Super troop-er

Hello, good morning, and welcome, my friends. It's good to see you back here for another week of whatever I happen to write about. First off, I want to wish a Happy Anniversary to my good friends Dave and Twilight (whom I introduced to each other). In January, I wrote about Dave subjecting us to the horrendous game called "Killer Bunnies." Even though I still don't forgive him for that offense, I'm man enough to put it aside and wish him and Twi a happy day. I'm so mature sometimes.

For years, my friend The Mills work for the Girl Scouts. She created, organized, and implemented tons of programs over that span of time. Only one of those, however, had the added bonus of one Peter Klein involved. My lovely wife and I lived next door to Dusty and The Mills during that time, and when she came over with her pitch, I was happy to help in any way she needed.

The Mills created an entire Improv Day for the scouts. The idea (as it was laid out for me) was to have both me and Dusty teach the groups of girls a few games, and then they would go up and perform later in front of whoever else was there. It would be fun, and I would have the benefit of simultaneously helping a friend and serving the community. And maybe I could get some Thin Mints out of it.

We got to the park where the event was being held, and the first thing I noticed was a larger-than-expected group of Girl Scouts. I'm really bad at estimating group sizes, but it was large enough that a local sorority sent members to be volunteers and help us out. Dusty and I picked up our name badges, and my eyes got a little wide upon seeing "Improv Expert" under my name. Here's the thing: Dusty and I were indeed a part of an improvisational comedy group for two years. However, that was in high school and this was a while after that. During the intervening years, we kept up on our quick-comedy skills by...doing nothing, really. We laughed a lot and had to be fast with our jokes before others jumped in, but that was about it. That's the benefit of having funny friends, I suppose: keeping you on your game. In any case, being an "expert" was a little scary since we hadn't really planned anything. To add a little more pressure, a lot of parents were there, along with some of The Mills' co-workers/supervisors.

We quickly came up with a kick-ass plan. We gathered the sorority sisters and taught them some warm-up activities and fun group games. Then they each took their own group as Dusty and I made the rounds, added our expertise, and took on groups of our own. It was great. We showed them an exercise in which the two people involved can only ask questions. "How's it going?" "Why, do I look sick?" "Do you feel sick?" "Am I supposed to feel incredibly bloated?" "Are you pregnant?" "You think I'm fat?" And so on. We went for a good couple of minutes, until I stumped him with "Are you trying to break up with me?" The kids had a hard time with that one, but it was great to see them try. They kept resorting to normal statements with one question word at the end. For example, "It's really nice out today...right?" Loads of fun.

I adopted two groups, and I taught them each a game to later perform. With the first group, I showed them a game called Scantron that we learned in our Comedy Sportz league. Here's the shortest explanation I can give: the ref (me, in this case) stops the scene and allows each person on stage to suggest what happens next. The audience claps, and the "winning" choice is how the scene then proceeds. Kinda like Choose Your Own Adventure, but named after a test-taking form (and therefore inherently less cool). So after I taught them how to do it, the girls were being too tame still. Why was someone home from school? Their answers were along the lines of, "She's sick," "She's pretending to be sick," "Her mommy's sick," and "She doesn't feel well." I tried helping them branch out, and said, "It can be ANYTHING at all! Why is she home? Because monkeys jumped out of the kitchen cabinets and they were having a dance party. See? Anything at all; have fun with this part and the whole scene gets to be more fun." They laughed, and I got the sense that they understood. We did another trial run before I went to my other group. Lo and behold, there were monkeys flying out of cabinets within thirty seconds of the scene starting. I reminded them that that was just an example and to really just say whatever came to mind.

With my other group, I taught them "Dr. Knowitall." This is a game in which the people on stage stand shoulder-to-shoulder and pretend to be one being. The audience asks a question, and the girls take turns saying one word each until it is answered. It's pretty funny to watch how off-course the answer gets once one person says an unexpected word. Why is the sky blue?" "The reason that the sky is blue is because the sun sneezes and wants to eat cake but didn't eat breakfast first." That kind of thing. I gave them some tips and we ran through it a few times with me as part of the doctor. " They were all set.

And now I'm all set to prolong this madness. Yes, you guessed correctly, I'm stretching this out again. Bwa ha ha. See you back here tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion. Same Klein time, same Klein channel. Have a good day, and may all of your Mondanic adventures be filled with shaloha.

The odd-ition, part 2

Happy Tuesday morning, friends. This might not mean anything to some of you, but every single time I call you "friends," I think of Vin Scully, the voice of the Dodgers. He calls us "friends," and I honestly think he means it. I mean it too, but it helps that I actually know most of you. Enough with that, let's get back to the story I began yesterday.

As a minor recap, I joined my friends Jon and Margot on an audition for a show that was supposed to be like Monty Python. After much ado, we found the place and met the guy leading the thing ("Jerry"). He walked us through a couple of his ideas for the show, and they were far, far away from what we had expected. Everyone still on board? Great.

In the comments section yesterday, my mom asked if I then got up and left the audition. Oh no, mother, that would've been rude and reflected poorly upon my family. I would never bring dishonor and shame to the Klein clan like that. Also, I wasn't the one who drove there. So we all stayed there, smiling and nodding, pretending to the best of our abilities that Jerry's ideas were super awesome ones. He clapped his hands and broke us up into pairs for "an activity." I was praying that the activity wouldn't be praying, and I was right. Jon was my partner, and Jerry handed us photocopies of a two-person scene from a compilation book. He told everyone that we had the next five minutes to practice these scenes privately before we were to do them in front of the group.

We randomly selected who would be which character and read through it aloud. The first thing we noticed was that it was a very serious scene and as un-Monty Python as his "Baggage and the Lord" example. I don't remember what play it was from, but I remember it having something to do with the military because I think my character's name was something like "Sarge." I give off a strong, military, drill-sergeant vibe naturally, so this was a good fit. After running through it a few times, Jerry announced with great pleasure that it was time to perform.

A man and a woman went up to the front and started acting out their scene. When they were almost done with the scene, Jerry cut them off in the middle of a sentence. "No, no, no," he said. He walked up on the makeshift stage. "It should be more like this," he said, and he took the photocopies out of the guy's hands. He then proceeded to do the same scene with the woman, but injecting as much "man-I'm-a-serious-actor" vibe as possible into every line. When it was over, he looked up at all of us with a little smile as if to say, "Yes, that's how it's done."

The next two went up, and the same thing happened. Jerry took over, channeled Shatner, and showed us the real way to act. I had the distinct impression that he'd spent a lot of time reading both parts aloud in his bedroom. Whether that bedroom was in his parents' house was still up for debate. Then it was time for me and Jon to perform. We read our scene, and Jerry watched intently. We got all the way through it without interruption, and he made some comment about how we really needed to commit more to the characters. We did it again with a little more feeling (i.e. imitating him), and he just sort of shrugged and called the next group.

This went on for a while, with Jerry inserting himself into the majority of the scenes to teach us the right way to do things. I stuck it out, waiting for the chance to break into some improv games or do some comedic scenes, since I thought that would be more relevant to the premise of the show. That never happened though. Instead, he said, "Ok, that's it. So just write your names and phone numbers on that piece of paper over there and I'll call you guys."

I wandered over to the line, confused and wondering how that was all he needed from us. Jon was in front of me in line, and we were carefully avoiding making eye contact, for that would've been enough to make us bust up laughing. When I got to the sheet, I saw that Jon had given a fake last name. I think he was afraid that "Lichtenstein" sounded a little too Jew-y. I put my real information down, but I'm not entirely sure why. As Margot, Jon, and I walked to the door, Jerry stopped us and thanked us for coming. "I really think we have a good group here," he said with an eerie smile. "Yeah, this is going to be good. I'll call you all." We politely thanked him for the opportunity and walked out of the Reality Room.

Margot's white Explorer was only 20 feet away, but I found myself saying aloud, "Hold it in until you get in the car; just hold it in, we're almost there." We almost broke into a run for the last five feet, unable to hold it in much longer. As soon as the car doors slammed, we all erupted into variations of "What the fuck was that?" The ride home (and the rest of the day), we took turns imitating Jerry's serious acting and re-telling his ideas for sketches. I must have pantomimed putting baggage on Jon a hundred times that day, and it never got old.

Neither Margot nor I ever heard anything from Jerry. If I had to guess, I'd say that no one from the group ever did. I think it's entirely possible that he was just a lonely guy who thought he might have an in with some public access station. He used that hope to bring people in and show off his acting skills, only to have nothing ever materialize from it. Either that or he was a serial killer and we narrowly escaped with our lives. One of those two.

That's my brush with potential fame, gentle readers. It was strange and very awkward, but those things also tend to be memorable. I hope you enjoyed, friends. Got anything you want to share with me? If so, ptklein@gmail.com is the place to do it. See you tomorrow.

Senior moments

Yesterday, I wrote about the benign little games my friends and I would sometimes play in class in high school. There are more, gentle readers, and I doubt that comes as any surprise to you. I want to be clear about something first: we were all good kids. We did well in these classes and the teachers liked us. The little things we did to amuse ourselves and others were way under the radar.

That reminds me of a quick story related to that. As I believe is customary, my high school had end-of-the-year superlatives for the senior class. First, ballots came out to all seniors in which people had to write in names of who they thought should "win" these honors. Then, a revised ballot with the top three finalists went out. Basically, I used the first ballot to put cheerleader Jaime's name on all of the ones associated with looks and didn't pay much attention to the others. I think I put her down for "Best Looking," "Best Smile," "Best Body," and "Best All-Around." Ya know, just in case they later revealed who put what and she was so touched that she decided she could date someone from my social status. (As it turns out, she really was a nice and well-rounded person and Dusty and I ran into her a couple of years ago on a plane. She spoke to us and everything.) The "Best Buddies" category was tough because it was for just two people, and Jon, Dusty, and I were all super-tight.

When the next ballot came out with the top three choices, I was pretty shocked by the results. Not only did Jaime not appear in every single category, but I actually did in two of them. It was a big surprise to see my name and Dusty's in the "Class Clown" category along with a guy named David that we knew. I had never thought of myself like that at all, and I'm certain that my teachers were surprised to see us on there too. I always thought of class clowns as the loud, obnoxious guys who knocked books out of nerds' hands or something. The pun-making sneaky-funny guys didn't fit that bill at all for me. We saw David (who actually fit that bill a little - the loud part at least) in the hall later that day, and he told us in all seriousness that he wanted the crown badly and we were going to lose.

The other category I was in the top three for surprised me even more, come to think of it. It was "Most Talented," and I was unbelievably honored and humbled that even one person had thought to write my name on that line. At the time, I had been in a play and on the improv comedy team, but I thought of those activities as just having fun with my friends. I had written a lot of hopefully-comedic pieces for the yearbook, but that hadn't come out yet, so no one was taking that into consideration. I was pleasantly confused by the nomination though. Fellow actor Adam was in the top three with me, along with a guy whose name I didn't recognize.

Then the big day came. I know it's a cliché that is usually a lie, but I really was pleased to just be nominated. It would've felt good to "win" one of the categories, but I also would've felt a little out of place in either of them. If I "lost," I would've liked to see Dusty and Adam win their respective categories. The final results became public: Jaime only won for "Best Smile," and I thought about demanding a recount. My buddy Rockabye got "Best All-Around," which was fitting since he was on a bunch of sports teams, did well in school, and everybody liked him. For "Class Clown," David beat out the two of us, most likely because he'd been campaigning for the two days leading up to the final vote. For "Most Talented," the third guy beat out the acting duo. Oh well.

Dusty and I shrugged off our defeat, and upon leaving the class, ran into David who was celebrating like a madman. "Yeah! Take that!" he yelled. We looked at each other. "Really?" we asked ourselves. I guess it's good that David won, since I can only imagine the frustration and anger that would've come from a disappointing defeat at the hands of apparently unworthy adversaries. I asked a friend who the "Most Talented" guy was since I didn't know his name. "Oh, he's on the football team. He only has one arm and plays wide receiver." Yeah, I think that race was over before it even began.

So, gentle readers, that was my experience in the competitive world of senior superlatives. I really think I could've won if those pesky Swift Boat Veterans had stayed out of it. Oh wait, that wasn't me. Disirregardless, it really was an honor to be mentioned in the same breath as those who truly embodied their categories.

Happy Tuesday, folks. Enjoy the day, and remember to carve out 60-180 seconds to write to ptklein@gmail.com with salutations, thoughts, Car Watch items, recipes, superstitions, lyrics, jokes, monologues, descriptions, or even insults. Beggars can't be choosers, right?

Bursting at the themes

Ah, happy Friday everyone. This one was a long time coming. I don't know who okayed this week having five work days, but they'd better have a complaint box. The unintentional themes of this week's posts have been thinking of things in the car and improvisational comedy. In that spirit, I have two things to write about (one in each of those categories) before diving into a pretty large pile of real work today. Sucks, I know.

First off, a commercial on the radio told me to get my news from "Fox 11 at 10." I'm used to this, and I doubt the 11 really throws anyone off, but it always catches my ear. This time, it reminded me of another Sacramento tale. I've briefly explained before in this space the type of work I did for that year to pass the time - basically "looking busy" for at least 6 of the 8 hours in the day. The other time was filled with such tasks as organizing thousands of pieces of paper into zip code order and manually entering information into a spreadsheet that already existed on the network in another format.

One task thrust upon me near the end of my stay (I almost said "my sentence" but that would've been unnecessarily mean to the Sackys) was to be the back-up receptionist for when the full-time one went on a break or to lunch. The rules I had to follow in that position were hilarious. I couldn't say, "Hold on one second," or even "one minute" because it could take longer than that, and we didn't want to lie to the customers. I argued that "moment" was undefined, but I was told to leave it as "Please hold." Also, I couldn't say, "No problem" because (get this) it implies that there may have been a problem. Oh sure, that makes perfect sense. Anyway, I occasionally had to page people or make announcements over the intercom. The only rules with that were to repeat the page twice, and if it was a general announcement, begin with "May I have your attention please." Not too difficult, right? I got a little stagefright the first couple of times, because this was a big place and there were hundreds of ears in cubicles hearing me.

So one Friday, I got a call from the very nice lady who ran Human Resources. This is what she made me say over the loudspeaker: "May I have your attention please. This is the last call for all first-timers for the Second Friday Lunch. Once again, this is the last call for all first-timers for the Second Friday Lunch." I immediately got two calls from smart asses (including my boss Kevin) asking me to repeat it again. I almost lost it a few minutes later mid-page when announcing the "first call for seconds for the Second Friday lunch." Ah, my time in Sac. I got to experience two new things up there: actual seasons and mind-numbingly menial tasks.

Crap, this is turning into a long post. I promised the second story, so I'll do it. When you speak of me, "honors his word" should factor prominently in the discussion. Back to talking about improvisational comedy. Improv is sometimes described as "comedy without a net" because there's only one take and the actors are out there relying solely on their minds. If the basic premise of a scene isn't working, the audience may be a little eager for the next one to start, but the actors themselves are dying up there. I have a little experience with this.

I was in the worst improv scene of all time. I fell, there was no net, and it hurt like a bitch. For a little while, I didn't want to discuss it. Then I grew to accept it, wear it as a badge of honor (or more appropriately, a Purple Heart), and I now think that I grew from that horrible experience. Here's what happened: we were playing a game called "Scenes." In it, the team does one short scene that doesn't necessarily need to be very funny. Then, they repeat the scene three additional times with different themes applied to it. The basic structure of the scene stays the same, so the audience knows what's going to happen while the actors need to spin everything in it to match the theme that the audience threw out. The details are fuzzy, but I remember the first scene was something about me being a scientist and aliens landing near my lab. I talked to them, they gestured, and we agreed to live together in peace.

The first theme we were given was the worst one possible for this scene: Science Fiction. There was no real way to change it to make it much more Sci-Fi than it already was. So, I grabbed a grey wig, and a la Doc Brown from Back to the Future ran out there and screamed, "Marty! You've got to come back with me!" Dead frickin' silence. The blankest of blank stares. I'm pretty sure those in the front row could hear my heartbeat. Alas, the scene must continue, so we ran through it almost exactly the same way as the first (not funny) scene.

We had to do it two more times, for an audience that clearly wanted it to end as quickly as we did. I saw the panic in my teammates' eyes, but we just needed to get through it. I'm sorry to say that I don't even recall what the second theme was or how it played out. I just know it was bad. The third though, I believe was in the style or either "detective" or "mystery." I can clearly recall a few things from it (besides the immense flight instinct). One, the aliens started talking in this one. "Glub glub," they said. Two, they pulled a gun on me for some reason and ordered me to go into a ditch. And three, this conversation happened:

Alien: (pointing gun at me and motioning) Glub glub, on the glub glub.

Me: (slowly walking toward the 'ditch') You want me to glub glub on the glub glub?

I hope you can sense how unbelievably bad this was. For one of the longest games in our arsenal, I don't think we got a single laugh. It was painful. And yet, it was a good thing. For one, I learned that if I could survive that, I had nothing to fear every other time I went out there. It would never be that bad again, and I lived to tell that tale without any external injuries. And two, it gave us years of "Glub glub" jokes. Totally worth it.

On that note, gentle readers, have a lovely weekend.