Spain management

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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