FUF #14

If you're just browsing through pages of the internet willy-nilly and have stumbled across this one, I command you to "Stop in the Name of FUF." That's right, children of all ages, it's another Follow Up Friday. Come on over and pull up a chair, because we're going to have some fun together today!

For some reason, the tone I just took makes me want to launch into the voiceover for a commercial my brother and I saw a million times growing up for Santa's Village. "Visit the petting zoo! See Santa's reindeer! There's food and treats at The Pixie Pantry, The Good Witch's Bakery, and more!" It was a funny commercial, because they originally ran it in the summer months with the first line of, "You can visit Santa in the summertime!" You see, he normally comes in winter. Therein lies the coolness. However, at some point they realized that they were essentially telling people to ignore their business at all other times. Instead of creating a new commercial for the winter months, they kept the same exact one with the exception of the first line: "You can visit Santa in the winter time!" I think they kinda mailed that one in. But here I am talking about it and I remember that it's in "the cool and clear San Bernadino mountains," so I guess their ad campaign worked.

As is customary with our weeks-long tradition of FUFfing, I shall tell tales loosely related to this week's post, some others not related at all, and then the all-important Car Watch. Strap in, because this will be as disjointed as Joe Theismann's leg. Non-sports fans, just trust me on this.

First off - I wrote a post about how bad my handwriting is. In it, I mentioned that my lovely wife also has poor penmanship and the attempted gender socializing that occurred in our respective youths. She commented that our writing is similarly bad and sometimes looks like each other's. That reminded me of something. After our glorious wedding, we wrote thank you cards for the thoughtful gifts we received. We decided that we'd divide it up; I'd write to my side of the family, and she'd write to hers. A few days later, I was talking to my mom on the phone. She said that her sisters were so touched by the thank you cards they received that they called my mom to tell her. They said, "It's so sweet that Amber already calls us her family and said it was important to have us there on the most special day of her life." "Actually Mom," I said, "I wrote that." They had expected that the woman would be the one writing the thank you notes, and upon seeing writing that looked similar to my wife's, never questioned that assumption. Upon learning the truth, the card was still very sweet but not gush-worthy.

I was thinking a little more about "Pablo the Reindeer," and I'm a little surprised that I never sat and realized how very stupid a play that was. By the same reasoning that Mr. Claus used to employ this Spanish-speaking reindeer, shouldn't he need one for all other languages he doesn't speak as well? Or does he speak every language but Spanish for some reason? If so, I'm wondering what that's all about. "All the muchachos shout Ole!/Pablo please hurry back, they say!" Indeed, hurry back where you belong and away from the latinophobe.

I wrote a bunch this week about my memory and it helping me in school. As luck would have it, there was an absolutely perfect class for me in college. Professor John Ridland taught a class called "The Craft of Verse." We learned about meter and form in poetry, but the main component of the class was memorizing and reciting poetry. Some people stuck to the shorter ones in our textbooks, but I had fun with it. I memorized Browning's "My Last Duchess" which had about 60 lines, as well as other poems of some length like "To His Coy Mistress," "Charge of the Light Brigade," and "Annabel Lee." I loved it, and I took great delight in watching my group follow along as I recited, occasionally shaking their heads a little at my accuracy. It was always my favorite assignment of any given week, and I'd spend days walking around campus spewing poetry aloud and worrying onlookers. Great class, and it seemed almost designed for me.

Speaking of UCSB, I found out this week that my cousin Michael got accepted there and is going in the fall. I'm super excited for him, because it's such a fantastic place for learning and having the time of one's life. My biggest challenge now is refraining from going online and telling him the classes he should sign up for. If I did that, I would be exactly like the relatives I hated when working for Orientation, so I'm going to step back and let him get the information from the correct channels. I might check the schedule out for my own curiosity though.

So, I'm going out of town all next week. Not only will I miss all 8-10 of you, but I'm also going to miss the season finales of almost every show I watch. This is difficult for me. I don't imagine that Mexican newspapers are going to put recaps of "Lost" on their front pages, but I'm still going to try to avoid everything I can and watch them all on Memorial Day. So just in case it crossed your mind, don't email me with anything that happened please.

Car Watch time!

Rockabye sent me a fantastic text message with something he saw on a car: "Earth First...We'll Destroy the Other Planets Later." As you know by now, I enjoy pointed commentary on either side of the aisle as long as it's creative. "Stop Global Warming" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

I saw a bumper sticker and took a picture of it for sharing purposes. Here it is:

I think those are sunglasses by the way. That's just strange, don't you think? First of all, I think this person might not actually have a kid. If so though, then I'm guessing it's a boy because I don't see anyone saying, "My daughter bones your kid!" Just weird all around.

Wow, this is becoming lengthy. I have other Car Watch items but I'm going to save them now and finish this up instead. I mentioned it before, but my good friend Bratty Kid Sister has agreed to take over UOPTA for the next week to keep the lot of you entertained. She's great, so be nice to her. I've already read some of what she'll be posting for you, and I think you'll all be very pleased. Everyone, have a great weekend, week, and weekend. I think my next post will be on the Tuesday after Memorial Day because of the necessities of sleep and television. Take care, try not to weep too much in my absence, and write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything you think about during that time.

Memory bank withdrawals

When I wrote earlier this week about doing well in elementary school, I credited my memory for doing well in things like history and spelling. Thinking back on it, it actually served me well in other aspects of school as well that didn't come to mind at first. That, my friends, is irony. I forgot about times when I had a good memory. By the way, I'm now doing everything in my power to refrain from turning this post into one long critique of "Ironic" by Alannis Morissette. Trust me, I've already thought about every line of that song and why they're almost all stupid. I'll save that for a time when I can't think of anything else to write. But damn it's a stupid song.

Back to my memory! Outside of the classroom but still within the walls of the school (that is, extracurricular but intramural), my memory proved to be a great tool for excelling. For example, it helped me land kick-ass roles in our school plays. Oh sure, my rugged good looks and innate ability to convey an inner monologue to adoring crowds with even the smallest of gestures helped as well, but my memory got my foot in the door. In third grade, we did a play filled with the poems of Shel Silverstein. When the time came to choose someone could handle the awesome responsibility of reciting the 25-lined "Kidnapped" poem, the teacher knew who to turn to. She knew I would be able to memorize the poem/monologue, and I didn't disappoint. Naturally, I still know it and I bet my mom still does too.

A couple of years later, I was rewarded again for being able to memorize lines. The play was called "Pablo the Reindeer," and I see by searching online that its genius is known by many. There were only three or four actual parts in the play with the others playing the blob-like "chorus." My friend Adam and I each snagged prime roles as Pablo's homies. As such, we sang such family hits as "Christmas on the Beach at Waikiki." I realize how stupid that play sounds, and you're right. Chances are you don't know the half of it though. The premise is that Santa needs a translator when he goes to Mexico, so he employs one special reindeer named Pablo. Since Pablo obviously speaks Spanish, he's invaluable to Mr. Claus. "Without him, Santa would not know where he's going/Ay yay yay yay/Without him, he wouldn't know if it was snowing/South of the border?" See what I mean?

Actually, I just thought of something that I never questioned before. Why were we singing a song about Christmas in Hawaii when the play was about a reindeer-of-color needed for trips to Mexico? Maybe the play just needed an extra song to lengthen it and our teacher conveniently threw in a classic set-up line like, "Before we do that, let's stop by our favorite vacation spot of Hawaii!" I don't know, and while I could do some research on it, I just don't feel like it. If it didn't bother me the 17 or 18 years since I was in the play, I shouldn't let it bother me now.

When I wasn't basking in the glorious limelight of the cafeteria/playhouse, my memory was helping me climb the ladder in other extracurricular activities. Namely, I speak of the world of sports. If you were standing in front of me right now, you might ask something like, "But Peter, how would having a good memory help you in sports?" I would say, "Good question, my friend," and you would beam with the satisfaction of knowing you had just earned my respect. We're quite a team, you and me.

Here's the answer: In his infinite wisdom, the 6th grade basketball coach announced to the team that I would be our starting point guard. Having watched the same practices that I did, I knew he wasn't bestowing that honor on me because of my ability. Rather, it was simply because I was able to memorize all of the plays in the booklet of photocopies he gave us. There were two important problems with that assignment. First, I didn't dribble well enough to be the point guard. In fact, I clearly recall dribbling the ball off my leg and out of bounds at least twice without a defender within five feet of me. If you're not a fan of basketball, I'd like to point out that that's not what the player is supposed to do.

Second, and perhaps most important, if I was the only one who knew the plays, that meant by definition that no one else knew the plays. I would be dribbling up the court (concentrating hard not to dribble the ball off my leg again), and hold up two fingers to indicate a play. None of my teammates would move a muscle. Yep, that's an efficient offense right there; I was virtually the Steve Nash of the Van Nuys private school circuit.

So there you have it, folks. Additional tales of Peter's memory that he had forgotten. Way, way more ironic than a black fly in someone's chardonnay. That's just sucky and possibly symbolic, but not irony. If the winery was called Flyless Wines and then a fly flew into your glass, then we might be in business. I'll stop there. Have a great Thursday, gentle readers. Please write to ptklein@gmail.com with anything about anything. I have a Follow Up Friday tomorrow before taking off for a week, and I'd love to come back with an inbox full of tales, Car Watch items, and ideas for future posts. See you tomorrow.