command. My homey Rockabye made me smile with his reading of, "Be on teacher," which is thematically very similar to mine (but more specific in the positioning). If I had to guess though, I'd say that this is probably a French teacher who thinks s/he is good at that job, and "good" is "bon" in that language. I've never thought of bon as "bone" before, but now that I have, I think I just made up a joke: What did the below-average French speaker call his honeymoon? A "bone voyage." You see what I did there? Hey-o!

That, my friends, is it for me today. Fret not, for I'll be back next Friday. In the meantime: Monday is my wife's half-sister Sara's full birthday. Thursday is Thanksgiving and our friends Sarah and Keith's anniversary. Speaking of Thanksgiving, I have an awful lot of thanks to give. I'm going to hold off until next week though, in a very special edition of UOPTA. In fact, it will be the final post I make here on this site. After three years, I'm kinda hanging it up. I'll explain more in my mammoth post next Friday, but just know that I'm very thankful for all of you. Enjoy the holiday, the weekend, and the majority of next week.

Express-ing my disapproval

2009-11-13T02:41:00.000-08:00

Welcome, homepeople of the internets, and it's lovely to see you here again at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Untrained Oceanographers Practice Taming Alligators," which I think we all can agree is a good thing. It simply would not end well. Instead, at this UOPTA, I leave large-toothed reptiles to their own devices and choose to write down thoughts and stories for intended reading enjoyment. If that sounds like a plan to you, then you are granted permission to proceed to the next paragraph.

Those of you who know me in person or have read my extensive thoughts on the subject here know that I have a great deal of hatred toward Carl's Jr.'s ad campaigns. And rightfully so, I maintain. My friend Greg thinks it's the stupidest boycott of all time, which makes me wonder if he really knows me at all. In any case, I went to a food court in a mall this week with my co-worker Rob to pick up some lunch. I was tempted by the lady who handed me a piece of teriyaki chicken to sample, but I pressed on until I was stopped by a fresh tray of orange chicken at Panda Express. I know it's not good for me, but it's hard for me to pass that by.

Rob got something from another restaurant, and we headed back to his car with our orders to drive back to the office. On our walk, I said to him, "It's a good thing Panda Express only has one current commercial that pisses me off, because I'd hate to have to extend my boycott to them as well." "Wait, you still watch commercials?" he asked. "Only during live sporting events or if I have ESPN on in the background," I said, which appeased his incredulity. "Oh, I don't think I've seen a Panda commercial. What pisses you off about it?" After about five minutes straight of ranting, he understood my position and I had an idea for a blog post.

Here is the video, and below is a breakdown of why I hate it. (If it's not working, you should be able to open it here.)

0:01-0:06 We start off with a guy in a hat holding some Panda Express food with the restaurant in the background. In a taunting and annoying tone, he says, "Bet you goofy-looking fellas would like to try some of my new Sweet Fire Chicken from Panda Express..." As he speaks, he holds his food out ever-so-slightly to whoever the "goofy-looking fellas" are. So far, he's the only goofy-looking fella we've seen. Then we get a close-up product shot.

0:06-0:10 He finished his sentence: "...with its delicious sweet and fiery sauce." He pushes the food out closer to his subjects, further taunting them. We then see to whom he is speaking: panda bears. Wait a minute, do pandas eat anything but leaves? Wikipedia tells me, "The Giant Panda has a diet which is 99% bamboo." But looky here, the pandas are licking their lips, so clearly they are tempted by the Sweet Fire Chicken. (As an aside, why is 'fiery' spelled that way instead of 'firey'? I don't like that. From now on, it's 'firey' for me. I don't have reason to write it...ever really, but I may make a point of it now to stick it to the man.)

0:10-0:14 He continues his baseless taunt, but in his most annoying voice possible: "But it wasn't made for gentle giants, ha ha, (puts bite in mouth) mmm. Mmm mmm. (Rolls his head back like he can't believe how good it is.)" Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? I get the impression that he bought that food specifically to annoy the panda bears. Imagine you're standing a few feet away from him at the zoo. You look over, and you see a guy talking to the animals in a sort of baby-talk taunt from far away and audibly delighting in how good his food is. How quickly would you keep your children away from him?

0:14-0:18 Apparently this guy really knows how to get pandas' goats, because the "gentle giants" have had enough. (Oh yes, his "gentle" comment earlier was just to set us up to think that they would just sit there and take it. Foolish us.) One of the pandas reaches over to a rock - oh no, is he going to launch it at the man and crush his skull? No, thankfully it's not really a rock at all, but rather a...fake rock with a glowing red button in it? W-w-what? The panda's hand immediately pushes the button on the big, electrical, hinged, fake rock. We get one final close-up of Taunty McGee laughing at the pandas. "Oh, they're so stupid that they let me stand here with food!" he seems to say. Is your disbelief sufficiently suspended? Just wait; it gets even better/worse. A rope comes out of nowhere with a pre-tied loop at its end. Clearly it was summoned by the glowing red button in the fake rock that the panda bear pushed after being taunted by food its species doesn't eat. The rope comes from the viewer's left, but we can't see from where. Somehow - I know not how - the loop gets around the antagonizer's ankle (even though his foot doesn't leave the ground to allow room for it to slide under). We see his face in a close-up again, this time with a warranted look of concern. The magical rope yanks Jerky McJerkface straight up in the air. Yes, straight up, as if it's attached to God's own hand. That must be it, because there's really no other way it could come from its original angle and pull someone straight up while seemingly attached to nothing. So, if I'm getting the story right, these bears created a sophisticated and mechanical rope system to take out an enemy who happens to be standing exactly in that spot? "Ah!" the man says softly. Ah, indeed. In the background, we see the Panda Express restaurant again where Douchey Von Bearteaser must have purchased his head-rollingly good meal. Also in the background: two oblivious people having a chat and ignoring the Rope of God that punishes those who dare draw the ire of the Giant Panda.

0:18-0:21 But wait, there's more! With mediocre special effects, the first panda’s mouth moves to say, “You mess with the pandas,” and then both pandas’ mouths say together, “We bust your chopsticks.” So, um, yeah, they can talk. And when they do, it's in horrendous would-be catchphrases. You know what might've been easier than that elaborate device (which will surely be dismantled after zoo personnel cut that dude down)? "Buddy, you give me that food or so help me I will climb over that wall and rip your arms straight out of their sockets." I'm just sayin', that seems a little more cost-effective. And it's not like they got the food from the guy anyway. They didn't show us, but I'll have to assume that he dropped it during the whole rope encounter. By the way, there's a piece of bamboo sitting in front of them. Where did it come from? Oh yeah, they were each holding bamboo sticks the whole time until one was dropped in favor of a shiny button of doom hidden in a fake rock. But f that s, they want Sweet Fire Chicken.

0:21-0:30 Normal ad copy with close-ups of the food and shots of people preparing it. No problems here. In fact, they do a good job here of making the food look appetizing. I didn't hear any of this the first time I saw the commercial though, because I was busy screaming, "We bust your chopsticks? Are you serious? We bust your chopsticks? What the hell is wrong with them?"

0:30 The screen shows, “Experience Pandamonium.™” Oh, so they have a decent catchphrase after all. Why didn't they use that instead of trying to force a horrible one on us? Are they hoping that with enough catchphrases one will stick and then ABC will greenlight a half-hour comedy about their zany lives at the zoo? "This summer, life's not always the zootopia you thought it was. When the sun goes down, it's a bear-knuckle world out there. (Record scratch! Pandas falling down! A pie in the face!) Tuesdays at 8/7 Central, watch these gentle giants bust people's chopsticks and avoid getting bamboo-zled on the new hit comedy, Pandamonium. Starring the voices of Jim Belushi and Kathy Griffin. It's Ursa Majorly hilarious!" (Oh great, I just did all the work for them.)

So the bottom line is this: I really dislike that Panda Express commercial. I understand that I sometimes take things way more seriously than the originators ever intended, but hey, that's me. If it were just the talking pandas, I'd shake my head and get past it. It's not though, and the combination of (what I find to be) moronic elements is enough for me to single this spot out as horrible. And yet, it would take many more of these commercials to get to the Carl's Jr. level of ad hatred. I hope that doesn't happen, but if it does, then I'm gonna have to just keep on walking past that line to another eating establishment, regardless of how good the orange chicken smells.

And with that, let's take a two-item combo with steamed rice over to the Car Watch.

I saw a plate a little while ago that expressed a sentiment not often seen in that medium: "S8ANIC (Heart)." Whether the heart symbol is in lieu of "heart" or "love" doesn't really change the message, now does it? All I know is that now I have "Dyslexic Heart" by Paul Westerberg in my head. My friend Adam and I used to sing that as "Cixelsyd Traeh," which I now see was pretty insensitive of us (albeit comical).

My favorite brother sent me a plate that confused him: "SENOR EL." "Mr. The? Don't get it," he said. I wish I could help you out, bro. I suppose it could be "Mr. He," which almost sounds like "mystery." Whoa, and this plate's meaning is a mystery. I'm totally freaking out now.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate: "DENM DR." Ooh, does s/he bedazzle the hell out of jeans or something? Or is it closer to the medical field, sewing and transplanting to make jeans "healthier" instead? Is there a hierarchy amongst denim doctors, where the elite work on $100+ designer ones while others opt to work at a clinic to repair ten year-old Levis? Regardless, I sure hope the driver didn't spend too long in Denim medical school.

That's it for me, friends. I'll be back next Friday with more stuff, but there is plenty to be happy about before then. In fact, today is the busiest birthday day of the year for me in terms of shout-outs. Happy birthday to my Grandma Zelda, loyal UOPTA reader and kick-ass spicy chicken casserole maker Aunt Lynn, and my good friend and former three-time roommate Dave. Happy half-birthday to our good friend Lisa on Monday. Happy full birthday to my friend and former colleague Suzanne on Tuesday. And happy old dating anniversary to my lovely wife on Thursday. Whew. See you next week, everyone.

Just (over)do it

2009-11-06T02:41:00.000-08:00

Good (insert time of day most appropriate to your situation), friends! And how is everything in (insert your geographical location - be as specific as you like) today? Boy, I sure am glad to hear that. Welcome yet again to UOPTA. If it were called "UOPTA UOPTA," you might mistakenly think that it stood for, "Umpires Only Pretend To Arbitrate Until Ousting Players That Argue." Good thing I'm here to set you straight. Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down some thoughts and stories for your hopeful enjoyment. (Double thanks to my mom for sending in that double UOPTA. If you'd like to send your own in - which you know you do - just email it to ptklein@gmail.com.)

This past week, two of my best friends did a little song/rap number in front of a collection of small business owners to promote their own business. Upon watching it, my first thought was, "That takes a lot of balls." I've been in front of large groups many times in my life, but there are still things (like their very funny performance) that I just can't see myself doing. Sure, maybe after a couple of drinks and/or surrounded only by my closest friends, but that's it.

Along those same lines, I could never in a million years be a stand-up comedian. I really admire the guts/balls/chutzpah it takes to be alone on a stage in front of strangers, trying out material that will either get you laughs or vicious taunts. While I like to think I'm quick on my feet, I can't imagine I'd handle a heckler too well. I'd probably just apologize that he didn't think that last one was funny and promise to try harder next time. I think I'd successfully fight off the urge to curl into a ball though.

Many successful stand-up comedians have excelled because they are adept at pointing out ordinary things in our lives and illuminating the humor in their existence. Obviously, Seinfeld was the master of this, with "Did you ever notice..." essentially becoming his catch phrase. Dane Cook, before he got super over-exposed and unfunny, was actually amazing at this too. The one bit of his that jumps to my mind is his description of parking garages and how your tires screech like crazy even if you're only going 5 miles per hour. "What is that made of?" Good stuff.

After watching some stand up and realizing that common thread about 8 or 9 years ago, my friend Jon said to me, "There must be so many ordinary things like that in the world. We should think of some." So we sat for a while, coming up with roughly...nothing. About a week later though, I kind of had one. I had just gotten out of the shower, and in my towel I told Jon my thought: "I've shaved my face hundreds of times in my life, and I have never even once taken too little shaving cream. I always have probably twice the amount I need, even though I'm trying to keep from overdoing it." (I still have this problem by the way. I've had a beard for about 11 months now and only shave my neck, so I try to take just a small amount. I lather up, and I'm usually left with about half of my original amount still sitting in my hand.) Jon and I agreed that it wasn't a great observation, especially since it wasn't a universal experience. When a comedian talks about the different ways in which people respond after tripping on the sidewalk, it's universal. Mine was a little more narrow, and maybe not even true for everyone. I didn't take a poll or anything, so maybe I'm the only one who overdoes it in the shaving cream department.

Well, as it often happens with random conversations years in the past, I thought about this same topic a few days ago and I wanted to find more things that fit in my shaving cream category. (Think of this as mental exercise and not a report on where I'm most wasteful please.) With just a little extra thought, I actually came up with two more things that I can not help but overdo every single time. First up: salad dressing. I'm simply powerless over this one. I pour some on - knowing full well that I always put too much - then assess the situation. "Hmmm, it looks like it's really only resting on the top, and when I move it around, it's probably not enough for all of the lettuce." So like a moron, I put some more on. When I put my fork in for the first time and glimpse the bottom of the bowl, there's a pool of dressing smiling back at me. I don't know how to stop this.

Later in the same day that I thought of salad dressing fitting this bill, I came up with another one: boiling water. This one is ridiculous. Let's say I want to boil water for me and my lovely wife to each have one cup of tea. I will pour water into the teapot (which is indeed both short and stout), all the while trying to imagine that I'm just filling up our two mugs and nothing more. "Is that about right?" I wonder, but clearly more water is pouring in while I'm taking the time to wonder that. "That's probably good," I say, and I shut off the tap and start heating it up. Then, after I wait for it to boil, I take the pot over to the mugs and pour the steaming water into the waiting mugs. Lastly, I go to the sink and pour out excess water for about five to ten seconds. Think about how long that it. I must put twice the required amount in the teapot every single time, and that's with knowing that I have a tendency to do that.

Along the same lines, if I'm making instant oatmeal and using an already-hot water spout, it's gonna be some liquidy oatmeal. Just like with the salad dressing, I spend time questioning whether or not it's enough, opt to pour in some more, and then regret it a few seconds later. It's a lot of fun trying to pour extra liquid out of outmeal without making a mess or burning your hands; trust me on that.

I think those are the only three things that I consistently overdo in that manner. Making pasta is close. I always think it's too little (no matter how much I originally put in the pot), and so I add some more. It's hard to say if I overdo it or not though, because even though I end up with a big pile o' pasta, it all gets eaten eventually.

How about you guys? Do you have anything like this? Be it ketchup, hand lotion, or anything else, I'd love to hear from you. I'm not alone in this, right?

And with that, let's misoverestimate our way on down to the Car Watch.

I saw a license plate frame that, in my not-always-humble opinion, has good intentions but didn't really think the whole thing through. "I'm a fireman's flame," it told me. Again, I get what she's going for, but let's deconstruct that a bit, shall we? What does a flame represent to a fireman? I'd say danger, his job, and something that needs to be extinguished or it could destroy lives in addition to property. Does she really want to be those things to him? I hope not.

My friend Dusty sent me a picture of the side of a big truck. The company sells heated toilet seats, so it says, "Honk...if you like warm buns!" Cute, right? Wrong. The double entendre really only works if it's a phrase that we'd use in a sexual manner. Have you ever heard someone say, "Wow, she's got really warm buns" or "Check out the warm buns on that guy"? I highly doubt it. Hot buns, sure, but warm? But they couldn't say hot without it sounding like they might burn your ass when you sit on their products. So instead of finding something else that actually worked both ways, they pressed on. I bet they think they're warm shit.

Conversely, my homey Rockabye saw a construction truck that transfers dirt or big equipment from place to place. Their slogan was, "Hey, take a load of this." Better yet, the license plate read, "IDUMP4U." That, my friends, is how you have off-color connotations that tie in directly with your business. (Ok, maybe they didn't intend for the plate to have a double meaning, but do you honestly expect me to see "dump" and not giggle?)

That is it for me, homepeople. I'll be back next Friday with more things for your intended reading enjoyment. In the meantime, let's celebrate the things we'll be skipping over: Happy birthday tomorrow to my good friend Greg (The Pigh), and to my friend Jamie on Monday. Wednesday is not only Veterans' Day, but also the kick-ass holiday of Martinmas. And Thursday is my good friend Dusty's birthday, which starts the 7.5 month period in which he's a whole number older than me and just can't relate to each other. Have a great weekend and week, everyone. Shaloha.

The watching machine

2009-10-30T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-23T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-16T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-09T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-02T05:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Backhanded compliments

2009-09-25T04:02:00.000-07:00

Good morning, homepeople of the internets, and welcome yet again to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Un Oso Puede Tomar Agua," but es verdad. Otherwise, we'd be plagued with dehydrated bears in need of IVs to replenish their fluids, which would pose a whole new set of problems for the healthcare industry. Whew, that was a close one. Instead, friends, this UOPTA is where I write down some thoughts and stories and then wait to see what happens. Here goes! (Thanks for my favorite brother for supplying that UOPTA. You can get in on the action too just by writing to ptklein@gmail.com. And if you act now, I'll throw in my gratitude ABSOLUTELY FREE!)

As I've mentioned in this space many times since I started this here blog, I'm in fantasy leagues for both baseball and basketball. I've tried football once, but I don't follow that sport nearly as closely as I'd need to in order to succeed there, so I'm fine sticking with the two I know best. Well, we're at the tail end of the baseball league's playoffs right now (which I'm not in because I totally stunk it up this year), and the question of tie-breakers came up. We looked back to a post that Greg (The Pigh) had put on the message board back in March. In it, he wrote:

In the event of a tie, the tie-breakers will be:
1. head-to-head records
2. total runs scored
3. total wins (pitching)
4. total home runs
5. total strike outs
6. beer pong
7. steel cage match

I thought that was funny, and hoped to see a scenario that got us close to the bottom of the list. Well, we got closer than I anticipated, and it looked like it might get down to #4 on the list for a while. My homey Rockabye and his brother co-manage one of the teams in that close match-up, and he wrote, "If it ever gets to beer pong, you may as well put us in the championship...for we never lose at an alternative sport." The funny thing about that is that he's not really kidding.

While he's also good at mainstream sports, my homey Rockabye has always excelled at the sports/games off the beaten path. He was the best of our group of friends at ping pong, frisbee golf, foosball, and even the arcade game where you need to make as many baskets as possible in the established timeframe. I have no proof, but I'd put my money on him winning a Skee-ball tournament if I arranged such an event.

Somewhere in between mainstream sports and the fringe arcade games lies racquetball. I enjoy racquetball, even though I have no innate skill at the game/sport. The first time I really tried it out was back in college. At our Recreation Center (or RecCen since everything needed to be shortened), there were a handful of indoor courts. Any current student could reserve a time in one of the courts, and I think it cost a whopping dollar to rent the paddles and balls. The only downside in my opinion was that the courts had clear plastic back walls, and so everyone on the treadmills and elliptical machines behind us could watch every play if they chose to. Therefore, I'd always opt for the last court in the row in hopes that fewer people would watch me. My homey Rockabye and I would play every once in a while, and it was quite a bit of fun. (By "play," I should point out that it was us hitting the ball around until he decided that he wanted to win that point and would therefore end the rally with a shot I had no chance at returning.) My lovely wife nee girlfriend and I played a couple of times as well, which always felt like a trap. I say that because if I tried my hardest, I'd win the majority of the points (which would frustrate her). However, if she thought for a second that I wasn't trying my hardest, that was a worse offense. We had a good time though; it was fun exercise, and most importantly, I never lost an eye.

Well, that same homey Rockabye just moved into a new condo complex a couple of weeks ago. When he walked me around the place before he was an official resident, he showed me that there were a few indoor racquetball courts by the gym in the complex. They're fairly run down, but they looked serviceable (especially for my ability level). I said it would be a lot of fun to do that for exercise and as a chance to hang out - even weekly if our schedules permitted. Just suggesting that made me feel a little old since I remember my dad playing that sport when I was younger, but I got over that quickly.

And so, earlier this week, we had our inaugural racquetball match. It had been over a decade since our last game, which astounds me. As I was leaving my house to meet up with him, my lovely wife said, "Have fun. Don't hurt yourself." I told her I would do my best on both counts.

I got to his place as he was finishing getting ready. "I don’t need the goggles, right?" I asked. He was already laughing, presumably because he remembered my...what's the opposite of prowess? We walked over to the courts and started hitting the ball around lightly as the overhead lights warmed up. Before long, we were playing and it all came back to me. It clearly came back to him too, because he remembered that I struggle mightily when the ball is in a certain place. As a lefty, when the serve is coming to me in the back right corner, I have to make a few quick decisions. Namely, "Do I hit my backhand now or do I wait for the bounce off the back wall?" I never decide that quickly enough, which means I either hit the wall with my racket, barely hit the ball and lose the point anyway, or freeze in my decision-making and watch it bounce a second time right in front of me. He cracked up every single time, until he finally took pity on me and hit the ball more to the middle of the court.

After a little while, he asked me (between laughs), "Do you think you were more graceful in college or now?" "College," I said. Then I swung and completely missed the ball as it came toward me. "College," I repeated. I reached down to get the ball that had just eluded me, and I looked up to find my old friend doubled-over in laughter. I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being exceedingly graceful, and I came to terms with that a long time ago. He can't get enough of it though.

All in all, I heeded my lovely wife's two-pronged advice. I had fun and I didn't hurt myself (unless you count biting my cheek from mis-chewing gum). My left forearm was sore for a couple of days, but if we're able to play fairly regularly, that'll stop happening in no time. Who knows, maybe I'll even learn to return more than half of the serves over time. Hey, I can dream.

With that, let's bring our small, blue balls over to the Car Watch.

My lovely wife saw a license plate about which I have very mixed feelings. It read, "PUN GENT." Here's the rub: I like that the guy is a fan of puns and that he found a way to tell us that in the form of another existing word. I don't like that the word means, "Having a strong odor" to me. Does he also have a strong scent? If so, then it's perfect. (I just looked up the definition of "pungent," and I'm shocked. The first entry is: "Sharply painful." Not until definition 4B does it get to how I use it: "Having an intense flavor or odor." This makes me totally rethink ordering "Sweet and Pungent Chicken" next time we have Chinese food. I guess it's still catchier than "Sweet and Sharply Painful Chicken.")

I saw two plates that, by themselves, probably wouldn't warrant a mention here. However, they were right next to each other and it gave me pause. "NUDE ART," was on the left, and "LIBANON" was on the right. I realize it didn't say "Lebanon," but it was close enough that the juxtaposition made me laugh. If you asked me to name 20 countries that might be known for having nude art, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't get to Lebanon. If you said 50 though, I'd probably guess it at some point since I'm not sure how many countries I actually know. That would be an interesting exercise, but at a later date. Or never. I'll decide later.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye saw this bumper sticker: "Visualize using your turn signals." I find that funny for two very different reasons. First, it amuses me that someone wants to mock the "Visualize world peace" sentiment - either like this or with its cousin, "Visualize whirled peas." Aside from arms dealers and wartime contractors, are there people who don't like the concept of a planet in harmony, albeit highly improbable? Maybe. The other thing that I find funny is that this guy's talking to the wrong people. Presumably, he'd most like for the people in front of him to use their turn signals to indicate when they're changing lanes or turning. By nature of it being a bumper sticker, he's missing the meat of his target demographic. (And hey, you can't spell "target demographic" without Peter.)

Ok folks, that's it for me. I'll be back next week with more thoughts magically converted into word form. In the meantime, we've got ourselves some happies: Happy 2nd birthday today to little Nolan, who loves blueberries more than I ever thought humanly possible. Tomorrow, our friends Dusty and Mills are getting married, so please join me in wishing them the absolute best. If any of you atoners are fasting for Yom Kippur starting Sunday at sundown, I hope it goes quickly and easily. And Happy Birthday to longtime and loyal reader Sue on Thursday. I'm off, folks. Feel free to write me at ptklein@gmail.com, and be healthy and happy.

Thoughts not staying in Vegas

2009-09-18T05:02:00.000-07:00

Hola mis amiguitos, and welcome once more to this little slice of the internets that I call UOPTA. No no, that doesn't stand for, "Upside-down Onions Produce Tears Anyway," but I imagine both possible readings of that sentence are true. Without any punctuation, it refers to turning an onion upside-down, and since they're usually roundish, I can understand why that wouldn't make any difference. Put a comma before "onions" though, and I'm pretty glad to learn that that method doesn't work. Oh sure, I'd love to cut onions without crying, and I've tried a few things over the years with minimal success. If I found that cutting them while I was physically upside-down would stop the tears, I'd then have to figure out how to do that without seriously injuring myself. Forget the blood rushing to my head and the discomfort of being on my skull, I'm talking about logistically using a knife to cut onions while I'm upside-down. Any motion I think of is either very difficult due to a lack of leverage or would leave the floor strewn with chopped onion. In summation, even though it's not the name of this site, I'm still glad that Upside-down Onions Produce Tears Anyway. Instead, friends, this is just a place in which I write down some thoughts and stories. See how much simpler that is?

I was in Las Vegas earlier this week for two and a half days for work purposes. Normally, I don't come back with many things that make sense to write about in this space (since I generally avoid discussing my job), but I have a few isolated items that I thought were fit to pass on to you. First up, I was in the Paris Hotel, and I had a couple of hours before I was supposed to meet people in the late evening. My goal was to get some food to go and then sit in my room to relax and watch some football. I'm not a big football fan, but it was on, and I could take off my jacket and shoes and just chill for while. I walked around the hotel (without getting too lost) but didn't see anything but sit-down restaurants. I walked over to the concierge desk where I was greeted not very warmly by a middle-aged lady. "Hi, I was looking to get some food to go, but I didn't see anything like what I was looking for. I seem to remember some small food court maybe with a pizza place when you first opened - is that still here?" Ok folks, try to read her response as snottily and condescendingly as possible: "Um, sir, this is The Paris Hotel. All of our food is French, so clearly we wouldn't have anything like pizza here." There was even a hesitation before the word "pizza" as if it were too disgusting to even say. Instead of saying, "Well la-di-dah, your highness," I just smiled and nodded and went on my way. I ended up sitting in a little restaurant that had one of the games on in the attached Bally's Hotel, so it wasn't too bad. That said, I guess the Paris Hotel should be commended for being extremely authentic, from the sidewalk cafes to the rude natives. (Yes, that's a sweeping stereotype, but when my lovely wife and I visited Europe, there was a distinct difference in how we were treated in France versus some other countries. I'm just sayin'.)

Next, I was speaking to a gentleman who was telling me about something that spanned a bunch of different categories, including self-help, weight loss, fitness, etc. While business-oriented, it was a light-hearted enough conversation that I felt comfortable making a pun. "I imagine that the weight loss one has the, um, widest demographic," I said with a smile. Nothing. So I added, "Pardon the pun, of course." Still nothing. He went right into his next point without ever picking up what I put down. I thought that was a good one, at least deserving a smile or something. But no, he just kept on going. Bastard.

The night before that, I went out to dinner with two...interesting gentlemen. They're both in their late 40s, and they've really lived those years, if you know what I mean. So when we sat down next to two obviously tipsy ladies, they were already programmed with how to talk in that situation. The women gave obviously fake names, and the two men did the same. "I'm Peter," I said, before adding, "Really." After a couple of minutes of chatting, I learned that one of them lived in Ventura, so I plugged Dusty and Dave's company and told her to check them out. She asked what we do for a living, and one of the guys said, "We're in the porn industry. We're stuntmen." They laughed a little, but it sadly seemed like they believed him. A couple more minutes went by, and the drunker of the two asked me, "So where do you do your stuntman work?" I thought to myself, "Alright, fine, I'll play along." So I said, "Well, they're actually the stuntmen. My job is to write the musical scores for the films. It's really not as impressive as it sounds, since it's really just a series of wocka-chicka wocka-chickas." She made face that said, "Yeah, I dig that" while nodding, and then went back to her drink.

One of the gentlemen asked the ladies what they liked to do while in Vegas. One said, "If I had my druthers, I'd just go from club to club all day long." The other chimed in with, "If I had my brothers, that would be illegal in most states." I thought that was a funny retort, but the friend had no idea in hell what she was talking about. "What about your brothers?" After some long-winded attempts at explaining her quip to no avail, she gave up. "I thought that was a good line," I said almost apologetically. We didn't end up chatting much more with the drunk ladies before they left, but that was more than fine with me.

After dinner, I went to a party at a club sponsored by another business in the industry. We got some drinks and did the requisite schmoozing for a while before my favorite interaction of the whole conference transpired. The same guys and I were talking to an attractive young woman about where she worked and what she did. "I mainly focus on non-profits and ministries," she said. Without missing a beat, one of the guys said, "I love God." If I had had liquid in my mouth at that moment, it would've ended up all over someone. Instead, I just laughed while he added, "And I love raising money for God." You can't teach classy, ladies and gentlemen.

Lastly, one woman with whom I've worked peripherally for a while made me bite my tongue so hard it almost bled...twice. The first time was two days before the conference when I was trying to find a time to meet up. After pulling up her schedule on the computer, she said, "Let's see...I've got some weird looking holes." Yes, I somehow managed to hold back from saying anything after that, which I know is a good thing. We did eventually set a meeting, and in that meeting, she asked a gentleman from another company, "Do you have a large staff?" Come on, lady! What are you trying to do to me? Geez, some people just don't care about the plight of the immature male.

And with that, it is my duty (tee hee) to bring us to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye sent me this license plate just yesterday: "GRRTFLL." I take issue with this plate, my homepeople, for I just don't think it works. Yes, I can see that the driver wants the word "grateful" to come across. However, the "Grr" sound never represents something positive or happy, but rather anger or frustration. Therefore, this sounds to me like a very begrudging gratefulness, and unless the driver wanted to capture that complex compound adjective, then I don't like it. So there.

My friend Greg (The Pigh) sent me a plate that you'll either really appreciate or not get at all: "TPS RPRT." His email to me was, "I'm gonna need you to go ahead and put this in the Car Watch." If you have no idea what he's talking about, then I guess you're not a big fan of the movie "Office Space." And frankly, that's a shame. Oh yeah, and you probably won't get it when I end this paragraph with, "Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking, just a moment."

And last but not least, I saw a plate that read, "PWR SHRG." Over the course of the next ten seconds, I thought of a couple dozen ways in which one could "power shrug." And I think they were pretty funny too. Is it a way to REALLY not care about something? Is that how Robocop expresses his disinterest? I wanted to know, but sadly after those ten seconds, I saw something else on the car. The license plate frame said, "Power sharing." Then I was confused again. Did that mean sharing in some suped-up way or more than one person using the same energy source? I know, I know: I ask the tough questions.

That, my friends, is all I've got for you today. Fear not, I'll be back next Friday with more of whatever it is I do here. In the meantime, are you ready for a whole lotta happies? Here goes! First off, Happy Rosh Hashanah at sundown today to all my fellow Members of the Tribe. Happy birthday to two dear friends: Danielle tomorrow and Paul on Sunday. Happy 5 and a half year anniversary to my lovely wife on Monday. Wow, it seems like just six months ago that it was our full anniversary. On Wednesday, it's not only my Grandpa Harold's birthday, but also my little cousin Bailey's 2nd birthday as well, so please join me in wishing them happy ones. As always, feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com, and be healthy and happy. Shaloha.

Language discussions on tap

2009-09-11T05:02:00.000-07:00

Hello there friends, and welcome to this week's entry at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unctuous Octopi Patrol The Atlantic," but I have to imagine that that's true. They look way too nefarious to just be swimming around there, and "patrolling" seems to capture their look a little better. Instead, this UOPTA is where I jot down some things on my mind for your intended reading enjoyment. I'm so glad we cleared that up. (Thanks to loyal reader Sue for providing that UOPTA. You can send your own in to ptklein@gmail.com. Yes, even you.)

I have two separate language items on my mind today, so I'm going to start with those and see where they take me. First up is the one that isn't about English. I was listening to the Dodger game in my car a few days ago, and they'd just gotten a couple of hits in a row off of the opposing pitcher. Announcer Charley Steiner then told me and the rest of the listening audience that the other team was taking out their pitcher. Then he said something like, "This pitching change is brought to you by Tapatio hot sauce. Not too mild and not too spicy, Tapatio is the perfect change to make any meal better." Again, I'm paraphrasing. I loves me some Tapatio, and I put it on (or in) many things that I make. A toasted bagel with cheese, black bean soup, polenta...it doesn't matter. I think it's glorious, and way better than its wooden-headed competitor Cholula. But I wasn't thinking about the kick-ass nature of the sauce right then. Rather, I had noted that Mr. Steiner said "Tapatio" like the first syllable was the same as in "tap dance" instead of "top," as it's said in Spanish. I immediately forgave him his transgression and smiled at the fact that everything is sponsored by something now. I remember when NBA games starting having the "Prudential At The Half" shows, but now every time out is sponsored by Corona or some other company trying to loosely tie themselves in thematically with that part of the game. It's how it goes, and that's neither good nor bad in my eyes.

Since things go rather slowly at times in baseball, they took a commercial break to bring in some revenue during the pitching change. Again, good for them, as it's the nature of the beast. A jingle began: "Tap into the taste, tap into the taste, Tapatio." The voiceover guy in the commercial said something similar to what Mr. Steiner had about Tapatio being the perfect complement to meals, and he - like the jingle-singling ladies - also said it like "tap dance." That wasn't ok with me. They purposely picked a voiceover guy who sounded Hispanic "for authentic purposes" I imagine, but then anglicized their own product name?

I got home and told my lovely wife about the commercial. "You said TAPatio," she said. "I know," I said, while my accompanying face and nod said, "That's the part I was hoping you'd catch." "But that sound doesn't exist in Spanish," she replied. And I fell in love all over again. You see, she's absolutely right (and apparently listens to my linguistic tidbits and rants when I go off). Even if you don't speak any Spanish at all, you know some words from being alive in this time and place. Think about the one A sound in "hola," the two in "salsa," and the three in "manana." Notice something they all have in common? It's the same sound we find in English in words like "mama." Except in Spanish, that's the only sound that vowel makes on its own. (When paired with other vowels, there are combined sounds that are awesomely called "dipthongs," but I'm talking about the letter by itself.) Same with the other vowels. That's why reading Spanish words is fairly easy - you never have to worry about the crazy stuff English throws at us vowel-wise, like "how" and "mow." (As a side note, Japanese seems to be the easiest language to sight-read that I can think of. Even longer last names are quite simple when you take them one syllable at a time.)

Was the phrase, "Tap into the taste" so important to them that they changed the fundamental pronunciation of their product's name to match it? I guess so. I happen to think that we silly consumers would've been able to hear the correct pronunciation after "tap into the taste" and still get the connection between the two. But maybe I'm just overly optimistic.

I understand that the anglicization of foreign words happens all the time. I live in "loss ann jill iss" after all. But this is different to me since the good people at Tapatio are doing this themselves. Oh well, they're still very far away from a Peter Klein boycott.

The other language item on the docket today involves my native tongue. (That's English, in case you couldn't tell.) It all started when I got a text message from my favorite brother. It read, "What is the difference between inter- and intra-personal skills?" It's funny he should ask that, because I very recently corrected a co-worker when he wrongly used "intra" instead of "inter." Since I had just had that conversation, I used examples that had worked for my co-worker in my reply to my bro. "Intra is within something. Like intramurals are within the walls of a school, but an interstate is between two states (or more)." While those examples had illustrated my point before, it only confused matters here (maybe because I didn't really answer his question, in retrospect). He replied, "Intra-personal skills area just knowing about your own internal behavior, attitude, habits? How is that a skill? I know what I like. I'm skilled!" I went right to the crux of the matter: "I've never actually heard anyone use intra-personal skills before. Unless you're talking about someone with multiple personalities." I figured that someone had just mis-spoken or maybe he heard something wrong. He replied, "Shawn's (my favorite nephew) TV show says that it enforces the use of inter- and intra-personal skills. That is where I got it from. A fucking cartoon. Wow Wow Wubbzy!" I assumed that that was the name of the show and not just the way that Kevin ended passion-filled text messages. I looked it up, and technically the show's name is hyper-punctuated as "Wow! Wow! Wubbzy!" That would get really annoying to type after a while.

I still thought that "intrapersonal skills" sounded made up, or at the very least, extremely easy. I typed the term into the all-knowing Google, and the first thing it came up with was, "Did you mean interpersonal skills?" I looked at the listings below, and I saw one site in which someone took the time to define the confusing term. As I expected, it all boiled down to knowing yourself' and ways in which you as a person come across to others. How does a children's cartoon teach that? I suppose I could watch an episode and try to figure that out...or I could just end this paragraph and move on.

Well looky here. I thought of two other quick language-related items in my quest for more words. First up, do you think it's possible for someone to say the phrase, "Run along now" and not have it come out as condescending? I don't think so. I just came up with a few possible scenarios in which the utterer of that phrase meant it sincerely, but every single time I got to the actual words, they always came out sounding bad. "Run along now," I believe, has a good amount of built-in condescension. Can you think of other phrases like that?

And lastly, my old Linguistics professor once tried making a point in class about how we change the way that words are said in our language over time. I wouldn't argue with that, naturally, but his example wasn't making any sense to me. "Take the word 'bedroom' for example," he began. "We've turned it into a whole new word that's closer to 'bedrum' or 'beh-droom.' What kind of word is that? 'Bedrum.' Come take a look at my bedrum," he said. Normally I would pick up that which he put down, but I didn't see eye to eye at all with him on this one. Then he explained himself: "Say you keep all of your trophies on one room; you'd call that the Trophy Room, right? Or all of your music is in your Music Room. But what if you had a room in which you kept a whole bunch of beds? You'd call it the Bed Room. That's how the word was originally pronounced. Bed Room, not 'bedrum' or 'beh-droom' like it is now." I began to see his point. As I walked through my imaginary house, I said to no one in particular, "Here is my Dish Room, up on the left is the Burrito Room, and on the right is the Bed Room. Yes, I keep all of my miniature beds safely locked up in my Bed Room." And it did indeed sound different than how I would currently point out a bedroom with one real-sized bed in a non-imaginary house (which is closer to 'beh-droom').

And with that, let's overanalyze our syllables on down to the Car Watch.

My Bratty Kid Sister sent me a license plate that she saw recently. It said, "RADFOOD." I wrote her back asking if it was like totally gnarly pizza with some Mountain Dew, but she didn't reply. I'll take that as a yes.

My homey Rockabye saw a license plate frame that gave me pause: "My other car is the big fella." My first thought was, "Shaq?" My second thought was wondering if it was a woman talking about her man as "her other ride." Ya know, like a "My other ride is your mom" type of thing. But it specifically said "car," so I'm not sure I can make sense of it. Unless...nah. Well maybe...nope. Just say it already! Fine. Unless his or her other car truly is a large vehicle that s/he has nicknamed "the big fella." That's possible, but it's mighty rare to have a "my other car" frame actually refer to the driver's other car.

And last but not least, I saw this plate: "LV PB+J." Wow. I understand that it's tasty, but that might be an unhealthful relationship going on there. I love burritos in a big way (I have an imaginary Burrito Room, for Pete's sake!), but that's not making it on my license plate. To put one's overwhelming adoration of a sandwich out there is...daring.

Ok, that's it. My eyelids are getting heavy. I hope you enjoyed, and I'll be back here with more stuff next Friday. In the meantime, here are the slim pickins of happies over the next week: Happy Mexican Independence Day on Wednesday (not on Cinco de Mayo, which a lot of people erroneously assume), and Happy half-St. Patrick's Day on Thursday. My lovely wife says that one doesn't count, but that's all I've got. Have a great weekend and week, homepeople, and remember you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. Shaloha.

In and out of a jam

2009-09-04T05:02:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends. It's too late now, but I should've ended my last post with, "See you in September." Alas, I did not. But welcome anyway to this week's UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unhappy Ostriches Pretend They're Antelopes," but I sure hope that cheers them up. Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down some of my thoughts and stories and, often times, live vicariously through myself. I'm multi-talented. (Thanks to my loving mother-in-law for sending in that UOPTA. You can do it too just by writing to ptklein@gmail.com.)

I've got two unrelated items loosely connected by a segue to discuss today, so if you enjoy that kind of thing, you very well might enjoy what follows. First up, I was speaking to a woman on the phone yesterday named Sheena. She works with another woman named Gina, and I've spoken to both of them at the same time on a few occasions. For obvious reasons, I end up enunciating beautifully on those calls. Well yesterday at the end of the call, I accidentally said, "Thanks, Gina. I mean Sheena. Sorry about that." "Oh no problem," she replied, "I think I answer to anything ending in 'eena' now." This is where my brain causes me problems. A normal person would just laugh politely and go back to the typical end-of-call talk. Not me though. Before I could stop myself, I said, "Not 'hyena' I hope." "Uh, no, hopefully not that," she answered. I politely chuckled and we got off the call. The thing is, while I was saying it, I wasn't thinking, "Maybe this isn't the best thing to say." Instead, I was trying hard to come up with other "eenas" like it was some kind of word game. The next two that popped into my head, in case you're wondering, were "semolina" and actor "Dennis Farina." Ladies and gentlemen, Peter Klein!

And hey, I'm sensitive to the plight of the person with a name that sounds like other things. As I

mentioned in this space about a year and a half ago, I've found myself looking up as if called when people say such wonderful things as "cheater" and "wife beater." Recently, "computer" has gotten me a few times. It's no fun, and yet if I'm a certain distance away, I'm gonna keep looking up every time. Awesome.

Speaking of awesome (like this segue), I found something in a drawer this week that made me very happy. (Cue backstory!) When I lived in Sacramento for almost a year, I had a very boring job. I was looking for something to just take up time, so I didn't expect it to be stimulating, but it was like pulling teeth every day. After a short while, I'd found ways to successfully "look busy" at times, but it was incredibly painful. One can only do things in slow-motion for so long. Therefore, one morning after I'd been there for about two months, I opened a Word document and just began typing. It is that Word document that I found this week. Here are some of my favorite parts:

"I've been here an hour, and I'm done with my work. I had about twelve feedback emails to enter into the database, and I did that as slowly as I could. I then filed them as slowly as I could. I took a little trip to the bathroom, not to actually go to the bathroom, but to look at my hair. It's getting long, so I wondered how contained it was this morning. And it took up a minute, which is good."

"I'll probably eat my granola bar within the next hour, but then I have to decide when to eat my sandwich. That could take up to fifteen minutes - deciding, that is."

"One of Nina's suitors asked her if there was something going on between me and her. She set him straight and said that I was married. It's very much like high school with some of these people. Then again, maybe most of these people stopped after high school and are still in that mentality. Actually, that's a very good possibility."

"One of the women in a nearby cubicle is talking about her strained relationship with her father. Apparently he was only in her life from the age of nine to thirteen, when his wife at that time was good about sending cards and asking her to visit. She also instilled the love of animals in her. Here's where it gets good: Then they got divorced, and I guess he beat her, and she went downhill and started using heroin, got AIDS and died. But she was a great role model and took her horseback riding and explained how nothing is free in life. Although she was usually drunk. That's a great story. I'm so glad I get to hear this stuff while not working at work."

When all was said and done, I had 4,000 words. (To put that in perspective, these posts are usually between 1,500 and 2,000. This one's 1655.) I ended it by wondering if I should just delete it and chalk it up to a good time-wasting activity or print it out to show my lovely wife exactly how bored I was at work. I opted for the latter, so I hit print, deleted the file from my computer, and ran over to the printer with my belongings in hand so I could just continue out to my car. One problem - there was a paper jam. "Oh shit," I thought. "Once it's un-jammed, mine will come out for whoever's here to read. Do I say my name in it? I think so. Do I say bad things about the people here? Crap, yes, and I talk a whole lot about how I don't do any work. Shit." I went over and tried fixing the paper jam but didn't have any luck. I asked I guy I didn't really know, and he agreed to help me. Fortunately, he was an expert paper un-jammer, and it started whirring and printing something within a minute. "Mine's not printing," I said. He said, "If it comes out later, I'll just put it on your desk." "Do I tell him ahead of time that it's sensitive and to please do me the favor of not reading it? That probably would only cause more of an interest." "It's kind of important," I said awkwardly. He opened up a file on his computer, saw my document in the printer's queue, and deleted it. "So it won't print now?" I asked. "It shouldn't because I just deleted it from the pending print jobs," he said. I sighed a big sigh and thanked him. On my way out the door, I heard the printer start whirring again. "Let's just wait and make sure," I thought to myself. Sure enough, my eyes widened at the first page of my mammoth rambling document. I grabbed the full thing off the printer when it was done and bolted. "Dodged a fucking bullet!" I thought. It took me more than an hour to come down from that near-miss of a disaster.

And with that, let's decelerate our heart rates on over to the Car Watch.

Longtime and loyal reader Sue sent me an email in which she mentioned a convertible Bentley with the plate, "THE BOSS." She was quick to point out that it wasn't Bruce Springsteen driving and "just some man with a big ego." So I guess it could still be George Steinbrenner then. Also in the email, she asked me if I ever see the same plates on a daily basis. While not daily, I see a Honda Fit on the freeway almost once a week with the plate, "FIT4DB." I have to assume that the driver's initials are "D.B." or possibly it's a woman named Deb, but my first thought is always to "Dork Boy," which my favorite brother delighted in calling me for a while when growing up. He's been much nicer for almost two decades now, so I don't start crying or anything when I see that car.

My homey Rockabye sent me a plate recently that I have mixed feelings about: "URWTHUS." Well, technically, anyone seeing that plate is geographically with that car, but I hope the driver knows that our relationship ends there.

Lastly, I was behind a car with this license plate a while ago: "USC TGR." "That's weird," I thought. "They're the Trojans, and the Tigers are from Memphis or LSU. Unless the driver is a real wild animal when it comes to rooting for USC or something." Then I saw on the back window in a smaller font, "USC Tailgater." Really? You're turning that nine-letter word into "TGR" and expect me to know what the hell you're doing? Why not "SC TLG8R" instead (unless it was taken)? If it was taken and there was nothing else to adequately get the message across, then simply pass on that idea. I've said it before and I'll say it again: when it comes to personalized plates, either do it well or don't do it at all. Hey, I should know, you can't spell "personalized plates" without Peter.

That's it for me, everyone. Have a good Labor Day on Monday. My co-worker is going to a party on that day in which everyone is supposed to dress as "a laborer." So far, she knows people who are coming as construction workers, pregnant women, and gold diggers. I suggested going as a member of Britain's Labor party, which got big laughs*. (*Please replace "big laughs" with "blank stares.") Happy 1st birthday on Tuesday to little Noah, whose party this Sunday will surely be memorable...to everyone but him. That's alls I's gots, folks. Be happy and healthy, and I'll see you back here next Friday. In the meantime, you can always write me at ptklein@gmail.com. Peace out.

The unbearable lightness of peeing

2009-08-28T05:02:00.000-07:00

Howdy folks, it's your friendly neighborhood Peter here welcoming you to another day at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Undulating Orifices Preparing To Amuse," and frankly, I'm appalled that you would even consider that to be a possibility. Great, now I feel icky. (Oh yeah, thanks for sending that UOPTA in, Mom. You never cease to amaze me. Friends, if you want to send your own UOPTA in and cleanse your mental palette, ptklein@gmail.com is where to send it.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write some thoughts and stories. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the random shyte I have for you today.

Recently, something changed in the bathroom at my work. I walked up to the middle of the three urinals and noticed a new deodorizing thing hanging below the top lip area. It's a brick of some green substance in a white boxy structure, positioned high up so that no one would pee on it (unless trying to do so). On the box, in small letters, it says "PeePod." "That's cute, if that's what they're going for," I thought to myself. Later that day, I went to the bathroom again (I know, I'm such a glutton). This time however, I used the urinal to the far left because the middle one was occupied. Sure enough, what looked to be an identical deodorizing thing was there. I looked in more detail and saw that in place of "PeePod," it read, "Deotec." This made me wonder about why the text was different on products that clearly had come from the same company. To me there are only three possible answers:

1. They came out with this product branded as "Deotec" first. Then, one day, a brave soul in the boardroom saw a better opportunity to attract eyeballs: The pun! "No one will remember their pee smelling better from a Deotec...but with a PeePod, my friends, we're all walking away fresher than ever, like Mother Nature's own hand removed the stench of urine. Yes we can!" Others agreed, and before too long, they came out with a new and catchier name on their product.

2. The opposite: They created the "PeePod" line first. And then, something that had been bubbling inside one of the higher-up executives finally exploded. "This isn't us!" he yelled. "We're not cutesy, we're not punny. We're supposed to be a respected pillar of the urinal odor neutralizing community, and we cheapen ourselves by going at it this way. Let's do it like we always have - like my father would have - and stand behind Deotec. Our name signifies quality and a job done right...for things that take away pee stink."

3. The company was concurrently running two product lines at different price points. This happens often, and we consumers probably fall for it all the time. Here's how this one could've happened: In the world of janitorial supplies and product enhancements, let's say there are two big catalogs of product. (Yes, I'm making 100% of this up, but I might be onto something.) The first one caters to the everyman, and it's where owners of diners, gas stations, and other similar establishments go to get new urinal cakes, protective toilet seat covers, etc. There, they advertise "The PeePod" with some catchy slogan and sell them for...let's say $9.99 each when you order 12. The other catalog caters to resorts, fancy hotels, expensive restaurants, and high-end businesses. There you'll find monogrammed toilet paper roll covers, electronic soap dispensers, and "The Deotec 5000 XTR" that promises to use the latest technology to neutralize odor before it begins. That product costs...$19.99 each in packs of 12, and comes with a handy installation guide. In reality, the products are exactly the same, and the "installation guide" is a completely unnecessary half-page diagram that comes in both packages. So my building (oh yeah, that's where I was going with this) was looking through the fancier catalog and thought, "Yeah, we could totally use those" and ordered a dozen to check them out. The next day, that person hit him/herself in the head and thought, "I should've checked to see if the cheaper catalog had these too before buying them," and proceeded to buy the rest from there. When the time came to put them in the urinals, the janitorial staff just had a big pile of them and grabbed whatever was on the top, thereby enabling me to have a "Deotec" one next to a "PeePod."

Whew! Nothing further, your honor.

Last week, I wrote about the pager/beeper and how its place is almost nonexistent in today's world due to advanced technology. Somehow, I know not how, that discussion made me think of a movie: "EDtv." Remember that movie? The premise seemed a little outlandish at the time, but my my, how things have changed. In the movie, a network want to - get this - FILM SOMEONE'S LIFE 24 HOURS A DAY! Can you believe it? Oh wait, yes you can, since this is currently being done to probably hundreds of people on dozens of crappy television shows. This came out in 1999, but before we start calling it prescient or anything, please note that "The Real World" started its 8th season that year. In any case, I find it funny to think about that movie's concept ever seeming "new and exciting" since it's terribly run-of-the-mill by today's standards. On the plus side, it gave us the totally believable pair of Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson as brothers in the film. I like when I can believe that two people could be siblings, like Julia Roberts and Kyra Sedgwick in "Something to Talk About." Can you think of any other good or particularly bad sibling pairs on screen?

I've got some more random items before proceeding to the Car Watch. Here's a short one: I went to a little Mexican food place last week, and I was waiting for my order when another man walked up to register. "Um, does the a la carte taco come with anything?" he asked. I found that amusing, since the guy clearly wasn't familiar with the definition of "a la carte" and immediately emailed myself that line. I was half expecting his next line to be, "Does the pie a la mode come with ice cream?" or "Is there any rice or chicken in the 'arroz con pollo?'"

From the "Oh Please Make it Stop" category: QVC had their "Countdown to Christmas" special earlier this week. Yes, in frickin' AUGUST. I don't think the answer to "WWJD?" is, "Celebrate my birthday four months in advance." I'm just sayin'.

I heard a commercial on the radio, and something in it really stuck out to me. I don't remember the actual product or service the company offered (so clearly it was a great commercial), but it was called Renaissance Whatever. Let's say Mudflaps for the fun of it. At the end of the spot, the voiceover guy said, "Just go to Renaissance Mudflaps.com." And he didn't spell "Renaissance." Here's the thing: I'm a good speller. In fact, I was just telling my lovely wife earlier this week that I didn't miss a single word on a spelling test in all of fifth grade, which landed me a shitload of gold stars and a McDonald's lunch. My point is that I didn't know how to spell "Renaissance" off-hand. I took a stab at it, and it turns out that I was wrong. (I put the I after the second A instead of the first. I got the one N and two S part right, if that counts for anything.) So if the former gold star accumulator can't go to their website after hearing their radio commercial, they probably have an uphill battle in generating web traffic. I think their campaign needs a "rebirth," if you will.

And with that, let's make bilingual puns on over to the Car Watch.

First up, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate: "BROKHRT." How sad is that? I understand that people can break up and be rightfully devastated over that...for a while. But to put that on your license plate is telling the entire viewing public, "I'm eternally sad, so don't even bother trying to change that." Even if that's not the reason for the owner having that plate, can you imagine walking out to that car after a first date with the owner? Yikes.

I can't remember who sent me this license plate, but based on the few clues I have, it was either another from my homey Rockabye or from Dusty (who is getting married in less than a month). It read, "GO FLOSS." Ah, you just gotta love demanding dentists whose reach extends far beyond their own offices. How dare the driver assume that everyone being him/her doesn't floss? I'm sure s/he has a better sense of those percentages than I do, but if it were my mom and her "perfect home dental hygiene" behind that car, she'd be wicked pissed.

Speaking of maternal figures, I saw this license plate recently: "IGR8MOM." Yep, that's an I and not the number 1. There should be an additional message on the plate frame or on a bumper sticker below that reads, "But I not so good at grammar."

Ok, that's it for me today. You all have a great weekend and week until we meet up again next Friday. Happy Birthday on Sunday to our friend Ceil (who I call "The Foca"), and...that's all I see on my trusty calendar in terms of Happy Announcements. Shaloha, and peace out.

Turning the page

2009-08-21T05:02:00.000-07:00

Bienvenidos mis amiguitos, and it's good to see you here once again at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Uniting Old People Through Aromatherapy," but I'm curious as to which scents would be the most effective. Chicken noodle soup? Freshly-cut Social Security checks? I need more time to think about this. (Thanks to my homey Rockabye for supplying that UOPTA. You can send your own into ptklein@gmail.com, if you should be so bold.) Instead, this UOPTA is an aromatherapy-free zone in which I write down some thoughts and stories. If you're up for (and down with) that, please proceed to the next paragraph.

Ah, glad you made it over the treacherous white space. (I don't think I use the word "treacherous" nearly enough; it's a good one.) So I have a little topic to discuss today. Last week, the same homey Rockabye IMd me asking for our friend Greg's number because it wasn't going through. I wrote him back saying that he had a new number, and then I supplied it. He said that he had that number listed in his phone as Greg's pager number. I told him that he must have entered it into the wrong field, because neither Greg nor anyone else I know currently has a pager. He then suggested that I write something about pagers and old technology. Ta-frickin-dah!

By a show of hands, how many of you have owned a pager? Great, and of those, how many still own and operate one? If your hand is still up, I assume you're a doctor who's on call. In the past decade, I have only handled a pager when given to me at a busy restaurant to notify me when my table is ready. Before that though, there was a time in which pagers played an important role in my life (although I never owned one). That time was high school.

It was the early 90s, and my dad's giant (and wired) car phone was still relevant in the world of technology. Some super cool people had the "cellular telephones" the size of one of Shaq's shoes, but they were still far from common. So the most prevalent way of locating someone was via pager, and it had a whole culture around it. In fact, my friend Dusty and I listened a lot to a tape (yes, as in cassette) by A Tribe Called Quest that not only had a song about a pager ("Skypager") complete with dialing sounds and an automated woman's voice, but the first song on the tape ("Excursions") started with these words:

"Back in the days when I was a teenager/before I had status and before I had a pager."

So it was pretty cool. In fact, the pager in the early 90s is the only item I can think of that symbolized both the medical and the hip hop communities. I find that to be impressive. (Oh sure, many professions besides those two employed the use of pagers too, but will you agree with me that those were the ones most associated with them? What if I say please? What if I comment on Dr. Dre perfectly straddling both genres?) In any case, Dusty got a pager. It's a bit laughable now when I think about the extra step of calling someone's device to say, "Call me," instead of just reaching him right then, but that was what we were working with. Additionally, we were limited to paging someone with a combination of the numbers 0-9, so communicating a message was very difficult.

The general message was assumed to be, "Call me," but there were times that more needed to be said. The first step was having an identifying number sequence. I was at an age in which I thought fake Satan worshiping was funny/cool/dark/ridiculous, so I would page Dusty with "666" to ask him to call me at home. If I was elsewhere, I'd put the home number of where I wanted him to call and then 666. Because of the obvious limitations, some people created codes for saying things like, "I love you." I don't remember trying to write things in upside-down numbers, but I'm sure that happened. I just don't know how helpful, "LOOSE," "BOOBLESS," or similar words would've been at the time. (As a side note, I was wide awake in the middle of the night earlier this week and realized that I could write a whole sentence with upside-down numbers: "He loses his shoes." Without spaces, but not bad, right?)

There was only one other code that I knew, and I used it on just one occasion: 911. Yes, the dreaded, "THIS IS IMPORTANT" page. One Saturday, a friend from high school had scheduled a get-together for her birthday. It was lunch at a place wayyyyy out in Santa Monica. (As an adult, I now know that I really didn't go all that far, but it was out of my very small knowledge base of streets.) I had to be at work back in The Valley at 1pm, and this thing was called for 11. No problem, right? I ate, hung out, and left myself 45 minutes to get somewhere that shouldn't take nearly that amount of time on a Saturday. "How do I get to the freeway?" I asked. A friend told me directions that were unfortunately too vague for me. They involved that hated phrase, "You can't miss it." Oh really? Trust me, I can miss it just fine.

I made the first turn, then chose one of the next few streets to make the second (I was told I had options), and then had no idea where I was and saw no freeway in any direction. Crap. I kept driving, looking for a green sign to point me to a freeway, and said many an expletive out loud. After a few minutes, I figured I must be going the wrong way and turned around. Ten minutes later, and I was sweating and watching the minutes tick by to my expected arrival at work. I pulled over and went into a gas station to ask for directions. To my horror, the guy gave me a four-step process without all of the street names.

15 minutes later, I was more lost and frantic than ever. I was supposed to be at work any minute, and as far as I knew, I would be stuck on that side of town for the rest of my life. I pulled over and found a pay phone (remember those?). I dialed Dusty's pager number, put the number of the pay phone, 666, and then 911. I thought that if he called me, I could tell him the street signs near me, have him use his Thomas Guide or something, and get me the hell out of there. Then I paced for about ten minutes. I called again and did the same thing. After waiting a little while longer, I gave up and went into the next gas station I saw. "Oh, you're real close," the guy said. "Just continue on this street and the onramp's on the right." He was right, and once on the freeway, my "I'm lost" anxiety was completely replaced by "I'm late" anxiety.

I devised a plan: I was a good kid who was never ever late and obeyed all rules. If I played it right, I should be able to say that I was supposed to be there at 2 instead of 1 and no one would question me. It might work, right? I walked into work at 1:58pm (which is a little later than I'd normally get there for a 2pm start time), playing it as cool as possible. I strolled nonchalantly into the back and ran into my boss. "Hey," he said. "Hey," I said back. "Were you supposed to be here at 1?" "No, 2 to closing today," I said matter-of-factly. "Oh, I thought we had you down for 1. Huh." Then he walked away. The drama was over, but my heart remained pounding for the next hour or so.

I found out the next day that Dusty had gotten my 911 pages, but he was in the middle of taking a practice SAT and couldn't leave without voiding his entire test. I told him I took care of everything, and neglected to mention that it was the most stressful two-hour period of my entire life.

I have another, shorter pager-related story. My senior year of high school, I briefly dated a girl who was in a school play with me. She was very private and never really talked about herself, her family, or her friends. I asked for her phone number, and she gave me her pager number instead. "What if I want to call you?" I asked. "Just page me. I'll call you back," she said. I thought that was a little strange, but didn't think too much about it. She let me come over to her mom's place one afternoon, and we were talking about the play when her pager buzzed. "Hold on," she said, and she went over and started dialing a phone. Here is her side of the conversation, as I recall it:

"Hey it's me. Yeah. How much do you want? Yeah, I can get that. Same price as last time. Cool, I'll meet up with you tomorrow. Bye."

I had to say something, so I went with, "Uh, gee, what was that about?" "Nothing. Just a friend," she said. So in addition to being extremely private and likely a drug dealer, she apparently also thought I was stupid. A week or so later, I told her I just wanted to be friends, with one of the biggest "It's-not-you-it's-me" lies in the history of mankind. It was her. It was toooootally her.

With that, let's lie our asses off as we move over to the Car Watch.

I was driving around last weekend, and I noticed that the license plate frame in front of me said, "Tight Butts/Drive Me Nuts." I saw that it was a man driving. "Wow, he really wants that to be known," I thought. Then I looked at the actual plate on the car: "XY 2 XY." Ah, maybe he likes tight butts...on men. I'm not the only one reading it that way, am I? Either way, the dude has a preference and no problem telling us in rhyming fashion. I'm cool with that. (On second thought, maybe this guy just wanted to one-up R&B stars Boyz 2 Men. Yeah, that's probably it. My bad.)

My homey Rockabye sent me this plate that he spied: "DRANGRY." Sadly, I can only think of one reason why a doctor would want to be known as "Dr. Angry," and that's if it's his/her unfortunate surname. Otherwise, who wants an angry doctor? ("Dr. Angry, paging Dr. Angry.") I just spent the last five minutes trying to think of what kind of doctor I'd least want to be angry while seeing me. Oh sure, a dentist wouldn't be fun, but I'm gonna have to go with proctologist on this one. Or laser eye surgeon. I think I could deal with an angry podiatrist though. (I just stopped myself from making a forced pun about "putting my foot down." You're welcome.)

Lastly, I saw a bumper sticker that I really enjoyed: "There's something funny about my kid." In smaller letters beneath that, it said, "Comedy Sportz High School League." That's the improv league I was a part of for my junior and senior year of high school, so it pleased me quite a bit. I used to have a Comedy Sportz bumper sticker of my own on my Bronco II back in high school. It said, "My parents went to Comedy Sportz and all I got was this lousy car." I thought it was hilarious, but a weird neighbor of mine didn't get it and once asked me why I didn't like my car. I tried to explain, but realized that was only making matters worse.

Ok, I'm spent. Get out of here, and enjoy your weekends and weeks. I'll be back next Friday with the stuff that I actually planned to write about for this post. In the meantime: Happy birthday today to my father-in-law, and happy 6th anniversary on Monday to my favorite brother and his wife Weezie. That's all I got. See you next time, friends.

Don't do the twist

2009-08-14T05:12:00.000-07:00

Good day to you, kind sirs and madams, and welcome yet again to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Ululating Octogenarians Preparing To Assimilate," but that would be a nice change of pace to some (hopefully) more age-appropriate behavior. (Thanks to Beth - a non-relative! - for supplying this week's UOPTA. You can too: ptklein@gmail.com.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write down things that have crossed my mind enough times to make their escape through my fingers. In fact, this is the 350th post here at this UOPTA. That's a nice round number, don't ya think? I have two immediate (and very different) associations with the number 350. The first is that it's a good batting average in baseball. It's true, but I don't know why I jump to that right off the bat (get it, bat?). The second is a hilarious South Park episode from years ago. All you need to know is that Chef's old father says, "I ain't givin' you no tree fiddy you goddamn Loch Ness Monster!" Frickin' geniuses, those guys.

Friends, I'd like to spend some time today talking about twist endings. Without them, the loaf of bread gets stale much more quickly. (Thank you, thank you.) No, of course I mean the kind of twists that one finds at the end of films or t.v. shows that are intended to change everything you knew up to that point. This came to mind because of a trailer I saw recently for "A Perfect Getaway." It ended with the voiceover guy saying something to the effect of, "Long after the movie is over, the twist that will keep you talking for days." See, I hate that shit. Allow me to explain.

When I went to the movies to see "The Sixth Sense" years ago, here's what I knew about the movie: "A freaky-looking kid says that he can see dead people. Bruce Willis stars." When the movie was over, my mind was sufficiently blown by the twist I truly never saw coming. At the time, I thought, "Oh man, I sure hope people don't go around talking about the 'shocking twist ending' before others have seen it." To be clear, I didn't just want the ending to remain secret; I wanted the fact that there was a twist to remain secret. Here's why: people view movies through twist-seeking glasses when they know something is going to happen. I have two different examples that I hope will combine to prove my point.

Example 1: "The Letdown." In 1998, a then-unknown-to-me actor named Clive Owen was the lead in a movie called "Croupier." My aunt and uncle saw the movie and raved about it to my parents, saying that it had twists and turns throughout and a big one at the end. So my family went to see it, because we like that kind of thing. I sat there, watching every minute detail. When a character put something down on a table, I quickly scanned the photos nearby to see if there were any clues as to what would happen next. At the end of the movie, yeah, there was a little twist, but nothing compared to what I was expecting. A character was more deeply (and might I add, unbelievably) involved than we had known, but it was weak and disappointing. I had spent the whole time over-thinking (uh oh) what was going on and if I could predict the shocking twist before it was revealed. Instead, it was a rather ho-hum reveal that left us all shaking our heads and wondering why it had been billed as such by our relatives. In this case, knowing that there was a twist ruined the movie because it didn't come close to living up to the expectations I'd built.

Example 2: "The I-Called-It!" Much like with "The Sixth Sense," when I walked into "The Usual Suspects," I had no idea that my mind was about to be blown. When that happened, the movie instantly became one of my favorites (because I was already enjoying the dialogue and story up to that point). Again, I hoped that word wouldn't get out about the existence of a twist, but it did. That meant that everyone who watched it from that point on was waiting for it, and like me with "Croupier," trying to get there first. What's the harm in this? Those people start thinking about possibilities that they never would've considered. "Oh, maybe that person is really bad," they'll think with no evidence pointing that way yet. Unless they can somehow turn that part of their brains off, then they're forced to consider every possible twisty outcome before it happens. If a character seems sheepish, why not lean over to a friend and say, "I bet he's the killer." You'd never go there without the knowledge of said twist, but since something's bound to happen, why not get on the record early with the least likely scenarios? Then you can tell all your friends that you saw it coming when none of them did. Good for you.

So when people walk into "A Perfect Getaway," I have a feeling that one or both of those examples will come into effect. They've promised to blow our minds with their shocking twist, but I suspect it won't end that way. If I'm getting the gist of the plot correctly from the trailer, then one of six people is "the killer." Unless I'm way off (which is possible since I'm basing this all on very little), I expect people to walk out thinking, "Well, it had to be one of them so I wasn't really surprised," or, "I totally guessed it was him/her!" I guess my longwinded point to all of this can be summed up as so: I don't think it's a good idea to base an entire marketing strategy around the fact that there's a "big twist." If you're expecting something big to happen the whole time, it's not a twist. We just call that "story." I firmly believe that a well-crafted story with an unexpected plot twist will create a greater buzz from word-of-mouth referrals than simply screaming "There's a twist!" in the trailers. But I guess that doesn't get people in the door in the first place, and that's probably why I'm not a studio marketing guy.

For my money, the best twists I've ever seen were in "The Twilight Zone." If you watched that series (even decades after they originally aired like I did), you can probably come up with three shows off the top of your head that are better than anything you've seen on the big screen this decade. (My immediate three are "To Serve Man," the one with the pig faces, and the one in the diner where they're trying to figure out who the alien is.) If that series was brand new and airing now, I can't imagine what the internet chatter would be like the morning after each episode. Crazy shit, I tell ya. They had great stories and occasionally ended with a mind-melting twist. That's how it's done right, my friends. Since then, I'd argue that "Amazing Stories," "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," and "Lost" have come closest to capturing that art. Others like "Heroes" and "24" have come up short, with the former suddenly making everyone related and the latter making everyone spontaneously evil. That's not gonna cut it.

And with that, let's make a completely unexpected turn to the Car Watch.

My friend Greg wrote me this email a little while ago (with a preface saying that he wasn't sure if it was Car Watch material or not): "There is an Audi TT that generally parks near my car at work. Conservatively, I see it 3 days out of the week. The plate reads 'TT4DEB.' Not clever or interesting at all. What I find interesting, is that I can't look at it without saying "TT For Deb" under my breath in a robotic voice several times. Oh, and the robot has a South American, 'Tattoo-esque' accent. WTF?" I completely understand, my friend. In fact, I have found myself saying "TT For Deb" in what I have to imagine is a similar voice after spying a TT that didn't even belong to Deb. It's catchy. When it works, I occasionally like the use of "4" in plates. The ones I usually approve of have some element of continuity. For example, if I saw a Saturn ION that said, "ION4IAN," I'd totally dig that. I haven't though. I must admit, part of me wants to get a PT Cruiser just so I could have "PTC4PTK" as my plate. Too bad I think they're hideous.

My homey Rockabye sent me a plate and asked what my first thought was. It read, "SLTPNTS." My thoughts came rapid-fire: "Slit pants," "Slot pants," "Salty pants," and then finally, "Salty peanuts." He had a similar progression of thoughts. So I guess this plate is successful in the sense that we both eventually picked up what the driver was putting down, but I wonder how many people out there think that the driver has salty pants. I guess they'd stay fresh longer, right?

Lastly, I saw this plate with my own two eyes: "EZTO PLZ." Is that really what you want to be putting out there? Let's take the potential sexual meanings and leave them off to the side for now. If we solely look at it in terms of life experiences, the driver really can't afford to be stubborn or difficult about anything without being a hypocrite. "I feel like Chinese tonight," his/her partner might say." "Eh, I had that for lunch." "Easy to please, my ass!" At least that's how I would respond.

Ok, that's it for me. I hope you enjoyed this week's post and that you'll meet me here again next Friday for more of...this kind of stuff. In the meantime, happy half-Valentine's Day today, and happy half-birthday on Wednesday to Stacy, my Bratty Kid Sister. If you'd like to email me with any Car Watch items, random thoughts, funny stories, or even insults, ptklein@gmail.com is a surefire way to know that I'll read it. Be happy and healthy, my homepeople, and I'll see you next week. By the way, I'm really an alien who has been dead for 150 years but was the mastermind behind the whole government conspiracy. "POW!" (That was your head exploding from that killer revelation.)

Letter imperfect

2009-08-07T05:01:00.000-07:00

I wish a good morning to all of my readers, ranging from homebabies to the homelderly. We're here again at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for Ungainly, Obese Penguins Taking Aerobics, but that would be pretty amusing to watch, don't ya think? Instead, this UOPTA is where I deposit some thoughts and stories and wait for your eyeballs to pick them up later. Sound good? (Hey, I can't keep coming up with these UOPTAs by myself; think of one, send it to ptklein@gmail.com, and see your name as I thank you in this top paragraph. Isn't that what you've always dreamed of?)

Today's post, my friends, is a long-ass-long time coming. When I started this blog a scant 349 posts ago, I made a long list of things I would someday cover in this space. One topic came to mind, but I didn't write it down on the list. Why not? Because I didn't think I'd be able to write about it without getting myself into some sort of trouble. Last weekend at Dusty's bachelor party, he asked me if I'd written about that topic yet. After explaining my rationale, he convinced me that by omitting certain identifying names of people and businesses, I'd be covering myself just fine. (And hopefully there's a short statute of limitations on these things.) Allow me to explain:

Years ago (hence the statute of limitations comment), I held a shitty job for a little while. It was incredibly boring work for very little pay, and it came with a fairly long drive from my abode, and two occasions in which I heard anti-Semitic comments (including one to my face). On the plus side, I knew it was only temporary, a few of the people were nice (including my boss), and I had the good sense to illegally photocopy some material that passed through my hands. You're intrigued now, right? Well, I'm not talking about private stock information, trade secrets, or anything that one might use to his advantage in one way or another. Instead, I'm talking about complaint emails.

Without going into much detail, the company for which I worked has many branches throughout the U.S. As the headquarters of the company, every complaint email was directed to our building. Someone else got the emails, replied with a form letter, copied a regional manager to follow-up, and then printed each one out and put the stack on my desk. My fabulously interesting job was to type each emailer's name, email address, city, date, and category of email into a spreadsheet before filing it away. Pretty useless, right? Well, it would be if some of the emails weren't so amazingly entertaining that I'd sneak to the copy machine, duplicate them, and then slyly fold one copy up and slip it into my pocket. I couldn't keep these from my friends; I just couldn't.

The ones that I kept all fall into three overlapping categories: angry, strange, and my favorite, the horribly written. The degrees vary in each, but I'll try to classify the emails. Ready to see how I entertained myself for several months? I will replace certain information with general terms, but I will leave all spelling and grammatical choices as they were originally written.

This one taught me a new term, and I have happily used it ever since:
"im glad to know you fucktards can say 'abuse' and fuck me over on (product). i guess you can take the (product) and shove it up your ass...iv already told all my family and friends to go to (competitor), they are WAY better. id like a response, because ive got a big ass problem with you girls."
I think the order of that one's components is Angry, Horribly Written, and then Strange. He gets a tip of my imaginary cap for introducing me to "fucktards."

This one came from an employee of one of the branches and refers to the District Manager:
"Our DM came into our store and gave us a rubber chicken and said we were all looser. I would like someone to reply to this, I think it is unprofessional and out of line."
Strange is definitely first here, but I think that it's a tie between Angry and Horribly Written. There's no way around the rubber chicken thing being strange. The lone typo adds a lot though, for being "looser" in that scenario makes even less sense than "a loser." I agree that whatever happened there sounds unprofessional on the surface.

Here's a fairly rare compliment from a customer:
"i recently e-mail you guy's on the 28th of February in the PM. with the run in that i had encounter would sensually like to let you know that with in hours of my e-mail i had received a phone call. he was sincerely consider about the ordeal that had happen to me he said he would get to the bottom of this. he was xstemly fast on taking care my problem he offer to send me a giftcertificet i told him i was not out get something for this."
Horribly Written wins this one hands down, then Strange. No Angry here. This guy confuses me. He knows "encounter," "sincerely," and "ordeal," but not how to put anything in the past tense or form a pesky sentence. And then there's the baffling use of "sensually," and to a lesser degree, "xstemly."

Here's a long one that I'm going to abridge so you just get the highlights:
"So I call that (company) back and see when they close they said 9. I started walking to them three miles away and I was in a really bad fall in 2001, I can not run and I am in pain always...the next day I try to catch a bus, I tried to lok to rent a bike or something, I finally after 4 hours off waitingfind a bus that will take me near the (company) and this guy gets on the bus and sits right beside me 24 other seats on the bus, but he sits near me. He tells me that I am pretty I said thanks and asked me if I was married, I said Yes sir. So I pull the button to get off the bus 1 mile away."
Horribly Written takes this one, closely followed by Strange, with Angry finishing third. Oh sure, this guy can't write very well and he's always in pain, but he sounds like a fine-looking man.

I'm just gonna let this one speak for itself:
"i bowl witha person named (Name) he claims to have workedwith your company out of (City) and fro mwhat he is telling ppl he saids he is tryingt o milk your company dry he saids he was in accident with one of yoru trucks and hirt his bak which if he did how can he be bowling with a bad back andanother thing he going telling ppl is that his daughter was in car with him but he saids it isnt so i was there when he told a bunch of ppl while bowling last week i dont want him to know i eimailed u casue he looks and acts like he is nuts"
Another easy victory for Horribly Written. I say Strange gets the two spot, and the underlying anger issues aren't enough to pull Angry out of third. Way to give bowlers a bad name, lady.

Just three more for now. I like this one:
"if check get hold for 8 days then tell, no say, yes get money back in 3 hrs. i was good customer, and (Name) good manager, but company policy and comunication thereof not good. will shop at (competitor) till get un-mad."
Horribly Written is on a tear, closely followed by Angry, with Strange trailing by a few lengths. I don't know what I like the most about this one. Is it the attempt to differentiate "tell" from "say," or the use "thereof"? Nah, it's gotta be "till get un-mad." Who am I kidding?

In this one, the caps lock button was clearly working fine, but there's no evidence of a comma or period button:
"HELLO I NEED TO BE CONTACTED IN A PROBLEM OF REIMBURSING MONEY LOSTAND THANKSGIVING LOST DO TO A (PRODUCT) YOUR STORE HAS SOLD ME I AM LOST WHY WOULD YOU FIRE A PERSON IN TRYING TO HELP ME IF I CLAIM THE MONEY AND FAMILY HOLIDAY LOST TO A PIESE OF YOUR PRODUCT THAT FAILED IT HAS COST ME A LOT OF MONEY AND PRICELESS FAMILY HOLIDAY NOT SURE WHAT YOU CAN GIVE ME ON THAT PLEASE EMAIL ME BACK."
Ooh, tough call. I'm going with Angry narrowly edging out Horribly Written, with Strange in third. I'm a little lostand Thanksgiving lost on this one.

And lastly, this one gives me infinite joy, so it's going in its own block quote. That's all I'll say as an intro:

I am very displeased to comment on my visit today to this location that your employee was verbally and disrespectul, using "profanity" while talking on "his" cell phone. The worst part was when I commented did he work there to three co-workers who replied yes, not one of them said anyhing to the offensive employee ro discontinue "his rude and offensive" conversation. I certainly have no desire to return to that location, if this type of behavior is "professional."

I don't even know how to write about this one. Is the complete lack of ability to correctly use quotation marks enough to pull Horribly Written ahead of Angry? Probably not. Is it profanity or not? It's in quotes, so I can't tell. And "his" cell phone? Does she believe that it doesn't really belong to him? I love that "his rude and offensive" is in quotes, but not the noun being modified. Ah, good times, good times.

I'm stopping here with those. I have a few more, but they'd be harder to make general enough that I'd feel comfortable including them. I know one thing for sure: these emails were the highlight of my time there. Without them, I would've felt like looser.

And with that, let's "make our way" on over to "the" Car "Watch."

My Bratty Kid Sister sent me a plate that read, "RAR BEAR." Is that supposed to be "rare bear?" If it's a bear that drives, than that is indeed rare. If it's "rar bear," just as it's written, is that like "WUFF DOG?" I'm confused.

Next up, I saw a van for a pest control company while I was driving . The business name was Ecola. My first thought was that it sounds like a combination between e coli and Ebola. Oh great; yes, please come into my house.

Last but not least, my homey Rockabye was behind a car with this license plate: "ISUEYOU." Way to play directly into the stereotypes of your profession, buddy. I'd really have to fight the urge to give that guy the finger; he's just begging for it.

That, my friends, is all he wrote. Well not really, but it will be in another couple of sentences. First though, let's see what happiness is happening between now and next Friday when I write again. Hmmm, I don't see much besides International Left-Handers' Day next Thursday. Good, that deserves its own shout-out. Fellow lefties, let's do it up, yo. Have a great weekend and week, mis amiguitos, and be happy and healthy in all that you do. Shaloha.

That's what he said

2009-07-31T05:06:00.000-07:00

On this final day of July, I am happy to say hello and welcome you to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Unexplored Oceans Produce Treasure...Arrrgh," but hey, I'm not one to argue the veracity of that statement. Instead, this UOPTA is where I share some thoughts and stories with whoever chooses to read them. Right now that's you, so please enjoy. (Also, please send in your own version of UOPTA to ptklein@gmail.com. Come on, it's fun.)

Just typing the word "veracity" reminded me of a quick story. The summer before my junior year of high school, I took an SAT prep course with a couple of friends. It was thrilling, let me assure you. I only remember four things from that entire week-long class. One, I bought the cd single of "Soul to Squeeze" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and listened to it incessantly during that time. Two, I ran into an old friend from elementary school with whom I had lunch on two of the days. Three, one of my friends had talked about a "girlfriend" who "went to a different school." On day one of the class, he stopped and turned white. "What's up?" I asked. There she was, and it was about to be painfully clear that they were just friends. I pretended that I didn't notice their lack of more-than-friendship (even though they never sat together or really spoke), which I think was very nice of me. And the fourth thing was this incident of me feeling really smart:

We were sitting in the middle of the large meeting room, going over various vocabulary words. After a few, the instructor put up the word "veracious." "Who knows what this word means?" he asked. I waited for someone else to speak up, but no one did. The instructor sat there waiting, so I raised my hand and said, "Truthful." "Very good," he said. My friend turned to me. "How did you know that?" "Well, there's also 'voracious,' which is having a big appetite, but this one has the same root as other truth words like 'veracity' or the Latin 'veritas.'" The instructor then said, "Keep in mind, there's also 'voracious' with an O, which means 'having a huge appetite.' This one is with an E and has the same root as other similar words that have to do with truth, like 'veracity' and 'veritable' or the Latin word, 'veritas.'" My friend turned to me again with a look that was equal parts shock, admiration, and disbelief. I tried playing it cool and just shrugged. Inside though, I was hoping the instructor would ask about something else I knew, like the U.S. states in alphabetical order or the lyrics to "Taking Retards to the Zoo" by The Dead Milkmen. Strangely, neither came up.

It wasn't the actual knowledge that made me feel smart there, but the fact that my response was almost exactly the same as the instructor's. This same thing happened quite often recently in a specific area: televised basketball games. I know it's all a function of listening to play-by-play announcers for my entire life and getting a sense of what they're going to say, but it got pretty silly at one point during the playoffs. After a touch foul under the basket, I'd say, "You gotta wrap him up there to prevent the three-point play, especially in the fourth quarter." And then the announcer would say the same exact thing - really word-for-word. For the first few times, my lovely wife just smiled. But after the tenth time of predicting exactly what the announcer would say in a two-day period, she looked at me and said, "How do you keep doing that?" I said that my favorite brother or any of my basketball-loving friends would probably be able to do the same thing, and it was probably just a testament to the announcers saying the same things over and over again. (Cameramen too, actually: my friend Greg pointed out that every time there's a 24-second shot clock violation, they show the coach of that team. Every single time.) The highlight of me being really in tune with what would happen on the court was at the end of one game in the conference finals. "If they set the high pick there, Howard can curl around for the alley-oop," I said. Sure enough, that's exactly what happened one second later. Yes, you can touch me.

Earlier this week, a similar topic came up in conversation. We were having dinner at our friends Sarah and Keith's new house. Sarah said that sometimes Keith's parents know what each other is thinking or going to say. She thought that was weird but my lovely wife didn't think so, and said it's probably quite common in couples who have been together for a long time. Of course, I then stared intensely at her. "Oh great, now he's trying to prove me wrong." "What am I thinking, honey?" I asked. "He's thinking of something random and strange that I'd never guess. Ok, I give up." "Duh, the Brickyard 400. It's a Nascar event." I apparently proved both of her points.

My parents, who have been married a whopping 40 years as of this past June, know each other's mind and thought processes quite well. There was one kind of scary moment in which they didn't even know they'd linked brains. Years back, we were playing "The Dictionary Game," which was "Balderdash" before "Balderdash" existed. I chose a word (that I sadly can't remember right now), and everyone else wrote their fake definitions on little pieces of paper. I collected them all and prepared to read them to the group. Shockingly, two of the little pieces of paper said the same exact thing: "An edge or cornerstone." What the hell? I brought this to their attention, and it turned out that they each thought that the word I chose sounded a little familiar, but couldn't remember what it meant. Sure enough, the real definition had to do with a cornerstone, but it's still really freaky that they both wrote the same four words as their definitions. Weirdos.

It's a familiarity thing, and I wouldn't say that kind of pseudo mind-reading is limited to spouses. I have three examples of this that immediately come to mind. First off, my favorite brother and I were standing in our parents' kitchen a few months ago when a plane went by overhead. At the same time, we both made a sound that approximated a note on an electric guitar. We laughed, because we realized that we were both doing the beginning of "Back in the USSR" by the Beatles. With enough shared memories and experiences, that kind of thing happens. Next up, I sent my friend Greg an email referring to a stupid/awesome R. Kelly song. I sent some of my favorite lines: "And then he looks at the cabinet/He goes up to the cabinet/ Now he's at the cabinet/ Now he opens the cabinet." Brilliant stuff, no? After I sent it, I thought, "I should tell someone that I know how Greg's going to reply. He's going to say, 'The man was a midget...midget...midget.'" That's another great part of the song, of course. I was wrong. He only wrote back, "A midget...midget...midget" without the first few words. Some friend I am. And lastly, as I wrote in this space about two and half years ago, my friend Dusty and I had the same kind of encounter. "Nothing lasts forever, kids," our loony English teacher said in high school. Dusty and I turned to each other and said at the same time, "Styrofoam." That, my friends, is some crazy ass familiarity. (Those three guys, incidentally, made up my side of our wedding party. And this weekend, I'm heading off to Dusty's bachelor party, so things lined up nicely there thematically and temporally, no?)

And with that, let's refrain from biodegrading as we head over to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye saw a license plate that he shared with me: "FACE (Heart)FF." Does this person love to face off against others in some form of competition (ranging from boxing to debating to yodeling)? Or is s/he that big a fan of the Nicholas Cage and John Travolta film? I like the movie, don't get me wrong, but that seems a bit extreme. Either way, I have trouble mentally reconciling something as inherently antagonistic as a face off with the universal symbol for love. That's weird, right?

My dad saw a fairly common license plate frame around these parts that featured UCLA's name and colors. The plate on that car read, "UKLAFAN." No, no, NO! It's a frickin' acronym in which you have to say the right letters for people to know what the hell you're talking about! Sure, a hard C sound is the same as a K's, but that doesn't mean you can interchange them wherever you please without any regard for the intended message. I hate that car.

Lastly, I was a few cars away from another vehicle, and I thought I read a plate that said, "CUPONTV." "See you pee on t.v.?!" I said aloud? "No way!" I immediately started formulating this paragraph, complete with jokes about the next level of reality shows, fetishes, and a whole host of other highbrow concepts. Then I changed lanes and got closer to that car. "CUP OVT," it actually read. Ah, that's a big difference. All I got now is some curiosity over the fact that both a "cup of tea" and a "piece of cake" came to mean "easy." To me, that's a nice little snack.

Ok, that is it for me. I'll be back next Friday with more stuff, but you can always reach me at ptklein@gmail.com in the meantime. Until then, here are some happy occasions to note: Little Emma P. turns 1.5 today, so happy half-birthday to her (it's her third half-birthday ever, so it's still pretty new). My Mom, who has been UOPTA's Commenter of the Year every year since this thing began has her full birthday tomorrow, so please join me in wishing her a happy one. Sunday is our friend Scott M.'s birthday and the half-birthday of our friend Kareem (no last initial needed). Also, my friend and former colleague Leslie's birthday is Tuesday, so this is a pretty festive time of year (despite the lack of real holidays anywhere near here). Take care, everyone, and have a happy and healthy weekend and week. Shaloha.

What up, bridges!

2009-07-24T05:02:00.000-07:00

Hello again, mis amiguitos, and welcome to UOPTA. No, no, that doesn't stand for, "Undercooked Ostrich Parts Taste Awful," but one can only assume that that's a factual statement. Instead, this UOPTA is a little slice of the web in which I write my thoughts and stories. If that sounds agreeable to you, then I suggest you proceed to the next paragraph. (Thanks again to my favorite brother for supplying that UOPTA. If you'd like to get in on that action, ptklein@gmail.com is the place to direct your acronymical genius.)

I was a part of a story a couple of weeks back that bears repeating. When someone handles a situation in the exact opposite manner than I would have, I tend to take note of it. Well, I know a guy who I'll call Barry, and he is the lead in this tale. He was in a predicament (which you can't spell without Peter), and he asked both me and a friend our opinions on it. He said that he'd let the majority rule on how he should handle it. Here's the situation: Barry has been going to the same dentist for about 15 years. He has a nice working relationship with the tooth doc, and everyone knows him at the office because of his long-standing patronage. Well, he received a bill in the mail from the dentist's office for a whopping $1.20. On the bill was a hand-written note by the office manager (who has been there for as long as Barry's been a patient) saying that amount was a service fee from one of the invoices in the recent past being a little late.

"The way I see it," Barry told us, "I have two options. I either just write a check and send it in or I mail them 120 pennies and never go back." "Uh, there's a third option that I'd recommend," I said. "How about you call and say something to the effect of, 'I just received this bill, and since it's only a dollar, can you please just add it to my next bill instead of having me write a check for that tiny amount?' There's no need to antagonize them." I also pointed out, should he choose to go there, that it probably costs more than $1.20 for the invoice to be printed, mailed, and then mailed back with another stamp and a check. He explained that he was upset by the way that he, a loyal customer, had been treated. "But why punish the doctor for something his accounting staff did?" I asked. "They represent him, and they probably got his approval before sending that out," he said. Our friend took a slightly different approach, suggesting that Barry's girlfriend call and say that Barry would be very upset to see that and to please roll it over. I didn't get why another person had to be involved, so I kept pushing my idea. "Really, there's no need to send 120 pennies and end this professional relationship over someone's poor judgment - especially when it's probably not the dentist's judgment we're talking about." "I could probably go back to him after that if I wanted to," he said. "Oh yeah, and let the guy with sharp objects in your mouth determine if you were rude or not," I added.

We discussed it for a while longer, and he eventually agreed that my way made the most sense. So imagine my surprise when I got an email from him an hour later with a copy of what he wrote to the office manager. The subject of the email to me was, "I just can't help myself." Here it is:

"Rosemary-
All of us at my office had a good laugh over this bill.
At first I was insulted and angry that after 15+ years I would get a bill for $1.20 in service fees, but then my friends convinced me that I shouldn't take it that way, and it was obviously bad judgment on whoever decided to send this.
That said, please thank the doctor for his work with me over the years. I won't be back."

I immediately replied to that email as such: "I'll take Unnecessary Bridge Burning for 200, Alex."

You see, I try to make it a habit to avoid burning bridges at all costs. Especially in the business world, it's just a smart way to operate. If someone really rubs me the wrong way or is even offensive somehow, I tend to politely distance myself from him. It's not a matter of being non-confrontational or wimpy, it's about keeping doors open. Contacts, relationships, and the ability to make key introductions are things I value, so I take care not to damage those ties (even when warranted). You never know when you may need to reach out to someone, and I don't want to ever have to think, "Man, I sure would like to ask so-and-so about that, but he's probably still mad about the flaming bag of dog shit I left on his porch after our last disagreement." Now I doubt that Barry is going to run into a situation in which that dentist contact would've proven profitable, but he's essentially made an enemy out there when he didn't need to. If he was so offended, he could've just paid the trifling amount and found another dentist. Nope, that sound you hear is a flamethrower being taken to a well-worn, 15 year-old bridge.

I started thinking (uh oh) about my life and if I've always acted in this manner. And yes, I think I have. When leaving jobs or even relationships back in high school, I've always tried to be as amicable as possible. I like to keep the possibility of future conversations open, and I think that's a good thing. I find it important to limit the number of people who will say bad things about me when I'm not around. For example, during our senior year in college, my lovely wife nee girlfriend lived next to some interesting folks. On one side, she had the stoner/loud-praying Orthodox Jew scene, and on the other, the loud fratboy scene. One evening (or early morning to be precise), the fratboy side was very loud right outside her bedroom window. She had a test early the next morning, and so sleep was pretty important. Instead of opening the window and shouting something short and sweet like, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I thought for a minute. Why burn that bridge now, be the hated neighbor for the remainder of the year, and probably cause them to be even louder in defiance? So I took a different, more diplomatic approach. I walked out there, looking extra sleepy, and said, "Hey guys, I don't wanna be a dick, but we're trying to sleep just through that window there. You think you could keep it down just a little please?" Apparently that was speaking their language, and after some "No prob, bro" comments, they moved farther away. In the coming months, I even heard one of them say, "Hey, we should move down here instead, they're sleeping in there." I'd call that a victory.

Giving it more thought, I can only come up with two situations in which I didn't mind leaving some ashes behind me. The first, as documented in a post called "Hanger Anger" from 3/19/07, involved an incredibly inept drycleaner who would certainly never receive another dime from me. The second involves a story that I haven't told here. I'll keep it brief.

The summer after high school, a friend of mine from school told me that he was gay. It was something I had suspected for years, but had recently changed my mind since he kept going out with the hottest cheerleaders. Bastard. In any case, it didn't affect our friendship at all, except that I was honored that he felt comfortable enough to share that with me. About a week later, I stopped at the school to pick up some final things. I was in my car, heading out for probably the very last time, and I saw a guy I knew near the gate. He motioned for me to stop, so I rolled down my window and said hi. This guy had been a giant asshole since I met him. He was always way too cool for everyone, and when we briefly worked together once, he did his best to make himself look good by putting everyone else down. Needless to say, we weren't great buds. So we exchanged pleasantries for a minute, and then he said in a very sarcastic tone, "So I hear (name) finally came out of the closet. Wow, big shock there. Didn't see that coming. He sure fooled us." I stared at him for a second, and then after a sigh and a little head shake, I told him to fuck off and I drove away. I won't lie; it felt great, and I'd do that again ten times out of ten. I can still picture his look of mild disbelief in my rearview mirror. Good times, good times.

And with that, let's express our innermost feelings on down to the Car Watch.

First up, my homey Rockabye saw a plate that I think negates the point it's trying to make. It read, "SMARDY 1." Oh sure, it was on a Smart Car, so maybe the driver was talking about the vehicle and not him/herself. Still, there's something inherently wrong with spelling "smart" incorrectly...even on purpose.

Next up, my dad sent me a plate that I rather enjoyed: "NCOGETO." If we assume that the plate is trying to say "incognito," then I just have to laugh. First off, you don't tell someone you're incognito; that completely defeats the purpose. Second, it doesn't really work without the N in there. I'm guessing "NCOGNTO" was taken, so the driver thought this way was good enough. I disagree. Unless, of course, it's spelled that way on purpose to throw us off the scent. Yes, I've got it. The word "incognito" is going incognito on us by masquerading as the mild-mannered "ncogeto." Brilliant!

And lastly, I saw a plate that read, "IM PINK." I suggest you go back on the grill for a little longer then. Especially if you're ostrich meat, for I read somewhere that one should cook that thoroughly for the best-tasting result.

That's it for me, homepeople. I'll be back here next Friday with more, but feel free to email ptklein@gmail.com before then with any thoughts, stories, jokes, UOPTA meanings, or whatever else suits your fancy. (Your fancy looks dashing in a suit, by the way.) Before signing off, let's celebrate. Happy 2nd birthday to my little cousin Rio today. Wednesday is our friend The Mills' half-birthday, and Thursday is the half-birthday of both lifelong friend Bryan and good friend/fellow literature nerd Melissa. Shaloha, and be happy and healthy.

Empha-sighs

2009-07-17T05:12:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, and it's great to see you here once more. In truth, I can't see you, but I feel your presence. No, that's not really true either. Disirregardless, it's great to have you here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Usually Obama Pitches Truly Accurately," but I hope that's the case after seeing that weak toss of his before the All-Star Game. Oh sure, he got it all the way to the player instead of bouncing it (as many have unfortunately done), but as the leader of the free world, I'd like to see him really zing one in there. Does this actually matter at all? Of course not, but for many people in this fine country, discussing the President's throwing motion is the most political discourse they'll have all year, so let them enjoy this. To reiterate my point from before, that previous statement is not what UOPTA stands for. This UOPTA, my homepeople, is where I write out some of my thoughts and stories on a weekly basis. I hope you enjoy today's installment. (Thanks to my favorite brother for supplying that UOPTA. Send your own in to ptklein@gmail.com and be cool like him.)

Here's a random thought that the first paragraph caused me to think: When we say the phrase "All-Star Game" or "All-Star Team," why do we put the emphasis on the word "All?" When we break it down, we're discussing a team made up solely of star players, right? Therefore, it should be the "all STAR team" instead of the "ALL star team," right? Let's take some very different examples of the same concept to prove my point. If there were an animal sanctuary comprised of only giraffes, would anyone call it an "ALL giraffe sanctuary?" I doubt it, because that wouldn't make any sense. Similarly, what would you call an aisle in the supermarket that only sells potato chips? (If you answered either "Crunchy, "Unhealthy," or "Heaven," you're not exactly playing along, now are you?") So why do we switch it up for the "All-Star Game?"

I have a theory, actually. It goes a little like this: When the first team of all star players was created, it was easy to call it the "all STAR team." But how would they designate the players who were honored by making that team? They were already stars, which is why they were named to the team in the first place. So someone started calling the individuals "All-Stars" for some reason that doesn't really make the most logical sense. I argue that it was that designation of the single player that changed the correct emphasis of the term into the way we say it today. Ideally, a chosen player would've been called a "Star Team Member," "League Star," or something shorter that makes sense. To name a single player after the compound adjective modifying the game in which he'll play just doesn't seem like it was thought through appropriately to me.

I just thought of something similar. In our everyday lives together, my lovely wife emphasizes a few things differently than I do. And you know what? I think she's absolutely right. Crap. I just thought about the two examples that I was going to write down here, and I think I've been saying the equivalent of "ALL star team" my entire life. What can I say, girls mature faster than guys.

First, I might say that I put my wallet down on the "kitchen TABLE." Meanwhile, she'll call it the "KITCHEN table." I used to make fun of this, but now I shall dive in and see why I'm wrong. My way, emphasizing "table," is essentially differentiating that piece of furniture from others in that room of the house. That is, the "kitchen TABLE" is emphasized so as to not confuse the listener with the "kitchen COUNTER" or "kitchen FLOOR." In her version, she's distinguishing that piece of furniture from others of the same kind. The "KITCHEN table" is different than the "COFFEE table" or any other table in the house. Both ways make sense, right? Then why do I think I'm wrong? When I say tell my lovely wife that the mail is on the "kitchen TABLE," my intent is to specify where in the house. That is, I don't think she'll accidentally think I put the mail on the kitchen floor. The intent behind my phrase coincides with the emphasis she uses. Therefore, I think I'm wrong in this regard. (Oddly enough, this table that we're both talking about in theory isn't actually found in our kitchen but rather in the closest thing we have to a dining area. Go figure. And as it turns out, I rarely drink coffee at the coffee table, but rather at the kitchen table that isn't actually in the kitchen. I hope that clears things up.)

The other example of things my lovely wife and I emphasize differently comes to us from the dessert tray: chocolate cake. Now tell me, friends, how did you just say that in your head? Personally, I say, "I'd like a piece of chocolate CAKE." My lovely wife, on the other hand, would ask for "CHOCOLATE cake." (These capitalizations are starting to look like we're screaming, but I hope the point of emphasis is still getting across.) I've commented on this difference to her in the past, and after further review, I think I'm wrong here too. Let's break it down again. If someone comes to me with a tray of chocolate mousse, chocolate ice cream, and chocolate cake, I think I'd have every right to emphasize "cake," as that's the distinguishing factor. If there are slices of cake in a variety of flavors though, saying "CHOCOLATE cake" is the right choice. So which way is correct when the distinctions aren't so clearly drawn? Read this sentence to yourself without thinking about it: "There's a piece of chocolate cake on the floor." Which way did you go? Do you think that's right or not? One thing's for certain, I am no longer making any sense to myself and must stop this nonsense at once.

Ok fine, one last thing: Chinese chicken salad. Do you emphasize "chicken" like I do? If so, I think we're wrong. We're not differentiating it from other "Chinese salads," are we? Instead, it's different from other kinds of "chicken salad," so we should be saying, "CHINESE chicken salad." That would also work if the chickens used for the salad came from China, by the way.

Before we get to the Car Watch, I wanted to follow up on something from a few weeks ago. In my post entitled "Badvertising," I complained about companies putting fewer items into each container. I used my tortillas as an example, saying that the size that used to have 20 now only has 16. Then I made this statement: "I understand why they'd try to be sneaky about that (especially when prices remain the same often for the lesser amount), but I don't want to see those same companies tout their 'bigger sizes' a year from now when they're actually the same size they had before getting sneaky. I'm watching you, retail products." Well guess what happened. The size that used to be 10 but got downgraded to 8 is back up to 10. Sure enough, they did just what I didn't want to see happen. There's a big sticker stating, "Now with 2 EXTRA tortillas!" No, assholes, those are the two tortillas you stole from us before and are now rightfully returning. In fact, I should have 12 in here to make up for your cost-saving schemes. (Yes, I take tortillas very seriously.)

And with that, let's choose either corn or flour as we make our way to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye saw a Toyota Highlander with this plate: "TOYLNDR." I like that. Even though I've made fun of people who put their make or model on their plates in the past, there's something cute and innovative about combining the two. Ergo, I approve.

My favorite brother sent me a plate that I can't say I really understand the rationale behind. "COWPOOH," it read. Um, manure? Why would someone want that as a license plate? And then there's the problem with the H. Why conjure up images of Winnie the Pooh there? Is that intentional or was "COOPOO" taken and that was the only way to get this dire message across? We'll never know, will we? (Sob.)

And lastly, my friend Dusty sent me an even more confusing plate: "ATE FEET." I see just three options with this one. First, quite literally, this person ingested the bottommost extremities of...something that had them. Second, the "ATE" is supposed to stand for "EIGHT" and the driver is 8 feet tall or has a special association with that specific distance (i.e. a high jump record). Third, he or she strung random letters together to cause people like me to try to figure out what they mean when there really is no deeper significance. I have no frickin' clue, but I sure hope it's not the third one. That's just not cool.

Ok folks, I'm out like the opposite of in. I'll be back next Friday with more words for you, but you can always email me at ptklein@gmail.com if that's just too far away for you. In the meantime, here are some happy occasions that will occur before I'm back here. This Sunday is my little homey T-Boy's 3.5 birthday. Monday is the first birthday (not counting the actual day of birth) of little Emma and the 2.5 birthday of our diminutive pal Tyler. Then on Thursday, just to make sure that these happies are only for children, little Keira turns 2. Please join me in wishing them all great respective days. And you, my friends, you have happy and healthy weekends and weeks. See you again soon. (Well I won't actually see you unless I do some major upgrades to the blog, but you get the point.)

Holding up ok?

2009-07-10T05:18:00.000-07:00

Good day, chaps and chapettes, and welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unreliable Organic Products Taste Awful," but I can imagine that to be true. (Thanks to my mom for supplying that UOPTA. She suggested that those products might still have some "natural steer manure" on them, which would contribute to the poor taste. Want to get your own UOPTA in here? Email me at ptklein@gmail.com.) This UOPTA, friends, is where I write down some thoughts and stories, and I hope you enjoy whatever today has to offer.

Readers, I was recently visited by someone who simultaneously amused and concerned me. It was the 19 year-old version of me, and I arrived via old camcorder cassettes. It was really something. I've seen stills of myself at that age recently, but there was something very different about the walking, talking, and being stupid version. I saw old t-shirts that I loved at the time, lanky legs coming out of shorts that I still own, a little more weight, a little less hair, and the same eye-rubbing motion that I still employ today. At one point, my lovely wife told me that I said a line like actor Michael Cera. I immediately pointed out that I'd played the role of Awkward Lanky Jew for many years before he appeared on the scene. So there.

As I watched the video of me and a few friends making stupid movies, I couldn't help but laugh hysterically the entire time. I laughed for several reasons. First, we were pretty funny some of the time. Second, we bombed horribly in other parts. Third, some of the parts that I had found hilarious at the time were very stupid now.

That last one surprised me. I know that that happens with movies all the time. Take Weird Al's cinematic epic, "UHF," for example. As a kid, it was the funniest frickin' thing in the world. Even as a college student, my friends and I found ourselves quoting it all the time. So we rented it one night, and...not so much. I really didn't think that I'd matured too much in that time, and the rather large disparity bothered me. It wasn't just the newness of the jokes when I was young versus hearing them for the thousandth time. When Stanley Spadowski blasted the kid in the face with the firehose, it was hilarious as a kid - even when I knew it was coming. As a semi-grown man, however, I just nodded and waited to see if the next gag would still successfully target my funny bone. It didn't. In fact, it annoyed me, and that's not good.

What makes some movies hold up over the years while others get dated or lose their hilarity? I have a couple of theories that I haven't given nearly enough thought to but plan on tossing out there nonetheless. That is precisely how I roll.

Theory 1: Outdated Technology Corollary

Remember "The Net" with Sandra Bullock? I think you already know where I'm going with this. Basically, it was about a woman having her identity completely erased by way of this new and scary thing called the internet. Well, not only do we really not call it "the net" anymore (in favor of "the web" or just "online"), but it's just a very different culture now. We're not nearly as scared of that new-fangled technology, so the entire premise loses something. Contrastly, the movie "Major League" has held up extremely well. Why's that? Well, nothing much has changed in the game of baseball for over a hundred years (aside from that little integration thing). The positions are the same, they use the same equipment, they talk about the game in the same way, etc. By having the main focus of the movie be something relatively timeless, the filmmakers avoided the OTC.

Theory 2: Ruined By Copycats Syndrome

Ah, the dreaded RBCS. This one is pretty easy for me to explain with two examples. First off, remember how cool "The Matrix" was? Well watch it again, and you'll see that its coolness dissipated almost as fast as Chris Brown's fanclub numbers. The reason is simple: the special effects in "The Matrix" were brand spankin' new. No one had every scene that kind of time-stopping, camera-swerving technique before. A year later, and every director and his/her mother was using that kind of special effects. Even movies like "Shrek" and "Scary Movie" parodied those famous action sequences because they were just that new and different. Once it was everywhere though and we were left to focus on the confusing plot instead of the pretty pictures, something important got lost.

My second RBCS example is "Wayne's World." I loved that movie. I saw it four times in the theater, a Peter Klein record that shall never be broken. Hell, I don't imagine I'll ever see the same movie twice in the theater again (unless there was some mix-up and I had told someone I'd see it with him/her and then I have to pretend the whole time that I was watching it for the first time or a similar reason that would fit nicely into a "Friends" episode). "Wayne's World" was hilarious, and I still quote it quite often. Two things were very new in that movie that resonated with me (and likely others in my age range). First, the language that they used was radically different than even the things they'd said in their SNL skits. "If you blow chunks and she comes back, she's yours. But if you spew and she bolts, it was never meant to be." It was so different that it warranted multiple viewings to even catch it all and realize how funny the smaller, less noteworthy lines were. (The same can be said about the first Austin Powers movie. Maybe that's Mike Meyers' thing.) Second, what was the funniest scene from the movie to many a moviegoer? The guys singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the car. It was huge, and caused that song to top the charts despite being old and pretty weird. So what happened? We got used to the language. That's about all I can say about the first of my examples of newness in that movie. We stopped being surprised by "Schwing!" and other phrases that had made their way into my age group's everyday vocabulary. As for the singing in the car scene, well, that got copied like a smart kid's math test. Movie after movie started employing that technique. "Tommy Boy" had Chris Farley and David Spade singing loudly in the car, "Road Trip" had a singing-in-the-bus scene, and even "Jerry Maguire" got in on the action. Because of that, by the time we watched Wayne, Garth, and their friends sing along to Queen for the twenty-fifth time, it's lost something - not because they're less funny, but because of the damage done by the RBCS.

One random item for my peeps before I launch the ever-present Car Watch section: I was on a phone call earlier this week at work, and I tried typing an email at the same time. I'm pretty good at this (as long as I'm not talking at the same time), but there is certainly less thought behind those typed words when it's a part of multi-tasking. I started to write the word "introduction" with "inter." I stopped and questioned it because it just didn't look right, but then I pressed on and wrote out the entire "interduction." I looked again, knew full well that it was wrong this time, deleted it, and waited for my call to end before trying that again. That type of error is of course inexcusable, but partially understandable. If I'm not trying to enunciate clearly, I probably (or "prolly") say "interduction." I definitely say "perscription," I'll tell you that much. Along the same lines, I've seen people write "must of" instead of "must have" because that's how it was sounding in their heads. Again, none of these are ok, but at least it's nice to know that there's sometimes a reason for a typo.

And with that, let's incorrectly spell our ways on over to the Car Watch.

First off, my loving mother-in-law saw a young lady driving a car with this plate: "XY CRAZY." I approve wholeheartedly. Way to create a little turn of phrase with some science on the side. Maybe there's hope for our nation's youth after all.

Next up, I was behind a car a couple of days ago with a license plate frame that confused me. On the top it read, "Psst, Hey Buddy," and on the bottom, "Wanna Buy Some Paper?" I suppose it could just be that he sells paper for a living (like our fictional friends at Dunder-Mifflin) and thought that was a funny way to let that fact be known. Aside from that, I can't think of why one would want to come across as a paper pusher. Hmmm.

Lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me this plate: "TROUBUL." What, with spelling?

That's it for me, party people. I would love to hear your thoughts on which movies have withstood the test of time and which ones look or feel especially dated. I'll be back here next Friday with more thoughts and stories for you. In the meantime, happy 4.5 birthday to little Cameron, who does a wicked version of a Smashing Pumpkins song. Have safe and healthy weekends and weeks, friends, and feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. Peace out.

Mixing it up

2009-07-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone, and welcome yet again to this little slice of the internets called UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unceremoniously Obnoxious Pterodactyls Terrorize Aardvarks," but I think I saw a special about that on the National Geographic channel once. Instead, this UOPTA is where I think about things, remember other things, and then type them up for your visual consumption. Sound good? (Thanks to my lovely wife for supplying that UOPTA. Send your own in to ptklein@gmail.com, would ya?)

Speaking of that same lovely wife, we recently started doing something that many people had been almost begging us to do: watch Mad Men. I can't tell you how many people were shocked that I wasn't watching it and expressed harsh disapproval. It wasn't that I was against the show, I just wanted to have some time to start watching from the beginning and eventually catch up to the current episodes. It's similar to how I've felt for a while about The Wire. Everyone tells me it's great and that I'm really missing out, so I plan on watching the entire series at some point. Well, we're making our way through the first season, and I'm rather enjoying it so far. Aside from my wonderment at the amount of smoking and drinking, it's a well-acted and intriguing show.

That said, I'd like to focus on one word in particular from that last sentence: "drinking." I'm not a big drinker by any means, but part of me can't help but find a half-full rocks glass with some indiscernible brownish liquid incredibly cool. (Not to the extent that the Mad Men characters have those glasses in their hands, mind you.) I've often wanted to have "my drink" be something cool when I go to a bar or party, but that kind of thing apparently doesn't happen naturally at all. Uh oh, I feel a random tangent that will hopefully tie back in nicely coming on.

My tastes often expand either by accident or by the power of suggestion. Here is a non-drinking example. Way back in the day, I went to summer camp with my favorite brother and a few friends. One day in particular, the counselors organized "The Dating Game" in which the campers would partake. The winners would get to go to McDonalds for lunch, so naturally, we all wanted to win. I was probably only around 8 or 9 years old, so dating wasn't really on the top of my list yet. I was a good kid who didn't cause any problems, so I was chosen to be one of the three unseen suitors during one of the games. I remember it fairly clearly. I was Bachelor #2, and along with the two other suitors who flanked me, I stared straight ahead at the crowd. The unseen bachelorette asked me only one question: "Bachelor #2, if you were a sandwich, which part would you be and why?" Not turning on any charm whatsoever, I replied, "Well, I guess I'd be middle part, because...I just like being in the middle of things. That's why I'm Bachelor #2." The other guys each got two questions, and then time was called. I saw some girls in the crowd holding up fingers to the bachelorette as to which guy to choose. I felt like I saw many more ones and threes, but she surprisingly selected me. Confused but eager to eat some quality fast food, I smiled.

We got to McDonalds, and a counselor took all of our orders. As if programmed, I rattled off, "A Big Mac combo, just cheese and pickles, and a Coke Classic for the drink." I grabbed some ketchup packets and got a table with the other boys my age, completely missing the point of the game. (In truth, I don't remember a single thing about the bachelorette - not name, hair color, anything. What a ladykiller I was.) We were all talking about something very important (like which Beastie Boys song was our favorite) when the trays of food came. I opened the styrofoam box in front of me and saw a Big Mac with everything on it. I asked around at my table, but the only other Big Mac was also that way. I did something very un-young-Peter-like: I just went for it. To my shock, I really liked it. Maybe special sauce, lettuce, and onions weren't going to kill me after all. Who knew? From that day forward, the formerly picky burger eater ordered the Big Mac without saying, "With no..." anything. Way to go me. And that horizon was broadened by accident.

To get back to drinking and how that ties in, I'd like to briefly go through my evolution of imbibing alcoholic beverages. When I first began drinking alcohol (almost legally), I stuck to some things that tasted ok. This meant wine coolers, the glorious but now defunct Zima, and other similar concoctions. I drank beer, but I still made a face after almost every sip. It was a means to an end though, and I wanted to acquire the taste. Time passed, and beer and I became good friends. I tried some hard liquor every once in a while, but nothing really struck my fancy. Then, during my senior year of college, I became a big fan of spiced rum and Coke. I even bought a bottle of Captain Morgan's to "fix myself a drink" from time to time. (I put that in quotes because I can't say that phrase without affecting my voice to sound either old-fashioned or possibly creepy.) We had tall glasses in our place that I'd use for that, starting with three fingers of rum and then an entire can of Coke. It fit perfectly, and better yet, it got my friend Greg to start calling me "Three Finger Klein." I felt like a gunslinger or something.

More years passed, and I pretty much stuck to beer, wine (which I was learning to really appreciate), and my Cap'n and Coke. Greg had started liking scotch, and tried it a couple of times with the same exact response: "Why didn't I remember that I don't like this?" It was too strong, and while I thought about learning to acquire that taste as well, the cons outweighed the pros. Then, in April of 2007, I was at a charity event for work with my lovely wife and some friends. One of the guys was going to the bar and asked if I wanted anything. "Surprise me," I said, feeling extremely daring. He came back a few minutes later with something. "What is it?" I asked. "I'll tell you later," he said. I took a sip and really liked it. He told me it was a 7 and 7. I asked what that was, and he told me (Seagram's 7 and 7-Up or a similar product). More branching out! My lovely wife missed the last part of the conversation and asked what I was drinking. "7 and 7," I said all cool-like. "What's that?" she asked. "Fourteen," I said, and then I waited for a rim shot to accompany her shaking head. It never came. But here I was, suddenly with two mixed drinks that I liked. I was getting somewhere.

Let's fast forward some more until we get to May of this year. I was at a conference in Ron Burgundy's hometown, hanging out with some clients after dinner. We'd had a few drinks (a 7 and 7 and a couple of beers over the course of a few hours), and one guy wanted "an after dinner drink" before calling it a night. "Uh oh, I have no such thing in my stable," I thought. The first guy ordered a cognac, and I thought about joining him in that, even though it honestly scared me a little. The guy next to me said, "What are you having?" "Whatever you are," I said. This was a frightening statement, because that guy drinks so much that he practically has gills. "You sure?" he asked. With a look and voice that exuded confidence, I said, "Absolutely. Surprise me." "Ok. Two Makers Mark Manhattans please," he said. I gulped. I didn't know what kind of liquor Makers Mark was for sure, and I didn't know what happened to it when it became the Manhattan version. The drinks came, and to my utter surprise, I rather enjoyed it. So much so, in fact, that I immediately sent myself an email that only said, "Makers Mark Manhattan." Ready for the best part? This drink looks cool. I'm talking "Mad Men cool" here, served in a rocks glass and everything. I think I now have a go-to cool drink, not cut with any soda to wuss it up or anything. According to a website I looked at the next day, it's two parts Makers Mark (which I learned is a bourbon - I like bourbon?), one part vermouth, a dash of something called bitters, and an optional garnish of a cherry. How cool is that? I feel like I should go get a fedora or something.

I haven't had the opportunity to order one of my new drinks again yet, but I assure you that I will soon. I'm not gonna go out and buy three new bottles for the off chance that I'll feel like "fixing myself a drink" one night after work. That's just not my thing, but hopefully I go out somewhere soon that I can just rattle that off and soak in the coolness. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the former Bachelor #2 is back in the middle of things, and he's bringing several drink options with him.

With that, let's mix, shake, and strain ourselves on over to the Car Watch.

First off, my homey Rockabye saw a plate that takes things to a new level: "ATRNY4U." Yes, it's not enough to be in the yellow pages, have a bus bench ad, or maybe a website. This lawyer wants you to know that, should the time come, s/he is there to represent you. One problem though: how do we contact this attorney? That's why we need the ultimate in lawyer car advertisements: two bumper stickers on either side of the plate that read "LAWYER," and the 7-digit phone number as the plate. The area code can be on the top part of the license plate frame, and the bottom can alert us to any specialties (i.e. personal injury). It's just a matter of time, isn't it?

Next up, my lovely wife and I saw a plate that I really liked: "MUU WAH." It's clearly an attempt to replicate an evil laugh, and I applaud that.

Lastly, I saw a van for a flooring company. Their phone number, as boldly lettered onto its side, is 866-WE DO WUD. I'm torn here. Normally, I'd applaud this person for sticking to the true 7 digits and not getting into the famed 800-SAVETHECHILDREN territory. That said, I would actually prefer to see WOOD there, despite the superfluous 8th digit. "WUD" just looks stupid to me, and that's clearly not the point of getting a vanity number. So...good effort, I guess, but poor execution.

Ok, this ended up taking up more space than I'd imagined, so I'm ending this here and now. Meet me back here next Friday for more stuff, ok? In the meantime, please email me with anything that crosses your mind (inlcuding things that UOPTA can stand for). And now, los happies: Have a very happy Fourth of July tomorrow, my friends and friends of friends. On Sunday, my favorite nephew goes from "almost fo-wuh" to actually 4 years old, so happy birthday to that frickin' adorable kid. And...I think that's it. I don't have my calendar in front of me, so I apologize if I'm missing anyone's birthday or half-birthday. Let me know and I'll apologize profusely (or antifusely). Take care, everyone.

Badvertising

2009-06-26T05:09:00.000-07:00

My dear homepeople of the internets, I welcome you to another post here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Usually Only Pilots Teach Aviation," but if that's the case, I really think that they need to bump that up to 100% of the time. "Usually" simply can't cut it this time. Instead, UOPTA is where I write my thoughts and stories for my 8-10 loyal readers to hopefully enjoy. (If you can think of something that UOPTA can stand for, please email it to me at ptklein@gmail.com and make your presence felt in the first paragraph of an upcoming post.) As is often the case, I have some unrelated items to share with you all today.

It probably comes as a shock to absolutely no one that I'm critical of the way companies advertise their products. I've already discussed the extreme example at great length (Carl's Jr. garnering a Peter Klein boycott), but there are lesser, more general ones that bother me as well. I'm going to make up names for these categories. The first one I shall call...The Self-Disparaging Comparison. Allow me to explain the SDC with a crystal clear example:

Picture a commercial for Pine Sol or a similar product. At some point, it's likely that there will be a split screen showing one mop or sponge doing a mediocre job on the left while the product they're selling is doing a kick-ass job on the right. What's the problem with that? Well, often the product on the left is the old (or current) version of the same brand's product. "But look at how NEW Pine Sol with its extra added cleaning power takes care of the same mess!" I made up that specific example, but I'm not far off at all. Basically, when products show how much better they are than the same brand's recent product, they're essentially saying, "Yeah, that stuff that you spent your money on because we said it was the best and is now sitting in your cabinet...well, it didn't really do that great a job. This one is a lot better." But what if they told you that something killed 99.9% of germs before? Can they rightfully come out with a "better" product without claiming all 100%? My suggestion is to stick to belittling "the other guys" or similar products in the same category and to just let your old versions fade away gracefully.

I thought of another SDC during that last paragraph. "Now with 100% real meat!" To me, that only elicits one reply: "What the hell were you serving me before?" It's almost like a used car salesman saying, "This car over here is special - it's never been found with two dead hookers in it." Ok, maybe not quite like that, but who among us hasn't forced an analogy to dead hookers before?

The second advertising method that's currently bothering me is one I'll call the Arbitrary Size Boost. I've noticed the ASB many times in the past, but I saw it again this week and it spurred this entire post. My shaving cream is very pleased with itself. "35% More! (compared to our 7 oz. size)," it tells me. I see this all the time. "50% more!" it'll say on a bag of some snack food. You know what they don't tell us in those little blurbs? That it costs the same as the smaller size. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. Yes, the four-pack of shaving cream at Costco now has the larger can size in it, but am I paying more for it? If so, then why not make it 75% bigger and raise the price more? The thing is, they don't care to mention when the opposite happens, which does all the time (especially lately). Granola bar boxes that once came with 6 now have five. My bag of tortillas has 16 instead of the 20 to which I grew accustomed. Bottles that appear to be the same size now have indentations on the bottom to sneakily decrease the volume. You never see, "Now with 25% less volume (compared to our 12 oz. size)." I understand why they'd try to be sneaky about that (especially when prices remain the same often for the lesser amount), but I don't want to see those same companies tout their "bigger sizes" a year from now when they're actually the same size they had before getting sneaky. I'm watching you, retail products.

Ok, time to switch topics. In this here blog, when I say I don't like a phrase, it's usually because it either doesn't make sense or is just wildly inappropriate. Not today, my good men and women. Here's a phrase that I dislike for a whole 'nuther reason: "Adding to an already tough drive." If you hear that on the radio in your car, you'd better hope that it had nothing to do with your route. Unfortunately, everything seems to be an already tough drive - getting in a car at all is really beginning to suck in L.A. There's no rhyme or reason anymore, and I thrive off rhyme and reason. Driving to my grandparents' house last weekend, we were suddenly in bumper-to-bumper traffic. It was a Saturday in the early afternoon, but that didn't matter. There can be horrible traffic anywhere, on any day, and at any time in the greater Los Angeles area. (And in the worse Los Angeles area too I suppose.) As someone who already worries about leaving enough time to get somewhere, all this traffic does is make me anxious. There seem to be only two possible outcomes when I'm leaving to drive somewhere a moderate distance away. One: I don't hit traffic and get there way too early, usually leading to time alone in the car, writing emails on my Blackberry that I could've been writing on a real computer if I hadn't left so damn early. Two: I hit traffic and worry the whole time that I'm going to be late. It's worse if I'm going somewhere for the first time and have to find out where it really is, where to park, etc. Oy vey, this traffic thing isn't good for me at all.

And with that, let's slowly inch our way over to the Car Watch.

First off, my friend Dave very rarely sends me anything for the Car Watch section, but when he does, it's a doozy. Check out this picture he sent me of a car he saw when he went to an Angels game recently:

In case you can't read that, it says, "For Letters Call." Oh, they do lettering on things. How interesting. And since it's a toll-free number, I'm guessing that it's not just a guy in his garage doing it as a hobby. Why then, pray tell, would the driver spell his or her favorite team's name wrong right below that? That's comically awful. I wonder how many people have seen that car, thought about calling, and then purposely not given them the business because of that error. That's your livelihood, dude! Come on, put just a little pride in it. To me, this colossally negligent error in business advertising is tied for the worst I've seen. The other, sent a while back from loyal reader Sue, was a tutoring company that specializes in helping with "grammer." Those two errors so successfully strip the companies of credibility that I might not even point it out to them in person as punishment for their foolishness. People, please proofread. Please.

Next up, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate that he saw: "(Heart) 2B DST." Now I ask you, friends, which makes more sense: "Love to be dust," or "Love to be Daylight Savings Time?" Neither, right? "Love tube dust?" I don't know what that could mean, but that's not stopping me from throwing it out there. Whatever it stands for, the driver clearing loves it.

And lastly, my dad sent me a very good plate that he spied. It read, "CLSY BRP." Can that be anything but "classy burp?" I guess the driver's initials could be BRP, but if that's the case, then s/he showed an amazing lack of foresight in selecting that plate. I can't help but wonder what would constitute a classy burp. Is it in a baritone with an appropriately genteel hand mannerism? Would it be reserved for after a particular food or drink, like caviar or port? I want to know this, yet I have a feeling that I'll be left in the dark. Any additional thoughts, my friends?

Ok, that's it for now. I'm tired and ready for the weekend. How about you guys? (This is the part where you're supposed to cheer.) I can't hear you! (Now you're supposed to cheer louder.) Whoa, I guess you're ready for it too! I'll be back here next Friday with more stuff, things, and items. In the meantime, I've got some happies to dish out. Happy birthday today to my good friend Jason. Also, congratulations to him and his new fiancee Wendy on getting engaged. We're very happy for them and can't wait to congratulate them in person sometime in the near future. Happy birthday to me tomorrow. Thank you, me. No problem. Happy half-birthday to my dad on Sunday, and happy 6th birthday to little Katy, daughter of Sacky Kevin and Sacky Christi. Isn't it weird that they have the same first name? Alrighty folks, have happy and healthy weekends and weeks. See you in July, foolios.

Usage and abusage

2009-06-19T05:07:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, and welcome to another Friday of potential fun at UOPTA. No, no, that does not stand for "Unicorns On Path To Antarctica," but that does pose additional questions in my mind. First, are they galloping or flying when they're over landmasses? Second, when they fly, do they do so in a V formation like birds or more willy-nilly like some kind of air stampede? And third, why can't I have musical ability so that I could start a band and name it Air Stampede? You can't spell that without Peter, after all. (Thanks to my homey Rockabye for sending in that UOPTA. Please send in your own to ptklein@gmail.com; I'm already almost out of them.) Friends, UOPTA is a place in which I write thoughts and stories (and usually has nothing to do with mythical winged creatures). So let's see what I've got this week, shall we?

Ooh, lots of random items today in my bag of words. Let's start small. There is a word that a great many people say incorrectly, and it comes up just often enough to piss me off: Espresso. That's right, with an S. There's no X in that word, people. Just because you already know a word that sounds like that one but has an X doesn't mean that you have to insert an X into this one. Oh boy, now I'm really getting angry. I just did a search for "expresso" online, and after listing a film and some software by that name, Wikipedia has this: "an alternate spelling of espresso." I refused to believe this and went immediately (without passing Go) to the Merriam Webster site. Sure enough, there's an entry: "Expresso: variant of espresso." Variant? More like f'd up way of saying it. (For the record, my spellcheck doesn't recognize "expresso," so I've got that going for me.)

I understand that the chief concern of a linguist is the actual usage of language and not in how correctly it is being used. I've learned that many of our most proper forms and constructions were born from improper usage. Once it becomes popular enough though, it doesn't matter if it's "right" or not; that's just the way it's being used and is therefore acceptable going forward. And that, my friends, is why I'm not a linguist by profession. If I can't get upset at poorly used English, then that's just not for me. Am I supposed to sit idly by while people say, "I'm literally drownding in paperwork" when it's figurative and there's no D in that word? I don't think so.

Oh crap, the internet just makes me more upset and confused. I don't know why I just did this, but I wanted to see if the incorrect "visa versa" was getting its own entry too. I feel justified in saying this is incorrect because it's Latin. I don't think we should be able to modify a dead language. In any case, I was pleased to see a few sites pointing out that "vice versa" is the correct form instead of the one that bugs me. But then I found this little nugget that turned my world upside down: "Classical Latin pronunciation dictates that the letter C can only make a hard sound...and a v is pronounced like a w; thus wee-keh wehr-suh." Wee-keh wehr-suh? What am I supposed to do with that? I feel like I now have two options. One, I continue saying "vice vehr-suh" going forward, all the while knowing that I'm incorrect and therefore almost as bad as the people who say "visa." Two, I start pronouncing it the Classical Latin way and have nobody understand what the hell I'm talking about. If they figure it out, then I'm Snobby McSnobberson for saying something obscure. It's a lose-lose situation.

Moving on to another item about words. I was on a phone call at work earlier this week, and one person told another that he would "send a facsimile over." I didn't realize that anyone still said that whole word when referring to the electronic transfer of a document through telephone lines. Does that guy also go to the gymnasium after work? And then study mathematics? What if he catches influenza?

Our next item also involves words, but this one actually made me laugh instead of fume. I was in Miami for a conference earlier this year, and I walked past a theater called The Fillmore. However, that's not how I first saw it. For some reason, the sign on the front of the building says, "F THE FILLMORE." The F is in a different font than the other all-cap letters, but it's directly in front of them and really looks like it's part of the name. I found one picture online, but it's from a little too far away. You'll have to trust me on this one. "F THE FILLMORE" it says, and I'd be shocked if a large percentage of people didn't also see it that way. You can't spell "percentage" without Peter, after all.

Ok, last item before we shift gears (pun intended). I've written before about people misunderstanding my name occasionally when I say it. It doesn't happen nearly as often to me as it does my friend Greg, but I've still heard some good ones (i.e. Gator and the completely made-up Geter). Recently though, I got a new one. "Your name?" the young lady asked. "Peter," I said (truthfully, might I add). She made a strange face. "Your name is Dealer?" she asked incredulously. "No," I said, "Peee Terrrrr." "Oh, that makes more sense." Gee, ya think? I wonder which association she made in that brief moment of thinking that my name was Dealer: drug dealer, blackjack dealer, or car dealer? That's the order in which I thought of them.

Ok, I lied. Here's the last item. Sorry about that, but I reminded myself of something and figured I may as well keep on keeping on. I worked for a short amount of time in one of the academic departments at UC Santa Barbara right after graduating and before moving onto the college advising office. This department was very small, with only four full time staff members. One of them, a nice woman we'll call Sherry, kept accidentally referring to me as David for the first two weeks I was there. Every time I corrected her, and every time she laughed and said she didn't know where that was coming from. About a month into my stay there, the department head put a pamphlet in my box with a routing slip on it for people to check off that they'd read it. It had our initials on it, or at least it was supposed to. I could clearly identify everyone else's initials, but instead of mine, there was a "DR." "Hey Sherry," I said, "Did you create these new routing slips?" "Yeah, why?" "I'm not on here," I said. She walked over and took a look. "I did it again! I'm sorry, Peter, I don't know why I keep calling you David, but that should be a P instead." "Um, that's not my last initial either," I said. She looked back at the sheet and then laughed for the next ten minutes. She couldn't explain that one either, but somehow Peter Klein had morphed into David R. when she was typing that up. It was very strange, especially when I brought my friend Dave (whose last name starts with an R) into the office shortly thereafter. The upside of that gaffe was that I could occasionally sign emails as "David R." over the following two months and make her crack up every time.

And with that, let's get ourselves misidentified over at the Car Watch.

A week or two ago, I saw a Lincoln Navigator with the plate, "NVGATOR." "Wow, they really want us to know what kind of car that is, and they're certainly not trusting us to just read what it says on the back." One day later, my favorite brother sent me this plate: "JAGUAAR." Yep, it was on a Jaguar. Not to sound too much like Seinfeld, but what's the deal with that? We can see what kind of car you're driving; you don't need to doubly tell us by also spelling it wrong on your license plate.

My homey Rockabye saw this plate a little while back: "IMMUNE1." Now don't you think that's tempting fate just a little? If I were omnipotent, I'd be tempted to see just how immune that driver is to things. And if I were impotent, I'd probably drive a big truck to overcompensate.

Lastly, I saw a license plate frame that confused me a little bit. On the top, it read, "Sorry." On the bottom: "'Bout That." Is s/he just a really bad driver who wants to issue a preemptive blanket apology? If that driver cut me off or waited at a green light for a few seconds before hitting the gas, I don't think I'd consider that frame as a free pass. Fortunately for both of us, the car behaved just fine while it was near me.

Ok, that's it for PK/DR. I hope you all have glorious weekends and weeks, mis amiguitos. In the meantime: Happy half-birthday to my favorite brother and my good friend Jon tomorrow. Happy Fathers' Day on Sunday (especially to my dad), which is also my homey Rockabye's half-birthday. Happy birthday on Wednesday to my friend Ozzie, and happy half-birthday to Jesus on Thursday. Last but certainly not least, way to go, Lakers! I must take partial credit for their victory, for I finally figured out how I have to sit on my couch for them to win. It involves bending a toe in an odd way which ends up hurting quite a bit after a while, but I'm willing to sacrifice for my team. I wonder if they'll acknowledge me by sending me a championship ring. I'm just as responsible as Adam Morrison (if not more). Anyway, I'm proud of them and hope to sit correctly and cheer them on to next year's title as well. Shaloha, and remember to write to me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

Slipped my mind

2009-06-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

Good day, everyone, and welcome to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Unskinned Onions Produce Tears Again," but that's a sad reality of kitchen life that we all must face at some point in our lives. (Thanks to my loving mother-in-law for sending in that UOPTA. Get your own in this top paragraph by writing to ptklein@gmail.com. Pretty please.) Instead, this UOPTA is where I write things that are on my mind, and people just like you willingly read those thoughts and stories. So let's get right to it.

Actually, I have a little story about today's date first. My favorite brother, all of my best friends, and I have a habit of speaking almost entirely in movie quotes. Some movies peak quickly and then fizzle out. For example, we quoted the hell out of "John Carpenter's Vampires" (because it was so awful) for a year or so before it almost completely left our collective vernacular. Same with "Contact," which has some good lines in it. Other movies stick around for the long haul. For example, the first "Austin Powers" movie, "Anchorman," "Face/Off," and "The 40 Year-Old Virgin" are firmly established and aren't going anywhere. Right up there with those four is a little movie from 1998 called "Rush Hour." It's 2009 now, and lines from that movie still come up all the time in our normal speech. I thought of this because I saw today's date and chuckled to myself. You see, the shadowy bad guy of "Rush Hour" is known as Juntao (pronounced so that it rhymes with "moon now"). Almost every year since then, I've called or written my homey Rockabye to say, "JUNE TWELVE!" in my best Jackie Chan voice. I know it doesn't really sound like Juntao, but it always makes me smile. JUNE TWELVE!

Now here's what I intended to write about today. Thank you for your patience. I have found yet another thing in this world that I absolutely detest: Not remembering something that was very clear to me at one point in my life. I'm not just talking about forgetting someone's name here. Allow me to illustrate via the power of two examples.

I was talking to my favorite brother and my friend Greg (The Pigh) last weekend. I'm not sure exactly how it came up, but Greg mentioned something that I used to say quite frequently while playing an ice hockey video game back in the 96-97 academic year. In hockey, there's something called a "one timer." Wikipedia defines it as a shot "that occurs when a player meets a teammate's pass with an immediate slapshot without any attempt to control the puck on his stick." Got it? Good. Anyway, every single time one of us did a one timer, I would say, "One time, one time, just be thankful for my rhyme." It was from some old school rap, and thinking about "one timer" got me singing that line. Greg got in on the action too, even though he didn't know the song. He affixed an accent to his version for some reason, and we're not sure if it was intended to be Irish or Jamaican.

In any case, Greg brought up that line while we were chatting on Saturday. The last few times I'd thought of it, I realized that I couldn't remember which rap song it was from. I turned to my brother, who knew all of the same songs but was 3.5 years older at the time, so hopefully had a better shot of remembering. "Oh, Kev, what song is this from?" I asked before launching into the line. He had no idea. Crap. So I did what anyone in my position would do: I turned to Google. I searched for the entire phrase, parts of the phrase in quotes, and every combination possible. Nothing. In fact, Google doesn't find the exact phrase, "thankful for my rhyme" anywhere in the bajillion websites it searches. So what can I do? Ask everyone I know and try not to get upset when they all look at me like I'm making it up on the spot? I know it came from somewhere. My only thought is that maybe instead of being an actual song, it was from an 80s commercial or something instead (which wouldn't be as likely to have its lyrics online). All I know is that I'm at a dead end, and it pisses me off.

My other example comes from way back in the day, and it occurs to me that I've never told this story to anyone. Growing up, my favorite brother and I spent a lot of time at our grandparents' house doing all sorts of things. We often recorded ourselves either singing songs, having conversations, or just being silly. One afternoon in particular when I was about 8 or 9 years old, Kevin was using the tape recorder. I distinctly remember sitting in the background, singing a camp song to myself. However, when we listened to what was recorded a couple of hours later, I couldn't make out what song it was. I remembered it was a camp song, but on the recording, it sounded like I was singing, "Every the apple you." Those pretty clearly aren't the right words, but as I listened over and over again, that's what it sounded like. I spent the rest of that day going through every camp song I could think of. "Every the apple you" didn't fit into any of them. I think of this every time I see apple juice, and while I know that there's no way in hell I'll ever figure it out at this point, it still makes me frustrated with myself.

I hope my examples have helped shed some light on this particular type of not-remembering. I knew something very clearly at one point, cited it, and then can't for the life of me recall it a little while later. I think this is different than my mom's problem with remembering Phil Collins' name or the time I couldn't remember the word "observant" and kept saying "observsive" and "observatory" over and over again. Instead, I'm left sitting here with Google failing me and "every the apple you" playing on repeat in my head. The "uh oh" in this blog's name feels very appropriate right now.

One quick thing before we move on: As long as I'm not the one doing it, I like when typos really change the meaning of what someone intended to write. I wrote about this probably two years ago, and cited two typos that I caught at the very last second. The first was, "I know you're really busty," instead of "busy" to one of the female Deans at UCSB. The second was a letter certifying that my friend (who was getting her massage license) wouldn't be giving out sexual favors. I wrote, "She's a fine and oral citizen" before catching it and adding the M. In any case, I saw a typo earlier this week, and this marks the third time that I've come across this one. Instead of "definitely," it said, "defiantly." That's a big difference. "I defiantly think we need more training," one of the three said. (Really? The other people are staunchly against that? Duly noted.) Now I realize that many people misspell definite as "definate," but it's another thing to spell it wrong and then transpose two letters.

With that, let's scramble our letters on down to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye sent me a plate that I think demands too much of us. "SWIMGR8," it tells us. That's right. "Get in the water - no, all the way in the water! Now start swimming! Better! Better! Mediocre swimming is not acceptable!"

Next up, I'd like to illustrate a poor use of the Car Watch surfaces, in my not-so-humble opinion. The plate itself read, "BSTN LA." That seems pretty clear cut to me, although it could be "Best in LA" instead of "Boston," as I first read it. The driver clearly isn't too confident in his plate's ability to get his point across. In comes the license plate frame to save the day. On the top, it says, "It says." On the bottom: "Boston L.A." Oh thank you so much for clearing that up. I'm surprised that there wasn't a bumper sticker that said, "The frame says that the plate says 'Boston L.A.'" And then an antenna ball to explain the sticker. And Calvin peeing on something that explains the antenna ball. And then mud flaps to clear up any of the Calvin peeing confusion. Or maybe the driver could've just gotten, "BOSTN LA" on the plate and stopped there.

Last but not least, my dad sent me this bumper sticker: "Come to the Dark Side. We have cookies." That's one hell of a fringe benefit. I'm there, dude.

And I'm also done with this week's post, dude. I'll be back next Friday for some more of this shyte, ite? In the meantime, let's acknowledge some happiness. Happy 0th birthday yesterday to our friends' Danielle and Jesse's new little girl, Nicole Rheta. Congratulations on being born, and we hope to meet you soon. Happy half-birthday to my loving mother-in-law and whole birthday to our friend Wendy tomorrow. Monday is my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. 40! That's a big number, so please join me in wishing them a very happy one. And happy half-birthday on Tuesday to our good friend Candice. That's it, party people. See you next week, and GO LAKERS! JUNE TWELVE!

I think I get it

2009-06-05T05:06:00.000-07:00

Shaloha, my friends and friends of friends. Welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for, "Until Orangutans Pray, They're Atheists," but I really can't argue with that sound logic. Thanks to my lovely wife for supplying that UOPTA - you can do the same my emailing me at ptklein@gmail.com, dontchaknow. Speaking of my lovely wife, it's her birthday today, so everyone please join me in wishing her an extremely happy one. Now let's get to some thoughts and stories, shall we?

Last week, I wrote about some interestingly-named businesses and how they can purposely be misleading. In thinking about the topic of business names a little more, I would like to add a new category - The Maybe Pun.

When I was in tenth grade (holy crap, that was a big number of years ago), I had a sixth period English class with some friends. The teacher suggested that we buy some books from a local bookstore instead of some chains that probably no longer exist. This particular bookstore, she told us, was called "Lewis For Books." After class, my friend Dusty and I talked about going there over the weekend. "Lewis For Books," I said aloud, mainly because I was confused by the name and trying to figure it out. "Yeah, get it?" he asked. I hesitated and set my mind in overdrive for those two seconds. If it was indeed a pun - like it seemed to be on the surface - I wanted desperately to get it. If Dusty already got what they were doing with that, I didn't want to seem stupid by not picking up on it too. I came up with nothing though, so I sheepishly replied, "Um, no, not really." "Me neither," he said. I was relieved. We spent the next few minutes trying to figure out what it could possible mean. "Maybe it's telling us that Lew...Is for books." "Instead of being anti-books?" "I don't know." "Maybe it's trying to fit neatly into a sentence, like 'I'm going to Lewis...for books.'" We eventually gave up, but every single time the store name came up after that, we'd say to anyone around us, "Ha! Get it?"

Almost the same exact thing happened with another establishment in The Valley. As I documented in this space at least a year ago, I worked for a brief time at a place called Salads Galore. Yes, that name makes sense since that's what they serve. Next door to it, however, is a restaurant named "Chili My Soul." I've been there several times now, and while it's a bit pricey, they have some amazing chili dishes that I'm pleased to eat from time to time. The name bothers me though, and Dusty agrees. "Is it a command using 'chili' as a verb? I demand that you chili my soul immediately!" "Is it a pun on 'chill my soul?' Oh wait, does anyone ever say 'chill my soul?'" We didn't come to an answer on that one either. What makes it worse is that I've seen a restaurant called "Pizza My Heart" that has a similar name construction but is actually a fully-functional play on words. Oh yeah, and it gets Janis Joplin in my head every single time I think of it.

The reason I thought about this particular topic is because my mom mentioned one of her own troubling Maybe Pun establishments. Near my parents' house, there's a place called Massage Envy. As it turns out, there are over 800 of these spread out across the U.S. In any case, my mom asked me very seriously, "Is it supposed to be like penis envy?" That's what I think of too when I hear that, and I told her as much. But it wasn't just the lack of pun that bothered her; the use of "envy" did too. Her point was that since anyone can theoretically go there and get a massage, why exactly would anyone be envious? It's not like some exclusive club that we're not allowed into or anything. I tend to agree yet again with my mother, which I've learned is a wise thing to do.

Ok, moving on to some random items. First off, I had two genuinely ironic moments within ten minutes of each other. I went to Whole Foods to get some lunch with my co-worker Jamie earlier this week. When I was set to leave, I got into the express line since the two people waiting before me only had a couple of items each. A few minutes later, it was almost my turn. I took a little look around and saw three wide-open checkout lanes with cashiers waiting for someone to be rung up. Yes folks, I chose the express checkout to be faster, but the idea of it being faster ended up making it considerably slower than its non-express counterparts. A few minutes later, we were in her car heading back to the office. It would've gone a lot faster if it weren't for an extremely slow car in front of us that kept braking for no reason whatsoever. In the lane next to us, cars kept zipping by quickly enough that we couldn't get around the slowpoke. What kind of car was it? A Suzuki...Swift. Yes, the least swift car on the road was called a Swift. Awesome.

Next up, I was in San Diego recently for work, and I noticed something as I got into the hotel elevator that struck me as strange. Right above the floor buttons was a sign that had, "Firefighters' Operations," "Firefighters' Phone Jack," and "Firefighters' Service" all with additional text beside them. If you're scoring at home, that's some correct plural possessive shit going down right there. Then I was surprised at myself for being surprised by correct usage. Has it really come to that? I wanted to send myself a text message about it but felt self-conscious with other people in the elevator with me. Then I noticed that all three of them were typing away on their Blackberries, so I joined the masses and e-jotted myself a note.

And lastly for this section, I had a meeting earlier with a woman this week at work. Somehow, our conversation got sidetracked and we ended up talking about dogs for a good ten minutes. She told me a great story that I have to relay here. A little while ago, she got a Maltese puppy. She decided to partially train the pup by using a squirt gun to illustrate what was a no-no (barking, peeing and pooping indoors, etc.). A little while later, a new neighbor moved in to the house next door to her. When they met a day or two after that, the new neighbor asked, "What's going on over there?" "What do you mean?" she replied. "I keep hearing you threaten someone by saying, 'I'm gonna go get the gun!'" She explained, and they shared a laugh. Ah, what a simple misunderstanding that easily could've let to the police busting in the door with their weapons drawn. Those are the best!

And with that, let's lock and load on over to the Car Watch.

My favorite brother sent me a license plate that took me a lot longer than it should've to understand. It read, "OLETYMR." For some reason, my first reading was the completely made-up, "O lety mister." Then I transitioned to, "O, le timer!" like a dismayed French chef who isn't quite ready for the next step of the recipe. Finally I got the real message and felt foolish for first making up nonsensical things. But here I am sharing that folly with you; that is indeed how I roll.

Next up, my homey Rockabye sent me a bumper sticker that probably could've been on the car from the above item. It read, "It's not just that I'm old. Your music really does suck." That's certainly casting a wide net with one's put-down, wouldn't you say? What if the car behind this guy (or gal, but I doubt it) is listening to the old dude's favorite music? Then his aural distaste is sadly misplaced. But not erased. What a waste. All in haste. He should be maced. And then eat paste.

And lastly, I saw a plate earlier this week that said, "CRZI HRS." Again, my mind went a little off the beaten path with this one. Instead of what I have to believe is "Crazy Horse" (since that is an established name in our collective vocabulary), I read it as the driver trying to tell me that s/he keeps "crazy hours." I switched over to getting the real meaning almost immediately, but then I took a second and examined why I went to "hours" first. I think I have a legitimate claim: we as a people see "HRS" stand for "hours" all the time on sign windows, on Outlook meeting durations, and many other places in life. I was conditioned to think "hours," was I not? Would I have gotten the real meaning if there hadn't been the space after "CRZI?" We may never know. Regardless, I'm just glad I got to the true meaning before my mind tried convincing me that it was "Crazy Human Resources."

Okeedokee, my little artichokees, I'm out of here. Oh sure, I'll be back next Friday with more stuff, but that's no reason to hold back the emails you're just dying to send me about your own thoughts, stories, and Car Watch items. In the meantime, let us get happy. Happy 0th birthday yesterday to little Annabelle Daisy Miller, new daughter of our friends Candice and Scott. Welcome to the world, young one. As clearly stated in our opening paragraph, today is still my lovely wife's birthday. Happy birthday, my love. Not so coincidentally, it's also the birthday of a very sweet chocolate lab with the wettest tongue this side of the Mississippi named Shira. Happy anniversary on Sunday to the Frazees and the McCoys. Happy half-birthday to our good friend Twilight on Monday, and happy birthday to my Aunt Judy on Tuesday. Have a great weekend and week, everybody. AND GO LAKERS!

Misleading the way

2009-05-29T05:05:00.000-07:00

Bienvenidos mis amiguitos, and welcome to another Friday here at UOPTA. No, that's not a reminder about it being the Undeniably Orgasmic Playoff Time Again, but that's certainly one way to look at this part of the overlapping NBA and NHL postseasons. (Thanks to Aunt Lynn for sending that UOPTA in - get in the game yourself and send one to ptklein@gmail.com.) No folks, this is the virtual receptacle in which I deposit my thoughts and stories. Thanks for stopping by, and let's see what we've got here today, shall we?

You know what I like? Yes, burritos, but that's not where I was going with this one. That sounds good though. Anyway, I like to see purposely-misleading business names. "Whatever do you mean by that, Peter?" Good question, fake audience member with impeccable manners. I'll tell you what I mean by way of examples.

First off, I've mentioned before in this space that I lived in the student-heavy town of Isla Vista adjacent to UC Santa Barbara for three years. It was a fantastic place for that stage of my life with everything I ever could've wanted, but I hope to never live anywhere like that ever again. The various eateries and establishments in the town added greatly to the experience. Where else can you choose from three places within spitting distance of each other to get a burrito at 2am? Mmm, burrito. Well, sometime in my first couple of years there, a bar opened on the street with the majority of the business establishments. It was called, "The Study Hall," and I thought that was brilliant. I never used the line myself, but I can imagine many students truthfully telling their parents, "I was at The Study Hall all night," while trying to conceal the sound of a smile on their lips. Well played, imaginary students. Even better (or worse, depending on your viewpoint), I assume that if a student were to use a credit card with the parents' billing address, one could come up with a few conceivable ways in which s/he spent twenty bucks while "studying" (snacks, blue books, scantrons, sharpened pencils, etc.). That's putting higher education to work, and I'm all for it.

There are a couple of similar bar names that come to mind in the L.A. area. Notably, there are two "Father's Office" establishments. There's less trickery with that one I think, because one probably wouldn't be able to fool one's parents with that one. Then there's "The Casting Office Bar & Grill" in Universal City. That name actually strikes me as quite sad. Maybe it's just me (and it often is), but I can't help but picture an out-of-work actor telling a loved one that he's going to try "The Casting Office" again today and see if there's any work. "I'm sure something will come up," a supportive parent might say, "You've been going there almost everyday, so something's bound to happen. Hard work and determination are always rewarded." See, you're sad now, right? The only way I can make it better in my mind is to think that maybe casting agents actually go there to unwind after a day on the Universal lot. Then it might actually work out, which would be great for that fictional guy. (Wow, I've made up three people already today. I feel both powerful and a little crazy.)

Lastly, there's another category in which a sneaky name is potentially very helpful: Gentlemens' Clubs. I'm not a fan of strip clubs - they're just not my thing at all - but I can understand that some people like them. If any of those people want to keep that fact hidden, then dropping names like "Paradise Cove" and "The Frisky Kitty" probably won't help the cause. However, there's a strip club near my work called "Plan B." I think that's very wise for two reasons. First, the aforementioned discretion is key (if desired). Second, picture a group of guys who go out and their plans for the night get derailed by one thing or another. "Well, how about plan B?" one might say. And like that, this one particular strip club has made its way into their group consciousness. (By the way, another strip club called 4Play is nearby, which is just a smidge more conspicuous.)

There's also a legendary strip club on Sunset called "The Body Shop," which is very clever in its sneakiness. That said, it's enough of an establishment in L.A. that it's lost most of its deception. I was made aware of this while with a group of guys one day, when one said that "The Body Shop" had burned down. The others lamented that news, and I couldn't figure out what the hell they were talking about. After a few more sentences, I finally understood that they hadn't taken their vehicles there to get worked on. "Ah," I thought, "very clever indeed." I gave it another thought, and an inherent problem came to mind: "Honey, why are you going to the body shop at night? And why are you and your buddies carpooling?" Maybe the owner is content with having a pun in the name and isn't trying to be sneaky after all. Either way, the pun-loving side of me approves of the name.

Not to switch gears too drastically, but I have a random little story to tell. I was in a meeting at work, and one person was telling the other about a very large company with which he associates. "They're the 800 pound elephant in our industry," he said. It took all of my might to hold back from saying, "So...on the small side then?" I did refrain, but I thought his mixed-up metaphor was funny enough to share. I hope I was right.

Ok fine, one more random thought for you all. I have a giant pet peeve of which I only recently became aware. I really dislike when status bars lie to me. I was trying to restart a program on a computer at work, and a bar came up to allegedly show me my progress. It started off empty, but then slowly filled in more and more with little boxes to indicate the rate of completion. It was slow, but I stood there and waited since I could tell approximately how much longer it would take. Minutes later, I started to reach for the mouse as the bar became completely filled. Instead, the bar emptied again and one little box appeared in the far left. "Fooled you!" it may as well have screamed at me. Stupid lying status bar. Seriously, what's the point of even having something like that on the screen if it's completely arbitrary? It's not like it said that was step one of four or anything. Nope, it just pretended to be related to the actual restarting process. I gave it the finger and walked away.

With that, let's make untraceable electronic progress on over to the Car Watch.

My friend Dusty saw a bumper sticker that I rather enjoyed. It read, "Land Rover: The Best 4x4xFar." I think that's brilliant. The use of "x" as another "by" was enough on its own for me, but having "far" sound like "four" was the icing on the cake. Actually, that's a bad metaphor for me. I prefer cake without icing more often than not, because icing tends to make things overly sweet sometimes. Give me a good cake that has some sweet stuff in it, and I'm set.

Here's a license plate from my homey Rockabye that sort of goes with the last one: "CLAP6X." First of all, I would without a doubt pull up next to that car and clap - but only once or twice. They're not the boss of me! Second, the reason I said that this plate sort of goes with the last item is because of its use of the letter X. In this case, it most likely stands for "times." X is pretty versatile, it would appear. Without giving it much thought, it can easily stand for "by," "times," "cross," and "Christ." Speaking of which, I'm used to seeing "X-mas" standing for "Christmas," even though I don't fully understand why. Why then does Christina Aguilera go by "Xtina" occasionally instead of "Xina?" The T is already in the X, right? By the way, when lacrosse players call their sport "LAX," it makes sense and is clever. Final score: Jocks 1, Pop stars 0.

And lastly, my dad saw a plate that read, "OHBEHAV." Is it possible to read that in any voice other than Austin Powers'?

That's it for me, homepeople. I shall return a week from today to dish more of this slop. In the meantime, please help me wish a happy birthday on Monday to my friend and former boss Kim, and on Tuesday to my friend and former employee Devon. If you think of anything at all that you feel like sharing, you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com. Have a happy and healthy weekend and week, friends, and go Lakers!

Burgers and lies

2009-05-22T05:01:00.000-07:00

Good morning/late morning/lunchtime/afternoon/dusk/evening/middle of the night, everyone. How am I supposed to know when you're reading this? Anyway, welcome to another installment of UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Urologists Of Poland Try Anything," but that's still very helpful to know if you find yourself in that specific situation. (Thanks to my mom for that UOPTA offering. Send in your own version to ptklein@gmail.com.) No friends, UOPTA is a place in which I convey my thoughts and tell stories that somehow came to mind recently. Let's jump right in, shall we?

When I was in that bowling league for a few seasons recently, I enjoyed almost all aspects of it. However, one thing pissed me off for the first two or three seasons that my friends and I belonged. In the final week of the season, they dispensed the prize money to each team. With the money they had left over, I expected some kind of game to decide who got what. I've heard of people getting playing cards for each strike and then forming the best poker hand to win, for example. Well, in this league, it amounted to a guy behind the counter calling out his friends' names and saying things like, "Hey Joey, pick up that spare and you get $10." My friends and I kept a pretty low profile compared to some of the other participants, and so we weren't as known and never got our names called. That angered me, since everyone put in the same amount of money and I never got a real chance to win any of it back.

Therefore, I was quite pleased when they changed their method a while back. The new one was a combination of two parts chance and one part skill. There were raffle tickets (chance) that yielded prizes, and a few scattered non-white pins in the mix. If you got a pin of color as your head pin (chance), you had to get the front desk's attention and then bowl a strike to win $10 (skill). I liked that a whole bunch more, and I had the good fortune of winning one of those raffles. I waved my ticket in the air like a moron when they called my number before proceeding to the front desk. I was presented with a few options: a lottery scratcher, a $5 gift card to Starbucks, or a $5 gift card to In-N-Out. I quickly assessed each one. Oh sure, the scratcher would've added some drama to the experience, but I'd be kidding myself if I thought it would turn into more money. Starbucks is good, but I've also had a Starbucks gift card in my wallet for...I have no idea, so that probably wasn't too practical. In-N-Out has some mighty tasty burgers, and even though I don't go there very often, it would be worth a special trip to redeem my prize. I snagged it and made my way back to the lane. A few minutes later, my homey Rockabye's number was called, and he made the same wise decision as I had.

I held onto my gift card for about two weeks before happily pulling into a nearby In-N-Out. I ordered my Double-Double (pickles, "the spread," and grilled onions) and waited my turn in the line of cars to get to the pick-up station. When I got there, I noticed a laminated sign. Here's what it read:

"60th anniversary October 22nd Discount Rumor:
You may be aware of a rumor about our menu prices being lowered for our anniversary on October 22nd. This rumor is untrue. We’ve always tried to keep our prices as low as possible in order to give our customers the greatest value. One of the ways we accomplish this is by not discounting and our anniversary is no exception. We’re sorry if this rumor has caused any confusion."

That, my friends, is a successful rumor. Whoever originally came up with that fabrication made it so widespread that the company's website and individual physical locations had to address it. I read up on this rumor online, and In-N-Out was supposedly going to go back to their prices from 60 years ago on that day. 30 cents for a cheeseburger, 25 for a hamburger, 15 for fries, and 10 for drinks. I can understand why a rumor like that would get traction, but I have to believe that even the person who created it was surprised by how much it took off. Personally, I'd be quite proud of myself.

I thought of that story because of something that happened at work earlier this week. I was in my office doing my normal stuff when I heard my co-worker Scott say, "Adam from the Beastie Boys is the brother of Screech from 'Saved By The Bell.'" I spit my tongue. "No he's not!" I yelled from my desk, even though I wasn't a part of the conversation at all. I got up and walked out there to confront him. "Yes he is!" Scott said. "Screech and a Beastie Boy are brothers." "First of all, you have the wrong Beastie Boy," I said to everyone who was now listening. "You meant that Mike D. - Michael Diamond - is brothers with Dustin Diamond, who played Screech. But that's not true either." "Yes it is," he said again, and then he started walking over to his computer to "prove" it. "Scott, it's a good story, and one I believed myself for a while. I even told people that amazing piece of trivia. Then I found out it was a lie and I felt stupid for helping spread it." He returned to the main area a minute later and admitted that I was right. "That sucks, because it was a good one to tell people," he said. "I know, I know. Dig a little deeper online and you'll find people saying that they're not only brothers, but that Neil Diamond's their dad." We all laughed for a minute, and then I wowed everyone with my knowledge of the lyrics to "Sabotage" by the Beasties. You never know when that'll come in handy.

I don't know how rumors do it, but the real good ones somehow avoid the whole fact-checking process. Scott is very internet savvy and proved his own piece of trivia false within a few seconds. Why did he skip that step at the beginning? If I thought about it long enough, I'm sure I could come up with a formula of sorts for what makes a rumor good. There has to be a certain amount of plausibility but a much greater amount of over-the-top-ness. Too much of that turns into nofuckingwayness, and then it loses all credibility. I'll stop there, because otherwise I'd just keep inventing terms and forcing relationships between them, and experience tells me that I won't get too far with that.

(By the way, I just typed "gerbil" into Google, and the #2 result was an urban legends site about Richard Gere. These things can really take on a life of their own.)

And with that, let's be both officers and gentlemen on our way over to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye saw a plate and initially read it incorrectly. He sent it to me, and my initial read was the same incorrect thought. The plate was, "CLDHNDS." Both of us thought of the completely made-up term, "Cloud hands" before we realized that "Cold hands" made a lot more sense. Cloud hands would look really, really cool though, don't you think? Ooh, especially if they were ominous thunderclouds with lightning shooting around inside of them. Yeah, it would be hard to pick things up or blow your nose, but who's gonna mess with a guy with thundery clouds for hands? (Answer: nobody.)

Next up, I was behind a car with this plate: "TQLAMAN." I'm guessing that's short for "Tequila man" and not "To kill a man." It's hard to say which would be a bigger red flag for law enforcement. It's also hard to imagine drinking tequila with cloud hands. I'm just sayin'.

Lastly, my dad sent me a text message that said, "IMNAKED." I was scared at first, but then I put on my thinking cap (which I keep nearby at all times just in case) and figured that it was a license plate that he saw. I asked if the driver was indeed sans apparel, but he said that he wasn't. Here's one of the few cases in which I prefer a blatant lie.

Ok folks, that's it for me. Have one hell of a weekend and week, and have a good Memorial Day. I'll be back next Friday with more typographical characters. In the meantime: Happy anniversary today to our friends Danielle and Jesse. Happy half-birthday to my lovely wife's half-sister tomorrow. There's something almost poetic about that. And this Wednesday's a big one, folks. It's not only my high-anticipated 11/12ths birthday, but it's also our friend Adam's birthday and our favorite niece Hayley's 1st birthday. She's adorable, so you should all wish her a happy numero uno. Be happy and healthy, friends.

Of course, of course

2009-05-15T05:10:00.000-07:00

Good morning, homepeople of the internets, and welcome to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for "Underwear Occasionally Parts The Ass," but that's a sad reality that we all must face from time to time. (Thanks to my dad for supplying today's UOPTA - email ptklein@gmail.com to get your own in here.) Instead, this is the place in which I write my thoughts and tell my stories. If you're ready for that, then sit back and try to enjoy.

Today's theme can be summed up in one neat little word: horse. There's a lot to say about that topic, and I'll try to go through this chronologically. As a child, I was most familiar with that word in its basketball form. Yes, I'd play Horse fairly often in the backyard of my parents' old house and the front yard of their current one. I was a decent shooter, but that game really comes down to exploiting strengths and weaknesses. For me, my weaknesses were glaring. Specifically, any time someone did a shot with his or her off hand (usually left), I'd have to do the same with my off hand (my right). That's a problem, because as I've likely said in this space before, my right hand is largely for show and has very few real purposes. I'm a lefty through and through, so even two-foot bank shots with my right hand were likely to yield a letter for me. On the flip side, I'd use my leftiness to my advantage when I could. That typically meant looking for an angle that would be difficult for me to bank in a shot but much more so for a righty. I liked this plan, but that usually gave my opponent the idea to do the exact same thing on the opposite side. When all else failed, I'd go to my only trick shot. I got pretty good at doing this one layup where I'd move the ball behind my back and then through one leg before shooting (without travelling, mind you). That, like the lefty bank shot, was good to pull out the first time I'd be playing against someone, but not much of a surprise in subsequent games. What's the point of all of this? I'm not sure, but I think I'm trying to establish that I had a good relationship with the word "horse" at an early age. If I accomplished that goal, then you may proceed to the next paragraph.

The next big Horse chapter of my life came at sleepaway camp. During the weeklong stays, those who signed up ahead of time would take a nice leisurely horse ride around the area. I only remember a few things from those rides, but they make me smile so I'll share. First, I remember that the horses there seemed to be named for old Jewish men. My first two times, I had Bernie as my horse. Either Adam or Jason N. had Maury, and I'm pretty sure there was a Saul or something similar in the stable as well. I got Bernie because they asked me my experience level. I said I was pretty new to horseback riding, and they immediately signaled for Bernie. He seemed a little older than the rest to me, but I had no real way of telling that. The ride was fun, pretty, and relaxing. We trotted a little at one point, and while that hurt my ass a little, it was still a highlight of the trip. I think Bernie was a little slower than the others, but I didn't mind.

A few weeks later, I went to that camp again and signed up for horseback riding again. When the man asked about my experience, I said, "I had Bernie last time," which was all he needed to hear apparently. I got on Bernie again and had almost the same exact ride as the time before. I didn't need exhilaration; this was nice and peaceful, and I patted his side often and told him he was doing a good job. A few weeks later, I was back again. "I had Bernie last time," I said. "Oh, Bernie's not here anymore," the cowboy-looking dude told me. "He's retired now." Even though I was only about 12 at the time, I immediately took that to mean that he'd gone to the big pasture in the sky. I may have been wrong, but when I told my mom that he'd "retired," she had the same initial reaction (except the term "glue factory" may have come up in her response). So I rode a different horse that time (Moishe? Shlomo?) and the several times after that, and they was a little faster and more fun than my first two rides. Bernie broke me in well, and I hope he had a nice, peaceful retirement.

Next up for Peter's world of horse: the Kentucky Derby happened recently. My homey Rockabye texted me to ask what I'd name a racehorse if I had one. I wrote back immediately: "Dust As In Eat My. I've thought about this before." I think the name by itself is decent, but it gets a lot better when I imagine it being said about ten times in thirty seconds by someone calling a race. I'd like to go with "Piss Like a Me," but the governing board would probably never allow that. Speaking of which, my friend Greg (aka The Pigh) has a funny story about a horse and his name. I'll let him tell it:

My first real job was in television. I worked for the production department of TVG, America's horse racing network. I came across quite a few colorful characters during my short time in the horse racing industry. One such character was successful owner, Mike Pegram. Pegram is probably best known for his friendship with hall-of-fame trainer Bob Baffert and coming within a nose of winning the Triple Crown in 1998. For guys like me (and Peter), Pegram will always be known as the guy who pushed the envelope in naming his horses.

Unusual names for race horses are the norm. Just take a look at the top three finishers in this year's Kentucky Derby: 1) Mine That Bird; 2) Pioneerof the Nile; and 3) Musket Man. You may be asking yourself, what the fuck? What are these people thinking? Is there any limit to how stupid the names can be. Well, sort of. There is actually a guy who monitors every potential name before it becomes official. Mainly he checks to make sure the name isn't already taken, that it's not too many characters, and that it is not obscene or otherwise inappropriate.

That's where my boy MP comes in. One of our reporters did a story on his exploits. Here are some MP names that got rejected: Big Bone Lick, Liquor in Excess, Button my Pants, and my favorite, High Hard One. He was definitely able to sneak quite a few good ones past the name monitor though. I suppose if you fire off enough offensive names, an over-the-top blatantly offensive name like Isitingood is bound to slip through the cracks (so to speak). And I suppose not everyone knows that the Silverbullet is a reference to Coors Light, so not everyone would know that Silverbulletday is a reference to drinking beer all day.

However, the sheer genius of this next one is undeniable. MP resorted to the old "let's submit a dirty name that sounds like it could mean something in Arabic" trick. When asked how "Ibnshiton" made it past his team, the name monitor said, "That just means son of the devil." Well, Ibn Shaitan does mean "son of the devil" in Arabic, but Ibnshiton, just means "I've been shit on" in broken English. Brilliant!!! The best was listening to a race call with Ibnshiton in the field. One particular announcer was on to the game and refused to actually say it. Instead he alternated between "I be shy the one" and "I be in Chi Town." Horse racing is cool.

Thank you, Pighlet. I've loved saying "I be shy the one" for years now, and hopefully it will catch on amongst my 10-12 regular readers.

Lastly for this section, for reasons unknown, I had "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" in my head earlier this week. It was really annoying, and I hope my mentioning it here doesn't bring the same fate upon you. As the song played on in my head, something caught my inner ear: How can one ride six white horses? The song doesn't say that she'll be in a cart pulled by six horses. Nay (neigh?), it says specifically that she'll be riding them. I just don't see how that's possible. (And why do we assume that she'll want to eat chicken and dumplings when she comes? Maybe she had a big lunch and just wants a salad. I'm just sayin'.)

And with that, let's guide our reins on over to the Car Watch.

I saw plate this week that said, "UBIGNUT." To be honest, I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended.

My homey Rockabye saw a plate that confuses me quite a bit. "(Heart)2GRIEV," it read. Really? Who in the world loves to grieve? I bet even folks who own funeral parlors don't enjoy the amount of grieving that goes on around them on a daily basis. That plate disturbs me, and I keep re-reading it to see if there's an alternate meaning that I'm missing. Am I?

Last but not least, that same homey Rockabye provided me with a plate that allows me to extend today's theme into the Car Watch section: "4MRS ED." While I doubt that this car was purchased for the wife of the famed talking equine, it does pose an interesting question. If a horse were to drive a car, would you need to add an extra figure to the horsepower? I realize it would only be by one, but it's worth asking, don't you think? (No, actually, now that I think about it for more than two seconds. The horsepower figure referring to the engine would remain the same because the driving horse would only use its power to push the accelerator and brake, right? Now where's that pesky backspace key?)

That's all folks. First, let's get some happies out there. Happy 0th birthday yesterday to little Lindsey. Congratulations to new parents Rob and Robin, and we look forward to meeting her soon. Tomorrow is our good friend Lisa's birthday, so big ups to her. Sunday is my friend Suzanne's half-birthday, and Tuesday marks a whopping 13.5 years since my lovely wife and I started dating. Wow, that's a big number. Take care, everyone, and please remember to email ptklein@gmail.com with anything you please. Go Lakers and shaloha to one and all.

The arts are fine

2009-05-08T05:08:00.000-07:00

Ah, here we are again, my homepeople. Welcome to UOPTA. No, I'm pretty sure that doesn't stand for Untrained Orthodontists Putting Teeth Askew, so you can all breathe a sigh of relief. Hey, I have an idea. I'd like to keep having alternate UOPTA meanings each week, but I need your help. If you email me at ptklein@gmail.com with a couple that you come up with (instead of posting them in the comments section), I'll include it in an opening paragraph and give you a shout-out. Sound good? It doesn't have to be today of course, but I think it would be great to have a little audience participation and reader-created content. Let's see what happens.

So today is May 8th. If it were up to me, I'd combine it into one syllable and make it Mayth. It's so rare that we're able to do that with dates, and I want to make the most of it. In fact, I just spent way too long trying to see how many other month-day pairings could be combined in a way that saves a syllable, and it's an amazingly small number. Depending on how you say the number 11, we could either have Aprileventh or Januareleventh/Februareleventh. I don't really make either of those sounds at the beginnings of my elevens, but I'm an equal opportunity...whatever the hell it is I'm doing in this paragraph. Let's move on, shall we?

In Spanish poetry, syllables are combined all the time. If one word ends in a vowel and the next starts in a vowel, they're combined. That makes it even more difficult if you're trying to write with a certain number of metric feet per line. For example, "Como estas" in a line of poetry would be counted as three syllables that more closely resemble, "Co mues tas," if that makes any sense. Throw in the fact that words starting with a silent H get in on this action, and you're making for some crazy times. The best part of learning all of that in college was hearing the word "dipthong" a few hundred times. That never really got old. (That word is so weird. On one hand, if it were a very skimpy undergarment, that would in theory be sexy. On the other hand, if someone called someone else a "dipthong," there would be no doubt that it would be used in a derogatory fashion. How can something do both of those things at the same time while not actually meaning either? Is anyone still reading this? Wow, good for you. I almost bailed on myself a few times there.)

Speaking of poetry, I mentioned in this space a while ago that my friend Jon and I used to write intentionally horrific poems to each other from time to time when we worked together at UC Santa Barbara. I took great joy in writing crappy poems, but I didn't know how much I missed it until a couple of weeks ago. I really don't remember how it came up in my head, but I found myself looking for a rhyme for the word "forgotten." I came up with a few, and then laughed to myself as I created a great horrible part of a horrible poem about looking in the refrigerator:

Potatoes au gratin
Forgotten

Now rotten

I laughed to myself about that and told my lovely wife (who hears things like that from me quite often). I thought that would probably be it, but those lines have popped into my head almost every day since. I always have the same train of thought: "Maybe I'll end up including that in something. In what though? I should call Jon and see if he wants to resurrect the bad poetry writing." I think he's probably grown out of that phase though (as most people would eventually). Oh well. But hey, if any of you feel like writing some intentionally bad poetry and emailing it to me, we can make a whole post out of it someday.

Speaking of weird things that I tell my lovely wife, here's a brief conversation we had two days ago:
Me: The name Eliot is almost "toilet" backwards.
Her: Yeah?
Me: Yeah, it's just missing a T at the end. So "T. Eliot" as in "T.S. Eliot" is "toilet" backwards.
Her: Oh.
Me: And he wrote "The Waste Land."
Her: Hmm. That's pretty interesting.

That last line might come across as sarcastic on the screen, but she actually meant it. I wonder if the whole "toilet" thing is why Thomas Stearns Eliot included his middle initial. I'd try looking up his descendants and asking them, but that sounds like a lot of work (and they might find it disrespectful in some twisted way).

Sticking yet again to the fine arts, I listened to my new sampler cd from Paste Magazine, and one song in particular really stood out. It's by a singer named Bill Callahan who apparently used to perform under the name Smog. I didn't love the melody or the singer's voice particularly at first, but I cocked my head in interest when he sang, "All these fine memories are fuckin' me down." I wasn't familiar with that use of "fuck," and that's really saying something since I've spoken many times about that word's versatility. But the part of the song that really got me and made me want to write about it is this:

I feel back asleep some time later on
And I dreamed the perfect song
It held all the answers, like hands laid on

I woke halfway and scribbled it down
And in the morning what I wrote I read
It was hard to read at first but here's what it said

Eid ma clack shaw
Zupoven del ba
Mertepy ven seinur
Cofally ragdah

That really got me. Especially "hard to read at first," because the narrator seems pretty convinced that he's reading the answers from the perfect song correctly. Nicely done. (If this story reminds you of the story behind "Kubla Khan" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, then congratulations - your English degree has come in handy.) By the way, the song is called "Eid Ma Clack Shaw," which I had seen on the playlist but not really processed. I tip my imaginary hat to you, Mr. Callahan.

And lastly for this section, a word caught my eye and got me thinking (uh oh) about its pronunciation. The word is "leopard." Why is it pronounced "leppard?" "Leotard" is just one consonant off, but I don't hear people walking around calling it a "lettard." (Ok, in truth, I don't often hear people walking around and saying "leotard" the right way either, but I'm trying to make a point here. Cut me some slack, will ya?) Furthermore, why in the world would someone initially associate "Leo" with a lion when there's another big cat whose name actually starts with Leo? Is it too late to change that? One thing's for sure, Def Leppard knew what they were doing when they named themselves. "Deaf Leopard" looks really weird to me. Does a Deaf Leopard eat a Blind Melon? One can only hope.

And with that, let's take our big and padded claws on over to the Car Watch.

I was behind a car on my way to work yesterday morning that had this license plate: "INVZBL 1." "No you're not," I said aloud. When the opportunity arose, I changed lanes and ended up stopped at a red light right next to the car. I looked over and tried my best to appear that I was looking past or through the car, but the driver never turned in my direction to see me mock his plate. I spent the next couple of minutes wondering if I'd be at fault if I rear-ended that car. "You see, officer, I was just minding my own business when suddenly my car's bumper and hood got smashed in and my airbags deployed." Probably not.

My favorite brother sent me a plate that was a tad on the egotistical side: "1GR8CHK." I don't think you should be allowed to say that about yourself. It's one thing to think that you're great (and I'm all for that really), but it's certainly another to put it out there for everyone to see. I guess she wasn't kidding when she told her friends she was going to get a vanity plate. I suppose it could be a former hockey player who is famous for one particularly great defensive play in which he checked someone against the boards before he could wrist in an empty-netter. (I have no idea if I used any of those hockey terms correctly, by the way. Sure, we have the L.A. Kings and the Ducks are nearby, but I've met two or three L.A. natives in my life who actually follow the sport.)

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me this plate: "5BGMACS." My cholesterol went up just reading that. I sure hope that it's a family of five big-boned folks whose last names start with Mc or Mac. If not that, then I hope the driver won the car in a bet that he couldn't/wouldn't eat five Big Macs in one sitting. Yes, that would be disgusting, but at least it would be in the name of competition. And you can't spell "competitive eater" without Peter, naturally.

That's it for this guy right here. If you can muster the energy and creative juices to email me at ptklein@gmail.com with new things for UOPTA to stand for and/or some bad poetry, that would make my week. You want to make my week, don't you? I'll be back here next Friday, but in the meantime...Sunday is Mothers' Day, so I want to wish a happy one to all the moms out there. Ya know what - I'm feeling generous. If anyone's ever called you "a bad mutha," I'm going to say that you're welcome to celebrate as well. So there. Tuesday is my friend Dusty's half-birthday, and he's half-Chinese, so there's a joke in there somewhere. Wednesday is my Grandma Zelda's half-birthday, loyal reader Aunt Lynn's half-birthday, and my friend Dave's half-birthday. I'm pretty sure that adds up to at least one whole birthday, but I'm bad at fractions. Have a great weekend and week, friends.

Compelled to speak

2009-05-01T05:05:00.000-07:00

Happy May, everyone, and welcome to another Friday here at UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for Ultra Orthodox People Taking Aspirin, but I can see where you'd come up with that. Instead, this is the place in which I write about my thoughts, experiences, and stories. This week, I think I might even have something resembling a theme instead of some haphazard assortment of items. (By the way, I think I want to start pronouncing haphazard as 'haffazard' to utilize the PH combo. It's catchy enough, right?)

What would be the opposite of biting one's tongue? Sticking it out is good imagery, but I don't think that really encompasses the opposite meaning. "Unbiting" is lazy. "Spitting one's tongue" is interesting because it's actively forcing something out while retaining the main focus of the idiom. Also, "spit" and "bit" rhyme, which is convenient. I'll use that for now. So, there have been a few times recently in which I have spit my tongue. They fall in two categories: the good and the bad.

The Good, Part 1:

I had a physical this week for the first time in way too long. I was looking forward to meeting a new doctor, getting all of my info on the books somewhere, and actually using the health insurance that I'm lucky to have. One thing I wasn't eagerly anticipating though was the blood test. I'm not a big fan of needles. I don't faint or anything, but I always think to myself, "Am I feeling light-headed? How about now? How about now?" Also, I had a bad experience years ago in which a woman tried many times to get my blood, brought another nurse over for consultation, and poked around inside my arm to find better spots. It was less than enjoyable. So this time, I sat in the chair and greeted the woman to my right who would soon be poking at least one hole in me. Routinely, she tied the rubber thing around my arm, used the cleansing wipe thing, and organized the rest of the items. Once the needle was ready and coming toward me, I became very interested in the piece of paper to my left. "Hmmm, Code Red is for a fire. I think I knew that. Code Blue is for when someone is in need of resuscitation, as I've learned from medical dramas. Code Black is a bomb threat? That seems mighty specific. I hope they don't need to use that one too often." "Ok," a voice told me. I looked over, and she was holding a cottonball against my arm. "Hold this please," she said, and then she wrapped my arm in some kind of bandage. I spit my tongue: "That was easily the best job anyone has ever done taking my blood." "Really?" she said, "Thank you." "No, thank you! I was dreading it at first but you did a great job." She thanked me again, and with a smile on my face, I strolled over to the bathroom to pee in a cup.

The Good, Part 2:

If you live in the Los Angeles area, there's a decent chance that you've heard of Bay Cities Italian Deli in Santa Monica. If not, you should: http://www.bcdeli.com/. Bay Cities is a small market with a bunch of things you'd expect to find...and the best frickin' sandwiches on the face of the Earth. They're so good that smart people order them online about 45-60 minutes in advance before going to pick them up. The uninitiated just show up and wait in a long line for that amount of time. The bread is unbelievably good, as is everything that one can put on said bread. If you don't want to wait that long, you can go to the hot food section and get a kick-ass chicken parm sandwich or a few other equally-delectable offerings. There's one main problem with Bay Cities: the parking lot. It's a small lot that would usually have a line of three of four cars waiting to turn in, thereby stopping an entire lane of traffic. Once in the lot, you'd then wait for people to come out to their cars and attempt to back out without hitting you or the other folks salivating over their soon-to-be vacated spot. On top of that, a car would occasionally try sneaking in through the exit-only opening from an alley behind the market. I'm a mild-mannered guy, but I've wanted to bash people's faces in for surreptitiously yoinking a spot as I played by the rules.

It sure would be nice if there were a security guard in the lot to maintain some kind of order and stop the bastards from wrongfully taking parking spots, right? Well, there was. He did absolutely nothing. If a car swooped in from the wrong way to steal a spot, he'd take a half-step in that direction and then throw up his hands as if to say, "Well, nothing I can do about that!" It was infuriating. And then, one glorious day, there was a new attendant in the lot. "Let's see how this goes," my co-worker Rob said to me. Almost before he could finish his sentence, the new guy was waving people on, holding up his hand to others, and running to stop cars from coming in the wrong way. The next time we were there, he was even better and once physically put himself in front of a bastard sneaky car to make sure that the angry driver didn't get the spot he was trying to steal. It naturally reminded me of Tiananmen Square, but with slightly less dire consequences at stake. After the third time of seeing him kick major ass at his job, I spit my tongue: "You're doing a fantastic job," I said. He nodded a thank you, but was keeping his eye on the three cars waiting for spots and the two cars trying to leave theirs without bumping into each other. I wasn't letting it go that easily though. "Really, I appreciate how well you're doing this job." He mumbled a thank you and walked away to make sure his domain was in order. Rob made a strange face at me. "I had to tell him," I said. "I think he would've preferred a tip," he replied.

The Bad:
I was chatting with two people a week or so ago, and the topic of the Baseball Hall of Fame came up. I said that I thought it was bullshit that there's never been a unanimous selection to the Hall. (Certain voters are very old-school and will not vote for someone when he first appears on the ballot. I think that's stupid, because there's nothing more that Tony Gwynn, Cal Ripken Jr., or Rickey Henderson could've done. Likewise, when Greg Maddux is eligible, I'll throw a minor shit fit if he's not unanimous.) One of the guys responded, "Well, some people have gotten all of the votes before." "No," I said, "no one has been unanimously selected." "Well, maybe not unanimous, but some have gotten 100% of the vote." I spit my tongue. "Oh, please continue, I want to hear you explain this." "Well, um, no, I guess if...no, I was wrong, no unanimous selections." Yeah, that was a kind of dickish way for me to call him out, but I couldn't help myself. If he was going to set himself up for such a baseless contradiction, there would be no tongue-biting from yours truly.

And with that, let's induct ourselves on over to the Car Watch.

My dad sent me a license plate frame that I've never seen before. It read, "Yeah, I'm a bitch...Just not yours." That's really good that they specified, because if my Hallie dog was driving that car, then she'd clearly be violating the terms of her canine curfew. It begs the obvious question: whose bitch was it? Former gangsta rapper Eazy E (R.I.P.) said that he had "bitches galore," so the odds are slightly stacked in his favor.

I saw a new frame too. It said, "Froggy" on the top, and, "Ribbit Cough Ribbit" on the bottom. Obviously. If I had to guess (which I suppose I do), here would be my theory on this one. The driver of the car is nicknamed Froggy by his friends. This could either be a weird animal-themed thing like I have with my friends, or more likely, the guy has slightly buggy eyes. Or he eats flies. In any case, they call him Froggy, and this dude smokes a lot (be it cigarettes or something more interesting). Therefore, he coughs a good amount, and in keeping with his nickname, it makes sense that the cough would come between his animal namesake's sounds in nature. If you've got a better theory, comment away.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye saw this license plate: "COWS(Heart)US." No, no they don't. And they're insulted that you would just assume that.

Ok, I'm outstro. Have a great weekend and week, mis amiguitos, and I'll be back here next Friday. But first, let's get happy. Today is our friend Jesse's birthday, so let's wish him a good one. Tuesday is not only Cinco de Mayo, but also my former boss Debbie's birthday and my lovely wife's former roommate Jen's birthday. Those are all good reasons for a fiesta if you ask me. And Thursday is my excellent friend The Pigh's half-birthday, and he needs as many positive thoughts as possible with this whole swine flu thing. That's it. Take care, and feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all. Shaloha.

Piecing things together

2009-04-24T05:03:00.000-07:00

Hello readers, and welcome once more to UOPTA. No, that doesn't stand for Underarm Odor Prevents Terrorist Attacks, but that would certainly be an interesting development in the day-to-day functioning of our country. (Wow, I've already weirded myself out after only two sentences. That might be a Klein record.) No, folks, this is a different UOPTA, and it's this little slice of the blogosphere in which I plan on ranting and rambling today. By a show of hands, how many of you are ready for that? Excellent, excellent.

You know what I don't like? Clip shows on television. I think they are lazy and ineffective. It's impossible for someone who has never watched "Lost" to spend an hour listening to a voiceover artist and seeing clips from the past to suddenly be all caught up. It just doesn't work that way, especially with a show that has so many minor details and tiny storylines from years back that may end up being significant. What's worse is that the producers (or network - not sure who gets the full blame here) didn't come out and tell us that it was just going to be a bunch of clips. Instead, they said something about seeing stories from a whole new perspective. Since "Lost" is always re-packaging things that happened in the past, there was a possibility that this would be a new episode focused on events we've already seen. Nope, it was just clips, and it pissed me off. If they just told us, "We'll be back in two weeks with a brand new episode, but come back next week to re-watch some of your favorite storylines in a recap special," then I would be just fine with it. Nope, they threw in that "whole new perspective" bullshit and tried to trick people into thinking they were going to see something different. My lovely wife and I watched the first five minutes, she told me she was bored, and then we 2x fast-forwarded until the DVR caught up at about 40 minutes into it. I saw nothing new at all, but I kept it on the DVR in case some article online the next morning told me about the amazing five new minutes at the end, or something like that. That didn't happen.

To be fair, I realize that a show full of clips from previous episodes can have its place in the world. It has to be a specific kind of show though, in my opinion. Take the "Law and Order" franchise, for example. The shows are almost entirely self-contained, and storylines don't carry over into the next episodes. "Law and Order" could have a ten-minute long clip show, and then anyone could step right into the next episode and know what's going on. I believe the "CSI" franchise is like that as well, but I've never seen a single show from any of their incarnations, so I can't tell you for sure. "House" is similar but seems to have a little more carry-over. It could probably be summed up nicely though.

Now I'm thinking about other shows I watch and whether they can or can't be encapsulated into a clip show so that people could pick it up mid-season and know what's going on. "24" would be hilarious. The clip show would basically show a crisis, Jack saving the day, someone announcing that it's not over yet, another crisis, Jack saving the day, someone announcing that it's not over yet, another crisis, Jack saving the day, and so on. A couple dozen more cycles of that, and someone could probably step in near the end of this season and know what's going on. Stringing the various crises together like that would be really funny and draw attention to how ridiculous that show is, so naturally, I hope they do that someday.

The bottom line is this: clip shows may or may not be effective, but please just let us know when they're happening ahead of time. That way, people who want to see a retrospective of sorts and try catching up on a series know when to tune in, and devoted fans won't be upset that they were duped into thinking that there would be new content. That's all I'm saying, folks.

I'm going to switch gears now and find my way into another medium of arts and entertainment: music! When it comes to one's music collection, I find that I was either way behind or way ahead of the curve, depending on my conversation partner. Specifically, I'm talking about iTunes. I know many people who started using that service years before I did and have all of their music stored digitally on external hard drives and yadda yadda yadda. And yet there are many others I know who have never spent a single second on iTunes. Well, I've been using it for a little while now, and I'm rather attached to a lot of the functionality. I'm having one very Peterish problem with it right now, and I'd like to share.

As I've documented here in the past, I often make tasks more difficult than they need to be by adding additional levels of difficulty. Something starts off as a whim or a little joke, and then suddenly I'm writing a haiku for my boss every morning, for example. Well, I couldn't just leave well enough alone with the Playlist function on iTunes. It's simple enough in theory; you put groupings of songs together like little mix tapes and play them at your liking. And I started off simply too. I have mixes that my friend Jon physically gave me on cd that I transferred to iTunes, with exciting playlist names like, "Jon's b-day mix," "Jon's X-mas mix," and the always-popular, "Jon's mix." I also have cds I made for my lovely wife as playlists, known affectionately as "Shits and Giggles, Volume 1-4." I couldn't leave well enough alone though.

Before long, I started thinking up themed playlists that I could have. Being a little self-centered, I started by thinking about my name in songs. I own "Stove/Smother" by Sloan, "The Ballad of John and Yoko" by the Beatles, and "My Friend Peter" by Alkaline Trio, all of which have my name at some point in the lyrics. "I could buy 'Man on the Moon' by REM and 'Viva la Vida' by Coldplay to get to five," I thought, but stopped myself before actually taking that step. Instead, I formed different themes. First, "The Ladies" playlist was simple enough; I just went through and moved every song with female vocals over to that list. I found a problem though: what about songs with both men and women singing? And like that, "Let's Duet" was born. A little while later, I went through the approximately 1,500 songs on my work computer's iTunes to see how many I considered to be funny. It took a while, but I created my "Funny Shit" playlist. Did I stop there? Of course not.

I was listening to a song called "Detroit" by a band named Black Gold, and I got an idea: what if I made a geographically-themed playlist? Off the top of my head, I could think of songs with New York, Chicago, Detroit, Memphis, and Los Angeles in their titles. Maybe I could make a east-to-west road trip or vice versa. Yeah, I know that's pretty nerdy. So I went through all of my songs again, and I had underestimated the geographical nature of my music collection. Not only did I have a lot of cities, but a good number of states, countries, and even continents. It's pretty funny to me how nonsensical the "road trip" becomes when sorted alphabetically by song title. I start in Amsterdam (Guster), go to Anne Arbour (The Get Up Kids), take a long boat ride to Antarctica (The Weepies), and then head on over to Australia (The Shins). That's a roundabout trip, don't you think? I put it on Shuffle while at work one day this week, and I laughed to myself as I went from Hiroshima (Ben Folds) to Mexico City (Jolie Holland) to the superbly named "The Infant of Prague Customized My Van" by The Dead Milkmen.

Where will playlist inspiration strike next? I could have a group of songs with 5+ words in their titles. The only overlap I see is the aforementioned Dead Milkmen song and "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon and Garfunkel. At the very least, I'd get to hear The Beatles' "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except for Me and my Monkey" more often. Ah, drugs have some wonderful side effects.

And with that, let's ride our psychedelic waves on over to the Car Watch, man.

I was behind a vehicle on the freeway this week that said, "YOUTH BUS" on its sides and back. I couldn't help but wonder how big it's gonna get when it's all grown up.

My homey Rockabye sent me a plate that he couldn't quite figure out. It read, "JZ4PLAE." He was pretty sure that it ended in "foreplay" or maybe "for play," but didn't know if the beginning was "jazz," "jizz," or rapper "Jay Z." While "jizz foreplay" would certainly be the most R-rated license plate I've seen in a long time, something just tells me that it's about jazz instead. What would "jazz foreplay" be though? Tickling the ivories? Lightly slapping the drums? Softly blowing the trumpet? Ok, I'm starting to make myself uncomfortable.

And lastly, I saw a plate that said, "92 MEOWS." Now what in the world could that be about? Even if it was a crazy cat lady driving, I hope I'm right in assuming that she can't have that many cats. Maybe she...nope, I got nothing. I was honestly about to theorize that the driver is crazy and thinks that individual years make different sounds, and '92 happens to sound like a cat. Then I realized that by coming up with that, I may be just as crazy as my theoretical driver whose personality I'm making up willy-nilly. Good thing I stopped myself before going to far with that one.

Ok, that's it for me, homepeople. I'll be back for more musings and stories next Friday. In the meantime, here are the coming happies: Happy Anniversary to our friends Candice and Scott on Sunday, which is also my friend Alicia's half-birthday. Happy half-birthday to Regina on Wednesday, who is partially responsible for me and my lovely wife meeting. Happy birthday next Thursday to my wonderful Grandma, who has always encouraged as much creativity as I can muster, and happy non-existent half-birthday to our dog Hallie, who is penalized by April's lack of 31st day. Take care everyone, and shaloha.

Bowled over

2009-04-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome, friends. I hope all is well with you, wherever and whenever you might be. (I think I've been watching too much "Lost" if I start assuming that people can be on different planes of time. Maybe the future version of myself went back in time to put the idea in my head to write that sentence. Did I just blow your mind or what?) Let's jump right into some unrelated thoughts and stories, shall we?

Last Thursday, a brief chapter in my life came to a close. That said, I believe I left a bookmark there to make returning to it easier. This chapter is called "Grown-up Peter's Weekly Bowling," and it lasted from July of 2007 to April of 2009. That's a sizeable chunk of time, don't you think? Well, we had a bunch of fun, but we're taking this next season off (and hopefully just that one). Two teammates live pretty far from the alley and were getting tired of the commute, and the other's wife is due in the middle of the next league, so I had a choice to make: join them in taking time off or get adopted by another team. The second option was very tempting, for we became friendly enough with three other teams that I would've felt comfortable bowling with any of them for a season. Sadly, none of these teams was the one with Kevin Federline and his new girlfriend on it; while we saw them almost weekly, we never got to actually face off against them. It's a shame, because I certainly would've gotten at least one UOPTA story out of it. Hey, at least my arm and part of my back got in a couple paparazzi photos.

Here's a little side story: Before this season with K-Fed, there was someone else who frequented our lanes in the same line of work as him. That is, he was a back-up dancer best known for being the ex-husband of someone famous. Yes, there are two of those people. His name is Chris Judd, and he was married to Jennifer Lopez sometime before Ben Affleck and Marc Anthony became more suitable partners. I thought I recognized him and my co-worker Rob agreed with my assessment. Then we saw him put his name in as "Seejay," which is how one would write out the pronunciation of his initials. A little while later, he started using his real name to wipe out any doubt we had.

Then K-Fed joined the league, but to my disappointment, he didn't have Mr. Judd on his team. "Who would be the perfect third and fourth members of that team?" I asked my friends. We thought about it for a while and had a tough time finding the right fit. I originally suggested the actor Scott Foley, best known to me as "the guy that Jennifer Garner was married to before dating Michael Vartan and the ubiquitous Ben Affleck." Rob quashed that idea, noting that he's truly had his own career too with large roles in "Felicity" and "The Unit." I suggested singer?/actor? Ray J as a double-whammy. He's not only the brother of singer Brandy, but probably best known as "the guy in Kim Kardashian's sex tape." I like the idea, but now he's got his own VH-1 reality show and apparently has put four albums out. Who does that leave us with? Tammy Faye Bakker? She passed away, so probably not. Ooh - I think I've got one. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the third member of the "Famous Only for my Former Relationship" team: Levi Johnston! I totally nailed it. We still need a fourth, so if you have any suggestions, please comment away. No really, it's ok to do that.

Back to me and my bowling decision: I weighed the pros and cons of each team that I could possibly join. One had a friendly young lady who actually teaches at my old elementary school, but also a guy who's never said a word to me and could easily crush me with one hand. The second team had three nice young ladies who were also teachers, and I enjoyed joking around with them even though our jokes often got very disturbing and violent. For example, one asked me to pantomime the best way to snap a kitten's neck, and then they seemed shocked by my realistic and detailed depiction. Hey, they asked. The only real downside with that team is that two of their bowling names and VaGina and Tatas. If I went by Peter, people would assume that I was making a sexual pun instead of simply putting my real name. And that would hurt my feelings. The third team had a bunch of cool guys on it, including one who's a hip hop artist trying to get his music out there. The downside? They're way too cool for me. I'm not beating myself up here, just being realistic. I'm the same guy who talks to blackjack dealers in Las Vegas about Nobel Peace Prize winner Lech Walesa and Polish politics at the drop of a hat, so it's safe to say that I'd spend that whole season as "the nerdy one."

The truth of the matter is that while I really enjoy bowling, I want to be there with my friends. It's a chance to see them regularly, have a drink or two, and say stupid things while competing against often-friendly folks. I'd miss out on the best parts of my bowling evenings if it were with relative strangers, and so I'm ok with my decision to sit this one out too. (After all, Lech Walesa did head up the committee on Solidarity.) We have a pact to make it just this one season off, but it's hard to say for sure if we'll be able to stick to that. I'll let you all know when I'm getting back on the lanes.

Two quick items before we get to the Car Watch: While on the subject of diverting activities and nerdiness, I should point out that our friends Lisa and Paul introduced us to a new board game. It could scarcely sound more nerdy, so I'm just going to lay it on you: it's about geography. It's called, "10 Days in Europe," and it's surprisingly way more fun than it sounds. It involves some strategy, some luck, and a little trickery while having the added benefit of being a bit educational. If that sounds good to you, then check it out. They also have a version for America, Asia, and Africa, all of which intrigue me.

Secondly, I saw a story on CNN.com that made me want to scratch my own eyes out. Apparently, the one and only Fran "The Nanny" Drescher is contemplating a career in politics. Yep, it says so right here: http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2009/04/15/is-the-nanny-pondering-a-campaign-bid-2/#more-47695/. You know what that means, of course: she'd be talking more. A lot more. And publicly. That could be the worst idea I've heard in years. I'd rather have Rosie Perez and Sanjaya Malakar on a ticket together than hear Fran Drescher talk about anything (let alone presumably important things that would require active listening). Please, Fran, don't do it. Save us the aural anguish and put a halt to this nonsense before it picks up any steam. Your non-fans implore you.

And now, let's annoyingly screech on over to the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye sent me what he called the "strangest plate EVER." It read, "BUYMYDD." In speaking with him after receiving the text, it was clear that he was only reading it as, "Buy my dad." He asked pertinent questions, and we spent some time discussing the hypothetical black market for fathers. Here's the great thing about that plate though: it could mean many things, and none necessarily make sense. Please allow me to dig deeper into this:
1. Buy My Dad: See above
2. Buy My Dead: A black market organ trader?
3. Buy My Deed: "I need to sell my house and this was the best way to advertise that came to mind."
4. Buy My Dud: Who knows, one person's dud might be another's...functional item.
5. Buy My Double Ds: "I'm looking for a sugar daddy to help me with certain, ahem, enhancements."
6. By My Dad: "He built this car from scratch, and I'm proud of him."

What am I missing? Feel free to chime in if you think there's an obvious answer to this automotive enigma.

Next up, I saw a truck that said "ISEC" on its side in big letters. Beneath it, it read, "Interior Specialty Contractor." Um, not to nitpick, but what's the E for? Did they think that "ISEC" was so much catchier than "ISC" that they inserted an E without making up a corresponding word? Maybe it stands for "Extraneous."

Lastly, the same homey Rockabye sent me a plate that read, "ITRNSL8." Can anyone help me out with that one?

Ok, that's it for me for now. I'll be back next Friday with more thoughts and stories, but some stuff will be happening in the meantime. Tomorrow is my friend Lindsey's birthday, and though I haven't caught up with her in way too long, I still wish her an extremely happy day. Sunday is the first game of the Lakers' playoff run, and hopefully the first of 16 postseason wins they'll accrue. Wednesday is my favorite sister-in-law Weezie's birthday, which makes her a year older than me on paper for a couple of months. And that's that, folks. Have one hell of a weekend and week, and you can reach me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. Take care, and go Lakers!

No paper view

2009-04-10T05:06:00.000-07:00

Welcome, homepeople, and thank you for joining me for yet another installment of UOPTA. I hope your Aprils are going well so far, and that this Friday is good and/or Good for you. I was planning on filling this space today with a bunch of smaller items, but my first "smaller" one took on a life of its own and became the whole post. I hope you enjoy.

My lovely wife and I get the L.A. Times delivered to our house. It's been more complicated than I expected. Starting back when we lived in Santa Barbara, we've just wanted the paper on weekends. Saturday and Sunday and nothing more. I thought that was all settled, but we started getting calls practically begging us to get the entire week instead. They started with the assumptive tactic: "So I'm calling to let you know that starting tomorrow, you'll be getting the paper every day for no extra cost." I always told them the same thing: "We don't have time to read the paper on weekdays, and it would be wasteful for us to get it. We only want Saturday and Sunday." "I understand sir, but this is at the same rate you're currently receiving." "That's very generous of you, but no, we don't want it," I'd tell them.

After a while of this, I got more forceful in my denials. "Someone called yesterday with the same offer, and I'll tell you the same thing. We don't want it, we aren't changing our minds, and please take me off this list immediately." And you know what? That actually worked...for another year or two. Shortly after we moved into our house in the valley, I got another call from the L.A. Times. This time, the pitch was a little different. For less than I was currently paying, I could get the "extended weekend" plan (or some other nonsensical term) of Thursday through Sunday. Better yet, I said that I'd only agree to it if they'd promise me to take me off all outbound call lists. The guy agreed, and somehow he had that power.

Everything was ok for a little while, until the Sunday paper started arriving later and later. I don't want to sound too much like a crusty old man, but on Sundays, I like to sit with the crossword puzzle and my coffee while I pet my dog and wait for my lovely wife to get up. It's comforting, and the puzzle kick-starts my brain in a way that caffeine alone doesn't. So I called, and after a few weeks of persistent complaints, it started arriving at 7am (like it had before the lapse) instead of closer to 10 or 11. All was well in the world of Peter and the paper. (By the way, you can't spell "persistent" or "the paper" without Peter.)

During this span of a few years, the L.A. Times made one change that bothered me. Originally, every Sunday paper had the crossword puzzle in the Calendar section and another one in their special magazine section. The Calendar one moved to a new Arts & Music section, and the magazine one hopped around. At first, it was moved to the Calendar section of Saturday's paper, which was confusing but ok. Then it was gone completely. A little bit later, and the magazine was back (as the hip "L.A. Magazine), but only once a month. I got used to that, even though I was unhappy (since I like that puzzle-maker's work a little more). Every four Sundays, it was like a bonus, and it made me value my two-puzzle Sundays even more than I had before.

All of that brings me to last Sunday, April 5th, 2009. I got our paper at approximately 7:01am. As the coffee percolated (which also can't be spelled without Peter), I extracted the Arts & Music section from the throng of advertisements. I flipped through the rest, but didn't see L.A. Magazine anywhere. I told myself that even though it felt like it had been a month, I must be mistaken. A couple of hours later, my mom called to say hi. "Did you finish both puzzles already?" she asked. "Both? I looked and only had the one!" I said, in what might be construed as a whine. "Well call them," she said. "Oh, you betcha," I said.

I first went back to the paper to make sure I hadn't missed the magazine. I hadn't. So I picked up the phone and dialed the customer service line. After a few tiers of the automated system, I got a real person. Here's how that went down:

CS Agent: (standard intro)

Me: Hi, I got my paper this morning, but it was missing the L.A. Magazine. I don't need a whole new paper, so I wanted to see if I could get just the magazine delivered.

CS Agent: Ok, hold on hold on.

Me: No problem.

(five seconds pass)

CS Agent: Hold on hold on.

Me: I am.

CS Agent: Ok, hold on.

Me: (getting frustrated now) I am holding on. You don't need to keep saying that.

CS Agent: Ok sir. Due to market research and new strategies, certain zip codes will not be receiving L.A. Magazine.

Me: What? Why?

CS Agent: Ok sir. Due to market research and new strategies, certain zip codes will not be receiving L.A. Magazine.

Me: I heard you, but I don't understand. My parents live a couple miles from here and they got it. I want to find out how I can still receive this magazine.

CS Agent: Well sir, due to market-

Me: I'm sorry to cut you off, but I heard you and now I'm trying to figure out how to fix this.

CS Agent: I'm sorry sir, but your zip code does not receive the magazine.

Me: Is there a supervisor I can speak to?

CS Agent: Yes sir, I will transfer you to a specialist.

(beeps and rings)

Agent 2: (same standard intro)

Me: Hi, I was just speaking with someone and asked to be transferred to a specialist.

Agent 2: Did you get the name of the person you spoke with?

Me: No, I didn't.

Agent 2: Well I'm a specialist. How can I assist you?

Me: (a little dubious) Ok, I was trying to get L.A. Magazine delivered to my house and the agent said that wasn't possible.

Agent 2: Due to market research and new strategies, certain zip codes will not be receiving L.A. Magazine.

Me: (now getting testy) Yeah, I got that. My question is whether or not there is any way for me to change that so I get the section I want and have gotten for months?

Agent 2: Well sir, I could tell you the closest zip code to you that still receives the magazine.

Me: (with a glimmer of hope) And I could get that version of the paper?

Agent 2: No, you could go buy it there.

Me: (completely fed up now) Oh that's nice. So since I'm on the wrong side of some arbitrary line, I'm not getting the magazine and won't for the foreseeable future, right?

Agent 2: Correct sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: (biting my tongue from pointing out the lack of help up to this point) No, I think that's it.

All together now, everyone: "That's bullshit!"

I called my parents to report this retardiculous development, and they were as appalled as I was. My mom said that she'd make photocopies of those puzzles every month going forward so that I wasn't left out. Fortunately, my loving mother-in-law also lives in a privileged enough area to receive the vaunted magazine, and she gave me the clean version of the puzzle my mom had already completed. So I guess that's how it's gonna be until a new market research study says that our zip code is suddenly worthy of glossy paper again. Once a month, I'll get the magazine puzzle from one of our parents and just do the Arts & Music one on Sunday mornings. There are worse things, I know, but man that pissed me off.

Two updates before I finish this section: First, my loving wife said to me yesterday morning, "I think I want to switch to getting the paper on just Sundays." Wish me luck, folks. I'm anticipating a couple of calls on Thursdays and me uttering, "No, it's supposed to only be on Sundays now. And no, I don't want to switch to the whole week for free." Second, it appears that this coveted L.A. Magazine is available to anyone who can click a couple of links from the L.A. Times homepage. And get this: they never once asked for my zip code. Bastards.

Ok, enough complaining. Let's take our ink-stained fingers on down to the Car Watch.

First off, my Bratty Kid Sister sent me this link about a Car Watch worthy story: http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2009/04/09/dnt.co.tofu.KDVR. To summarize, a very hippy/crunchy/earthy vegan woman in Colorado wanted to have, "I love tofu" on her plate to match her other pro-herbivore car paraphernalia. So she requested, "ILVTOFU," which was originally granted. Then the powers that be realized that it also looked like, "I love to F you," and they took it back. She's unhappy about this, naturally, but I'm thoroughly pleased since it wouldn't have made the news otherwise.

My friend Dusty saw this bumper sticker: "When in doubt, empty the magazine." Wow, that just might be the worst advice I've ever heard in my life. Seriously now, if reckless advice were a sport, that sticker would be its Tiger Woods. I'm struggling to come up with something worse. My first thought was, "When in doubt, don't use a condom," but that doesn't quite equal the destruction of spraying bullets everywhere. "When in doubt, launch the missiles," one-ups it, I suppose. Yay! (So maybe that sticker was the Vijay Singh of reckless advice.)

Lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me a license plate that read, "MYTGEEK." Tell me, friends, what mental picture does that bring up for you? I definitely see a scrawny, pasty white dude in a homemade green spandex suit and a little eye-mask thing a la Robin (of Batman and Robin fame). What I can't decide on though is the insignia on his chest. Is it a calculator? A graduated cylinder? A Bunsen burner? A fully-stocked pocket protector? A protractor? Pi? Thick-framed glasses with tape supporting the joints? I'd really like to know what icon you think would best represent the Mighty Geek. Comment away, homepeople.

That's it for me. Happy Easter on Sunday to all who celebrate it. That day is also our friends Lisa and Paul's anniversary, so happy #6 to them. Half-birthday to Alissa on Monday, and happy half-anniversary to Dave and Twilight on Wednesday. Overall, I'd say that's lots of happiness. That's how I roll. Have a great weekend and week, mis amiguitos, and I'll see you back here next Friday. As always, you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com.

Having a ball

2009-04-03T05:08:00.000-07:00

Good morning, afternoon, or evening. How am I supposed to know what time of day it is wherever you are? Disirregardless, I hope it's good so far. 'Tis April, which means that 2009 keeps marching on at its ridiculous pace. We'll be hearing Christmas carols again in no time.

When I began writing this blog back in November of 2006 (wow, really?), I made a big list of potential topics for myself to someday cover. New things kept springing up, but the list got shorter fairly quickly (especially during the first year when I was posting every weekday). Eventually, there were only a few things left, and they were the kinds of topics that made me shake my head and say to myself, "Yeah, I should probably just leave that one alone." Why? Because, for the most part, they were stories that would make me look like a stupid boy doing stupid boy things. And so there they stayed, likely to be ignored for all of eternity.

Things have a way of changing, though. My friend Greg (The Pigh) has recently become a loyal reader after finding the daily posts to be too cumbersome. He sent me an email with some suggestions of things I could write, and sure enough, they were very similar to the remaining items on my original list. I reconsidered each of them and determined that one in particular might be ok to discuss in this forum without making us look too moronic. What was that one item? Shiznit Ball. Allow me to provide some back story and set-up please.

How did it start? Well, here's what I know for sure. During our sophomore year of college, four of us rented an apartment together on Camino del Sur in the quaint and quiet town known as Isla Vista, California. It was a two-bedroom, two-bathroom place with a decent main room and some very green carpet. The front lawn had a chain link fence that was about 10 feet long and three feet high - but only on one side of the lawn. The other three had nothing. We couldn't understand why it was there, for it neither kept anything in nor out of the rest of the front yard. Therefore, we dubbed it, "The Fence of No Reason." (At one point, someone couldn't remember what we called it and guessed, "The Fence of No Sense." We felt like idiots since that was obviously so much better.) Anyway, I (Dawg) shared one of the bedrooms with Greg (The Pigh), while my homey Rockabye (Krab) and our good friend Jon (Auks - later petitioned and changed to Ramb) shared the other one.

The latter duo's room was a standard rectangular shape, with the beds set against opposing walls. Somehow, I know not how, but a game sprung from our warped little minds. I don't have a specific recollection of the transition, but what started off as a simple ball-tossing activity from one bed to the other turned into a full-on bizarre and retardiculous game called Shiznit Ball.

Here's the thing: while my friends and I have talked in general terms about playing Shiznit Ball since that time (about a dozen years now), we've stayed away from specifics. Our conversations always start with, "Hey, remember playing Shiznit Ball?" and end with, "Yeah, that was so much fun." Therefore, my memory is pretty fuzzy about the origin, the majority of the rules, and what made it so uniquely fun. So I turned to my friends to prod their recollections. However, I didn't want anyone's response to taint anyone else's, so I didn't look at theirs until mine was done, and I asked them not to share their responses with each other. Without further ado, here's my mostly guessing take on Shiznit Ball.

Shiznit Ball was named after the fact that Snoop Doggy Dogg said "shiznit" a lot, and we were listening to his music a good amount back then. No deeper meaning. Shiznit Ball is a three-player game. There are two throwers, situated on beds, and an "it" person in the middle. The object from a thrower's point of view is to throw the ball (approximately the size of a softball but made of a Nerf-like material...or was it rubber?) to the bed across the room, where the other thrower would be waiting. The thrower does not want the "it" person to interfere with the throw. The "it" person's object, as I recall, is to use any body part besides his hands to stop the ball from reaching its desired target. Usually, this involved wild kicking motions, kneeing, hip thrusts, and occasional headbutts. If the ball hit the person in the middle and then was caught by one of the throwers, then...crap, I have no idea. Something happened.

I do know that we loved playing it. In fact, we started getting more specialized in how we prepared ourselves for a game. I remember hiking up my socks and wearing a hat and sunglasses. I can picture The Pigh wearing a camouflage bandana that he saved for special occasions. We'd put on "get you pumped" music like Everclear to set the mood. I believe we even had entrance music like pro wrestlers for at least one game. In short, we were frickin' nuts.

Personally, I was a horrible "it" person. I'd keep bouncing up and down, kicking errantly in vain to get the ball. On one occasion, I forgot that I'd still need a leg to land on, which led to me falling flat on my back and laughing from that position for a good five minutes. I remember Krab getting some good kicks in, sending the ball flying around the room. Ooh, that reminds me - the walls were in play. So if the guy in the middle kicked it off a wall and one of the throwers caught it, then...crap, I still don't know.

It was great, stupid fun. I know that for sure. The three of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and I can't remember if Jon ever joined us (even though it was in his room with his bed heavily involved). Much of the rest is guessing, so hopefully my friends' takes on the sport enlighten me and don't contradict my recounting too much. Here are questions I'd like to have answered:

1. How did we choose who was in the middle?
2. How long did he get to stay there?
3. Were any types of throws forbidden?
4. Do the others remember me being as bad at it as I do?

And without further ado, here are the highlights from my homey Rockabye's (aka Krab) memory of Shiznit Ball:

I thought Jon played...didn't he used to wear the bandana and get really into it when 'despite all my rage I'm still just a rat in a cage' was playing?

I thought the name was created over time...as we used to try to be like Snoop and say everything with the shiznit...we would always put on a cd (of) any type of songs that pumped us up.

The game was essentially monkey in the middle until we were able to kick the ball...We had to keep the toss below the person's head and above their knee...we created some sort of strike zone...I think it's safe to say you were the worst at it, but made us laugh the most.

As we got better - we had special moves. Like the crane kick in Karate Kid and your patented jump kick where you would completely miss the ball - slip - and fall flat on your back in pain. I do remember putting on my cut off shirt cause we would start to sweat so much. What a great game.

Ok, so he remembers music that would pump us up (although that's a Smashing Pumpkins song he references instead of the Everclear I recall), and that I was the worst at it. I also now recall the "strike zone" in order to make every throw technically kickable.

Now we turn to Greg to see what he had to say on the matter:

...Everything is a little hazy, so it may not be entirely accurate. I don't believe we played proper Shiz during our freshman year...First game ever had to be played in Krab and Jon's room on Camino del Sur. I don't think we ever played in our room, b/c our layout wasn't right...Don't remember if Jon ever played.

Using the mini stuffed basketball that Krab had, two of us would sit on the beds at opposite ends of the room. The game was very similar to monkey in the middle, only the monkey was not allowed to use his hands. I believe heading the ball was allowed, but we mostly kicked wildly at it. The round finished when the dude in the middle kicked the ball away from the throwers. I believe a thrower could also be saved if a kicked ball was caught by a thrower (not sure). There was not a point scoring system, so there were no real winners or losers, but mad props were certainly given for extraordinarily difficult kicks and daring throws... I seem to remember that all of our throws were kickable, it was a matter of trickery and change of speeds.

I can't really remember you guys, but I think I always wore my camouflaged bandana wrapped Daniel-son style. When I was in the middle I would often mimic Karate Kid moves prior to throws...I feel like there had a to be an album or two that we typically listened to, but I can't think of any.

Look at that! We got some official-sounding rules, some strategy, and a second Karate Kid reference.

And so lastly, I turned to Jon. I asked him on the phone if he remembered the game and if he ever played it with us. His response was succinct: "Yeah, of course I remember Shiznit Ball. I played a couple of times, but not nearly as often as you morons." True, true.

So what can I take from this foray into the memory banks? Two things. First, I'm glad to know that my friends and I can put our fuzzy memories together to get a clearer one. (In fact, when Krab mentioned the cut-off shirt, I got a clear image of me taking a severed t-shirt sleeve and wearing it on my head as part of my "game attire.") Second, I love my friends. This story illustrates the nature of my lasting relationships with these folks. Not only could we take absolutely anything and make it exceedingly fun for us, but a dozen years later, we're still laughing and secretly picturing the rooms in our respective residences to find the perfect arena for a night of grown-up Shiznit Ball. Guys, make sure I stretch first.

And with that, homepeople, let's wax on and wax off over to the Car Watch.

My favorite brother saw a license plate that's just begging for trouble: "STOLNCR." Really? Why not just have "PLMEOVR" instead?

My Bratty Kid Sister wrote me with a plate too. "NOTAFSH," it told her (and everyone else). Whew, that was close. I was about to attempt to hook that car, gut it, cook it, and serve it with a garnish of lemon and a sprig of parsley. That would've been really embarrassing. Thankfully, the driver was wise enough to stop me before I even got my line in the water.

And lastly, my homey Rockabye sent me this license plate: "CANUMOV." I don't understand. This car is in front of whoever's reading the plate right? Therefore, it only makes sense on the rare occasion that the driver is trying to back up but has another car in his/her way. Oh sure, there's likely a front plate too, but it appears backwards in the mirror of the car in front of it. If I were behind this car, I'd probably flail my arms about while vigorously nodding. That should answer the question.

Wow, I'm spent; that was longer than I expected. And yes, that's what she said. Have a great weekend and week, folks. Happy birthday to Sacky Christi on Monday, and if you celebrate Passover, have a festive one. If you don't celebrate Passover, have a festive Wednesday at sundown. As always, you can email me at ptklein@gmail.com. Shaloha.

Fear in the headlights

2009-03-27T05:10:00.000-07:00

Good morning, homepeople. How's everyone doing on this (insert adjective that correctly refers to the weather in your part of the world) Friday? Yes, it's rather (insert same adjective with the knowledge that it is either accurate or sarcastic) here in Los Angeles, too. We do what we can. As I type this, I have no idea what this post is going to be about, and that frightens me a little. But I shall face my fears, push on, and see what comes of this.

Actually, something just came of this. By writing, "face my fears," I recalled a brief story. Isn't it fantastic when that happens? (Answer: Yes!) I've written a little about our sweet and adorable dog Hallie in the past. I wrote about how she got her name, songs in which I frequently insert that name, and some silly things she does from time to time. I don't believe I've ever talked about how extremely timid she was when we first got her from the rescue organization.

During the first month or so of having our new family member, we learned more and more things that scared her on a daily basis. It made no sense, really. I'd be walking her, and the wind would move a leaf. I think that's fairly typical, but she'd cower and put her tail so far between her legs that it looked like she had a penis. A minute later, a car alarm could go off right next to us and she wouldn't bat an eye. "Really? You're ok with that though?" I'd ask her. She never answered.

The scariest thing in the world to her during that first little while was...ROLLING LUGGAGE! I was walking her, and a woman pulling a suitcase behind her turned the corner and was a few feet from us. Hallie leapt backwards in the air, curled into the smallest ball she could behind my legs, and started shaking. The luggage roller asked me why she was so afraid, and I said what ended up being a very common refrain for the first couple of years that we had her: "We got her from a shelter, so we don't really know."

I saw that she started to develop a bad habit. Namely, when walking through the parking lot sections of our large apartment complex, Hallie started to fear...PARKED CARS! Yes, I know, they're very scary. I would try taking us between two cars, and she'd stop dead in her tracks and pull backward or turn and try going a different direction. After I changed course a couple of times, I took a new tact. "Hallie, it's time to face your fears," I said to her. Trying my best to be the confident and assertive pack leader she needed, I pulled her through two cars parked close together. My thought was that if she saw that she could go through without whatever mortal peril she expected to happen, then it would be easier the next time. And you know what? I was actually right. The next time we got to parked cars, I said again, "Face your fears, Hallie dog." With minimal pulling, we walked through. The time after that was no problem at all. I made her face her fears and she came out the other end smiling. (She really does look like she's smiling at times. See?)

After being a part of our family for four years now, she hardly resembles the little scaredy-dog we brought back to that apartment in Sacramento. She's still more timid than the average dog, but she's come way out of her shell. Parked cars, rolling luggage, and even dreaded leaves don't have the same effect on her anymore. I'd like to think that transformation started right then when I had the heartfelt Father-Dogter pep talk. I'd also like to think that she'll magically start walking better on a leash without us really working on it, but I'll take what I can get.

That story got me thinking (uh oh) about whether I practice what I preached (proach?) to my pup. Do I push myself enough in uncomfortable moments? Do I have fears that I can actively try to minimize? I actually think the answer is yes, albeit on a couple of small scales that come to mind. If there's an ugly bug in the house, I would love to be able to cast a spell from two rooms away to make it disappear. Instead, since I'm the designated bug-killer of the house, I've forced myself to persevere in those situations. Oh sure, there may be some girlish screaming involved and, if it was unfortunately messy for any reason, slight waves of nausea, but I get the job done. And I suppose it has gotten easier of the years. Maybe this "face your fears" stuff really works.

The other example that readily came to mind involves talking to strangers. Oh sure, it's easy on a computer monitor, but I'm talking about a different forum: the phone. There are times at work that I have to call someone with whom I'm not yet acquainted. Often that call is to ask for something (set up a meeting, pitch him/her on a service that might not be needed, complain about how a matter was handled, etc.), so I don't think that they'll excitedly say, "Oh hi; great to hear from you!" after I introduce myself. Therefore, I find it a little difficult to pick up the phone and start that process. I don't know if it's actually fear that makes me hesitate and not want to do it, but it's definitely in the fear family. (Coming soon to Fox - Fear Family! What happens when a normal suburban family is haunted by ghosts as they attempt to eat pig rectums and walk a plank over genetically-modified barracudas? Find out Fridays at 10/9 Central!) So what do I do? I make myself start. It's very similar to how I would talk to girls in junior high school. I told myself that if I began the sentence, it would be too late to turn back and I'd be forced to run with it. That's what I do now on the occasional call of this type. Knowing full well that I don't want to, I pick up the phone and start dialing as quickly as possible. Once it rings, it's out of my hands and I just have to power through the call and make it happen. And everything ends up being just fine. That makes the next time and the one after that a little bit easier, and I'm pleased to know that I'm headed in the right direction. Peter Klein: Fear Facer.

Bees and wasps though? Nah, fuck that, I'm not facing that fear. I’m 31 years old, and I still freeze like a broken computer anytime a bee is buzzing around me.

Ok everyone, let's move our sharp and lethal stinger-asses on over to the Car Watch.
First off, my lovely wife and I went wine tasting over this past weekend. In the parking lot of one of the wineries, she saw this license plate frame: "Wine drinkers make grape lovers." Nicely done. Speaking of that trip, we went to one place called Wiens that we really liked. While sitting there, I pointed out that "Wiens" is an anagram of "sinew." "Or 'wines,'" my lovely wife added, which was way more appropriate. "What's wrong with me?" I asked. She didn't answer, so I took that to mean, "Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you."

Next up, my homey Rockabye sent me this Car Watch item that made me laugh: "Bring back professional football in Detroit." You see, they do have a pro team, but since their hometown Lions went 0-16 last year (a record in futility), the car's owner doesn't think that they should count as "professional." I like sarcasm, so I liked this. It's a simple equation really.

And lastly, my friend Dusty sent me a funny bumper sticker: "If size doesn't matter, how come I'm so popular?" I've wondered the same thing for years, my friend.

Ok, that's it for today. But have no fear (tee hee), I'll be back next Friday with more stuff and...stuff. In the meantime, here are some happies: Today is my favorite niece's 5/6 birthday, so wish her well as she nears becoming a whole number. Happy 91st birthday tomorrow to my lovely wife's grandfather, which is quite impressive. Happy half-birthday to longtime and loyal reader Sue on Wednesday, and happy full birthday to my co-worker Rob on Thursday. As always, you can reach me at ptklein@gmail.com. Take care, everyone, and shaloha.

Geeking havoc

2009-03-20T05:05:00.000-07:00

Good morning, one and all. I hope everyone's feeling chipper out there. Not like a wood chipper, mind you; I'm pretty sure that's the opposite of my original intention. So welcome. Ya know, for all the time I spend at the end of these posts wishing people happy full and half-birthdays, you'd think that I wouldn't gloss over key dates like the Ides of March and St. Patrick's Day. You'd be wrong though. In any case, I hope you survived the former and enjoyed the latter.

Back in December, I purchased something from an amazing website called ThinkGeek. Some of the stuff on there is way too technical for me to even know what they're spoofing, but I found something on there that I thought my boss might like. It's a mini drum kit that you play with your fingers (http://www.thinkgeek.com/geektoys/cubegoodies/922f/), and I found it cool at least. However, I had no idea at the time that that gift would only yield about 1/1000th of the pleasure that I got from the "free gift with purchase." By spending a certain amount of money, I got a free device called The Annoy-a-tron. Here are the key parts of the item's description:

The Annoy-a-tron generates a short (but very annoying, hence the name) beep every few minutes. Your unsuspecting target will have a hard time 'timing' the location of the sound because the beeps will vary in intervals ranging from 2 to 8 minutes.

With its thin design and embedded magnet for easy hiding, the Annoy-a-tron can be placed in a variety of locations.

Assuming you have done your part in selecting a suitable hiding location for the Annoy-a-tron, it will do its part to drive your co-workers slowly mad with its short and seemingly random beeps. And when someone does locate the Annoy-a-tron, they're really not going to know what it is - which is almost as much fun as watching them search for it. Muahaha.

So once we got back to work during the first week of January, I thought about what would be the most suitable hiding place. I didn't want to subject my boss to this, mainly because I'm not a moron. My co-worker Jamie didn't deserve the torture, and Rob wouldn't have found it funny at all. In fact, I could see him getting very upset, yelling at the facilities managers, and unintentionally taking all of the joy out of the prank. But my co-worker named Scott...now that's a different story. Scott's a prankster in his own right (including the occasional hiring of a singing telegram in a full gorilla costume for someone's birthday), so I knew he'd eventually appreciate it. Also, there was a little sense of payback for the amount of stress he's caused me by consistently running five minutes late to conference calls and meetings. As a hyperpunctual person, that doesn't fly with me whatsoever. And he toys with me, often lying about when he'll be somewhere just to make me a bit more nervous.

So Scott won the honorable distinction of having me hide The Annoy-a-tron in his office. I found the perfect spot: the inside metal lip of a small table in the far corner of his office. I told almost everyone else in the office about the gag, turned it on, and waited to see what would happen. In all honesty, I expected Scott to complain about a beeping sound, find the device within a day or two, accuse us of planting it there, and then we'd all share a laugh as he called me names. Well my friends, my assumption was a little bit off.

A week went by, and I hadn't heard a peep out of Scott about any hearing any noises. I made sure to turn it off at the end of each day and then back on in the mornings in an effort to save the battery. Every time I turned it on, it beeped, so I knew it must have been working. The next week, I sat in Scott's office when I heard a beep from the corner. He didn't bat an eye and kept talking. Was he going deaf? If so, then this was a horrible idea. A few minutes later, it beeped again. I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Did you hear something?" I asked. "YES!" he yelled, with an exasperated look on his face. "I've been hearing that beeping for a week now. I think something's battery is dying but I can't figure out where it's coming from." Being fairly quick on my feet, I turned the exact opposite direction of where I planted The Annoy-a-tron and said, "It sounded like it came from over there."

A couple more weeks went by, with the same scene playing out over and over again. "I gotta find out what that is. It has to be either something losing its power or some kind of bug." "You think someone's bugging you?" I asked, trying my best to seem genuinely concerned. "It's possible, I guess." To maximize the fun factor, I'd occasionally leave The Annoy-a-tron off for a few days at a time before turning it back on. "Still hearing that beeping?" I asked. "Ya know, I didn't for a few days, but I just heard it a minute ago!" "Still coming from over here?" I asked, pointing in the wrong direction. "There are two beeps," he said. "One is coming from the that corner, and the other I think is coming from over there, but maybe up in the ceiling." That led to the three-week period in which he thought it was a smoke detector with a dying battery.

Two months into the journey, Scott seemed to be coming a little unhinged. Determined to find the source of the on-again/off-again beeping, he began unplugging various electronic devices around his office. The phone and plant that lived on the small table (under which the device was hiding) were temporarily moved into the lobby area. The television, cable box, and shredder were unplugged and scrutinized for any visible problems. Nothing seemed to work though, so he gave up and just tried to accept the fact that something was going to beep every few minutes on some days of the week.

That might make it seem like it lost its fun, but that's not the case. In fact, that's when the other office mates got involved to make Scott really start to question his sanity. "Did you hear that?" we'd ask, when there hadn't been any sound whatsoever. When it would beep, we'd keep a straight face and pretend not to have heard it. Then my boss and I "heard" the sound of a monkey going, "Hoo hoo" every so often. Scott just threw his hands up in the air and said, "I don't even know anymore. I don't think I'm going crazy, so something weird is definitely going on."

I was thinking of turning it off for a good week or two just to make him think the problem had resolved itself. I thought the payoff would be great when it reared its beeping head once more. I didn't get there though, because something happened. "Scott just found a bug in his office," a co-worker who wasn't in on the gag told me on Tuesday of this week. "What?" I asked, careful not to give myself away yet. "Yeah, something beeped, and his friend got on the ground and found a little electronic thing hidden under a table." I got up and went in there. Here's a synopsis of how the next half an hour played out:

Me: So it's a bug?

Scott's Friend: Yes. It definitely is. I've seen bugs before, and this is transmitting somewhere.

Me: (to Scott) Why would someone bug you?

Scott: I don't know, but this is fucked up.

Scott's Friend: Based on the size and battery, this thing can't be more than six months old. It has to be transmitting to somewhere close by. (He catches Jamie smiling.) Maybe these guys had something to do with it.

Me: Oh yeah, 'cause I want to hear everything Scott's saying.

Scott: No, and that looks like it's expensive.

Scott's Friend: I know a guy who I can bring this to. He can tell us if it's FBI, CIA, military, or something else.

Scott: Oh crap. Oh crap.

Me: If anyone's listening in there, my name is Peter Klein, and I've done nothing illegal.

Scott: Oh crap. Oh crap.

I then texted my boss (who was out of town) to tell him what was going on. I grabbed The Annoy-a-tron's box from my office, and I was about to present it to Scott and come clean with the whole thing, but I waited until he finished leaving a slightly-panicked message on our boss's voicemail. He hung up and said, "I think I need to go bring this somewhere and find out what it is. It'll cost me $500 if I go to the one place I know, but that's worth it." That was enough for me. I printed out The Annoy-a-tron's page from the ThinkGeek site and put it on Scott's desk. "Hey Scott, it kinda looks like this, don't you think?" "That's it!" he said excitedly. "And it looks like it would come in a box like this, right?" I asked, as I put it next to the printout. He looked up at me, and confusion turned to disbelief, which morphed into a mix of smiling relief and dissipating anger. "You fucker!" he said. "I knew it was them," his friend chimed in. "Was that before or after you told us the approximate transmitting distance?" Rob asked.

For the next hour, Scott said many things about not believing that "mild-mannered Peter" played this trick on him. I pointed out that the device said "ANNOY" on it, but he said it was too small to read and looked like "ALLOY." He asked if we were snickering behind his back every time he unplugged something or moved the plant, and we said it was much more often than that. I told him that I knew he could take it, and I wouldn't have done that to anyone else in the office. That didn't make it any better though, and he vowed to get revenge on me for making him think that he was either crazy or under surveillance by the government. He had two final thoughts on the subject: "Payback is a bitch," and, "Payback is a motherfucker." I'll let you all know how that turns out. This free gift ended up causing an exponentially higher amount of entertainment than I ever could've guessed, so I regret nothing...yet.

And now, let's magnetically affix ourselves onto the Car Watch.

My homey Rockabye sent me this license plate: "KANSKID." I have to believe it's one of three things, each with a flaw. If it's "Kansas Kid," then the missing extra S makes it more confusing than it should be. If it's "Kan's Kid," what kind of name is Kan? Is it short for some funky spelling of Candice? Is it going the Courtney route (which has about 30 spellings now), leading to Khandyss and Kanndhis? I hope not. And if the plate is supposed to be, "Can Skid," then the driver needs better tires right away.

I saw a license plate frame, and between reading the top and bottom of it, I was able to slip in a thought and an entire memory. Pretty special, eh? So the top said, "All Eyez on Me." "Wait a minute, that sounds familiar," I thought. Then I remembered why. Years ago, I sent my friend Dusty a text message about a license plate frame I saw that confused me. "All Eyes on Me" was on top, and "Fijian Pride" on the bottom. Was the driver just vain and proud of her heritage? "Is it some kind of pun with the three dotted letters in a row?" Dusty wondered. We never came to a consensus, but I went back to that in my mind before looking at the bottom of the frame in front of me. What did it say? "2Hard's Mom." Well that's different. And it was a guy driving. I drove away more confused than ever.

Lastly, I was behind a car with this plate: "1TRU QT." I wanted to see how accurate the driver was in his or her self-assessment. So when the opportunity presented itself, I passed the car on the right and saw the woman driving. Um, gee, how can I put this politely? I think Borat said it best with, "You, eh, not so much." I don't normally go around judging people by their outer beauty, but when you tell everyone on the road that you're cute, you kinda have to be cute. Sorry, lady.

Ok, I've taken up way more of your time than I originally anticipated, so I'll make this part brief. Happy half-birthday today to our friend Paul, and happy 5th anniversary tomorrow to my lovely and increasingly wonderful wife. Have a great week everyone, and if you have a March Madness bracket, may your hunches prove to be accurate. As always, you can reach me at ptklein@gmail.com. Take care.

Spain management

2009-03-13T05:11:00.000-07:00

Hello again, UOPTA readers, and thanks for coming back here for more of whatever it is I do here. I'm a little confused that it's Friday the 13th again after we just had one last month too. Aren't they usually more rare than that? And if the calendar on my phone is correct (and why wouldn't it be?), we have another one of them in November. That's weird, right? I don't keep track of such things, but three of them in one calendar year seems awfully high to me. Crap, now I have to look it up. Sure enough, 2008 only had one Friday the 13th (in June), so this year's total of three is a huge increase. And 2010 has but one as well (in August). I love it when my random hunches get proven to be accurate.

A couple of days ago, I was reminded of a story from my past. I started to send myself an email to write about it in this space, but I stopped partway through because I was certain that I'd already done that. The next day, I spent a good ten minutes searching on my blog for that story by typing in different words that would be essential to the story, but I came up blank. I still think it's in here somewhere, but what the hell, here goes:

During my senior year of high school, I went on a class trip to Spain with my fellow AP Spanish students and a few other people who my teacher just liked and allowed to join us. This was really the height of my extroverted behavior, fresh off a good role in a school play and 1.5 years of improv comedy under my belt. That said, I was clearly still learning that glorious secret to comedy: timing.

After a week of gallivanting around the country, seeing beautiful museums and landmarks, and learning the wonderful effect that alcohol had on my teenage body (it was legal there, Mom), the group headed to airport for our long trip back home. Since we were a larger group, we had an customs official assigned to us to get all of our paperwork perused and approved. The man assigned seemed nice enough, and he unknowingly started his questioning with the meekest and generally most uncomfortable student in our group. This was a shy underclassman named Brett, and I was standing right next to him. Here's how it went down:

Airport Agent: Passport please.
Brett: Oh, ok, um, here you go.
Airport Agent: Do you have any contacts here in Spain?
Brett: Excuse me?
Airport Agent: (a little more sternly) Do you have any contacts here in Spain?
Brett turns to Peter, the street-smart and wily veteran next to him. Brett's face shows a combination of confusion and sheer panic. Peter doesn't pick up on this and instead goes for the funny.
Peter: No, he wears glasses.
Peter looks around for approval and maybe a high-five, but his search is interrupted by the agent.
Airport Agent: Please let him answer the questions himself. (to Brett) Do you have contacts here?
Brett looks back at Peter, in full panic mode now.
Peter: (trying to save the day) No, you don't. (to the agent) No, he doesn't.
Airport Agent: Sir, please stop answering for him. (to Brett) Is there anyone in Spain who you were meeting?
Brett: Oh. No sir.
Airport Agent: Did you pack your bags yourself?
Brett: Yes.
Airport Agent: Do you have any firearms or explosives in your possession?
Peter: (half to himself) No, he left them at the hotel.
Airport Agent: (very sternly and seriously) Look, I know you're kidding, but if someone else were to hear you, you'd be in serious - SERIOUS - trouble, do you understand me?
Peter: (thankful for his ability to avoid shitting in his pants) Yes sir. Sorry.

I stepped away from their conversation, and when it was my turn, the agent and I went through the process quickly, mechanically, and uber professionally.

Here's the thing that gets me about that story: I was a fairly bright kid, so I should know what everyone on the frickin' planet knows about when not to make jokes. Airports/planes and banks are off limits, and rightfully so. Yet here I was, a snotty teen who had recently been praised for off the cuff comedic retorts, unable to stop myself from pointing out the ambiguity of the phrase, "in your possession." I'm glad the agent knew that a stern glare was enough to scare me straight, because an airport holding cell would've been excessive in my opinion.

I certainly learned my lesson. If anything, I get weird looks from airport personnel now for being super friendly and polite. It's a sad state of affairs when manners cause suspicion, but that's the way it works sometimes. "Why's this guy smiling at me and asking me how I'm doing this morning? What is he hiding?"

Ok, I have room for a couple unrelated stories. By unrelated, I mean both to the previous story and to each other, in case you were curious. First, I was watching with great adoration recently as my favorite niece was falling asleep. I found myself thinking, "Ah, there's nothing like a kid nap. Wait. Kid nap. Kidnap?" Naturally, I couldn't stop thinking about that word for while. Wouldn't kidnab make a hell of a lot more sense? Someone nabbed a kid, and there most likely wasn't much napping involved. Who do I petition to have that changed?

While I'm at it, I think "kidnapper" makes more sense than "babysitter" for that position. Maybe I should start handing out cards that say, "Peter Klein, Kidnapper. All ages. Reasonable rates. References available upon request." Seriously though, if you didn't speak English well at all, is there any way you would hire a "babysitter" over a "kidnapper"? One sounds much crueler than the other, and if you're willing to put everything you know aside, I have to believe that you'll agree with me. Just like Diarrhea being a pretty name for a girl (but spelled Diaria, of course).

And my other unrelated story involves my favorite nephew. Well, he's related to me and to my favorite niece, so I guess there's something related going on here. Anyway, I was reading one of the Shawny Man's books to him, and something caught my eye. On one of the pages, Cookie Monster was eating a piece of watermelon. "He's eating something other than cookies?" I asked my dad, who was on the couch with us. "That's bullshit," he said (or something similar). I thought about it and realized that no one ever said that the Cookie Monster only ate cookies, it's just that he loves them with every ounce of his being. If he's hungry and there are no cookies around, then sure, he can eat something else. One page later though, and Cookie Monster was eating cupcakes...and there were cookies right in front of him! What the hell, man? Did he go to cookie rehab or something when I wasn't paying attention? I don't ask for too much from my puppets, but consistency is key. Seeing Cookie Monster eating other foods is like seeing Oscar the Grouch living part-time in a condo in Manhattan. It just ain't right.

With that, let's take the subway (specifically the C line) on over to the Car Watch.

First off, my homey Rockabye knows how I feel about Prius license plates. It seems like I've come across every combination of plate that touts their MPG capacities. So when he sent me a different type of Prius plate, I appreciated the variety. It read, "GSGZLRR." Yes folks, we've branched out into the sarcastic Prius owner realm. I welcome it with open arms.

My Bratty Kid Sister sent me a license plate, and even if I didn't like it, I'd still put it here because I believe in rewarding those who reach out to me by writing to ptklein@gmail.com (hint hint). As luck would have it, this plate would've made the cut even if it had come from my homey Rockabye and his infinite supply of Car Watch items. This one read, "QDITCH*." If you can't tell, that's "Quidditch star." If that still means nothing to you, I'll shed some light on the subject by explaining that Quidditch is the make-believe sport that the make-believe characters play in the make-believe world of Harry Potter and his friends. Not only does the driver of this car want us to believe that s/he plays this sport (which involves flying on broomsticks), but that s/he is very good at it too. I hope - and I mean really, really hope - that "Quidditch star" made it on the driver's resume at some point. That would just make my day.

And lastly, I saw this plate on a car while driving home earlier this week: "DROOLY." I looked, and the driver was neither a Bassett Hound nor a Newfoundland, so my guesses were way off. (By the way, here's a good little joke to use at anyone's expense you see fit. I'll choose our former President as a target to illustrate my point: "Did you hear what George W. Bush got on his SATs? Drool." It's best when you bring it up contextually, like when someone mentions W's Yale education, for example. Maybe I've officially learned my lesson on comedic timing. In any case, please let me know if you get a chance to use this joke and how it's received. It's served me well in the past, especially when I ask it in a very serious tone like I'm about to impart some cool trivia. I'm gonna close this parenthetical side note at some point, right?)

That's it, homepeeps. I hope your Friday the 13th is neither freaky nor filled with homicidal maniacs wearing hockey masks. Aren't I sweet? I'll be back here next Friday with more stuff, so hopefully you can wait that long. Before that, Thursday is our good friend Danielle's half-birthday, so send her some half-happy thoughts, ok? Take care, everyone, and be happy and healthy. That's an order.