FUF #30

Good morning. Sometimes I wish I had enough topics and stories that I didn't have to resort to the gimmicky Follow Up Fridays. Man, I hate myself for FUFfing you.

Thank you, thank you. Nothing like a little Joan Jett and the Blackhearts pun to get things kicked off. If that doesn't fill you with the spirit of shaloha on this glorious Friday morning, then nothing will. Yes, 'tis Friday, gentle readers, so I shall ramble about things from this week, ramble about random things, then ramble in this week's edition of Car Watch.

In yesterday's post, I wrote about getting pulled over by the po-po while my friends and I were en route to the cinematic masterpiece known as "The Waterboy." I mentioned that we came home that night with a bunch of new quotes, and I'd be untrue to myself if I didn't mention my very favorite one. Allow me to set the scene. Henry Winkler's character (named Coach Klein, incidentally), is having dinner over the Boucher residence with Bobby (Adam Sandler) and Mama (Kathy Bates). Mama prepared snake as the main course. Coach Klein asks what part of the snake she thinks they're eating. She responds with, "Uh, basically, a snake don't have parts. But if I had to call it anything, I would say it's his...knee." That absolutely cracks my shit up. First of all, saying snakes don't have parts is hilarious enough on its own. But then for her to guess a knee for an animal that doesn't have legs, well, that's just comedic gold. Kathy Bates, don't forget to list "The Waterboy" on your resume; you did some fine work there.

Ok, I think that's the only related thing I have from this week. Time to get all random on yo asses. My lovely wife and I are getting a new vinyl fence/rail thing on some steps at our house, and we had a guy out to give us a quote, and "give us a quote" he did indeed. "Yes, we can do that for a little less money than the competition because we're fabricators." He meant that they made the vinyl materials in their own facility, but I chuckled to myself because it sounded like they're liars. I guess that's one way to have a lower estimate. Oh, English language, how you amuse me to no end.

I was in my car last week, and I heard a Chevy commercial that got my attention for two reasons. First of all, it was for their "year end event" and we were still in August. Second of all, it sounded like "urine" to me at first. Who wants to go to a "urine event?" Nevermind, don't answer that. Please put your hands down; you're embarrassing yourselves. But seriously, that's on par with playing Christmas carols in August. I would say it's worse because the end of the year is technically after Christmas, but this commercial wasn't nearly as annoying as the same songs we're force fed hour after hour during the fourth quarter of each year.

Without further ado (because honestly, we all have enough ado already), it's time for shake our John David Booties over to the Car Watch.

Like many of you I'm sure, I've seen people in their cars talking on a cell phone with one hand and smoking or eating with the other and wondered how their handless driving skills would hold up in an emergency. A woman in a car behind me on the freeway last week took it to another level though. A cell phone and cigarette were both in the same hand, and the other hand was busy picking the hell out of her nose. Talented and classy! I love L.A.!

An old student worker of mine stumbled upon UOPTA by Googling herself and seeing her name in a comment BKS left some time back. I'll post what she wrote me, and I think you'll see why I got along with her: "I read your recent blog about personalized license plates. I saw this one a few weeks ago: IMAGIN8. I am still stewing over it! Imaginate a world in which imaginate was a word. Can't? Me either, it's too terrible." Thank you, Kelli Walters; your email made my day.

While we're on the topic of the number 8 in license plates, my mom saw "I H8 W8N"...in traffic, no less. He or she must have been sooooo pissed. I don't know about you guys, but I totally would've pointed and laughed.

As always, my homey Rocakabye sent me a crapload of license plates. I'll share just a few now and keep the others in my secret stash. First off, "IM (Heart)N ME." Ego, party of 1, ego.

Another read, "YBE SANE." I can think of several reasons, actually. Let's see, they're the whole upside of possessing mental faculties, the ability to live in the same world as one's peers and loved ones, and the opportunity to be a functional member of society, just to name a few. There are probably more that I'm missing.

He also sent me a license plate frame that said, "You're the Bestest Mommy." Wow, I don't know what to say. First, um, thank you, I suppose. Second, I'm not sure I deserve this honor, ya know, considering I'm not a mommy of any sort. I'm my dog's daddy, and I have fathered 201 blog posts, but that's all I've got to speak of to date. Still, thanks for the proclamation.

Lastly from Rockabye, he saw a plate that read, "ILLIAD." He sent me that in a text message, and I thought, "Yeah, so?" Then he sent me another text right after saying that he neglected to mention that the plate was on a Honda Odyssey. Brilliant. If the driver's name is Homer, I don't think my English Major brain would be handle the awesomeness of that combination.

And lastly for realsies, I saw a non-personalized plate that started with "5HIT." Tee hee, that's funny because it's almost a bad word. Yes, I'm 30.

Have an absolutely wonderful weekend, friends. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com, and in turn, I will continue to wish you absolutely wonderful weekends. Good deal, no?

Seeing the lights

Well hello, hey, and howdy, everyone. I don't do math, but I'm pretty sure I noticed something worth noting. If I'm carrying the one correctly, that makes this post my 200th at UOPTA. As Steve Martin says after seeing Michael Caine's house for the first time in "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," "Wow! All I can say is Wow!" I can't begin to tell you how shocked I am that I made it this far. I've been seriously running out of material for the past month or two, but then I do something crazy like stretch "spicy food" into a whole week. With any luck, I'll be able to do more of that for a while. If not, we'll have to discuss ways we can move forward in this relationship. For now though, I'm going to launch into another driving story, since that's been the hey-look-it's-a-theme-of-the-week.

Let's see here. So far, I've talked about many key aspects of the driving experience. You squirmed with me as I got my permit, you kept your excitement in check as I only got a 91 on my license exam, and you cringed as I added "Bronco 2" to the list of "Natural Enemies of Birds." So what have I missed so far? Silly gentle readers, I haven't talked about the police yet!

Before I get any more into a story that hasn't started yet, let me go on record here. I think policemen and women have extremely difficult jobs and I'm thankful that there are people like them out there who generally want to keep the peace and "put bad guys away." My grandfather was a sheriff for many, many years, and I respect the job these folks do on a daily basis. It's gotta be tough to be hated by many people simply because there are some bad seeds in your profession and your job involves telling people things that can't do. NWA's song "Fuck Tha Police" probably didn't help matters too much either.

Ok, I'm glad I got that out first, because the two stories I'm going to tell don't exactly paint the men and women of the police force in the most positive light. Neither is bad by any means, but I didn't want to feel like I was piling onto an already maligned occupation. Both stories take place in the town of Isla Vista, California. I lived in IV (as it's called) for the last three years of my schooling at UCSB. A very large number of students live in this small area, and while there are also families and a retirement home, it feels like it's almost all 20 year-olds. Enforcing the laws in this area is the Isla Vista Foot Patrol, and they have a rather tough task in my opinion of distinguishing stupid and obnoxious from illegal.

I was pulled over twice in IV, once when I was driving and once when I wasn't. I'll tell the latter first, because that doesn't make any sense. My friend Jon was driving me and some other friends to go see a movie. I remember sitting next to my homey Rockabye in the backseat, so that means either Greg or Dave must've been in the front. It was a short drive, and we were only a tenth of a mile from the house when Jon didn't make a complete stop at a stop sign. Out of the shadows, a cop appeared behind us and turned on his lights. Dutifully, Jon pulled over. Being good kids, Rockabye and I immediately put our hands neatly on our legs so there would be no question that we were complying to the fullest extent. You ready for dialogue mode?

Officer: Hey guys.

All: Hello, officer.

Officer: You kinda rolled through that stop sign back there.

Jon: Yeah, the old California Roll.

Peter: (nervous giggle, unsure if sushi-based humor is appropriate in this situation)

Officer: So where are you guys headed?

Jon: To the movies.

Officer: Oh yeah? What are you seeing?

Jon: Uh, "The Waterboy."

Officer: Oh man, Adam Sandler rocks.

All: (various versions of agreeing with his statement)

Officer: Well, be more careful in the future and enjoy the movie.

All: We will. Thank you.

Jon slowly drove away, and it we couldn't believe that not only did we get out of what should definitely have been a ticket, but he said, "Adam Sandler rocks." We did proceed with caution to the very funny movie, and came home later with a bunch of new quotes to throw around but no new traffic violations.

The second story is pretty different, and I'm just going to jump right into it. I was driving on my way out of IV and I came to a stop sign. Facing me in plain view on the other side of the street was a police car. Naturally, I made a very, very complete stop before proceeding. Two seconds later, the cop made a u-turn and got behind me. I turned right on the next street, and so did he. Then his lights came on. Confused as hell, I pulled over and waited for him to walk to my car.

As he approached, I stopped myself from asking, "What seems to be the problem, officer?" because it's too cliche. I only caught myself partway through, so I ended up saying, "What seem...what...did...I...do?" "You rolled right through that stop sign," he said matter-of-factly. I was floored, and apparently that flooring process took some of my speaking ability with it. "I, what? I, no, sir, I made a very complete stop, a, uh, really very complete one. I saw you parked right there, not that I don't always make complete stops, but in this case in particular I absolutely made sure that it was complete." He paused for a second, then said, "Well maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought you rolled right on through it." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Officer, I swear to you that I stopped very fully and completely at that sign, and I was even quite surprised to see you behind me since I knew it couldn't be for that." He paused again, this time longer. "Well," he finally said, "I guess I must be imagining things. Ok, you drive carefully out there." I thanked him and watched him walk back to his car.

Here's the thing. If he really thought I rolled through the stop sign, there's no way me swearing to him would've changed his mind. I think I figured out what happened. My stop was so ridiculously complete (which I kept wanting to tell him but stopped myself) that he must have assumed I was drunk. It was a holiday weekend, which may have made him more sensitive to that also. Under the pretense of the whole stop sign thing, he wanted to check me out. Seeing that I was only a spaz and not drunk, he let me go. That had to be it, right? He could've just asked me if I'd been drinking (which I hadn't - I was on my way to work, incidentally). That pissed me off. At the very least, I learned that I can successfully bite my tongue in the face of the authorities even when they say something so outlandish that I'm almost rendered speechless.

Ok, this is more than long enough for today's very special 200th UOPTA post. I have other pulled-over stories, but I'll keep them in the bag for right now. Gentle readers, you must have stories on this topic to share. Can you please email me at ptklein@gmail.com with them? Ideally, I can spend a whole post relaying bits and pieces of them to the rest of the reading audience. Have a great day, and I'll see you here tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday.

Flipping the bird

Hello and good morning, friends. It's the first Wednesday of September, and you know what that means? Me neither, but it's probably something. If not, let's make it something. From now on, the first Wednesday of September is...Check Your Windshield Wipers Day. I got new wipers recently (at my lovely wife's forceful urging), and they really do make a difference. I have a much higher tolerance for dirt on my windshield than she does, and it sometimes takes every ounce of restraint in her body to refrain from reaching over and hitting the spray lever. The urge occasionally outweighs the restraint, but it's all in the name of safety.

When I left you yesterday, I had just successfully passed my driver's license test and was about to officially enter the world of the driving. My birthday is in late June, so I got my license right around the very last day of tenth grade. While I was looking forward to being cool and driving to school, I was also happy to have a whole summer of getting comfortable behind the wheel ahead of me.

I spent that summer working three or four days out of the week and hanging out the rest. My friend Jon was away at a camp for almost the whole summer, so I spent a good amount of time with some guys with generic names that I didn't really know all that well: Mike, David, and Steve. One day that summer, I was going over to Mike's to pick up the guys and play some basketball for a little ego boost. These three guys were awful, and I could play them 1-on-3 and still win over half the time. Keep in mind, I was only pretty good at basketball, so that should illustrate the immense amount of suckiness on their part.

In any case, I was driving south on Libbit near my parents' house, and I saw a group of about a dozen birds in the middle of the road up ahead. This doesn't happen too often in life, but I actually had a flashback similar to those seen in the movies. For a moment, I was back in time a few months, fine-tuning my driving skills with my dad next to me. A couple of birds were in the street in front of me, and I took my foot off the gas in preparation to brake. "You don't need to brake," my dad had told me. "You can almost aim at them even and they'll fly away. That's what they do."

I snapped back into the present and kept my foot on the gas. "I can almost aim at them even," I thought. As I got closer, all but two of the birds flew away before even a hint of danger. I got closer yet, and one of the two turned toward me and then took off. Very close now and starting to worry a little, the other bird turned...the wrong way. "Shit," I thought. As I was probably only ten feet away now and going about 40mph, it turned back toward me and tried to take off. It almost made it, but hit my windshield on the way up. "Oh fuck!" I yelled to myself as I quickly pulled over. In my rearview mirror, I saw the pigeon's body continue the downward part of its arc to the ground. I threw my car in reverse and stopped next to where it had landed.

As I exited my car and looked over to the bird, I noticed two things immediately. First, it had landed exactly where the curb and street meet, so one wing was up on the sidewalk. Second, it was still breathing. I ran over to it and without thinking first asked, "Uh, are you ok?" It didn't answer, which I guess is a good thing. It continued breathing, and I felt worse and more helpless each second that passed by. "I'm sorry," I said, but it still hadn't learned English. I was then torn in a couple of directions. On one hand, I'm a huge animal lover and I wanted to help the bird in any way I could. On the other, this was before the cell phone era, and I wasn't about to scoop an injured pigeon up and drive around looking for the first animal hospital I could find.

I stood there a few seconds longer and rationalized why I could leave. One: It was a pigeon and not someone's pet; there wasn't going to be any "Missing Pet" sign put up. Two: It was stupid for looking the wrong way. Three: It was still breathing and was maybe just stunned for a few minutes and would soon fly away. Four: I was going to be late if I waited much longer, and for all I knew, I would burst into flames if I were ever late somewhere.

If this had been a dog or a cat, and I would've been knocking on strangers' doors and asking them to call Animal Services. It wasn't though; it was a pigeon, and I left. I felt bad driving away, but I told myself that there really wasn't anything I could do. Two hours later, I took that way home and saw that the pigeon was gone. I like to think that it had been stunned and just flew away on its own accord, but Dusty seemed quite confident that a couple of cats dragged it away for lunch. "Maybe you should've asked if it was ok a couple more times," he said. Bastard.

And so, gentle readers, that's my only (knock on wood) hit-an-animal-with-a-car story. That is, unless you could the thousands of bugs who have met their maker via my vehicle. As a 16 year-old, I had already learned the value of defensive driving because of the vast amount of stupid creatures out there. I like to think that that bird's death/temporary injury saved the lives of all of those squirrels, cats, and dogs who I expertly missed hitting when they idiotically ran out into the street right in front of me. I also like to think that I could still beat three people in basketball by myself, but that's not gonna happen anytime soon.

Have a great Wednesday, my friends. If it's hot where you live, stay cool. If it's not, don't. See you tomorrow.

Holding back the gears

It's just another Tragic Tuesday. Not what I would Chooseday. 'Cause that gives me the Bluesday. Mr. T pities the Foosday. It's just another Tragic Tuesday. Let that be a lesson to all of you: it's incredibly difficult to match the lyrical genius of the Bangles. I'm not even going to attempt "Walk Like a Jordanian" for fear of falling flat of my face in front of my friendly followers. F.

Good morning, gentle readers. I don't know how many of you came to this space yesterday since it was a holiday, but the sun never sets on UOPTA. I published a post about the circumstances around me obtaining my driving permit, and that naturally leads to today's post about going for my actual license to drive. Y'all ready for this? (Cue the music.)

Let me begin with a little background about my car. I was very fortunate to have a car of my own, and I loved it. It was a metallic blue 1988 Ford Bronco 2 in good condition with a bunch of miles on it. (Please note, our favorite former-running-back-turned-movie-actor-turned-exonerated-killer drove a Bronco and not a Bronco 2.) I got it a month before my 16th birthday, and it treated me very well during that time as I completed my training and readied myself for the exam.

The day came, and I went with my mom back to the DMV. After checking in and doing whatever pre-test paperwork I needed, I was instructed to drive the car into the line of waiting test-takers and keep it running. After the cars in front of me left one by one, a big scary woman motioned for me to pull forward a little. "More," she said sternly, so I pulled up a little more. "Shut it off," she grunted, and I quickly obliged. She asked me to show her my hand signals, where the button for the hazard lights was, etc., and then got into my car next to me.

"Start the car," she commanded. I turned the key, and nothing happened. "Start the car," she repeated. Starting to freak out a little now, I turned the key again. Absolutely nothing. "Uh, I..." I started to say, unsure of how I was going to finish the sentence. Luckily she jumped in: "You're in the wrong gear," she said, and then she started making notations on her scoring sheet. She was right, of course. When she said, "Shut it off" before, it was so abrupt that I forgot to put the car in park. Still in drive (and being an automatic), it wasn't going to start for me. Speaking of starting, that was not at all how I wanted to begin my test.

I'm a bit of a perfectionist with many things, so knowing that I already prevented myself from getting 100% wasn't a good feeling. I was a little rattled after that first bonehead maneuver, and despite how many times I told myself just to shake it off, it was still in the back on my mind for the remainder of the test. The lady had me take her around some residential streets, and I was doing everything by the book. I stayed below the speed limit, and felt like I was literally crawling through some intersections. I checked my mirrors often, and I even intentionally exaggerated my head movements to ensure that she was aware of every single time. With my hands firmly at 10 and 2, I was finally beginning to feel at ease during the latter end of the test.

"Do a three-point turn here," she barked. I signaled, checked my mirrors, and then turned into the driveway she had pointed out. I put the car in reverse and looked all around to make sure no one was coming. There was one problem though: my car temporarily stopped listening to me. It wouldn't kick into reverse and was instead just acting like neutral. "Uh, this hasn't happened before," I said. I then quickly added, "We're taking it in tomorrow though." She nodded and wrote something else down. I put it back into drive, waited, and then tried reverse again. After a hesitation, we could feel it jump into the gear. I rechecked everything around me and completed my turn.

To say I was on edge for the rest of the test is a slight understatement. Try as I might, I couldn't help but notice how often she was writing things on my scoring sheet. She guided me back to the DMV (which is good, because I wouldn't have been able to get us back there on my own) and then told me where to park. I actually put it in park this time before turning the car off, I'll have you know. I waited as she wrote a few more things down, and then with a tone that I can only describe as "Geez-you're-a-lucky-bastard," she shook her head and said, "Well...you passed." By her tone, it sounded like I got a 70 (which I think was the minimum needed to pass) or some technicality allowed me to pass even though I had royally screwed up.

I knew that passing was passing, but I had been hoping to do very well and it was clear that I hadn't. She told me to go to the counter to get my picture taken and sign something, so I did. I don't know why it took me so long, but it wasn't until I was almost at the counter that I looked down at the test and saw my score. 91 out of 100. I was marked off 3 points for "Wrong gear" in a section usually reserved for people with manual transmissions, and 6 points for having a right turn end in the wrong lane. I thought (and still think) that the far right lane was a parking lane only, but I'll let her slide. Everything else she wrote was either just a check mark or "Good" in the margins. Under remarks, she wrote, "Good drive!!" Yeah, two exclamations from a woman that made it sound like I only passed because my dad was the governor and she'd be fired if she failed me.

Much like the aftermath of my permit test, I felt more relief than excitement when it was all done. I kept trying to tell myself that I now had my license and my life was about to get exponentially cooler, but the joy didn't kick in for a while. I kept hearing, "Well...you passed," and ignoring the "Good drive!!" Oh well, I guess that's human nature. Disirregardless, it was because I passed that test that I had the distict privilege of sitting in traffic this morning. Thank you, Big Scary Woman!!

Have a great Tuesday everyone, and enjoy this shortened workweek. If you missed yesterday's post because reading it counts as laboring, you can find it below. Got anything you want to share? Please email ptklein@gmail.com, and the odds are extremely high that I'll respond.

Permission impossible

Good morning, and Happy Labor Day to one and all. I can't wait for the Labor Fairy to get here and bring non-working joy to all of the children. Should it be Lack of Labor Day? Either that or Laborer Day to honor the individual, I think. Labor Day by itself doesn't make too much sense to me. And why am I posting something today? I don't even make sense to me sometimes.

This may come as a surprise to none of you, but I think a lot about time. Specifically in this case, I often look at dates and time periods in my life. For example, I was on a class trip in Paris when December 31, 1993 turned to January 1, 1994. After the countdown and cheers, one of the first things I said to my friends was, "We're graduating NEXT YEAR!" Technically, I was right, because it would be June of '95 that we'd graduate high school, but no one echoed even a fraction of my enthusiasm for that fact. The general consensus was, "Yeah, so?"

Another example came several years later. I was working on campus at UCSB, and the 2003-2004 school year was just underway. I was talking to my friend Dusty, and I revealed what I thought was an impressive observation: "Do you realize that we've now been out of college longer than we were in college?" I guess I expected some pensive silence before a "Wow, you're right!" or something of that nature. Instead, he quickly answered, "Yeah. We graduated over four years ago, so that makes sense." I tried the same thing out with some other friends, and they had very similar reactions. Why was this time period comparison only interesting to me?

Here's the great thing about having a blog: If I find it interesting and start writing about it, I can't see the faces of my readers who might disagree with my assessment. And so I keep writing.

I'm now 30, and since that's a nice, round number, I've been (uh oh) thinking even more about these kinds of things. Being 15 years old was half of my life ago - yes, I can do that math - and one event in particular jumps out at me when I think of being 15. I got my driver's permit.

I'm not sure how it works in other states, or even how it currently works in California, but getting the permit was a bit of a process. One had to take and pass Driver's Education to get some magic piece of paper that then allowed him or her to take the permit test. With the permit secured, one then needs to take Driver's Training and complete that successfully (and turn 16) before taking the actual driving exam.

My process looked a little different. Since my birthday is in June, I needed to have the Driver's Ed part taken care of in the first semester of 10th grade. That wasn't possible, so I either needed to wait until I was closer to 16.5 to get my license or find some way around the system. Fortunately, a friend of a friend of a friend of the family was willing to provide me with "proof" of passing the class and some sample exams so I'd be ready for the permit test. I know, I'm the coolest rebel in all the land.

With my mom's help, we studied those practice tests so thoroughly that I was going to be shocked if I missed more than one or two questions. Some of it was common sense (i.e. don't zoom past a bus with its lights flashing) and some was more technical (i.e. speed limit in an alley). It didn't matter, I was pumped up and ready to kick some permit-granting ass.

We got to the DMV (or as Dane Cook calls it, "Satan's Asshole") and I took a seat in the designated area. Finally, a woman called my name and had me sit in a little desk area with the test. From where I was sitting, I could look up and see my mom's reassuring face if necessary. Let me tell you, friends: it was absolutely necessary. I read the first question and had no idea in hell what the answer was. I've never been especially good at multiple choice exams since I always find myself making arguments for why all of the answers are right. Here though, I was extremely grateful that I had answers from which to choose instead of some fill-in-the-blank bullshit. So, I used my reasoning skills, crossed off one obviously wrong answer, and selected the best answer left.

Question 2 elicited the same exact response. I didn't have a clue as to what the answer was. "What the hell is going on?" I wondered. I looked up at my mom, and she was confused by my obvious look of panic. After all, we both knew this stuff perfectly. The next question was of the same difficulty, and the next one, and the one after that. I couldn't believe it; I was going to fail my permit test and it was all because I didn't play by the rules. I was learning the lesson the hard way: if you cheat the system, you really only cheat yourself.

After more panicked looks to my mom and the best guessing I could muster, I brought the test over to the woman who would score the exam. She took it from me and immediately started going to work (which is atypical of that profession, I'm told). She moved down the sheet with her eyes pretty quickly, and after a second or two, she made what looked like a little check mark next to one of the questions about a third down the page. She continued on, and after a few more seconds without additional markings, I wondered, "Oh my God, did I only get one right?" She finally got to the bottom of the page, then looked up and said, "Well done. One wrong."

To say I was flabbergasted is an understatement. Believe me, I'm not shy about touting my knowledge on certain subjects, so please don't read any false modesty into this. I was shooting in the dark for that entire test. Somehow my pencil was guided to the right answers, almost like Apollo guiding Paris' arrow to Achilles' heel, if you will. Very similar, in fact. I didn't question how it happened, I just said, "Thank you " and went on my way back over to my mom.

That night, we learned that they had changed the test when it became the new year (a week before I took it), thereby rendering my studying almost completely obsolete. My mom and dad each took the exam to see how they'd fare, and neither would've passed. "How'd you know that one?" they asked after missing a toughy. "I didn't," I said, "I guessed."

So there you go. Local boy makes good...guesses on a permit exam he shouldn't have been allowed to take in the first place. It wasn't the last time I'd look at a test and not know a damn thing, but maybe the only one of those that ended with a sigh of relief. Happy Lack of Labor Day, everyone, and I'll see you here tomorrow for the start of our shortened workweek.

FUF #29

If you printed this post out and are currently reading it while going to the top floor in a large building, one might say you have...FUF in an elevator! Yeah, that was pretty forced. I said about a month ago that I'm running out of these things, and if you don't help me out by sending ideas to ptklein@gmail.com, you'll be subjected to more badly formed puns like that. That's not good for anybody. Good morning, my friends. It's good to see you again. Yes, today is another Follow Up Friday, so let's get right to F'ing U.

I spent the entire week talking about different food things, so some of my FU pieces of this FUF will also center around that staple of existence. First of all, I couldn't find a place to write specifically about my sushi-eating evolution. I can very clearly remember being at my friend Suzanne's old apartment for a party and deciding that I would try a California roll for the first time. I dipped it in a lot of soy sauce, asked if I was supposed to eat it all at once or bite it in half, then popped it in my mouth. I kinda liked it, which opened the door to me eating more California rolls over the next year or so. I then slowly branched out to the tuna family, and still eat regular and spicy versions of tuna, yellowtail, and albacore almost exclusively. Who knows, maybe five years from now I'll be having some smelt egg on unagi. I highly doubt it, since even typing that made my gag reflex say hello to me.

I wrote a bunch on Monday and Tuesday about spicy foods, and I failed to mention my relationship with Tapatio. I've brought it up somewhere in this blog before because I see I have a tag on the righthand side for "tapatio," but I should've included it somewhere this week. It's a great sauce, and it adds a great kick to whatever I put it on. I have a bottle at home and one at work with me, which comes in handy. If my co-worker Rob and I split a breakfast burrito in the morning, I'm able to make it even more glorious than it already is with a couple drops here and there. Cholula is very good too, but I'm a Tapatio guy. It cracks me up, because a bottle of it is around 70 cents at the market, and it lasts me a good deal of time. You just don't get that kind of value often enough nowadays, my friends.

Newish-but-very-loyal-reader Wendy wrote me an email this Wednesday to tell me that she noticed one of her co-workers was wearing white pants. White Pants Wednesday lives on! That made me very happy. I guess it's only a matter of time before all of my blog oddities (bloddities?) spread throughout society. I can't wait to see Paul Moyer end his newscast with "Shaloha," or hear a Sportscenter anchor yell "Watchoyos!" after a big dunk.

My boss's daughter was working in the office a little over the summer, and one day she was extremely bored and asked if I had anything for her to do. "Actually, yes," I said. "You know how PETA is the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals? Well I'm looking for a good 'ER' so PETER can stand for something similar." Naturally, that wasn't what she was expecting to hear. Still, she stuck with it and provided me with a few good ones. People for the Ethical Treatment of Emo Rockers tickled my fancy, as did Elderly Rockstars. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jagger, but I can't let you go on another tour. I'm here from PETER, and we think that would be detrimental to your health." I suggested that Erroneous Rabbis might need some protection. If they accidentally say that Isaac said something instead of Abraham, that could lead to quite the angry congregation. "Stand back, everyone. Rabbi, come with us; we're from PETER and we'll take you to safety." Gentle readers, I'm not being rhetorical here: what do you think the ER could stand for? Please comment away.

Last week, I wrote about the disclaimers at the end of radio commercials and how they bug me. A couple of days ago, I heard a commercial for McDonald's that ended with, "Breakfast available during breakfast hours only." I sure hope stating things that are that obvious doesn't become a trend. I'd hate to hear a commercial for Lakers' basketball end with, "Laker games only available on television during times that the Lakers are actually playing basketball. Some restrictions apply. Void where prohibited."

And now, will you please welcome to the stage...Car Watch!

First off, I was behind a car with a license plate frame for Aston Martin of Beverly Hills. The thing is, it was a frickin' Nissan Sentra. How does that happen? The two were so incongruous that I actually laughed out loud in my car. "Ha!" I said. Just one "ha," so it wasn't hilarious or anything.

I also saw a plate that read "IN2CARZ." At the same time? That's almost physically impossible. I looked pretty carefully and only saw the driver in one car, so I think he was full of shit.

My lovely wife saw a car in a parking lot with "(Heart) 2 PMS" as its plate. What else could that mean? The 2 really seals the deal for me. Just "I (Heart) PMS" and I'm willing to say it's someone's initials. Unless this is someone who loves two different Prime Ministers (say, Thatcher and Blair, for example), it's gotta be a woman with her tongue firmly planted in her cheek. The day after Amber told me about this plate, we saw it together in another parking lot. At least now I know that she doesn't make stuff up just to get a FUF shout-out.

My homey Rockabye sent me this plate that he spied: "GODSPRP." I'm asking seriously here - what does that mean? Is the person a perp for God? Is it an abbreviation (and a bad one) for "God's purpose?" Does the person think God is purple? I honestly don't know and request any insight you may have on this, gentle readers.

Rockabye also saw "MOC3" on the plate of a Porche. Even though they're exaggerating just a bit, I'm willing to let it slide. I wouldn't be so kind to a Nissan Sentra with that plate.

I'm pleased to announce that my longtime homeboy Silver sent in his first Car Watch item. The plate: "VEHICLE." I think he put it best himself when he wrote, "Really? I wouldn't have guessed that from the fact that someone was sitting inside the 4-wheeled contraption, going from Point A to Point B." Well said, my friend. I don't mean to nitpick, but that car could use a bumper sticker that says, "This vehicle can only be classified as a Moving Vehicle during times in which it is moving." Otherwise, people can get all screwed up.

Lastly, I saw a Nebraska license plate. That's it. I just don't see those very often.

Have a great holiday weekend, my friends. Ladies, if any of you are very pregnant out there, I think going into labor on Labor Day would be a hoot. Just a suggestion.

The house of T

Good morning, fellow computer-users. First off, today is my friend Ceil's birthday and I'd like to publicly wish her a very happy one. "Public" now means "in front of 8 - 10 people" apparently. I call her Foca, which is Spanish for 'seal' which is homophonic with her name. I get all sorts of crazy like that. So Happy Birthday, Foca, and I hope the day is a great one.

Food week continued! I love it when a plan comes together. Every time I'm able to stretch out a topic over a couple of additional days, an angel gets its wings. I heard that somewhere, and I'm inclined to believe it. So check it out, yo. I wrote a bunch this week about foods I like and dislike. Everyone has their own particularities in cuisine, so most people are pretty understanding when I say that I don't like certain foods. For example, I don't get any kind of grief or weird look for saying that I don't like olives or sour cream. I've tried them both, and sometimes they're ok if they're a part of a whole, but they're just not my thing. No big whup, right?

However, there are two items that get major reactions from people. The first is cheesecake. That will be on a dessert menu, and I'll casually mention that I don't like it before someone jumps in and orders it from our server. "What do you mean you don't like cheesecake?" I'll be asked. "I don't like the way it tastes," I usually respond, figuring it's hard to argue with such a logical reason. That's not enough for these people, though. "But it's so good! It's cheesecake!" "I understand," I'll say, "but it's just not my thing." "Do you like cream cheese?" they ask. "No, which is probably why I don't like the cake made with it either." After another back and forth, they eventually ask if there is any dessert I do like, as if I must hate even the thought of sugar because I don't like one kind of cake. I'm telling you, this turns into a way bigger deal than it should.

Even more flabbergasted are the folks who find out that I don't like guacamole. Frankly, they go apeshit, and I've almost lost friends over it. The first question is always the same: "Well do you like avocados?" I tell them I don't, again erroneously thinking that I may halt the ensuing conversation before it gets started. "But it's so good! How can you not like guacamole? Have you tried it?" I tell them I have indeed tried it, but it continues for a little while. I eventually have to resort to telling them, "Hey, that just means more for you" in order to end the topic, which usually does the trick. Greedy bastards.

This leads me to a story. It's one I've wanted to write about for a long time and I finally have an appropriate intro with this food stuff. Excellent, Smithers, simply excellent. Here goes: Growing up, my favorite brother and I did virtually everything together. We went to elementary school together until I was in third grade, went to the same summer camp, and generally hung out a lot in the same places. One day though, I went to a classmate's birthday party without him. The boy's name was Michael T., and the party was at his house. My memory fails me a little, but I clearly remember watching "Return of the Jedi" on the far right end of a couch and some kind of fun attraction like a moonbounce in the backyard. Everything else is fuzzy for two main reasons. First, this was over twenty years ago. Second, I've made up so many things about this party that I can't distinguish fact from fiction anymore. Allow me to explain.

Kevin overheard me telling someone once that I had tried avocado. Being the older brother that he was, he eagerly jumped into the conversation to prove me wrong. "Where have you ever tried that?" he asked. "At Michael T.'s house," I calmly answered, knowing full well he couldn't contradict that statement. Did I actually eat that there? I can't honestly say. Part of me can picture chips and dips on the coffee table in front of me while watching the movie, and part of me thinks I've retroactively created that memory to fit a lie I told. Disirregardless, I realized that I had a goldmine of an alibi on my hands. Over the next few years, I did all sorts of things that one day at Michael T.'s. It drove Kevin crazy for a while, because he so badly wanted to prove that these things never happened but couldn't. "Sure, I've ridden a jet ski before...at Michael T's house."

Over the years, it's become quite the running gag. I did such amazing things at Michael T.'s that anyone who wasn't there should think himself cursed that he missed it. I stuck my head in an alligator's mouth at Michael T.'s. I learned to scuba dive at Michael T.'s. I built and then drove a go-kart at Michael T.'s. I watched hip replacement surgery on closed circuit tv at Michael T.'s. I even went on a short trip to Guam at Michael T.'s. It's the alibi that keeps on giving, even to this day. I wish everyone had their own "Michael T.'s house." I can see it now: "Your honor, I request that my client's sentence be reduced to time already served. He was on house arrest at Michael T.'s for two months, which more than covers his debt to society."

Someday, someday. Have a great rest of your days, gentle readers, and I'll see you back here for another FUF piece tomorrow. If you have any questions, stories, thoughts, or Car Watch items, ptklein@gmail.com is your main domain, man.