Super troop-er, part II

Hey there, gentle readers. I said I'd be back here today, and I made good on that promise. Oh sure, it helps that most of this post was already written since I didn't know it would be a two-parter when I started, but it's still a kept promise nonetheless. You can't spell "kept promise" without Peter, after all. The moral of this paragraph: hello.

When I left you mid-story yesterday, Dusty and I had just finished working with our groups of Girl Scouts on particular improv games that we learned from Comedy Sportz. The girls were all ready to show off their stuff and play those games in front of the adoring crowd. I wasn't though. Dusty and I didn't realize until right then that not only were we there to teach the games and prepare them for the mini show, but we were also to be the emcees of the event. I thought to myself, "Well hell, if I can't wing this part of it, then I'm really not fit to be an Improv Expert, now am I?" We gave ourselves a two-second pep talk and walked out on stage. (And no, you can't spell expert without Peter.)

We started by welcoming the family members and the group of girls sitting and waiting for their turn. After a brief rundown of what they were about to see (in grandiose terms, naturally), we called the first group up. Dusty introduced the game and off they went. The audience seemed to be enjoying it so far, so I wasn't too worried. Then it was my turn with my Scantron group. I called up the girls, and asked for some suggestions from the audience. I then took my time explaining the rules of the game while the girls huddled and came up with their plan. The scene began, and I froze it at the most appropriate times to maximize the funny. The first stoppage had something to do with condiments, and the girls' answers were as follows: "Ketchup," "Mustard," "Ketchup and mustard," and "Monkeys flying out of kitchen cabinets." It was hilarious, because as the girl said that suggestion, she made brief eye contact with me in a way that acknowledged that she was already playing her wild card. I smiled back, and it was clear by the level of applause that crowd chose that last option. The girls had a great time up there, and even though the scene went nowhere and they were all talking all over one another, it was fun and the crowd enjoyed it. That's what really matters, right?

Some time passed, and I welcomed the Dr. Knowitall group up. I thought it would be funny to give this "doctor" one hell of an introduction, so I just started going. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages except ages that don't exist, we have a very special guest indeed for you this fine sunny afternoon; a guest with credentials so impressive that people have been known to get light-headed just from thinking about the years of schooling they required. Get your cameras ready, take mental notes so you can wow your friends tomorrow, and hang onto your hats and glasses, because we have the most famous and well-known doctor to ever grace this stage. He is an expert in-" I heard someone shout something. Was I being heckled? "She!" the voice repeated. "Excuse me?" "SHE is an expert." Oh yeah, that. Fuck. Then I got a little rattled, and therefore started doing the Rattled Peter form of talking. "Yes, SHE is an expert, for she is female and why wouldn't she be able to be a doctor especially a famous one because women and girls can do anything they want when they grow up or even before they grow up, right?" It was brutal for a few seconds, but I finally shut up and took questions for the audience. The scene went ok, but their answers stayed pretty ordinary. Boys probably would've done a better job. I kid, I kid.

When the event was over, Dusty and I got a round of applause, and everyone but me seemed to be over my gender slip-up. I really did beat myself up for that for a few hours, even though I know it was not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. It's just that I had spent so much time being ridiculously inclusive in my language while working at the university that this was almost as bad as accidentally referring to the residence halls as "dorms." Not quite as bad, but up there. We said goodbye to the kids and parents, and a few gave me some heartfelt thanks that truly felt wonderful. Even better than Thin Mints (I know, blasphemy). The event was a lot of fun, and The Mills did a great job preparing everyone and trusting that Dusty and I would just figure it out along the way. Ah, life imitating art.

So that was my one and only official experience with the Girl Scouts to date. I recently told my lovely wife that if we have a daughter in the future, she may need to join just so I can say, "You're doing a heck of a job, Brownie" at some point. She thinks that's a long way to go for a joke, but I'm willing to sacrifice for my craft. Have a great day, gentle readers, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. Please remember to write to ptklein@gmail.com with whatever you feel like. Shaloha.

Accounting for taste

Ahoy, mateys. Does "mateys" mean "little mates?" If so, shouldn't it be spelled "maties" instead? Maybe it is and I just haven't gotten that far in my Pirate Lanaguage correspondence course yet. I'm only in Chapter 2 in my Intro to Piratology text, but I've already learned that one should add a little pineapple juice to one's rum to avoid scurvy. Arrrren't you glad I'm stopping this train of thought here before I go way too far off the deep end? Yes, yes you are. Good morning, gentle readers. Here we are on another Monday, fresh from the weekend's festivities. I hope you all ate, drank, and were merry. I once heard that a transvestite's three favorite things to do were eat, drink, and be Mary, but that's really neither here nor there. Where is it then? It has to be somewhere, right? I need to stop this paragraph now before I get even weirder.

Ah, thank you blank space between lines. I feel better now. As I've mentioned in this space many a time, I take after each of my parents in various ways. Some have become more noticeable as I've grown older, and some have been present almost since birth. One important yet often-overlooked aspect of genetics is the passing down of food likes and dislikes.

A large part of this is undeniably due to food exposure. My parents never took us out for sushi because their parents never took them out for sushi, etc. I grew up "not liking" many things that I'd never actually tried, and some of them I actually learned to like quite a bit. For food that I was exposed to, however, there were clear lines of delineation.

In the Klein household growing up, my dad liked certain foods that neither my brother nor I could stomach. The most important item in that category is clearly mustard. My dad enjoys mustard and I hate it, pure and simple. You may have heard rumblings of my dislike for that condiment in the past, or it may be your first time visiting UOPTA. Welcome. My dad also likes asparagus, and I really, really don't like it. My mom, in full-on saint mode, would sometimes make that nasty smelling and ugly veggie for my dad even though the rest of us wouldn't be having any. I just don't like spears, whether in the form of a vegetable or a Britney.

Then there's the category of things that my dad liked and I alone inherited the taste for. First off, we have sour dill pickles. Mmm, I love 'em. There would be a jar of the pickle chips in the fridge that were just for us, and we'd pile them onto our burgers as the other two would make faces. When I was working in my dad's office for a couple of weeks in between jobs, he took me to a place that had a big glass jar of these giant, very sour pickles. We brought one back to his office and cut it in pieces for whoever wanted some. It ended up being mainly just the two of us who kept coming back for more. Good times, good times.

And then there's the biggy (biggie?): the appreciation for spicy foods that I inherited from my dad. While my mom has grown to like somewhat-hot food in recent years, growing up it was just me and my dad tackling spice monster. When my mom would make fajitas for dinner, she and my brother would stay far away from the glorious red sauce that we'd drip all over our loaded tortillas. Mmm, fajitas.

It should come as no surprise then that on a family trip to Catalina, my ears perked up when a waitress told us that the restaurant was famous for their buffalo wings. She came back a little later, and I happily ordered them. "Mild, medium, or hot?" she asked. "Hot," I said. She made a face and replied, "Are you sure? Last guy that got the hot ones almost had smoke coming out of his ears." My mom suggested that maybe I should go with the medium instead, and I begrudgingly agreed.

When the food came, I dove right into my wings. Something was different about these though. I placed it almost immediately: they were as hot as the f'ing sun. I kept plugging away, beckoning the waitress for more water every thirty seconds or so. My dad had one, and even though he can handle a higher spice quotient than me, he said after one bite, "Wooo, these are spi-cy!" They sure were. A lot of people (including my lovely wife) don't understand how eating very spicy food can be enjoyable when you spend the whole time burning, sweating, and sniffing. It's a labor of love, gentle readers, and I loved those wings to the best of my ability. When the burns on my lips felt like they should be upgraded to second-degree though, I hung up my napkin and called it a day. It was just too darn spicy for me, as much as I hate to admit it. For the entire meal, the same thought was running through all of our heads: "What could the hot ones possibly be like?" Though part of me wanted to go back there just to satisfy my curiosity, that never happened.

One might reasonable assume that I learned my limits once seeing that they existed in the world of spice. Oh sure, I stayed away from jalapenos, bought medium salsa as often as spicy, and limited the number of pepperoncinis that I'd eat in one sitting. But being human, I was prone to the occasional lapse in judgment. Guess what? You'll get to hear about my greatest lapse tomorrow. Yes, I'm unabashedly stringing you along.

Enjoy your Mondays, little mates. May all your socks be arrrgyle and all of your movies rated Rrrrrrr. Ooh, I think I just made up a pirate joke that can have three different punchlines: Who is a pirate's all-time favorite late-night talk show host? It can be Jack Paaarrrrrr, Arrrrsenio Hall, or Johnny Carrrrson. Pirates are versatile! I'll see you tomorrow, friends. Remember, you can always write to ptklein@gmail.com if you wish to share anything about anything.

Fame-ish, Part 1

Good morning on this day of Thur. Today is my father's half-birthday, so everyone please wish him a "Hap Birt!" with me. A funny thing happened a week or two ago, and the time has come to share it with you all. What did you bring to share today? That's what I thought. Selfish bastards. Sharing is caring. Remember that.

I was in the car, which happens from time to time, and I turned on some local sports talk radio. It was the day after the Sopranos finale, and the two on-air personalities were discussing how all series finales seem to suck. They asked the listeners to call in if they knew of any good ones, and I picked up my cell phone and started dialing. It rang, and someone quickly picked up and said the station's name. "Hi, I have a good finale to talk about," I said. He asked me a couple of questions and then put me on hold with the show playing. Suddenly they said, "We have Peter on the line calling from a cell phone in traffic who says he has a good one for us. Hey, Peter." I talked with them for about ten seconds about how the finale of Six Feet Under was fantastic and after a small description, they agreed that it sounded very interesting. (I won't go into what made it so cool and possibly spoil something for those of you who might rent the whole series at some point. You can thank me later.)

As soon as I hung up, I turned the radio back on to see if I would hear myself due to the delay. Sure enough, I heard my voice for half a second. One full second later, my phone rang and it was my brother. "Did you hear me?" I asked, without saying a hello. "Yeah, I just heard you on the radio!" It turns out that he didn't hear them say my name but heard my voice and picked up his phone to call me. I was famous.

It got me thinking (uh oh): what's the most famous I've ever been? That's a tough one. I think the best way to decide is for me start listing my top famous times in what I believe to be an increasing order. At the end, maybe we'll all learn a little about each other...and ourselves. (Cue music)

6. UOPTA: a blog in which I share thoughts and stories with 8-10 people on the internets, many of whom are already related to me.

5. The Kevin and Bean Show: Another radio thing, but this one is definitely bigger. KROQ is very popular in these parts, and almost everyone in high school listened to that show in the morning. They were having a "celebrity spotting" segment, and I called in to say that I saw Donny Most of "Happy Days" at a theatre a couple of days prior. As I found out while on the air, the person before me had seen Anson Williams of "Happy Days." Kevin or Bean asked (probably rhetorically) which sighting was better. I answered. "Oh Ralph was way better," I said. "People laughed with Ralph; they just laughed at Potsie." They agreed with my logic and went to the next called, hoping it would be someone who saw Mr. Cunningham. When I got to school, I had a bunch of people telling me that they heard me on the radio and how cool that was. That's right: famous.

4. Solid Gold: I don't remember the circumstances surrounding this whatsoever, but I was on television in the mid 80s. My brother, my old friend Jason N. and I were all on Solid Gold together for about three seconds. Together, we lip synched (lip sunk?), "Schooooool's out for summer!" And that was it. Brief and forgettable, but television!

3. The 10 Spot: This was a daily list of ten items on the Sports Illustrated website (in the section that they stupidly renamed "Extra Mustard"). The items were all quick jokes about sports. There was a setup about something in the news and then a punchline - very opening monologue-ish. The first Friday of every month, it would be an all-reader edition. I wrote in a few times and actually made it in on the website three times. One of them was even better because he wrote on Monday that he "forgot to add what Peter in Los Angeles wrote" and published it then. That's fame you can't buy, gentle readers. I earned it, armed with nothing but my wit, sports knowledge, and a keyboard.

Well, I've covered my famous moments online, on the radio, and on television. How could I get any more famous than that? You'll have to tune in Monday to find out as I reveal the top two famous moments in Peter Klein history. Can you wait that long? Do you have another choice? I'm not skipping a FUF for you or anyone! Have a great day, folks, and remember to write in to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything.

FUF #11

I believe the Beatles said it best: "Nothing you can read that can't be wrote. Nothing you can smite that can't be smote. All you need is FUF." It's on their rarities collection.

Good morning everyone, and I hope these words find you well. I've got a random assortment of things for you today on this Friday as well as the standard Car Watch items. Ready to roll? Let's do it.

I got a text message from a number I don't know. It read, "Me w/out u is like a camera w/ no flash, a car w/ no gas, a stripper w/ no ass & a pimp w/ no cash! Send to ten ppl u couldn't live w/out!!" Yes, gentle readers, that is my very first unsolicited chain text message. I have no idea how it reached me, but someone evidently can't live without me (or" w/out" me, as it turns out), so maybe I should just be flattered. Have any of you ever received something like that? I get a lot of calls for someone named Mark, so maybe someone can't live without him and my flattery is totally unfounded. Stupid Mark.

Earlier this week, I wrote about the process of learning Spanish and how much I enjoyed it. I wanted to give you a little more insight into my relationship with that language. Specifically, my favorite words. I have three of them, and they're all equally at the top for different reasons. First, I like the word for "spinach": espinaca. That's just fun to say. Espinaca. Really, no more for that one, I just like how it sounds. Second, I like desafortunadamente, which means "unfortunately." It's eight syllables, so it's hard just to throw into a sentence without sounding funny. "Si, si, quiero hacerlo pero desafortunadamente no puedo." No matter how fast you can roll that word off your tongue, it still drastically changes the pace of the sentence. Lastly, I like the word chantaje, which means "blackmail." I like that that word's in my vocabulary, but I like it more because I would stump people in Spanish Hangman with it. "Ch" is one letter in Spanish, but My Fellow Gringos (MFGs) would often forget that when faced with that one remaining blank. They'd guess every other letter before realizing I was being a jerk or giving up, whichever came first. Good times, good times.

Moving on now. I want to see someone use the "fist" part of the word "pacifist" in conjunction with punching someone in a movie. I think that would be cool. "I used to be a pacifist, but now I'm a paciFIST!" Pow, right in the kisser. Man, I should be writing movies. (See what I mean by "random assortment of things"?)

I'm very upset about something, but I find it's out of my control. Sports Illustrated's website has a section on it that I read almost every morning. It had one writer I really like in particular who makes puns and jokes each morning, some rumors about trades, and other interesting things. It was called "Scorecard Daily," and I even got my name and comments in there a few times. They changed the name of the section for some reason, and I really couldn't be more displeased with their choice: "Extra Mustard." Seriously, I would rather they name it "Peter Klein Sucks" than that. I f'n hate mustard, and now I don't even want to click on the link to get me to that page. Do they really want me associating their work with "yucky"? I'm not happy, and hopefully they take my email about it seriously.

When I wrote about accents, my homies the Sacky Family wrote in about them pretending to be British. My lovely wife reminded me that once we were in another country, and there were some very obnoxious Americans near us. Not wanting them to hear that we were "like them," we spent the whole meal with me speaking Spanish and her speaking Hebrew. We didn't understand each other, but we avoided having to talk to them. Nice move, eh?

Dusty and I once spent an entire Target shopping trip speaking in Gibberish to each other. I think we were going for "vaguely European," and the cashier seemed to buy the whole thing. When that becomes a marketable skill, I have a feeling we'll be leading seminars throughout the land. Keep an eye out.

Ok, it's Car Watch time!

Have you ever seen the bumper stickers that advertise a place called "The Mystery Spot?" I think it's in Santa Cruz if I remember correctly, but the sticker's always struck me as counterintuitive. Kinda hard to keep the "mystery" going that way, no?

I was behind a big truck yesterday, and the plate was "IV BY IV." I like it. I can say with 100% certainty that I too would resort to roman numerals to get a point across if it were important to me. In fact, maybe my FUF #s should switch to roman numerals so I can be like the...big football game that takes place once a year. Stupid copyrights.

My favorite brother called me to tell me about the bizarre license plate frame he saw. "Happiness is" on the top, and "Biting My Parrot Back" on the bottom. Now what the hell am I supposed to make of that? "Oh yeah, you want a piece of me, well take that, parrot! Oh man, that retribution felt so good!" There are a lot of weirdos out there, friends, and only a small percentage advertise like this one.

Here's a bumper sticker that made me laugh: "Obey Gravity, It's the Law!" Hee hee. I like that.

Saw this license plate: "NOT SURE." Well, at least we have that in common.

Sacky Christi wrote in with the following: "Okay, I was finally on the freeway for more than one mile and got to see three stickers/frames I felt were worth sharing. First - Big yellow caution sticker on a Saturn : Caution: Driver Singing ...we wondered if this were an ex-American idol contestant, or just that loud of a singer. Second: license plate frame: Happiness is being in Hawaii ...at first, I went, Well duh!, and then it made me think of being on vacation, and I had a small moment of bliss as well. Third: a little black sticker with white writing: My cat beat up your cat ...not sure what to make of that one...no kids to brag about and her cats are bullies?" I agree with you, SC. What do you gain by having your cat beat up another? Fines? Angry neighbors?

We watched the American Idol special this week, and they mentioned "Save the Children." I wondered if that was the same company I wrote about in January's post called "Angry on the Inside." I went to www.savethechildren.com and sure enough, the phone number that angered me so much is proudly displayed at the bottom of the page. Normally charities don't make me angry, but in this case, I'm ok with the exception.

Last but certainly not least, my bro asked what will happen when I go out of town for a week in May. I'm very pleased to report that my Bratty Kid Sister will be guest blogging for that week. She's great, so you'll all be in very capable hands. In fact, I've already read what she'll be posting on Monday and Tuesday, and they're perfect.

Have a great weekend everyone, and please remember to send ptklein@gmail.com anything you can for future posts or FUF pieces. Desafortunadamente, I can't do it all alone.

Meet Pete

Before I get into anything else, I have two quick announcements. First, as of around noon EST on Saturday, "my very pregnant friend Danielle" needs a new nickname. Congrats to the whole family, and I can't wait to meet little Tyler. Second, I forgot to mention my little homey T-Roy's 1st birthday on Friday, and that was totally unacceptable. T-Roy, if you're willing to forgive me for that error, I'll forgive you for the big open-mouth kisses you were giving my wife yesterday. Deal? Sweet. And onto the post:

Like most people, I think of myself as a pretty complex human being. I can seem like completely different people depending on the situation, spanning the entire spectrum from shy and introverted to bizarre and wacky. Quite a few years back, I came up with the three things that I want people to say about me. I think they speak to the core of who I am, and they are as follows:

1. Good guy; cares about people.
2. Hates mustard.
3. Not a snoozer.

Please don't confuse this list (as many have) with what I want on my epitaph; this is what I want people to know about me as a living person to better understand me. I've been telling people this for years, and former employees of mine even gave me a framed certificate with the three points printed on it. If I could go back in time, I think I'd change the order of the second and third, but what's done is done.

First and foremost, I want people to know that I truly care about the welfare of my fellow man. I care much more about my own family and friends, but wishing the best for all people is a key ingredient to the entree that is Peter. I'd say it's the pasta to lasagna - providing the structure and defining characteristics of the tasty dish. And yes, that metaphor works all the way through the "tasty dish" part. Since point #1 is not inherently funny though, that's all you get to hear about that.

Second, I hate mustard. 'Hate' is a strong word, I realize, but I actually hate mustard. My friend Greg once asked why I hate it so much, and I replied, "I don't like the way it tastes." A simple statement, but a fact that can't be argued with. Why is this significant to my life? Most obviously, if you're making me a sandwich, I don't want mustard on it. If you're cutting my sandwich in half, make sure your knife doesn't have mustard on it first. If you're eating mustard next to me at a college football game in the mid 1980s, it had better not get on my sweatshirt. Yes, I'm talking to you Jason N. Yellow mustard, spicy brown mustard, honey mustard dressing - nope, not my thing. I don't like the way it tastes. The only minor exceptions I've ever made is for things that have mustard as an ingredient that I can't taste. For example, certain potato salads or deviled eggs have been ok in the past. If I can't detect the thing I don't like the taste of, I may go ahead. One hint of it though, and I'm done.

Perhaps less obvious, hating mustard is relative to my life because it speaks to the fact that I have strong opinions, I voice them, and I stand by them. However, as in the case of potato salad, I am willing to consider other sides and bend my stance if appropriate. For example, Greg asked me over the weekend if I'd eat at Carl's Jr. if they changed their ad campaign to something less offensive to my sensibilities. I said, "If they completely changed to something more like a Jack in the Box campaign, I'd seriously consider it." See? I'm not a monster.

Lastly, I am not a snoozer. Not a fan of the snooze button one bit. I don't get it, really. I determine what time I need to get up, set the alarm for that time, and get out of bed when it arrives (or before, as is too-often the case). Oh sure, I'm very tired and would love a few more minutes of sleep, but that's the time that I need to start the day, so I do. It's not just that, it's that I also don't understand how such a small amount of extra time would actually do anything for me. I've known people who purposely set their alarms an hour before they need to get up so they can snooze five or six times. That strikes me as just plain stupid. Why have a final hour of stop-and-go sleep when you could've slept soundly that whole time? Yeah, it's hard to get out of bed, I get that, but does falling back to sleep several times make it easier? Snoozers out there, please try to defend your position.

Why is not being a snoozer key to who I am as a person? I think it says a lot, actually. On the most basic level, I'm very time-oriented any hyper-punctual. Time is always a factor for me; if I didn't get up when my alarm went off, I'd be late, and that doesn't work for me. Beyond that though, it shows how I stand by my decisions. If I say I'm going to get up at a certain time, I'm going to do it. If I'm extremely tired because of a late night or a bad night of rest, I'll have to suck it up a little to get moving but I still will. It's a part of who I am, it extends well beyond the realm of sleeping, and based on conversations I've had with my parents, I'm pretty sure it's genetic.

So, I thought I'd start this week off by giving you, gentle readers, a little more insight into who I am at the core. At the very least, you now know more about how to make me a sandwich.