The blankest blank

Greetings, homepeople of the internets. I hope that all is well with you and that this webpage finds you in good spirits. If not, you might want to come back another time when you're feeling more jovial because you might enjoy this more in a better state of mind. Disirregardless, Happy Friday. I hope this is your happiest Friday of the entire week.

While that last sentence might have seemed just like a typical "Peter being weird and not having a backspace key" thing to say, there's actually more to it (insert dramatic chord here). You see, the structure of that last sentence is actually representative of the theme for this post. Intrigued? No? If I said there was some kind of grand prize drawing at the end of the post, would you be intrigued then? That's not going to happen, but I was curious to see if that would make a difference for future UOPTA offerings.

I was traveling earlier this week, and not in the basketball infraction sense. Rather, I was on an airplane. While mid-flight, I looked out the window and saw a very cool cloud cover below. It almost looked like a herd of white buffalo, if you can imagine that. I don't normally see animals where they don't really exist, but this stuck out and encouraged me to look some more at the things in the scenery below. I was trying to make very quick decisions about what things looked like. For example, as soon as I saw land below that was roughly triangular, I forced myself to make a connection immediately, which led to me settling on the fairly boring "slice of pizza" association.

(Crap, here's a quick side note that is so parenthetical that I'm putting the whole thing in...ya know, those rounded brackets. Anyway, my friend Dusty and I used to play a very similar game, but with people instead of objects seen from a plane. We'd be walking down a city street and force ourselves to make extremely quick comments about who the strangers approaching us resembled. Bald guys were often Telly Savalas, naturally, and anyone with a beard looked like Dusty's dad to me. We'd get pretty out there sometimes, but the point was that we had to say something for each person. That might lead to me saying that an old Asian woman looked like Jimmy Smits, but hey, those things are bound to happen.)

Back to the plane and making those instant associations. I glanced out and saw a rectangular piece of land with a couple of smaller boxes near one end. "Ah, Storke Tower," I thought, referencing a landmark on UC Santa Barbara's campus. Then my inner tour guide took over, and I couldn't help but follow my own thought with, "The tallest concrete structure in the tri-county area." That was an "interesting fact" to share with students and their parents while showing them around. I always found that fact to be funny because of the number of qualifiers in it. It's not the tallest structure, but the tallest concrete one. And not in California or even the Central Coast of California, but just the areas of San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara, and Ventura counties. So you see, the superlative's impressiveness is mitigated quite a bit by the phrase's limiting factors. You can't argue with the factual nature of the statement (like the happiest Friday of the entire week), but it's not quite jaw-dropping.

After I spent a minute thinking about Storke Tower, I thought about another landmark near our old home of SB. While driving along a bridge a little ways out of town, my lovely wife said something that I've never let her forget: "This is the somethingest bridge...somewhere," she said. She didn't quite remember if it was the longest bridge of whatever kind it was or maybe the highest elevation of its kind, but definitely the somethingest. And as for where, it was either California, the United States, or Earth. The last time we were on it, we noted the name and said we try to figure it out. So I did a few Google searches, and I mostly found out that a lot of people use that location for committing suicide. However, I also came across this nugget from someone's personal site: "I took...Cold Springs bridge, which is special for some reason like 'longest single arch span' or something like that. I'm not sure, haven't stopped and read the sign in like 30 years." I found a bunch of other sites that list cold hard facts about the bridge, but no superlatives so far. I guess I'll have to stop and read the sign next time. By the way, here's what it looks like as it connects Santa Barbara to Santa Ynez:

As I stared out my tiny airplane window, I wondered what other blankest blanks I knew of. Less than one second later, I had my answer. Everyone who has ever driven from Los Angeles to Las Vegas already knows what I'm going to say, but that's never stopped me before. Yes, in the tiny-ass town of Baker, there stands The World's Largest Thermometer. As its Wikipedia page points out, it's technically an electric sign and not a true thermometer, but I guess World's Largest Electric Sign That Shows the Temperature was too cumbersome. Dusty and I once joked that we should pool our money to build a thermometer that's one inch longer, just as a giant "fuck you" to the town of Baker. We have nothing against that town, but to know that we could take away the entire town's claim to fame is a powerful feeling. Then we talked about also making it a cross, since Effington, Illinois proudly claims to have the largest one of those. Just by building one giant cross-shaped thermometer, we could virtually wipe two cities off the trivia map. Sure, it would be mean, but I'd probably get some decent press out of it.

As I perused Wikipedia's list of largest roadside attractions (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_world%27s_largest_roadside_attractions), I have to admit that quite a few made me ask aloud, "But...why?" Some sound cool, like the paper airplane in Mukilteo, Washington or the kaleidoscope in Mt. Tremper, New York. But I could do without the World's Largest Hairball in Garden City, Kansas or the World's Largest Raisin Box in Kingsburg, California. Those just make me ask questions that I really don't want answered ("Whose hair? Was it coughed up? Are there giant raisins inside? If not, then is it only a "raisin box" because you wrote "raisins" on it?) I guess people need hobbies, and building giant shit seems to be a popular one. I encourage you to check that list out, because it's fairly stupefying. Let me know if you have any favorites or ones that you've actually seen.

Without any further ado (since I believe I've already adone enough), let's see what the Car Watch has in store for us today.

I saw a bumper sticker that struck me as either...well, first I'll just tell you what it said: "Caution, I stop at all stop signs." The way it was written led me to believe that it was trying to be funny, because it sort of looked like those stupid "I brake for (insert something moronic)" stickers. But I don't get the joke. Could it seriously be someone warning cars behind him or her? "Look out, Mr. Tailgater and Mrs. Happy-Honker. You see that red octagon over there? Well I intend to do my (Honda) civic duty and make a full and complete stop before the white line on the road. Then I'm going to look both ways and maybe even wait an extra beat before I slowly accelerate again to normal driving speeds. If you can't handle the way I plan on following the laws that govern us as automobile users, then I kindly suggest that you take another street." I think I'd prefer the not-funny joke to the latter interpretation. (You can't spell interpretation' without Peter, don't ya know.)

My homey Rockabye sent me a bumper sticker that left me a wee bit confused. It read,
Penguins next 5KM." Considering this was in Los Angeles, that simply was factually inaccurate. Even if we were in a penguin's natural habitat, why select that distance? If I were to go 5.1 kilometers, would I get through the throng of penguins and find myself in a flightless bird free zone? There are the things that keep me up at night. Well, that wondering if Throng of Penguins makes a better band name than Giant Cross-Shaped Thermometer.

Lastly, I saw a plate and seriously did a triple-take. I shit you not, friends. It read, "8 BOOGER." To be perfectly honest, I probably would've included the plate with any number in front of "booger," because that's funny enough by itself. But when you have a number that sounds like the past tense of "eat," well that's just high comedy, folks.

And with that, I have completed my September 2008 posts. I'll be back here next week with more thoughts and stories about stuff that I've thought about. If you celebrate Rosh Hashanah, have a happy one starting Monday at sundown. If you don't celebrate it, I hope you still have a happy sundown on Monday. I'm a caring guy, what can I say? And happy half-birthday to my co-worker Rob next Thursday. As always, please write to ptklein@gmail.com with absolutely anything at all. Shaloha, and see you next Friday.

You meet you; repeat.

Hello, good morning, and how the hell is everyone doing this glorious Friday morning? I'm fine, thanks for asking. Another week has passed, and here we are with another post of things, stuff, and other generic terms for items.

Hey, I just thought of something to write about! Thank goodness, because I was dangerously close to just copying and pasting something off the Fox News website and passing it off as my own. For the next paragraph or two (or as long as I can stretch this out), I shall discuss the wonderful world of icebreakers.

Ah, the awkwardness that accompanies forcing people to superficially get to know each other. I've been the icebreakee a few times in my past, but more often I was put in the uncomfortable role of leading these exercises, thereby making me The Icebreakor. Through the course of it all, I've formed some opinions on various games used in these situations and strategies to employ should I revisit them in the future.

The most very basic icebreaker is one I forced on student groups many times during my years working on a university campus. Some of my fellow advisors created elaborate games involving color-coded (and color-coated) M&Ms that corresponded to what type of trivia the students would have to divulge about themselves. That required way too much prep work for me, and so to contrast, here was my icebreaker: "Ok everyone, we're going to go around the room for a little icebreaker. Everyone say your name, your hometown, your major if you have one, and then say, 'My favorite (blank) is (blank).' For example, I might say, 'My favorite two-digit number is 24' or 'My favorite domesticated animal is a dog.' Anything you want to put in those blanks is fine by me, so have fun with it." Sure enough, about 90% of the students told the group what their favorite colors were. The other 10% were a mixture of numbers, sports teams, and music artists. I kept waiting for that one brave soul to say, "My name is Will and I'm from Santa Rosa, California. I'm undeclared but thinking about Econ, and my favorite Central American capital city is Tegucigalpa." And yet that never happened for some reason.

The next game on which I shall write is often called "Two Truths and a Lie." The basic premise of this one is for each person to state three things about him or herself, one of which being a total fabrication. I love participating in this one because I found a great way to have my lie slip through: details! For example, no one ever suspected that, "I lived in Ottawa until I was two and a half" was a lie. Why would someone make up both that specific Canadian city and a non round number age? To fool you, of course. My lovely wife just recently participated in this icebreaker, and used, "Like Sarah over there, I'm also a high school teacher" as her lie. Nicely done, honey. If I had to do this again, I might go with something like, "My Uncle Dave was a co-founder of Amazon.com." By naming both my uncle and a specific company, I think it would fly under everyone's radar.

When instructing other groups for this exercise, people were often not very convincing. I'm not exaggerating when I say that almost half of each groups' participants would stand up (looking frightened) and say something like, "I played water polo in high school, I've been to Europe, and...hold on...uh...I have ten cats." It kinda helps to think about what you're going to say in this one before you're at the point where you need to come up with a lie. Ooh, I just thought of what I can do next time: I could just lie completely for a good reaction. "Hi everyone, I'm Peter. Ok, let's see here. I...ran a three-minute mile once but the government refuses to acknowledge my existence. My father invented the color red. And I'm actually a hologram and not standing in the same room as you. Any guesses?" That would be fun!

(Ugh, I just wrote about 500 words that magically got deleted even though I'm 100% certain I hit the "Save Now" button. I'll see if I can recreate it now. Wish me luck.) The last icebreaker for today (and trust me when I say I'm leaving several on the table) is the Bingo variety. The simplest form of this game is for everyone to have an interesting fact about themselves on a piece of paper arranged in boxes so that it resembles Bingo. Hence Bingo is its name-o. Then everyone mingles and tries to figure out whose fact is whose. I know, we're frickin' extreme. The first time I participated in this event, my new bosses selected the facts for us based on our applications and things that came up in the interview process. Mine ended up being, "I did improv comedy for two years." It actually threw people off because I need to warm up in a group of strangers before I start attempting to bring the funny.

The following year and for several after, I was one of the supervisors and therefore partially in charge of coming up with these facts for the student workers. Sometimes it was dreadfully difficult. In the case of one young lady, there was absolutely nothing interesting that we got from her application or any of her five interviews. She was nice and bright, but she seemed to be very boring at the time. (As it turned out, she was wacky and one of my favorite people on the staff, but she just shut down in the interviews.) Therefore, her "interesting fact" had to do with the area codes found in her home state of Virginia. Ooh, that's special! Another young lady had her job as a barista at Starbucks on her application. This was 1998, and that word hadn't yet lodged itself into our collective lexicon, so that earned a place in one of the boxes. (As a funny side note, someone just sent a resume to our friends Dusty and Dave referencing his work as "a batista." Way to proofread, man.)

My lovely wife just participated in a similar version of this type of icebreaker (which gave me the idea to write this post). After going through some potential facts to put out there, she went with, "One of my favorite activities is playing Rock Band." She thought that might throw people off since it seems more like a male activity, and naturally she was right. That's why we're known across the land as the Most Kick-Assingest Couple of Icebreaker Trickery (and we have matching MKACIT medallions to prove it). SAVE NOW!

And what do we do now, boys and girls? You guessed it, it's time to leave the world of the Icebreakor General and scoot our little tushies on over to the Car Watch.

First off, I was behind a car earlier this week, and I couldn't decide if its plate worked or not to my satisfaction. After mulling it over a little (since I rarely mull anything under), I decided that yes, I did indeed approve. It read, "A(Star)ONOMY." Here was my thought process: "The real word isn't astaronomy, so it doesn't quite work. Although I do appreciate them being creative in their use of the symbol. And come to think of it, the star is absolutely perfect thematically for that word. Huh, I guess I like it. Nice job." I can't argue with myself on those sound points.

A week or two ago, I saw this license plate frame in front me on a crowded city street: "Hit me. My car loves assholes." I take issue with that, kind sir or madam. Let's say we're in stop and go traffic and some idiot behind me isn't paying attention and rams into my car. Even though my foot is on the brake, my car moves forward enough that I hit the car in front of me. By this car's logic, I'm an asshole. I did absolutely nothing wrong, yet I'm the asshole. Or maybe I'm reading the whole thing wrong, and the driver is asking to be punched to satisfy some weird human pain fetish that the automobile has. Yeah, that's probably it. Sorry about my stupid first analysis.
Last but not least, my homey Rockabye saw this on an actual license plate: "GYNODOC." Look, I know that's a profession and a prestigious one at that, but was that really the best choice? It's not as bad as the proctologist in Seinfeld having "ASS MAN" as his plate, but it still strikes me a little strange. (I made up a gynecological one-liner you could use to put someone down. Check it out: "I'm not saying she's a slut or anything, but her gyno said he needed to use fiveceps!" Ooh, burn.)

On that family-friendly note, I'm outstro. I've had it and I'm calling it a week. Hey, what's that in my pocket? It's a big wad of Happies to dish out! (That didn't end up sounding quite right. If only I had a delete key to rectify the situation. Heh heh, I said "rectify.") Happy Birthday today to our good friend Danielle and tomorrow to our good friend Paul. On Wednesday, it's both my Grandpa Harold's birthday and my little cuz Bailey's first birthday. Not only that, but the aforementioned Paul's little boy Nolan turns 1 on Thursday. Last but certainly not least, it's my 4.5 anniversary on Sunday with my lovely wife. Crazy shit going on here, people. As always, please email ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. Take care, and have a nice weekend and week, friends.

Writing about not writing

Well looky here, another Friday and another chance for me to shake a few things loose from my crowded head. I hope today finds you all well. I don't have any overarching theme for this post, so I'm just going to start typing and see what happens.

Hey, something happened! This lack of preparation coincides nicely with a little problem I'm having right now. I don't know if any of you will recall, but months ago I mentioned my desire to eventually write a screenplay. Since then, I've spent some time jotting down the structure of the story I'd like to tell, some specific scenes, etc. I bought a DVD of a master screenwriting teacher to show me the way, and I'm currently reading a book about every big no-no (and yes-yes, for that matter) related to writing a script. So where's the problem (aside from the shortage of hours in a given day to actually make anything resembling headway)? I have never actually planned my writing before, and I'm finding that I don't really know how yet.

Throughout high school and college, I had many papers to write. That said, I was always a bit of a procrastinator and just sat down the night before and hammered them out. They weren't always good, and many a professor lamented my lack of specific examples, but I got the job done and ended up doing fairly well when all the dust settled. With this blog, there's even less preparation. Sometime during each week, I'll either have an idea for a post or I won't. If I do have a thought, my email to myself will look like this in its entirety: "Maybe something about laundry. Can talk about machines in the residence halls, the time I shrunk Jon's sweater, and whatever else comes up." Ta-dah! That turns into 1,500-2,000 words. I certainly don't have any real kind of outline, and if I end up writing something that leads to something else, then that's just awesome.

That's why this screenwriting thing is difficult so far. On one hand, I'm having to learn all about the actual structure of this kind of script. On the other, I can't just start typing and see what happens. It's something that hopefully will get easier once I get through the tools I've purchased to help me along the way, but so far it's counter-intuitive to all of my prose-writing up to this point in my life. I'll keep you all posted. In the meantime, thank you for listening/reading as I whined for a bit. Here are some random thoughts or stories that have recently materialized in my mind.

I was walking back to my office after picking up some food for lunch a week ago and I passed two young ladies. I'm not an eavesdropper, per se, but I'm not exactly an eaves-picker-upper either, if you know what I'm sayin'. In any case, as they passed I overhead one of the young ladies say to the other, "He used to like this girl Amanda who's like really pretty, like a supermodel or something." For those of you scoring at home, that's three Likes in three different formats in the same sentence. We start with "like" as "romantically interested," move to "like" as the common teen placeholder signifying nothing, and eventually get to "like" as part of a simile and used to make a comparison. I'm sure the young lady had no idea that I'd find her sentence interesting enough to immediately email myself for future musings, but it like totally made my walk.

Last weekend, I was looking through our mail and something grabbed my attention. Now, I really feel bad doing this, but I must press on. You see, I'm about to make fun of a charity. Not only that, but it's one whose mission I care about and to which I've contributed on multiple occasions. Still, I can't let certain things go and must put my positive or negative biases aside to publicly mock their tactics. The envelope for this donation-seeking piece of mail had a little hole cut out of it, leaving just a plastic circle. In that circle sat a nickel, and on the envelope, an arrow pointed to that nickel. "This nickel could help save a child's life," the text on the envelope said. "Then why the hell are you mailing it to me?" I asked. Not just that, but how many "life-saving nickels" are they shipping out to people instead of, ya know, saving frickin' lives with them? If I donate $20 to them, how do I know that they're not just going to change it into 400 nickels and mail them out to people soliciting more money? All I can say is that I hope this tactic is working well for them and they they're receiving many, many donations that supersede the extra five cents per envelope that it's costing them to do it this way.

I was at an airport a couple of weeks ago, and as I'm prone to doing every once in a while, I stopped at the restroom. Urinals are very interesting, and I could write a rather large amount about unwritten rules, etiquette, the top ten things you don't want to hear the person next to you saying, etc., but I'll save those for another time. Instead, I want to focus on the inside of the liquid waste receptacle. The one at the airport had a message to everyone: "Please do not throw foreign objects into urinal." My immediate thought was, "Like sombreros?" I understand what they were going for, but it surprises me that they were having enough of a problem with people throwing things in their urinals that they thought going in there and addressing it via polite command was their best option. Although I'd rather have that than what I face at work everyday. Inside the porcelain is a little mat made by a company called "Bulls Eye." Yet, despite the fact that they understand the clever nature of naming themselves that, there's no target. It's just a plain red mat with holes in it. Come on, guys! You were so close! I know that I'm not the only guy who would appreciate bringing a little entertainment to the process. You named yourselves "Bulls Eye" for Pete's sake, just show a little dedication to your craft. I'm not asking for anything that lights up or a score at the end, but if I can think to myself, "Man, I really nailed that one" as I'm washing my hands, then there's a value to their product that I wouldn't have received from their competitors' versions. To conclude: pissing on can lead to pissing off.

I've mentioned a couple of times in this space that I occasionally eat at the inappropriately named Fast Taco restaurant near my office. The food is good, but I just wish they weren't liars. Anyway, I went there earlier this week, and something struck me as odd. The gentleman behind the counter, who is of Persian descent, handed me my food and then he smiled and said, "Bon apetit!" Yes, a Persian man in a Mexican restaurant spoke to me in French. He probably says that a hundred times a day and no one bats an eye, but I might analyze word choice a little more closely than the average Fast Taco patron. If I'd been on my game, I would've replied with either "Mahalo" or "Arigato." There's always next time.

A week or two ago, my dad called me to say that he thought of a word that I'd probably have some thoughts on: aftermath. He was right, of course. That's an interesting word, isn't it? I've never really stopped and looked at that one, and honestly, I'm a little surprised at myself. Could we call an event as it's happening "the math"? "While I was in the math, I had no concern for any possible consequences. But after it...geez, I guess I really should've thought it through more." "Ok everyone, make sure your backpacks have all of the essential first aid items we talked about. I know it's tedious, but the beforemath of this activitiy can make the difference between life and death." Very interesting indeed. Thanks, Pop! (Also, "aftermath" is when Dusty and I used to hand each other the notes we'd written in 9th grade. So there's that too.)

I was in the car with a co-worker a few weeks ago, and she's sometimes a little distracted as a driver. So on the rare occasion that I'm in her car, I find myself pressing the imaginary brake pedal on my side often and gently offering advice along the lines of, "I think there's a car there." On this most recent ride, she drove fine until the home stretch back to the office (the office stretch?). There, her car felt like being half in one lane and half in the bikelane. "Uh, I think that's the bike lane there," I said faux-nonchalantly as a biker appeared ahead of us on the horizon. Then, as if I had no control over myself at all, I added, "You know you can't spell 'bikelane' without 'Klein.'" Yes friends, even in times of potential peril, I'm thinking of those things. I thought you'd be impressed/disgusted/pleased/appalled/ambivalent about that.

And now, let's shake our groove things over to the Car Watch.

I was behind a car yesterday with a license plate frame that read, "Proud parent of 2 highly gifted kids." I guess "with no friends" didn't fit. I kid, I kid, but seriously, that's certainly not going to help anyone's social life. If I'm lucky enough to have highly gifted children, I'll obviously be very proud of them. I'll also understand the 100% likelihood of them getting laughed at if I were to drive away with that frame on my car in front of their classmates.

My homey Rockabye sent me this plate: "MRXYTMT." I'm going to go out on a limb and say that if someone really were exciting enough to have that nickname, he wouldn't need it on his license plate. Maybe it's to reassure women he meets at clubs as he prepares to drive them back to his place. They're probably a little wary (and drunk), but then they see that plate and think, "Oh thank god, I wasn't sure if this was going to be boring or not." Better yet, I hope and pray that if this guy were to get pulled over by a cop that the cop would saunter over to the driver's side and, with a voice dripping with sarcasm, say, "Do you know why I pulled you over...Mr. Excitement?" Oh I hope that happens.

I was driving down Ventura Blvd. earlier this week when a car zoomed around some other drivers and then pulled quickly into my lane in front of me before speeding off. I caught the plate though: "EXELOR8." Can't argue with that. It would've been nice if I'd seen it in stop-and-go traffic so I could mock it, but at least it was situationally clever when I saw it.

Lastly, my dad saw a car with a license plate of, "YIPYKYA." I bet that guy gets a lot of people pulling up next to him and mouthing "motherfucker," which probably wasn't his intention. Live and learn, man, live and learn.

Ok, that's it for this guy today. I'd like to wish a very happy Welcome to the World to baby Noah, the son of our friends Dave and Twilight, who was born the past Monday. We look forward to watching him grow up and make fun of his dad as much as the rest of us do. I don't have my calendar with me, so I can't say for sure whose birthdays or half-birthdays are in the upcoming week. I apologize in advance if I'm missing yours, friends. Happy Half St. Patrick's Day though, if that's any consolation. Have a wonderful weekend and week, everyone, and please remember to email me at ptklein@gmail.com with any thoughts, questions, Car Watch items, complaints, or anything else. Until next Friday, my homepeople.

Electile dysfunction

Hello, good morning, and Happy September to one and all. I hope your Labor Days were all Laborific. Our very pregnant friend Twilight didn't end up going into labor on Labor Day despite how cool that would've been, but I'll let it slide. So what's going on right now in our country? I think you know: we're full-on into election mode. I tend to stay away from discussing politics in this space, but I realized that I have some general political thoughts and stories that I still deem appropriate. Since I'm my only censor, I shall begin that discussion.

This first story takes us way back to Portola Junior High. (As a side note, all junior high schools in the area have changed to "middle schools." Sometimes that works out really nicely, like when John Adams Junior High went from JAJH to JAMS. "I go to JAMS" has a nice ring to it. However, "I go to PMS" isn't quite as catchy or pleasant.) It was 8th grade, and the time had come for people to run for class office. I was still a shy lad who feared direct eye contact from strangers or girls, so the thought never crossed my mind to toss my hat into the ring. (Sorry, another side note: Depending on the size of the ring, tossing a hat into one could either be super easy or super difficult. I suppose distance from the ring plays a key role too. I'm totally picturing a fedora and throwing it like a Frisbee. If I'm ten feet away from a boxing ring, I could toss my fedora in there pretty damn easily. If it's a sombrero that I have to throw into a wedding (or Frodo's) ring, on the other hand, I'd have a bit of an uphill battle ahead of me.) My good friend Dusty didn't harbor the same inhibitions as young Peter though, and he ran for Vice President. His friend Anoush was running for President, and even though they weren't officially on the same ticket, they ran as such so that they could work together. I don't know what "work" they'd have to do aside from a student council meeting every week or two, but I guess that didn't really matter.

So the big day came for the students to let their cracking voices be heard. But first, the candidates were given a platform to speak to their hopeful constituents. During Homeroom, each candidate had a minute or two on the loudspeaker to state his or her case. The first VP candidate said something or other for a minute that I don't remember. He or she probably promised something that he or she had no authority to promise. Then it was Dusty's turn. To clue you in to what time period this was, Dusty launched into his own version of "Ice Ice Baby." "Alright stop, collaborate and listen," he began, just as Vanilla Ice does. But instead of, "Ice is back with a brand new invention," he inserted, "Dusty's here, gonna win the election." Everyone in Homeroom smiled and laughed, and I sat there secretly marveling at his self-confidence. I think I would've rather farted loudly in a classroom full of students than rapped for the entire school. In any case, he went on for a minute and then Anoush made his pitch to the students. Lastly, a friend of ours named Sarah Shin was set to deliver her "vote for me" speech. I had big hopes for her, since she'd successfully campaigned to be Historian the year before. (In hindsight, it might have been due to how great "Sarah Shin for Historian" sounded.) She cleared her throat, and then in the most defeated voice I've ever heard in my life, she said, "Alright stop, collaborate and listen." Poor thing. It appears that timing isn't just the secret to comedy, but possibly politics as well.

Hmm, I just remembered something for the first time in a long ass time. Sarah used to call me "Peter Hobo Bobo Weird Klein Clown." I have no recollection of how or when that started, but maybe I should start introducing myself that way going forward. It's catchy, don't ya think?

Fast forward a few years, and you'll find Dusty in college in upstate New York. By this time, he was going by his given name of Evan instead of Dusty, and he had just decided to run for some elected office on campus. He called and asked for my advice for campaign slogans, as he was planning on taping fliers up all over the residence halls and dining commons. I told him I needed an hour or so to think about, and when I called him back, I thought I'd found the perfect slogan: "All Good Voters Go to Evan." He liked it and said he was going to start using it. The next day, he called me back and said that he came up with a great idea too. In the middle of the flier, it would read something like, "Expensive textbooks? Not enough vending machines? Crowded study halls?" And on the bottom: "Don't Get Mad, Get Evan." And so, armed with those two approaches, he blitzed the campus and found himself elected yet again. I lobbied for an ambassadorship but was ultimately denied.

I've often been asked about my own political aspirations (now that I've grown out of the hide-in-the-corner phase). And by "often," I mean at least three or four times in my life. My response has been the same for the past several years: I could see myself really enjoying being a mayor of a small town somewhere. That way, I'd be able to actually know the people I'd be trying to help, and I'd be a mini-celebrity at the same time. There's one major flaw with that, though: I don't want to live in a small town, and that kinda limits my ability to run for office in one. No, I'm quite content never being in the political arena. It seems like it would require a certain level of bullshittery and two-facedness that I'm quite content not possessing. Also, it would take all of a week in office before I provided a sound bite or clip that would ruin my career. Not anything racist or sexist, mind you, but more along the lines of Howard Dean's downfall after coming across as a little crazy. I'd probably try making some esoteric joke, get no laughs, and then spend five minutes trying to backpedal and explain why I thought it was funny in the first place. That doesn't exactly inspire confidence in one's leader. Oh well, I'll be content living with the masses.

Hey, do you hear that noise? It's somewhere off in the distance and approaching quite rapidly. Yes, yes, I know that sound: It's Car Watch time!

First off, I saw a pretty interesting non-personalized plate. It read, "4KSN666 ." It caught my eye for two reasons. First, with 666 being the mark of the beast and all, it tends to stand out. Second, I first read it as "4SKN," which would've been much more blogworthy. As it really reads though, it could represent, "For kissing the devil," right? Or, if you care to dig deeper with me, it could be "Fork sin devil," referencing the pitchfork with which Satan is often depicted. So there you go. One plate, one funny misreading, and two possible yet unintentional readings of the number-letters-numbers combination. Not too shabby.

My homey Rockabye saw a bumper sticker, and while he and I both think it has a home here, it's for different reasons. The sticker said, "Sexy on board." To quote my friend's text message: "Quite a fallacy in my opinion." Yes, that's interesting in and of itself. However, I find I'm more intrigued by the fact that an adjective is actively doing something in the bumper sticker's scenario. How exactly does sexy get into the car? (Wow, I almost made some uber-contrived joke about Justin Timberlake being sexy's chauffeur and frequently "bringing sexy back." Thank God I avoided that one before it was too late.) If sexy is allowed to start doing things normally reserved for nouns, then we're setting a very dangerous precedent. Before you know it, hungry will be taking a train downtown for a greater variety of cuisine, and warm will be ordering Coronas with little lime wedges to cut into the oppressive heat of sunny. "End this paragraph now!" says longwinded.

Lastly, I parked next to a little green Porsche and caught sight of its plate as I walked past: "GRE HRNT." No, not "GRN HRNT," but "GRE." I'd like to give this person the benefit of the doubt and find a way that it's not an inadequate substitution for something that was already taken. I'd like to, of course, but I'm having a hard time doing that. The best I can come up with is that the car's owner is also an inventor. He or she created a little flesh-colored device that looks like one of those tiny hearing aids. It sits in your ear, but instead of amplifying sound, it's more like a bug with a tiny recording device that quietly plays back information that was uploaded at an earlier point in time. It became very popular amongst cheating college students, but even more so for recently graduated students interested in pursuing graduate work. They'd need to remember a lot of information to do well on the Graduate Record Examination, so what better way to cheat than to have the G.R.E. Hornet as your invisible helper? And poof - the plate makes sense without angry joining the party.

Okeedokee, mis amiguitos. I'm done for now, and shall therefore draw this post to a close. As always, please feel free to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. There's a very high probability that I'll reply too, because I'm a man of the people or something. Have a great weekend and week, and I'll see you back here next Friday. Shaloha, and take care.

A pre-existing condition

Good morning, everyone, and I'm glad to see you back here for another installment of UOPTA: America's Favorite Weekly Blog of Random Thoughts and Stories by Someone Named Peter Klein in Los Angeles Who is Lefthanded. Ya know, just in case all of the weekly blogging righthanded Peter Kleins in L.A. are reading this, I don't want to come off as too presumptuous. Today's post is a special one, friends, and it has nothing to do with today's content whatsoever. Rather, this is the 300th post on this here site, and that's a much higher number than I ever expected to reach in this endeavor. To commemorate this nice round number, I'm going to unload some topics that have been sitting on my List of Standalone Items that Could Maybe Each Yield a Few Paragraphs if I Don't Have an Overarching Theme. Gotta love that LSICMEYFPIDHOT.

Ah, here's one that might even turn into a whole post if I babble enough. We'll have to wait and see. There's a phenomenon I've found that is a real double-edged sword for me, and I don't know if others feel the same way or not. I'll call it "The Daunting Pre-Existing Inventory Conundrum." Ooh, that's catchy. My first example comes from the world of music via the world of video games. I shall explain. More and more often, musicians are finding interesting ways to get their music out to fans/potential consumers. On "So You Think You Can Dance," they always list the artist and song name for the backing music to each dance performance, and I guarantee that the labels see big spikes from people who learn of their product that way. Additionally, songs are featured in video game soundtracks to play in the background of menu screens or the gameplay itself. For example, my co-worker Rob accompanied me to a concert for one of my favorite bands, Sloan. He didn't know any of their songs, but since my lovely wife declined the invitation, Rob said he was always down for a good show. When they came out for the encore, Rob turned to me and said, "Wait, I know this song!" That seemed unlikely to me since I've never heard a single song of theirs on any American radio station (they're Canucks). A few seconds later, he said, "I totally know this." He then remembered from where he knew it: one of his football video games. And like that: two forms of media converged.

Ok, back to my ever-expanding story: I heard a song on a baseball video game that I used to play fairly often, and I enjoyed it. It came on again the next time I played, and I said to myself, "Ok, I've gotta look these guys up and maybe even buy their album." The band is called Guided By Voices, and when I looked them up on Wikipedia, I was shocked at what I saw: 16 studio albums over 17 years. "Never mind then," I said (probably aloud). And that was that. You see, I was too daunted by the large body of work to even dip my toe in. "What if you bought an album and really liked it?" you might ask. That's precisely the problem. You see, I don't like doing things halfway at all. In fact, it feels wrong and unsettling to me. It's hard to explain, but I think it boils down to liking something, wanting more, and being bothered by the fact that there's more of the good stuff out there that I'm just leaving on the table. If I bought one cd of theirs and liked it, I'd want to learn more songs by them, and then it could easily and quickly spiral out of control. In this instance, I chose instead to be blissfully ignorant.

Yeah, I know that sounds a little strange, seeing as how I'm basically denying myself things from which I would likely get enjoyment. Fortunately, my lovely wife doesn't see things in such black-and-white-and-ridiculous terms as I do. Here's an example of that: While visiting our friend Melissa a while ago, she put on an episode of the British comedy, "Coupling." (There was a disastrous American version of the same show that didn't make it though its first season.) It was very funny, which struck me as odd since I hadn't enjoyed a half-hour sitcom for quite a while. So months later when my lovely wife and I saw it airing on BBC America, we recorded an episode. Even though it was in season 2 and there were some references to previous happenings on the show, we still enjoyed it quite a bit. That's when The Daunting Pre-Existing Inventory Conundrum set in for me. When I looked up the series and saw that there were four seasons, there were only two possible solutions in my mind. Either we go out and buy all four of them and watch them in order and in a relatively short amount of time or we never watch another episode ever again. My lovely wife stepped in and offered another solution. She found that the On Demand feature of our cable had some additional episodes from Season 2 on there for us to watch at our leisure. We did, and since we enjoyed them so much, she purchased the DVD of Season 1. We watched that too, and all was fine. Now though, I'm back to feeling the pressure of being back in the middle of an unfinished task. On Demand adds a new episode every week or so, but the Pre-Existing Inventory is sitting out there somewhere, waiting for me to laugh with it and it leaves me smack dab in the middle of Enjoyment Purgatory. Is the world ending because I have more episodes of a British comedy to watch? No, it certainly isn't, and I recognize that. Still, it's unsettling enough, and Seasons 3 and 4 might magically appear in an online shopping cart soon.

So what are the treatments for The Daunting Pre-Existing Inventory Conundrum? The first is simple, as illustrated by the Guided By Voices example: stop right there and do not proceed any further. It's admittedly not the healthiest way to deal with the situation, but it works. The second treatment, as I've learned, is to try to very slowly expand the selection and constantly monitor the enjoyment level. Sounds like a bit of a killjoy, eh? It's necessary though, and here's why: I'm fiercely loyal to things that bring me enjoyment. It took a whole crappy season and a half of Prison Break for me to give up on it. It took two crappy Everclear albums before I pulled the plug on them. I liked a book by an author, so I bought three more by him at the same time since it was a series. After the third of those three, I realized that I hadn't really enjoyed the last two enough to buy the next few. These things take time for me, and so if I'm going to continue on with something that initially gave me some level of diversion, I need to monitor how long that fun lasts or find myself twelve books or episodes into something that more closely resembles a habit than a hobby.

So for everyone out there who has told me that I need to watch House, The Wire, 30 Rock, or The Office, I understand your rationale. I'm sure they're all great, but The Daunting Pre-Existing Inventory Conundrum is preventing me from just jumping right in. Maybe, just maybe, with my lovely wife's assistance I'll be able to dabble a little instead of my current all-or-nothing approach and not worry about all of the unwatched episodes. Maybe I'll be alright turning the potential enjoyment into kinetic enjoyment at my own leisure and pop in a DVD when the opportunities present themselves. Yeah, and maybe I'll start trusting that my alarm clock will go off on its own and sleep all the way to the predetermined time. I'm not holding my breath.

And with that, an entire post was born. I love it when that happens. Before we go though, let's reconvene in the next paragraph for the always-thrilling Car Watch!

Longtime family friend and faithful UOPTA reader Sue sent me an email. (You see, she could tell that when I asked people to write to ptklein@gmail.com at the end of the previous 299 posts that I really meant it and wasn't just being polite.) Here's what she had to say: "I saw this plate today and had to share. It was a lime green Lotus sportscar with the plate 'ZEN DUDE'. Cute huh? And the other day while pumping gas I saw a Toyota 4Runner, '1NSTYSS' which I inserted the A's into and came up with 'one nasty ass.' Both ends of the spectrum huh?" Those are great, Sue. I'd expect the "ZEN DUDE" dude to be in an old VW Bug or maybe a Prius, but I still admire that he not only captured a belief of his on the plate, but also managed to tell us in a way that drove the point home. "ZEN MAN" or "ZEN PRSN" really doesn't do the trick, ya know? As for the second one...I guess that's what he was going for. (I almost said "he or she," but let's be honest here.) What else could it be? "One nasty sis?" Then I suppose the "she" would need to get back into the equation. There's a lesson here, folks: think through something fully before writing whatever pops into your mind.

My homey Rockabye saw a plate that will probably elicit the same response from you that it did me. It read, "POORBOX," and it was on a gray Porsche Boxster. What response was I expecting? "Oh fuck you, man!" How close was I?

Lastly, I saw this plate earlier this week, and I literally did a tripletake: "B A4KLFT." Yep, the driver is commanding each and every one of us to turn into a frickin' forklift. The English major in me is trying to make it a functional metaphor for lifting people up and helping them reach new heights, but that's clearly not working. Instead, I think this person just really wants me to come over and move some heavy palettes of inventory to a higher elevation. Sorry, sir or madam, but I just don't see that happening.

Do you know what I do see happening? I see us meeting back here next Friday for post #301. Some stuff's going to happen during that time though, and I'm compelled to address it. Happy birthday to our good friend Ceil tomorrow, happy Labor Day on Monday, and for those of you who celebrate it, happy First of Ramadan on Tuesday. Have a happy and healthy weekend and week, everyone, and I'll see you in September. Hey, that's catchy too! As always, please feel free to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all. Take care, friends, and shaloha.

In-jury of my peers

Oh boy, here we are again. It seems like just a week ago that I was jotting down some thoughts and stories, but I guess time has a way of messing with us like that. Good morning, friends, friends of friends, and people who found this blog by searching for some term I mentioned over a year ago. I don't care how you got here; I appreciate your time.

For those of you who have been visiting UOPTA for a while, you may recall a story I told about playing softball in P.E. during high school. The post was called, "The Old Ball Game," and I recounted the time that a big dude hit a softball that wasn't so soft when it found my nuts at 60 miles per hour. While it was a painful experience that still makes me cringe a bit, it at least gave me the chance to use the phrase "Pete-seeking missile" in a sentence. In any case, something this week reminded me that I have a couple of other sport-related injuries that I haven't yet mentioned in this space. Some might be humorous, so here goes.

I have about a half-inch long scar on my arm. It's located in a tough spot to describe. It's not quite my forearm because it's close to my hand, but it's just after the wrist so that's out. I'll call it my beforearm. Anyway, it's not very noticeable at all now, but it was after I received it late in high school. The short version of how I got it sounds pretty cool: "Yeah, I sliced it open on the underside of the backboard while I was dunking on someone in a basketball game." See, doesn't that sound cool? And it's true, unless you're into that "whole truth" thing. Here's how it would go if I were being questioned on the stand in a t.v. courtroom drama.

Sexy Actress Who Thinks Glasses are Enough to Make Her Believable in a Prosecutor Role: Please describe the details of how you got your injury, Mr. Klein.

Me: I sliced it open on the underside of the backboard while I was dunking on someone in a basketball game, ma'am.

SAWTGEMHBPR: Was this in a league game? Five on five?

Me: Uh, no, it was at my parents' house...in their driveway. Two on two.

SAWTGEMHBPR: I see. And how was that game going?

Me: Fine, I guess.

SAWTGEMHBPR: (to the judge) Your Honor, permission to treat as a hostile witness?

Judge Who is Sassy Sometimes Just to Keep the Plot Moving: Oh you know I'll allow that!

SAWTGEMHBPR: Isn't it true that you were losing 10 to 2 in that game?

Me: Yes, but we were making a come-

SAWTGEMHBPR: Just answer the question.

Me: Yes.

SAWTGEMHBPR: Thank you. And what was the point total that would equal victory for the other team?

Me: (murmuring) Eleven.

SAWTGEMHBPR: Can you speak up please?

Me: ELEVEN!

SAWTGEMHBPR: Thank you, Mr. Klein. How did the rest of the game go after your injury?

Me: Um, well, it didn't. My arm hurt enough that I couldn't keep playing.

SAWTGEMHBPR: So you denied them their victory?

Me: 'Denied' is such a harsh word.

SAWTGEMHBPR: Well how do you think they felt?

My Lawyer Who Looks Suave But is Actually a Moron: Objection, Your Honor. Speculative!

JWSSJKPM: Overruled. I think I like where this is going!
MLWLSBAM: Shucks.

Me: I suppose they would've preferred an official victory.

SAWTGEMHBPR: Yes, I suppose they would've too, Mr. Klein. Oh, one last thing. I was very impressed with your earlier statement about dunking the basketball. I have several character witnesses who are willing to testify that you don't have much jumping ability. Can you please explain to the jury how this dunk happened?

Me: Oh man. Yeah, I can explain that. My parents' basket can be lowered a little.

SAWTGEMHBPR: I see. So it wasn't a standard 10-foot rim that you were playing on. Was it lowered to 9 feet?

Me: 8.

SAWTGEMHBPR: 8?

Me: Yeah, 8. Can I go now?

SAWTGEMHBPR: I have nothing further.

JWSSJKPM: You may be seated. Do you need the bailiff's help stepping down from the stand?

(The courtroom erupts in laughter.) And...scene.

Maybe I've been watching too many "Law and Order" reruns. Hmm.

The next injury is sports-related solely by its venue. As a tot, either age 3 or 4 (I can never remember), I was at the bowling alley with my parents and my favorite brother, Kevin. He swears he didn't push me, so the story holds that I just tripped by myself and went headfirst into the corner of a drinking fountain. It wasn't good, and I still tip my cap to the doctors because the scar today is much less visible than it probably should be. Who knew that being a spectator at a bowling alley was so dangerous?

I've had other, smaller injuries even more-loosely connected with sports. There was a time that had a baby tooth knocked out in a vicious game of "Throw the Spiky Thing from the Tree at Peter," another scar on my arm from playing basketball and not really seeing a brick wall until it was too late, and several jammed or sprained fingers from simply not catching things correctly.

I saw an article this week about Daniel Radcliffe (the actor who plays Harry Potter) having dyspraxia, a condition that affects motor skills and often makes people appear clumsy. I have to admit, I immediately looked it up online to see if the symptoms sounded like me. They didn't (and are much more severe), so I guess I'm just a little off sometimes without any official reason. There are worse things.

The reason this topic came up is because of an injury I witnessed on Monday night. While playing basketball in Ventura (a playoff game in which we won, I'll have you know), our friend Dusty took an accidental elbow to the nose in the first half. It didn't stop bleeding for way too long, and he eventually came back out to watch the second half...with a tampon up his right nostril. I thought that sitting in gum after getting hit in the nuts by a softball was the definition of "adding insult to injury," but he may have surpassed me with that move. The tampon did the trick, as one might expect, and I showed exceptional restraint by not making any jokes whatsoever until the next day when he said he was doing better. If his nose were broken, I might've had to (gulp) take the high road. Thankfully, he's fine and making fun of himself like a champion: "If I had a pad, with some sort of wings, I’d have re-entered the game. I was just nervous about going in there with only the tampon for protection," Dusty said heroically. I understand, man, I understand.

Ok, enough of all this pain and suffering bullshit, let's get to what's really important: Car Watch!

I saw a license plate that confused me a little bit. It read, "SAILNBM." I only came up with two possible meanings, and I'm sure neither are correct: "Sailing...BAM!" and "Sailing Bowel Movement." I suppose it could be someone whose initials are B.M. and enjoys sailing, but where's the fun in that?

Next, I was behind a truck on the always-enjoyable 405. In big and obviously proud stenciling, it told us that they're "cerdafied." It also said, "Hiring." For what? A copy editor? Ooh, things just got more interesting. Before moving onto the next paragraph, I was suddenly struck with the notion that "cerda" sounded familiar to me as a word in Spanish. "Maybe it's a pun and they're actually being very clever here," I thought. "Then I'd be a royal dick for making fun of something that I ended up admiring." So I went to Google to find a Spanish-English dictionary, and sure enough, it took me to http://www.spanishdict.com/. Who'd've thunk it? In any case, it gives me five definitions:

cerda
noun

1. Strong hair in a horse's tail or mane; a bristle. (f)
2. Corn just cut and formed into sheaves. (Province; Provinicial) (f)
3. Bundle of flax broken but not yet hackled. (Province; Provinicial) (f)
4. Sow. (f)
Cerda de puerco -> hog's bristle
5. Slut, whore. (f)

The reason it looked familiar to me is because I think I've seen it on a menu, which in hindsight makes me glad I didn't order it. I wish I remembered exactly what kind of business the truck was advertising, but I'm pretty sure it was either electric work or plumbing. Therefore, I don't think there's any pun going on with the first four definitions. The fifth though...probably not, but I wish I had thought of this back in high school because I totally would've used it. How? Easily, friends. Dusty (or anyone else in our AP Spanish class) might've said to me, "Hey, that girl over there seems pretty slutty." "Yeah, but I think it's all an act to get attention," I might reply, willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. "Not an act, man. I heard firsthand stories from Mark, the other Mark, Jason, and Darren, so it's confirmed." "You mean it's been...cerda-fied?" I'd ask, and then we'd laugh for the next two weeks. Ah, high school.

Lastly, my homey Rockabye saw this on a license plate: "ONMYWAA." I approve wholeheartedly. It's not easy to impose inflection in the perilous world of platespeak, but this person accomplished it with flying colors. I tip my cap to you, sir or madam. (For those of you scoring at home, that's two imaginary cap tips in one post. It might be a UOPTA record.)

And this concludes this week's installment of things I think about and share with whomever lands on this page. I'll be back here next week with more things to ramble about and maybe make you either smile or shake your head in disgust. During that intervening week, I'd like to wish very happy anniversary Sunday to my favorite brother and sister-in-law and a happy half-birthday to our friend Robin. Homepeople, please feel free to write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything you see fit to send. Car Watch items, funny stories, good jokes, bad jokes, movie/book/music recommendations, pick up lines, food allergies, or anything else that strikes your fancy. I have an equal opportunity inbox. Have a happy and healthy next several days, my friends.

Eastern musings

Greetings and salutations, my homepeople. I almost called you "my brothers from other mothers and sisters from other misters," but felt that it was too cumbersome. Also, unless my favorite brother wasn't lying all those years about me being adopted, the phrase would be factually inaccurate. It's all about quality control, people. So I've got a bunch of random crap to discuss with myself today. Are you ready? I'll take your silence as a yes.

My lovely wife and I were on vacation for a good chunk of this week, and normally I get a ton of material from the flights alone. This time, not so much. I only have a few highlights from the plane rides - or flylights, if you will - and none of them are spectacular. Here's one: I was sitting next to a nice woman who I would say was about 60-65 years old. People that age...(I'm going to choose my words carefully here so as to not offend my loyal readers in or near that bracket) are old enough to know about all that they're going to before they start to lose some of their mental faculties. I don't think the word "doddering" applies until a little while later. Therefore, I was suprised when this able-minded woman asked me if Texas was in the same time zone as Boston. Maybe I'm being unreasonable, but that just seemed like something that adults should know to me. Texas clearly isn't on the east coast, and it's far enough west that many easterners consider it "the West." I didn't make a face or anything when I replied, "No, Boston is an hour ahead of Texas." Wasn't that nice of me? (And if that's my best story from my four flights, you can probably tell how uneventful they were.)

Our actual trip was lovely and relaxing. We were staying with some friends at a beach house in Gloucester, Massachusetts. We saw a shirt or bumper sticker at one point that said, "Glosta," which we thought was appropriate. Know what else we saw? Scores and scores of signs that read, "We're for Tony Verga" for State Representative. I don't know about the rest of you, but my dad is laughing right now. Why? Because "verga" is Mexican vulgar slang for "penis." Let me put it this way: any phrases that non-Spanish speakers learn that refer to the male anatomy include "verga" instead of the biological "pene." I know I'm immature, but even days after seeing the first sign, I couldn't help but say, "We're for Verga!" every time we passed a sign. Being a responsible citizen, I looked this guy up on the series of tubes that make up the internets. On http://www.repverga.com/, there are four things that I can't help but notice. First, "Join Team Verga" in a bold blue box happens to stand out. Next, there are these three actual headlines:

1. "Verga Leads Effort to Protect Fishing Industry"

2. "Verga Announces Successful Passage of Funds for Libraries"

3. "Hill, Tarr, Verga Plot Course for Disaster Aid for Clammers"

If you're like me, you're wondering how a hill, some tar, and a dick can join forces to help clammers. And if you're like me, I'm sorry, but you're one sick individual and should seek professional help.

While in the two-syllable Gloucester, we did a whole lot of nothing and it was wonderful. We spent time just relaxing, hanging out with our friends, and taking a couple of trips to the beach to walk around, play some Frisbee, and watch little Tyler try conversing with the waves. Isn't that setting just completely relaxing? No, evidently, not to everyone. To one man in particular, the beach at Cape Ann is for one thing: showing people how masculine you are. Yep, as dozens of happy and relaxed people crossed a sandbar over to an island, most of us stood around and splashed a bit in the water. Not this dude. He dropped and gave us twenty. That's right, just off to the side of the main throng of folks, he did push-ups and then looked around to make sure everyone saw how fucking awesome he was. Please note, this wasn't some Adonis either, but rather some middle aged, not particularly fit man who was showing off for us. On the walk back from the island, we were apparently all being giant wusses because he showed us all up by walking backwards in the slightly-deeper water. It was such a display of manhood that I asked my lovely wife if I needed to do some workout routine of my own right then and there to prove my own male-ness. She said it was unnecessary, which was probably a good thing. I have a feeling that this guy would've run up next to me and done the same thing I was doing but faster. "Seet ups? I can do ze seet ups! 1,2,3,4,5! Unh! Vut, ah you steel on 3? I crush you!" (I just gave him an accent even though I never heard him speak, and hopefully that translated onto the printed page...or whatever this is.) Instead of exercise, I opted for a beer and some poker. I consider that a victory.

Ok, I'm tired, so let's move on over to the Car Watch section, shall we?

My favorite brother saw a license plate that he thought might irk me. He wrote:
"I thought this might challenge your rules of license plate etiquette - IM2HAPY. Can '2' symbolize 'too'. I think it should be reserved for only 'two' substitution duty. After all, it is a number, right? Are homophones allowed? Or are they homonyms? I always forget that. I would have issue with '2' as 'too' meaning 'also' as well, like ILUVU2." He then said that he was very tired, which might explain his rambling to the point of sounding like me. Here's my verdict: I have zero problem with license plates using the number 2 for "to" or "too." My whole thing with platespeak is that I want it to work; I want people to be able to get what you're putting out there. That's why I have a problem with things like "JOYRYID," as my homey Rockabye sent me. It just doesn't quite work, and so I feel like they should've either found a better way to express that sentiment or abandon it altogether. So no, Kevin, that didn't challenge my rules of plate etiquette. However, I do question what "too happy" means. Is s/he bipolar with much larger manic swings than depressed ones? Does s/he giggle uncontrollably at somber events? Do people see him or her smiling on Monday mornings and think, "God I hate that person"? Those are the questions that that plate makes me ask myself, and it saddens me to know I'll never find my answers.

Our dear friend Melissa sent me this email: "Pot reference or not? The license plate on a light green Prius: 'LYTN UP.' Or maybe they just want me to be happy? Or reduce my carbon footprint? Hmmm...Go UOPTA! You are my mixed up utopia. Well, once 'I' am there." I guess you can see why I like her. My first thought with that plate is that the driver just wants us all to chill a little. However, it's perfectly reasonable to assume that this person enjoys "lightin' up" as well. Therefore, I'm going to say it's both of those meaning, and s/he did a great job finding a double meaning to fit a positive outlook with an illegal habit. I'm not feeling the carbon footprint interpretation. However, if the plate said, "LIL C USE," I would expect Melissa to ask if there was a cocaine reference in there. Ah, how Puff the Magic Dragon shaped a generation by making us look closer into things for possible drug references. (It's so clear now - whose last name is Paper? Honestly.)

Lastly, my homey Rockabye saw a Lexus SC400 with this plate: "DEPRVD1." If it's "depraved one," then I think it's pretty ballsy to put that out there in the public. According to our friends at Merriam Webster, depraved means, "Marked by corruption or evil, especially: PERVERTED." If I were hitchhiking and that plate drove up, I'm pretty sure I'd try to come up with an excuse pretty quickly to get out of getting into that car. However, if it's "deprived one," well I think I speak for all of us when I say, ahem, "Fuck you."

On that family-friendly note, I'm outstro. Happy half-birthday next week to my Bratty Kid Sister (if I'm doing month math correctly). For everyone else, have a great weekend and week ahead of you, and I'll meet you back here next Friday. As always, please feel free to email me at ptklein@gmail.com with anything at all. Shaloha, brothers and sisters of the real and fake varieties.