He’s of Norwegian descent, this friend of mine, Mr. At A Slower Pace. A viking heritage I have teased him over the years and he has proudly, chucklingly so, accepted it. Flaunted it, even.
A number of years ago he made a visit to the homeland of his people. He returned bearing a gift for his chum, me. A tee-shirt with foreign words, foreign words to me, not Norwegians, scrawled across the front, ‘Den Jaevla Naboen’. Neither of us knew the meaning of the words but much enjoyed saying the words aloud. I wore the shirt with much satisfaction and delight.
June 1994
I was en route to vacation with friends at a Mediterranean coastal destination and was aboard an international flight. The language capabilities of an international flight, one could assume, would be robust. It was amongst such a diverse crowd that I walked down the aisle in the airplane wearing the shirt emblazoned with ‘den jaevla naboen.’ Two folks, very possibly grandparenting sorts, flagged me down to chuckle at the verbiage.
“I’m busted, right,” I asked. By their effusive laughing and gesticulating I suspected that something was unintentionally amiss.
“Yeah, right,” said the old guy laughing, “Busted.”
His spouse spoke Swedish which has many similarities to Norwegian. If you’ll please pardon the vulgarities, it was explained to me that the shirt said, ‘f___ your neighbor.’
I was embarrassed. Following that trip I wore the foul language shirt only amongst my non-Norwegian speaking citizens.
-klem
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Klem’s Corollaries on Life, excerpt iv
(31) Globes that spin are irresistible. Own one. And occasionally look at the data it holds.
(32) When the batteries of your smoke detector go out, don’t just take them out and forget it. Replace the batteries.
(33) Going on vacation? Turn off your house water lest you tempt a water loss from a leaking pipe or a burst laundry hose.
(34) Don’t use your teeth to open things (i.e., bag of chips or candy). Retain your dignity.
(35) It’s good to know your boundaries or limits. But it’s not OK to be content simply knowing them. Overcome and expand. [Note: please disregard if you are a jailbird currently holed up in the big house. Do not apply this corollary until post-release date.]
(36) ‘Be grateful for our good moods and graceful in our low moods.’ Richard Carlson in 'Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff'
(37) Do not breathe deeply when in close proximity to a dumpster.
(38) Less complaining and more doing.
(39) Don’t eat out of boredom.
(40) A person’s perspective of the world reveals more about that person than about the world.
-klem
(32) When the batteries of your smoke detector go out, don’t just take them out and forget it. Replace the batteries.
(33) Going on vacation? Turn off your house water lest you tempt a water loss from a leaking pipe or a burst laundry hose.
(34) Don’t use your teeth to open things (i.e., bag of chips or candy). Retain your dignity.
(35) It’s good to know your boundaries or limits. But it’s not OK to be content simply knowing them. Overcome and expand. [Note: please disregard if you are a jailbird currently holed up in the big house. Do not apply this corollary until post-release date.]
(36) ‘Be grateful for our good moods and graceful in our low moods.’ Richard Carlson in 'Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff'
(37) Do not breathe deeply when in close proximity to a dumpster.
(38) Less complaining and more doing.
(39) Don’t eat out of boredom.
(40) A person’s perspective of the world reveals more about that person than about the world.
-klem
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Compiled Quotes, xii
“Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” Martin Luther King, civil rights leader [1929 - 1968]
“The temptation resisted is a true measure of character.”
Henri Charrière, convicted murderer and author [1906 - 1973] in his book Papillon. (note: incidentally, an awesome read)
“Cause for celebration is less significant than the quality of one’s indulgence.” forgotten
“The temptation resisted is a true measure of character.”
Henri Charrière, convicted murderer and author [1906 - 1973] in his book Papillon. (note: incidentally, an awesome read)
“Cause for celebration is less significant than the quality of one’s indulgence.” forgotten
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The 1-900 Number, my introduction
I was watching football when an old memory came to me. My introduction to the 1-900 number.
I was in 8th grade and my interests were coming into focus. There was something on the other end of the line that I strongly desired, a little harmless fun. And going without it wasn’t doing anybody any good. No, I’m not talking about the sexy 900 numbers. I’m talking the football 900 number.
1980
On any Sunday during the Fall when football games abound. Yet the scores were announced with a maddening infrequency. This was before the advent of the former ground-breaking 10-minute ticker where game scores were given every ten minutes during the Sunday football game broadcasts. But wait, the new 1-900 number had the NFL scores on Sunday and they were constantly updated. Call the number, listen to the recording and get scores. Then call back again soon for further updates.
Present day football watching comes with the opposite problem. Scores are almost too annoyingly updated constantly streaming across the bottom of the screen.
Too annoying versus too infrequent? I choose the too annoying constantly streaming. I try to avert my eyes, but this takes excruciating discipline. I sometimes fail myself, but I grant immediate forgiveness.
-klem
I was in 8th grade and my interests were coming into focus. There was something on the other end of the line that I strongly desired, a little harmless fun. And going without it wasn’t doing anybody any good. No, I’m not talking about the sexy 900 numbers. I’m talking the football 900 number.
1980
On any Sunday during the Fall when football games abound. Yet the scores were announced with a maddening infrequency. This was before the advent of the former ground-breaking 10-minute ticker where game scores were given every ten minutes during the Sunday football game broadcasts. But wait, the new 1-900 number had the NFL scores on Sunday and they were constantly updated. Call the number, listen to the recording and get scores. Then call back again soon for further updates.
Present day football watching comes with the opposite problem. Scores are almost too annoyingly updated constantly streaming across the bottom of the screen.
Too annoying versus too infrequent? I choose the too annoying constantly streaming. I try to avert my eyes, but this takes excruciating discipline. I sometimes fail myself, but I grant immediate forgiveness.
-klem
Friday, November 27, 2009
Eater’s Remorse
‘Buyer’s remorse’. It’s a term with which we’re all familiar. The buyer thought they liked it, bought it, and later conclude that they regret the purchase. Several times each year I am afflicted with eater’s remorse. Not that I regret having eaten something or how much, but rather that I did not eat enough of it. In the face of a prime opportunity for gluttonous consumption I regret not being able to eat more.
Example: Thanksgiving. First there is the giving of thanks. There is then the grand style feasting to serve as the culmination to top off the giving of thanks. Turkey, ham, potatoes, cranberry sauce, biscuits, stuffing, yams, corn, and abundant desserts.
As the eating commences I load my plate the first time. I feel already overwhelmed because there is so much deliciousness before me. A second generous serving is engaged and places me on the cusp of an uncomfortable engorging. Yet, I try valiantly to jam more tasty grub down my gullet but discomfort has set in necessitating that I stop. I’ve stretched out my belly to capacity and taken down as much as is possible. Couldn’t eat another bite, not even if it were wafer thin. And this is just dinner! Dessert is on the horizon and is bountiful. I will somehow find the courage to proceed, discomfort be damned.
Eater’s remorse sets in the day after the feasting. As stuffed as I had been I am beset with the illusion that I could have, and should have, feasted more the day before.
I diagnosed myself with eater’s remorse several years ago and discussed it with my eldest brother. He was amused, but cared enough to ask a few questions to better understand my affliction. I am currently aware of my mental state and I approach the ‘eating holidays’ with the appropriate frame of mind to temper the feelings of remorse that will soon be upon me.
I stand 5’11” and 160 lbs., plus two temporary pounds around Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
-klem
Example: Thanksgiving. First there is the giving of thanks. There is then the grand style feasting to serve as the culmination to top off the giving of thanks. Turkey, ham, potatoes, cranberry sauce, biscuits, stuffing, yams, corn, and abundant desserts.
As the eating commences I load my plate the first time. I feel already overwhelmed because there is so much deliciousness before me. A second generous serving is engaged and places me on the cusp of an uncomfortable engorging. Yet, I try valiantly to jam more tasty grub down my gullet but discomfort has set in necessitating that I stop. I’ve stretched out my belly to capacity and taken down as much as is possible. Couldn’t eat another bite, not even if it were wafer thin. And this is just dinner! Dessert is on the horizon and is bountiful. I will somehow find the courage to proceed, discomfort be damned.
Eater’s remorse sets in the day after the feasting. As stuffed as I had been I am beset with the illusion that I could have, and should have, feasted more the day before.
I diagnosed myself with eater’s remorse several years ago and discussed it with my eldest brother. He was amused, but cared enough to ask a few questions to better understand my affliction. I am currently aware of my mental state and I approach the ‘eating holidays’ with the appropriate frame of mind to temper the feelings of remorse that will soon be upon me.
I stand 5’11” and 160 lbs., plus two temporary pounds around Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.
-klem
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Robbed!!
I got robbed last night. Unauthorized personnel penetrated my vehicle and made off with less than $2 in change. I think I forgot to lock the car yesterday. There were no signs of forced entry.
November 25, 2009
I park my car in the driveway. This morning I found my glove box opened with contents spilled out onto the passenger seat, the console was open, and the driver’s side car door was ajar.
‘What gives,’ thought I. Then it donned on me. I got robbed! Oh, boy, that’s a creepy feeling. Somebody was in my car right where I’m sitting scouring around for something good to steal.
The thief took only a small plastic film canister which contains coins, parking tokens as I call them. I had probably less than $2 in coins. Nothing else was taken. They didn’t want the $8 sunglasses from Target. My cell phone charger and hands-free ear bud were also unmolested. If they’da popped the trunk they could have basked in the riches of a Thomas Guide map book, jumper cables, and my emergency gear - hiking shoes, sweatshirt, and a wind breaker ‘cause you never know.
Oh, well. Lock your doors.
-klem
November 25, 2009
I park my car in the driveway. This morning I found my glove box opened with contents spilled out onto the passenger seat, the console was open, and the driver’s side car door was ajar.
‘What gives,’ thought I. Then it donned on me. I got robbed! Oh, boy, that’s a creepy feeling. Somebody was in my car right where I’m sitting scouring around for something good to steal.
The thief took only a small plastic film canister which contains coins, parking tokens as I call them. I had probably less than $2 in coins. Nothing else was taken. They didn’t want the $8 sunglasses from Target. My cell phone charger and hands-free ear bud were also unmolested. If they’da popped the trunk they could have basked in the riches of a Thomas Guide map book, jumper cables, and my emergency gear - hiking shoes, sweatshirt, and a wind breaker ‘cause you never know.
Oh, well. Lock your doors.
-klem
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Way to a Man’s Heart . . .
. . . is through his stomach. I remember hearing this as a youngster and thinking what rubbish. Yet I wonder presently if I have become an embodiment of this very statement.
As we approach Thanksgiving I’ve been thinking of things for which I’m thankful. After quickly rolling through the most important items such as family, friends, dogs, and video games, the subsequent items have made me face that remark from years back.
So I continued working through the mental list of thankful things and food dominated. Maybe I was hungry, but these items are worthy of my thanks: Wife Klem’s Apricot Scones, lasagna, mango salsa, and her crock pot creations. Omi’s lasagna, spaetzla, chili - I’m smitten by those carrots, and split pea soup. Mom Klem’s angel food cake, chili, pineapple-marshmallow-sweet potatoes [honest, pineapple and marshmallows are key ingredients on that dish and a single serving is insufficient to sate this fella], and the mashed potato dish with the crushed cereal on top - really, it’s got crushed Corn Flakes. Grandma Tedesco’s lasagna, gnocchi, and pineapple upside down cake. Grandpa Tedesco’s extra-hot pasta sauce of which he’d boasted many times, “I made it with dirty hands, extra flavor” [I’m pretty sure, and hopeful, that Gramps was just joking]. Opa’s world famous two layered vanilla over chocolate pudding - ‘world famous’, he declared, and my pleased taste buds made me hesitant to question its veracity. Grampa’s butterfly shrimp and egg muffins also hold a position of high standing. And, of course, the vegetarian ‘Jackie Pie’ - a real-life vegetarian entree, but not to be denigrated by the lack of animal flesh.
It appears that I have become the embodiment of the very slogan to which I formerly scoffed. Oh, yes, I’m also thankful for non-edibles such as football and YouTube footage of monkeys, but wait, there’s more food.
These are the general delectables that are not host-specific: sweet potato french fries, peanut brittle, marshmallows - exclude the seasonal pastel variety, fig Newtons, Captain Crunch with the Crunchberries despite the cereal’s ability to ruggedly tear up the roof of one’s mouth due to the harsh texture [the cereal’s worth the pain to endure a second bowl, but it makes a third bowl out of the question], Nestle Crunch ice cream in the carton - not the bars, those pink and white frosted circus cookies with the sprinkles, candy NECCO wafers - a head nod here to a certain Mr. At A Slower Pace, hot chocolate, hamburgers - no mayo, burritos, pizza pie - just don’t make it either cheese-only or anchovies [sorry Dad Klem about the anti-anchovy remark], black olives, and milkshakes.
Food, as it has become newly apparent to me, plays a larger role in my happiness as I have gotten older than I was ever previously aware. As I age will this longing for food become further pronounced? If so, I’ve got some very tasty years ahead of me. I’ll have to put ‘trousers with adjustable waist’ on my Christmas wish list and don them for special ‘eating’ holidays.
A peaceful Thanksgiving to all.
-klem
As we approach Thanksgiving I’ve been thinking of things for which I’m thankful. After quickly rolling through the most important items such as family, friends, dogs, and video games, the subsequent items have made me face that remark from years back.
So I continued working through the mental list of thankful things and food dominated. Maybe I was hungry, but these items are worthy of my thanks: Wife Klem’s Apricot Scones, lasagna, mango salsa, and her crock pot creations. Omi’s lasagna, spaetzla, chili - I’m smitten by those carrots, and split pea soup. Mom Klem’s angel food cake, chili, pineapple-marshmallow-sweet potatoes [honest, pineapple and marshmallows are key ingredients on that dish and a single serving is insufficient to sate this fella], and the mashed potato dish with the crushed cereal on top - really, it’s got crushed Corn Flakes. Grandma Tedesco’s lasagna, gnocchi, and pineapple upside down cake. Grandpa Tedesco’s extra-hot pasta sauce of which he’d boasted many times, “I made it with dirty hands, extra flavor” [I’m pretty sure, and hopeful, that Gramps was just joking]. Opa’s world famous two layered vanilla over chocolate pudding - ‘world famous’, he declared, and my pleased taste buds made me hesitant to question its veracity. Grampa’s butterfly shrimp and egg muffins also hold a position of high standing. And, of course, the vegetarian ‘Jackie Pie’ - a real-life vegetarian entree, but not to be denigrated by the lack of animal flesh.
It appears that I have become the embodiment of the very slogan to which I formerly scoffed. Oh, yes, I’m also thankful for non-edibles such as football and YouTube footage of monkeys, but wait, there’s more food.
These are the general delectables that are not host-specific: sweet potato french fries, peanut brittle, marshmallows - exclude the seasonal pastel variety, fig Newtons, Captain Crunch with the Crunchberries despite the cereal’s ability to ruggedly tear up the roof of one’s mouth due to the harsh texture [the cereal’s worth the pain to endure a second bowl, but it makes a third bowl out of the question], Nestle Crunch ice cream in the carton - not the bars, those pink and white frosted circus cookies with the sprinkles, candy NECCO wafers - a head nod here to a certain Mr. At A Slower Pace, hot chocolate, hamburgers - no mayo, burritos, pizza pie - just don’t make it either cheese-only or anchovies [sorry Dad Klem about the anti-anchovy remark], black olives, and milkshakes.
Food, as it has become newly apparent to me, plays a larger role in my happiness as I have gotten older than I was ever previously aware. As I age will this longing for food become further pronounced? If so, I’ve got some very tasty years ahead of me. I’ll have to put ‘trousers with adjustable waist’ on my Christmas wish list and don them for special ‘eating’ holidays.
A peaceful Thanksgiving to all.
-klem
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Hot Wheels. My Guy Makes a Commercial.
I’ve made it abundantly clear on this blog that our guy’s a big Hot Wheeler. Supporting evidence takes the form of cars, tracks, and notebooks that contain drawings of own track designs.
When he builds, his Hot Wheels tracks often begin with modest ideas and plot plans. But like a government program, it quickly expands well beyond its intended design and constraints until its out of control and resources have been depleted. The growth ends only when he runs out of tracks or space. The spatial constraint often encompasses his entire room to the point where it’s not possible to walk from the door to his bed. An attempt to do so will render you the role of Godzilla to his Tokyo where you’re accidentally knocking down pieces of track that hang precariously on the edge of a chair or taped ever so loosely to a table or his dresser.
The creativity is to be encouraged, though the track typically deteriorates to a cleanup brouhaha after a week or so. The scuffle gets underway with Wife Klem or me suggesting that it’s time for him to put his tracks away and then him bellyaching saying that all his cars haven’t yet done the track.
His Hot Wheels interest ebbs and flows like a gentle tide with occasional flashes of supercharged focus. It is under these piqued conditions where he requests, “Dad, can we record my Hot Wheels commercial?”
[the stunt track]
[the 7-foot drop]
[the predecessor, the video that started it all]
His room is currently clean with no track occupying his room. This wide open floor space, however, is listed as day to day.
-klem
When he builds, his Hot Wheels tracks often begin with modest ideas and plot plans. But like a government program, it quickly expands well beyond its intended design and constraints until its out of control and resources have been depleted. The growth ends only when he runs out of tracks or space. The spatial constraint often encompasses his entire room to the point where it’s not possible to walk from the door to his bed. An attempt to do so will render you the role of Godzilla to his Tokyo where you’re accidentally knocking down pieces of track that hang precariously on the edge of a chair or taped ever so loosely to a table or his dresser.
The creativity is to be encouraged, though the track typically deteriorates to a cleanup brouhaha after a week or so. The scuffle gets underway with Wife Klem or me suggesting that it’s time for him to put his tracks away and then him bellyaching saying that all his cars haven’t yet done the track.
His Hot Wheels interest ebbs and flows like a gentle tide with occasional flashes of supercharged focus. It is under these piqued conditions where he requests, “Dad, can we record my Hot Wheels commercial?”
[the stunt track]
[the 7-foot drop]
[the predecessor, the video that started it all]
His room is currently clean with no track occupying his room. This wide open floor space, however, is listed as day to day.
-klem
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Year-End Goals and Checklists
As 2009 winds down, it’s time to make one last review of the year’s goals and checklists and try to get a few more items crossed off the list.
I’m well off pace in a few areas, but with a valiant final burst I can still check off a couple spots in the completion column. For example, another 1,600 push ups and 2,100 sit ups to go - sure it might be better to measure one’s physical fitness on a more balanced scale such as two hours per week or what have you, but I can’t stick to that kind of regiment what with getting distracted by parenting or work duties and vacations. So I pursue a specific number spread out over a year.
My completion column is not empty at present, though. I’ve already got ‘Know all the capital cities in the European continent’ occupying that column along with ‘Watch 3 Foreign movies.’
I present this photo of the back gate as an example of a final push:
I’ve spent a number of weekends this fall painting the trim in several areas along the roof line, a couple window frames, and, completed this last weekend, the back gate.
I’ll have to assess my final tally for 2009 as I look ahead to the goals and checklist I’ll set for 2010. A number of things are merely basic maintenance issues (i.e., drain the hot water heater for 15 minutes twice per year, review the 401K and reallocate as needed, get free credit report for myself and the kids to peruse for irregularities) to projects that I hope will not have to be revisited for many years after (i.e., paint the garage - I’ll fall short on this one in 2009 and will try again for 2010). Then there’s also the personal challenges (i.e., make 200 blog entries in 2009 - 19 to go, read 14 books - two more to go).
A pal of mine got me started on written goals several years ago. We’ll call him McGettigan the Elder. I started as a courtesy to him thinking maybe he needed another person to join in for moral support. We share quarterly progress reports. At this point, I’m hooked.
-klem
I’m well off pace in a few areas, but with a valiant final burst I can still check off a couple spots in the completion column. For example, another 1,600 push ups and 2,100 sit ups to go - sure it might be better to measure one’s physical fitness on a more balanced scale such as two hours per week or what have you, but I can’t stick to that kind of regiment what with getting distracted by parenting or work duties and vacations. So I pursue a specific number spread out over a year.
My completion column is not empty at present, though. I’ve already got ‘Know all the capital cities in the European continent’ occupying that column along with ‘Watch 3 Foreign movies.’
I present this photo of the back gate as an example of a final push:
I’ve spent a number of weekends this fall painting the trim in several areas along the roof line, a couple window frames, and, completed this last weekend, the back gate.
I’ll have to assess my final tally for 2009 as I look ahead to the goals and checklist I’ll set for 2010. A number of things are merely basic maintenance issues (i.e., drain the hot water heater for 15 minutes twice per year, review the 401K and reallocate as needed, get free credit report for myself and the kids to peruse for irregularities) to projects that I hope will not have to be revisited for many years after (i.e., paint the garage - I’ll fall short on this one in 2009 and will try again for 2010). Then there’s also the personal challenges (i.e., make 200 blog entries in 2009 - 19 to go, read 14 books - two more to go).
A pal of mine got me started on written goals several years ago. We’ll call him McGettigan the Elder. I started as a courtesy to him thinking maybe he needed another person to join in for moral support. We share quarterly progress reports. At this point, I’m hooked.
-klem
Monday, November 16, 2009
Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt ix
Dogs. They’re like perpetual infants what with their stuffed dolls and squeaky toys.
‘Expect the unexpected’. Such meaningless blather is to be ridiculed.
Note to gum chewers: Close your mouth.
Vegetarian chili. What’s the use? Why not just eat salsa or beans? This vegetarian concoction is not chili.
I prefer snails to slugs. Easier to pick up and hurl.
‘Expect the unexpected’. Such meaningless blather is to be ridiculed.
Note to gum chewers: Close your mouth.
Vegetarian chili. What’s the use? Why not just eat salsa or beans? This vegetarian concoction is not chili.
I prefer snails to slugs. Easier to pick up and hurl.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Coraline
I’ve probably mentioned already the Team Klem snack and video proceedings for the kids before bed. The choice of video alternates with our daughter choosing Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and the boy taking Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday with Sunday available as my wild card.
Both kids have recently taken a striking interest in Coraline, an animated film from 2009. My daughter really enjoys a certain short scene where the ‘button-eyed-father’ sings to Coraline. The song is admittedly very catchy and my girl is rather smitten with it.
Seeing as you can find anything on YouTube, I looked for this one scene. I found it and then played it for my daughter. The following video documents what ensued:
I could watch that thing all day what with my giddy chuckling Boogie laughing and singing along!
-klem
Both kids have recently taken a striking interest in Coraline, an animated film from 2009. My daughter really enjoys a certain short scene where the ‘button-eyed-father’ sings to Coraline. The song is admittedly very catchy and my girl is rather smitten with it.
Seeing as you can find anything on YouTube, I looked for this one scene. I found it and then played it for my daughter. The following video documents what ensued:
I could watch that thing all day what with my giddy chuckling Boogie laughing and singing along!
-klem
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The U.S. Air Drink Recovery Program
How sweet a gift is retribution? A retribution that aims to make right a preceding wrong? That would depend on how purposefully the wrong had been issued. This is my tale.
December 1994
A friend and I were en route to vacation. [We’ll call him McGettigan the Younger.] We were tired and the time of the flight’s departure was late into the night. Once in our seats we slept with uncanny determination as evidenced by the screaming child at lift off that could not prevent the slumber from taking place. Unfortunately, we lapsed out before the beverage service and meal. Hours passed. I awakened feeling famished and parched.
“May I have a Coke and one for my friend, please,” I asked the stewardess.
“We’re about to land,” was the curt retort issued with a smile.
I thought it was just jokes. I smiled and awaited the soda. But we were denied and landed absent of drink or snack.
One Week Later
My chum and I returned to the airport for the homebound trip. This refreshed our bitter sentiments surrounding the drink and snack denial from the front end of our sojourn.
We recounted our miserly tale to our new stewardesses. They were rightfully horrified by what they heard and offered unlimited beverages for the flight trying to undo the damage disseminated by their harsh colleague. It was under these favorable circumstances the U.S. Air Drink Recovery Program was off to a bountiful start.
Charged with that top notch support we both imbibed pull after pull failing to consider that our innards may have a limit as to how much juice and soda could be safely processed in a short time span. We were blindly buoyed by this commitment to remedial action and were helpless to stop ourselves. Like goldfish eating until their insides capitulate, we drank more.
It was well shy of our destination when it became clear that our plan had backfired. Our digestive systems had become significantly honked up. It became difficult to sit still. We needed relief. Sadly, very sadly, the seat belt sign was illuminated well prior to descent and the powder room had to wait until the airport.
We easily made up for the beverage denial from the initial leg of the trip, but personal agony was the counterweight.
The U.S. Air Drink Recovery Program. Success? Let the record reflect, it didn’t feel like it.
-klem
December 1994
A friend and I were en route to vacation. [We’ll call him McGettigan the Younger.] We were tired and the time of the flight’s departure was late into the night. Once in our seats we slept with uncanny determination as evidenced by the screaming child at lift off that could not prevent the slumber from taking place. Unfortunately, we lapsed out before the beverage service and meal. Hours passed. I awakened feeling famished and parched.
“May I have a Coke and one for my friend, please,” I asked the stewardess.
“We’re about to land,” was the curt retort issued with a smile.
I thought it was just jokes. I smiled and awaited the soda. But we were denied and landed absent of drink or snack.
One Week Later
My chum and I returned to the airport for the homebound trip. This refreshed our bitter sentiments surrounding the drink and snack denial from the front end of our sojourn.
We recounted our miserly tale to our new stewardesses. They were rightfully horrified by what they heard and offered unlimited beverages for the flight trying to undo the damage disseminated by their harsh colleague. It was under these favorable circumstances the U.S. Air Drink Recovery Program was off to a bountiful start.
Charged with that top notch support we both imbibed pull after pull failing to consider that our innards may have a limit as to how much juice and soda could be safely processed in a short time span. We were blindly buoyed by this commitment to remedial action and were helpless to stop ourselves. Like goldfish eating until their insides capitulate, we drank more.
It was well shy of our destination when it became clear that our plan had backfired. Our digestive systems had become significantly honked up. It became difficult to sit still. We needed relief. Sadly, very sadly, the seat belt sign was illuminated well prior to descent and the powder room had to wait until the airport.
We easily made up for the beverage denial from the initial leg of the trip, but personal agony was the counterweight.
The U.S. Air Drink Recovery Program. Success? Let the record reflect, it didn’t feel like it.
-klem
Monday, November 9, 2009
Compiled Quotes, xi
“Being master of one’s moods is the privilege of the larger animals.” Albert Camus [Algerian-French author, 1913 - 1960] in his book The Fall
“Restlessness is a sign you’re hungry for meaning in your life.” forgotten
“Joe, you’ve never heard such cheering,” Joe DiMaggio’s then wife, Marilyn Monroe, told him in 1954 returning from entertaining troops overseas. “Yes,” said Joe, “I have.”
“Restlessness is a sign you’re hungry for meaning in your life.” forgotten
“Joe, you’ve never heard such cheering,” Joe DiMaggio’s then wife, Marilyn Monroe, told him in 1954 returning from entertaining troops overseas. “Yes,” said Joe, “I have.”
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Esquire Magazine Fiction Writing Contest
Esquire magazine had a fiction writing contest this past August. The rules were few:
-Choose from three titles:
An Insurrection
Twenty-Ten
Never, Ever Bring This Up Again
-Entry can be no more than 4,000 words
-Entries were due Aug. 1, 2009
I entered the imbroglio, but didn’t win. My non-victorious entry follows. I apologize in advance to Mom Klem for the upcoming offending language and one risqué scene:
An Insurrection
by Klem
“You jackasses aren’t gonna believe who I saw today,” exclaimed Woodward enthusiastically upon entering the apartment without knocking.
Two disheveled jackasses in their mid-30s donning dirty shorts and undershirts sat on separate couches watching TV, reruns of old game shows from the ‘70s. They were roommates. Neither was proud of it.
“Who you calling jackasses,” replied Cassidy not looking up from the television.
“You bastards. I’m calling you bastards jackasses, bastards. I saw Emmett,” continued Woodward losing some of his initial zest.
“Emmett?! From high school?! Where were you? Prison,” asked Cassidy.
“No! Not prison. Why’d you say such a thing,” said Woodward with a disgusted look on his face.
“Seemed he had a high incidence of theft,” added Cassidy still not looking away from the TV.
“Thefts? Emmett? What’re you talking about,” said Woodward irritably.
“The liquor store,” Mondo chimed in.
“The liquor store from over a decade ago? He didn’t get the correct change. He got upset,” defended Woodward.
“He bought Tic-Tacs, was short changed a nickel, so he grabbed the hot dog rotisserie machine off the counter, including dogs, and ran,” Cassidy recounted calmly.
“He didn’t get the Tic-Tacs, though,” said Woodward as if that negated the act from constituting theft.
“What about the hot dog cart,” added Mondo.
“Come on, you bring that up from high school? That thing during summer break? He was really hungry. You remember his appetite,” said Woodward trying to stick up for his buddy.
“The whole cart, though,” was Cassidy’s retort unswayed by Woodward’s feeble defense.
“Will you guys stop? Something happened to him,” said Woodward in a more serious tone hoping to get back on topic.
“What’d you mean,” asked Cassidy looking at Woodward for the first time.
“I saw him at the grocery store,” replied Woodward taking a seat on Mondo’s sagging couch staring at him so he’d sit up and move over.
“What’d he have to say,” Cassidy asked.
“What was he stealing,” Mondo wondered out loud.
“He wasn’t stealing anything,” blurted a near exasperated Woodward. “I didn’t talk to him. He just had this great big man-purse over his shoulder. I was too horrified to approach.”
“Man-purse? You mean like a purse? Or was it a grocery bag? He was in a grocery store, right,” asked Cassidy in an effort to clarify the foggy picture Woodward was painting.
“I didn’t ask him about the contents. I didn’t want to embarrass him. A buddy sees you with a purse, you want him to nail you for it and ask a battery of awkward questions? Wouldn’t you rather he ignore you like the whole thing, including the man-purse, never happened,” asserted Woodward.
“Man purse? Sure it’s not a diaper bag? Didn’t your cousin say he’s got two small kids,” asked Mondo.
“Call it what you want, if you saw him you’d say ‘Look at that guy with the man-purse.’ I’m telling you, he’s fallen a long way from the stud we knew years ago. Remember that football game in high school where he practically single-handedly beat the San Dimas Wild Stallions? He was a ferocious beast, Emmett. It was beautiful,” regaled Woodward losing himself momentarily in the past glory of his friend.
“It’s true. He was a beast,” uttered Mondo trying to contribute.
“How about that rock concert years ago. There was a fight in the mosh pit, naturally he was at the center of it. He emerged triumphant, climbed on stage, and then dove back down into the pit! A maniac, that guy,” said Cassidy smiling in pride for his buddy.
- - -
A month went by with no further mention of Emmett, until a lazy Saturday afternoon. The three guys visited the local department store. Each held a single item with intent to purchase. Mondo was holding a package of shoe sole inserts to help beat back that troublesome malodorous emanation. He was unaware that the smell was actually coming from his mouth resulting from his sub par dental hygiene. Cassidy had a new toothbrush. Mondo had scrubbed his old toothbrush in the toilet after an argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Woodward carried a six pack of beer. He had substituted a cheaper sticker price forgetting that it’s the UPC code that the scanner would read, there would be no manual entry.
The three guys were looking at Hot Wheels; they never entirely outgrew their interest, though Woodward stubbornly held fast to his preference for the Matchbox brand.
From down the aisle came a guy with a man-purse over his shoulder. He had a double stroller with two adorable moppets, a boy and a girl, and was accompanied by a beautiful woman. They looked happy and content. The three fellas, a fine contrast, looked slovenly and in need of a thorough scrubbing.
“See anything good, you punks,” Emmett asked also approaching the Hot Wheels rack. He was smiling and sincerely happy to see his buddies after a gap of at least five years.
“Yes, a dude with a man-purse,” said Woodward pointing at Emmett’s shoulder.
“Diaper bag. These two are real factories in that regard,” advised Emmett tossing a thumb at the stroller.
“You still Hot Wheeling, too,” asked Woodward too energetically.
“No, but I sometimes look when we come here. I give them to my two year old,” replied Emmett.
“Oh,” said Woodward dejectedly having to face the thinly veiled charade that, while appearing a full grown man, he remained but a child.
“Hey, I want you to meet my wife, Kira,” introduced Emmett. “Honey, this is Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo. We hung out together back in high school.”
Kira, almost overjoyed at actually meeting friends of Emmett took to the three goofballs and looked past their obvious deficiencies. Her husband had many acquaintances and people with whom he was friendly when they crossed paths in town, but he was largely a lone ranger. His social schedule was almost bare beyond family outings. He seemed to take on the perspective that extracurricular socializing wasn’t a matter of overstepping his reach, it was just that it was an inconvenience. She knew this chance passing would not come to anything unless she took action. The boys had been speaking for a few minutes and it was winding down.
“Hey, why don’t you guys come over tomorrow. You can play bocce ball in the back yard or watch football. I’ll make a few sandwiches and watch the kids,” she offered.
“What do you say, fellas? We’ll have cheese puffs on hand,” Emmett said picking up a bag from the back of the stroller and waving it.
- - -
It was early Sunday afternoon. The football game was just underway on the television when the doorbell rang.
“Hi, guys. It’s nice to see you again,” said Kira in fine spirits. “Emmett’ll be out in a minute. He’s changing both diapers. A simultaneous double whammy.”
“So, you’re friends from high school,” making conversation.
“Oh, yeah, we chummed around quite a lot,” confirmed Cassidy while Mondo nodded affirmative.
“We played on the high school football and baseball teams. You know, Emmett used to be quite the athlete. Usually the best player on the team,” continued Woodward.
“Usually, the best on the field,” Cassidy upgraded without embellishing.
“Well, you can see it’s just the four of us. He’s never really had many friends over or done anything with other guy friends. He did have a softball team through work several years ago, but he stopped playing after our son was born,” said Kira. “He never goes out. I thought it was flattering when we first started dating. I never had to compete with anyone to get his time. But I’d like him to go out once in a while. I don’t want him to think he can’t go out because he feels I expect him home all the time.”
“Not compete for his time? We did. Looks like we’re face to face with the reason we lost,” mentioned Cassidy graciously acknowledging the victor in that battle. “Justifiably so, I must say.”
“How old are these things,” asked Mondo pointing at a picture of their children hanging on the wall.
“Our son is almost two years and our daughter is six months. He’s so good with them, Em. Do any of you have children,” Kira asked.
“No biological children, but we kind of look out for Mondo,” answered Woodward not aware of how silly this sounded.
“Hey, how’d you and Emmett meet,” asked Cassidy.
“The batting cages. I was in the fast pitch softball cage and he was in the fast-pitch baseball cage,” explained Kira shyly.
“Batting cages,” Woodward asked quizzically.
“I played softball in college. We were pretty good, went to the College Softball World Series tournament two years in a row. Anyway, we had a game and played poorly. It was embarrassing. I mean we couldn’t hit anything. After the game me and five other girls decided to hit the cages. It was a post game cleansing routine. Well, during the game I slid into second base to break up a double play. Ripped my pants. So, we’re hitting at the cages after the game and you could see my underwear through the rip. He walked by and said, ‘Nice swinging, pink lilies,’ referring to the lilies visible through the rip. I was surprised he knew the name of the flowers,” smiling as she recalled the episode. “They were lilies. He really got my attention. Anyway, I countered with ‘You think you got game, elbow guard,’” visibly pleased with the recounting of her retort.
“He had the elbow guard going back to high school,” remembered Cassidy.
“He asked me out that night. We still go to the cages on our anniversary,” she said.
“It sure would be good to get him out of the house once in a while. Heck, if you can get him out I’ll even buy the first two rounds of beer,” she offered.
Emmett emerged just then from the hallway with a child in each arm. After the handoff to Kira, bocce was engaged.
Emmett dominated as they all expected, even Mondo. He excelled at everything, it didn’t matter what the challenge. Basketball, chess, Gnip-Gnop, or hangman. He was a fierce competitor and usually found a successful strategy whether it was his natural ability or his opponents lack thereof. In face to face competition he was tough to equal.
At one point Mondo managed to cut his finger with a bocce ball.
“Mondo, what the hell did you do? You’re holding round balls. How’d you cut yourself,” Woodward pressed.
Nobody saw what he did to get cut and Mondo was virtually blank in trying to explain what happened. Emmett went into the house and returned presenting a choice of two bandages.
“You prefer a Hello Kitty or a Hot Wheels Band-Aid,” Emmett asked him.
“Come on, you got no real Band-Aids,” yakked Woodward mocking him.
“We haven’t had regular Band-Aids since the first baby was born,” Emmett advised.
Mondo grabbed the Hello Kitty but Woodward quickly slapped it away. Cassidy opened the Hot Wheels bandage and applied it to Mondo’s finger. First Aid concluded, they went inside and ate sandwiches in front of the TV.
“Hey, Emmett, may I please have a glass of milk,” asked Mondo politely.
“Help yourself. It’s in the refrigerator door,” Emmett authorized.
“No glass for you, remember? Use a plastic cup,” advised Woodward curtly looking at him with raised eye brows.
He found the milk, but it was beyond the expiration by two days. Mondo abided strictly by these dates on account of a bum experience as a child. It was suspected that expired milk adversely affected him on that fateful day resulting in an embarrassing public self guano incident that only Woodward continued to bring up, and reveled in so doing. He reached for an 8-oz. milk box, chocolate, and then saw the stash of juice boxes. Picked one and rejoined the living room.
“A juice box. Look at this guy. Nice find, Mondo,” said Cassidy with a playful lilt in his voice.
“What happened to your milk hankering,” Woodward asked suspiciously.
“It expired, the milk carton. Then I saw the small milk boxes, but I didn’t want to take one of them. I figured Em’s kids probably drink those,” said Mondo explaining his thought process.
“Who do you think drinks the juice boxes,” Woodward asked pointedly.
“Guys, Mondo’s cool. Actually, Kira and I often deploy the juice boxes for mixing drinks. We don’t always have a lot of large juice containers. We just don’t drink it that often. But those individual servings will last for months. Probably a year or more, even,” asserted Emmett.
The afternoon passed. The football game concluded and the previously flaunted bag of cheese puffs were zeroed out. The three boys set a follow up play date and said goodbye.
- - -
They returned to Cassidy and Mondo’s as they did most evenings. Woodward still lived at home and his weekday routine had him wolfing down supper with his parents before excusing himself to his friends’.
“Poor, Emmett. He’s a broken man! He’s totally defeated,” blathered Woodward getting himself riled up. He lived under the illusion that he lived a life that other men envied, Emmett included. In his own mind he was a man to emulate.
“He looked pretty happy to me,” Cassidy countered.
“He’s changed. Really. He uses his kids’ juice boxes to mix drinks,” continued Woodward irately. “Instead of measuring out drinks by tablespoons, ounces, jiggers, or shots, he now mixes by number of juice boxes.”
“Sounds like logical reasoning,” replied Cassidy again defending his friend.
“Logical reasoning? A grown man using Hot Wheels and Hello Kitty Band-Aids,” said Woodward upgrading his complaint.
“Dude, you have a problem with Hot Wheels Band-Aids? Meanwhile your entire Hot Wheels collection remains intact after age appropriateness is 20 years past,” challenged Cassidy. “Besides, he’s got kids, man. One can reasonably justify they’re for his kids. What’s your excuse?”
“We must break him out of this fettered domestication. He’s locked in like he knows no better,” continued Woodward not having any of what Cassidy was pushing.
“What do you mean break him out? Like an insurrection,” Mondo blurted.
They both looked at Mondo, but he’d already turned away not paying attention.
“An insurrection. Yes, good. Impressive range, Mondo,” answered Woodward surprised at the use of his pal’s fancy word. “You accidentally been watching the History Channel again?”
“What do you mean an insurrection? From who,” asked Mondo having already forgotten that it was his idea.
“From whom,” schooled Cassidy.
“OK. From whom? His family,” pursued a confused Mondo.
“Hey, look smart guy,” announced Woodward to Cassidy with an air of self importance. “We’re fighting for our buddy here. Let’s find a way to save Emmett. You can play smart guy with someone else. So an insurrection’s been proposed.”
“But his wife wants us to take him out. Heck, she’s offered to buy the beer if we just take him out. Doesn’t seem like a revolt to me,” Cassidy retorted.
“Stop clowning around you two. I’d like to find a way to save our friend. Can you do this with me,” asked Woodward. “OK, so his wife offered to buy beers. Good. There’s our seed money for the movement.”
- - -
After much bickering, the boys convinced Emmett, guilt-tripped, more accurately, into entering the dark confines of the exotic dance club. Emmett was a decent man, but not impeccable. They ordered their draft beers, the first of their two minimum drink purchase as required with entry fee, approached the main dance floor, and spied several available seats. Three ladies were sharing center stage with two smaller stages along the perimeter at the back of the club, each smaller stage hosting a single dancer. Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo, mouths slightly agape, head tilted slightly aloft to view the dancers at their performance elevation. Each man reaching for his wallet in a non-thinking action. With a stack of singles pre-folded they set the bills at the edge of the stage resembling small green pyramids when viewed from the side. These three were lost in their debaucherous desires as the commendably physiqued fancy nubiles shook their junk on stage. To the credit of the boys, they were not yet drooling on themselves.
Emmett, though, kept himself together. There was no ogling. He had not given himself up to the vile environment in which he was relegated. The dancers were not the focus of his attention. He had not descended to the existence of non-thinking inanimate objects, as had his chums. He sipped his draft beer. It didn’t matter what brand. His enemy here was time, the sipping of a beer would be his prop in accomplishing this task. Burn off those few hours that must be killed so that he may retire back to his homestead and his people. But first, he must endure.
As the three full grown delinquents turned themselves over to this voluntary debasing, Emmett fell prey to his own. Over the robust ambient cacophonous racket that passed for music, he heard, so he thought, a faint noise indicating a delight beyond his expectations.
He parted from the three without a word or gesture and went in hunt. He walked in the direction of one of the smaller stages and passed without so much as a courtesy glance at the sweaty undulating body wearing little more than body glitter. It would be through the doorway dead ahead if his instincts were correct, instincts that had been honed over very many hours from the incessant video gaming of his youth. He stepped in. Bliss. Video games. Full standing cabinet arcade style games. Vintage games. Classics. He felt like a teenager again. The exhilaration. He could feel the forthcoming action in his fingers from so many hours of playing, training, those years ago. Five games, one stool, no other patrons. Like his pals reaching for their folded singles, he reached for a stash of quarters in a pocket of his wallet. Setting his beer down and moving the stool into position, he got things underway.
- - -
Two hours passed. One by one they all went broke. Mondo was first as he accidentally tossed out a few tens on stage while lost in his trance. Cassidy, taking an avuncular approach to Mondo, kept him in the game by floating him a few singles and another beer. Woodward, lost to the world, couldn’t hardly tear his eyeballs away. And when he did, the adjustment to darkness after staring at center stage caused a nearly painful squint. The three of them sitting up front with no money left. That lasted almost two minutes before a bouncer forcibly asked them to vacate the seats so that paying customers may occupy them. They stood up without complaint and moved into the shadows away from the lights of center stage. They noticed now for the first time that Emmett was absent.
When they found him, he was a sweaty mess. His shirt soaked through and his hair matted down on the sides and back with wetness. He was still gaming and had been doing so nonstop, taking only short breaks to move the stool from one game to the next. His beer was sitting on top of the Galaxian arcade game where he’s set it down over two hours ago. Mondo, without asking, grabbed it, drank it with relish, and put it back where he got it.
“Emmett, have you been in here the whole time,” asked Woodward almost sympathetically.
“Not now, I’ve almost got the high score in Joust,” exclaimed Emmett lightly agitated at the distraction. He wasn’t angry, just laden with adrenaline.
“Look at this. He’s got all the high scores,” announced Cassidy, pleased with his friend’s skillful craft.
“Dude, give it a rest. You’re getting all worked up,” said an irritated Woodward.
“You’re one to talk. You were pretty worked up watching the dancers,” responded Cassidy keeping Woodward from unduly elevating himself.
The video game ended. Emmett entered hs initials. Another high score. He grabbed his empty pint glass and walked away with no words. The four made for the exit and he placed his glass on the end of the bar without breaking stride.
- - -
They drove to Emmett’s, nearly silent except for the radio. With the motor idling Emmett exited the vehicle.
“Thanks for the time, guys,” Emmett offered. With a wave to the three in the car he walked to the front door and reached for his key. The three yelled their final denigrating remarks.
They drove away in silence for a few blocks. Pals, they were, and would continue to be for years. But socially it was over. There would be very little intersecting, if at all, from this point forward. They shared a common beginning, but are different today. They all knew it, even Mondo.
“He’s damaged goods. He can’t be fixed,” Woodward said seeing that Emmett was beyond them now.
“He can be fixed. Wasn’t he vasectomized last year,” Mondo said proud of his clever comment.
“That’s not what I meant,” Woodward said wrestling with the realization that it was not Emmett who was the damaged goods. They were perpetual adolescents with such trademark maneuvers as short changing the part-time fast food cashier with a flurry of questions while they were counting change or trying to tilt a vending machine looking to score free junk food.
Emmett was lost to them. Yet he was happy. Somehow whole. The three had extended their best effort, and were defeated. Emmett had seemingly evolved, while the three remained in flux. There would be no successful intervention. Nor an insurrection.
END
7/2009
The winner, if you’d like to give it a whiff, can be read by clicking here.
-klem
-Choose from three titles:
An Insurrection
Twenty-Ten
Never, Ever Bring This Up Again
-Entry can be no more than 4,000 words
-Entries were due Aug. 1, 2009
I entered the imbroglio, but didn’t win. My non-victorious entry follows. I apologize in advance to Mom Klem for the upcoming offending language and one risqué scene:
An Insurrection
by Klem
“You jackasses aren’t gonna believe who I saw today,” exclaimed Woodward enthusiastically upon entering the apartment without knocking.
Two disheveled jackasses in their mid-30s donning dirty shorts and undershirts sat on separate couches watching TV, reruns of old game shows from the ‘70s. They were roommates. Neither was proud of it.
“Who you calling jackasses,” replied Cassidy not looking up from the television.
“You bastards. I’m calling you bastards jackasses, bastards. I saw Emmett,” continued Woodward losing some of his initial zest.
“Emmett?! From high school?! Where were you? Prison,” asked Cassidy.
“No! Not prison. Why’d you say such a thing,” said Woodward with a disgusted look on his face.
“Seemed he had a high incidence of theft,” added Cassidy still not looking away from the TV.
“Thefts? Emmett? What’re you talking about,” said Woodward irritably.
“The liquor store,” Mondo chimed in.
“The liquor store from over a decade ago? He didn’t get the correct change. He got upset,” defended Woodward.
“He bought Tic-Tacs, was short changed a nickel, so he grabbed the hot dog rotisserie machine off the counter, including dogs, and ran,” Cassidy recounted calmly.
“He didn’t get the Tic-Tacs, though,” said Woodward as if that negated the act from constituting theft.
“What about the hot dog cart,” added Mondo.
“Come on, you bring that up from high school? That thing during summer break? He was really hungry. You remember his appetite,” said Woodward trying to stick up for his buddy.
“The whole cart, though,” was Cassidy’s retort unswayed by Woodward’s feeble defense.
“Will you guys stop? Something happened to him,” said Woodward in a more serious tone hoping to get back on topic.
“What’d you mean,” asked Cassidy looking at Woodward for the first time.
“I saw him at the grocery store,” replied Woodward taking a seat on Mondo’s sagging couch staring at him so he’d sit up and move over.
“What’d he have to say,” Cassidy asked.
“What was he stealing,” Mondo wondered out loud.
“He wasn’t stealing anything,” blurted a near exasperated Woodward. “I didn’t talk to him. He just had this great big man-purse over his shoulder. I was too horrified to approach.”
“Man-purse? You mean like a purse? Or was it a grocery bag? He was in a grocery store, right,” asked Cassidy in an effort to clarify the foggy picture Woodward was painting.
“I didn’t ask him about the contents. I didn’t want to embarrass him. A buddy sees you with a purse, you want him to nail you for it and ask a battery of awkward questions? Wouldn’t you rather he ignore you like the whole thing, including the man-purse, never happened,” asserted Woodward.
“Man purse? Sure it’s not a diaper bag? Didn’t your cousin say he’s got two small kids,” asked Mondo.
“Call it what you want, if you saw him you’d say ‘Look at that guy with the man-purse.’ I’m telling you, he’s fallen a long way from the stud we knew years ago. Remember that football game in high school where he practically single-handedly beat the San Dimas Wild Stallions? He was a ferocious beast, Emmett. It was beautiful,” regaled Woodward losing himself momentarily in the past glory of his friend.
“It’s true. He was a beast,” uttered Mondo trying to contribute.
“How about that rock concert years ago. There was a fight in the mosh pit, naturally he was at the center of it. He emerged triumphant, climbed on stage, and then dove back down into the pit! A maniac, that guy,” said Cassidy smiling in pride for his buddy.
- - -
A month went by with no further mention of Emmett, until a lazy Saturday afternoon. The three guys visited the local department store. Each held a single item with intent to purchase. Mondo was holding a package of shoe sole inserts to help beat back that troublesome malodorous emanation. He was unaware that the smell was actually coming from his mouth resulting from his sub par dental hygiene. Cassidy had a new toothbrush. Mondo had scrubbed his old toothbrush in the toilet after an argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Woodward carried a six pack of beer. He had substituted a cheaper sticker price forgetting that it’s the UPC code that the scanner would read, there would be no manual entry.
The three guys were looking at Hot Wheels; they never entirely outgrew their interest, though Woodward stubbornly held fast to his preference for the Matchbox brand.
From down the aisle came a guy with a man-purse over his shoulder. He had a double stroller with two adorable moppets, a boy and a girl, and was accompanied by a beautiful woman. They looked happy and content. The three fellas, a fine contrast, looked slovenly and in need of a thorough scrubbing.
“See anything good, you punks,” Emmett asked also approaching the Hot Wheels rack. He was smiling and sincerely happy to see his buddies after a gap of at least five years.
“Yes, a dude with a man-purse,” said Woodward pointing at Emmett’s shoulder.
“Diaper bag. These two are real factories in that regard,” advised Emmett tossing a thumb at the stroller.
“You still Hot Wheeling, too,” asked Woodward too energetically.
“No, but I sometimes look when we come here. I give them to my two year old,” replied Emmett.
“Oh,” said Woodward dejectedly having to face the thinly veiled charade that, while appearing a full grown man, he remained but a child.
“Hey, I want you to meet my wife, Kira,” introduced Emmett. “Honey, this is Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo. We hung out together back in high school.”
Kira, almost overjoyed at actually meeting friends of Emmett took to the three goofballs and looked past their obvious deficiencies. Her husband had many acquaintances and people with whom he was friendly when they crossed paths in town, but he was largely a lone ranger. His social schedule was almost bare beyond family outings. He seemed to take on the perspective that extracurricular socializing wasn’t a matter of overstepping his reach, it was just that it was an inconvenience. She knew this chance passing would not come to anything unless she took action. The boys had been speaking for a few minutes and it was winding down.
“Hey, why don’t you guys come over tomorrow. You can play bocce ball in the back yard or watch football. I’ll make a few sandwiches and watch the kids,” she offered.
“What do you say, fellas? We’ll have cheese puffs on hand,” Emmett said picking up a bag from the back of the stroller and waving it.
- - -
It was early Sunday afternoon. The football game was just underway on the television when the doorbell rang.
“Hi, guys. It’s nice to see you again,” said Kira in fine spirits. “Emmett’ll be out in a minute. He’s changing both diapers. A simultaneous double whammy.”
“So, you’re friends from high school,” making conversation.
“Oh, yeah, we chummed around quite a lot,” confirmed Cassidy while Mondo nodded affirmative.
“We played on the high school football and baseball teams. You know, Emmett used to be quite the athlete. Usually the best player on the team,” continued Woodward.
“Usually, the best on the field,” Cassidy upgraded without embellishing.
“Well, you can see it’s just the four of us. He’s never really had many friends over or done anything with other guy friends. He did have a softball team through work several years ago, but he stopped playing after our son was born,” said Kira. “He never goes out. I thought it was flattering when we first started dating. I never had to compete with anyone to get his time. But I’d like him to go out once in a while. I don’t want him to think he can’t go out because he feels I expect him home all the time.”
“Not compete for his time? We did. Looks like we’re face to face with the reason we lost,” mentioned Cassidy graciously acknowledging the victor in that battle. “Justifiably so, I must say.”
“How old are these things,” asked Mondo pointing at a picture of their children hanging on the wall.
“Our son is almost two years and our daughter is six months. He’s so good with them, Em. Do any of you have children,” Kira asked.
“No biological children, but we kind of look out for Mondo,” answered Woodward not aware of how silly this sounded.
“Hey, how’d you and Emmett meet,” asked Cassidy.
“The batting cages. I was in the fast pitch softball cage and he was in the fast-pitch baseball cage,” explained Kira shyly.
“Batting cages,” Woodward asked quizzically.
“I played softball in college. We were pretty good, went to the College Softball World Series tournament two years in a row. Anyway, we had a game and played poorly. It was embarrassing. I mean we couldn’t hit anything. After the game me and five other girls decided to hit the cages. It was a post game cleansing routine. Well, during the game I slid into second base to break up a double play. Ripped my pants. So, we’re hitting at the cages after the game and you could see my underwear through the rip. He walked by and said, ‘Nice swinging, pink lilies,’ referring to the lilies visible through the rip. I was surprised he knew the name of the flowers,” smiling as she recalled the episode. “They were lilies. He really got my attention. Anyway, I countered with ‘You think you got game, elbow guard,’” visibly pleased with the recounting of her retort.
“He had the elbow guard going back to high school,” remembered Cassidy.
“He asked me out that night. We still go to the cages on our anniversary,” she said.
“It sure would be good to get him out of the house once in a while. Heck, if you can get him out I’ll even buy the first two rounds of beer,” she offered.
Emmett emerged just then from the hallway with a child in each arm. After the handoff to Kira, bocce was engaged.
Emmett dominated as they all expected, even Mondo. He excelled at everything, it didn’t matter what the challenge. Basketball, chess, Gnip-Gnop, or hangman. He was a fierce competitor and usually found a successful strategy whether it was his natural ability or his opponents lack thereof. In face to face competition he was tough to equal.
At one point Mondo managed to cut his finger with a bocce ball.
“Mondo, what the hell did you do? You’re holding round balls. How’d you cut yourself,” Woodward pressed.
Nobody saw what he did to get cut and Mondo was virtually blank in trying to explain what happened. Emmett went into the house and returned presenting a choice of two bandages.
“You prefer a Hello Kitty or a Hot Wheels Band-Aid,” Emmett asked him.
“Come on, you got no real Band-Aids,” yakked Woodward mocking him.
“We haven’t had regular Band-Aids since the first baby was born,” Emmett advised.
Mondo grabbed the Hello Kitty but Woodward quickly slapped it away. Cassidy opened the Hot Wheels bandage and applied it to Mondo’s finger. First Aid concluded, they went inside and ate sandwiches in front of the TV.
“Hey, Emmett, may I please have a glass of milk,” asked Mondo politely.
“Help yourself. It’s in the refrigerator door,” Emmett authorized.
“No glass for you, remember? Use a plastic cup,” advised Woodward curtly looking at him with raised eye brows.
He found the milk, but it was beyond the expiration by two days. Mondo abided strictly by these dates on account of a bum experience as a child. It was suspected that expired milk adversely affected him on that fateful day resulting in an embarrassing public self guano incident that only Woodward continued to bring up, and reveled in so doing. He reached for an 8-oz. milk box, chocolate, and then saw the stash of juice boxes. Picked one and rejoined the living room.
“A juice box. Look at this guy. Nice find, Mondo,” said Cassidy with a playful lilt in his voice.
“What happened to your milk hankering,” Woodward asked suspiciously.
“It expired, the milk carton. Then I saw the small milk boxes, but I didn’t want to take one of them. I figured Em’s kids probably drink those,” said Mondo explaining his thought process.
“Who do you think drinks the juice boxes,” Woodward asked pointedly.
“Guys, Mondo’s cool. Actually, Kira and I often deploy the juice boxes for mixing drinks. We don’t always have a lot of large juice containers. We just don’t drink it that often. But those individual servings will last for months. Probably a year or more, even,” asserted Emmett.
The afternoon passed. The football game concluded and the previously flaunted bag of cheese puffs were zeroed out. The three boys set a follow up play date and said goodbye.
- - -
They returned to Cassidy and Mondo’s as they did most evenings. Woodward still lived at home and his weekday routine had him wolfing down supper with his parents before excusing himself to his friends’.
“Poor, Emmett. He’s a broken man! He’s totally defeated,” blathered Woodward getting himself riled up. He lived under the illusion that he lived a life that other men envied, Emmett included. In his own mind he was a man to emulate.
“He looked pretty happy to me,” Cassidy countered.
“He’s changed. Really. He uses his kids’ juice boxes to mix drinks,” continued Woodward irately. “Instead of measuring out drinks by tablespoons, ounces, jiggers, or shots, he now mixes by number of juice boxes.”
“Sounds like logical reasoning,” replied Cassidy again defending his friend.
“Logical reasoning? A grown man using Hot Wheels and Hello Kitty Band-Aids,” said Woodward upgrading his complaint.
“Dude, you have a problem with Hot Wheels Band-Aids? Meanwhile your entire Hot Wheels collection remains intact after age appropriateness is 20 years past,” challenged Cassidy. “Besides, he’s got kids, man. One can reasonably justify they’re for his kids. What’s your excuse?”
“We must break him out of this fettered domestication. He’s locked in like he knows no better,” continued Woodward not having any of what Cassidy was pushing.
“What do you mean break him out? Like an insurrection,” Mondo blurted.
They both looked at Mondo, but he’d already turned away not paying attention.
“An insurrection. Yes, good. Impressive range, Mondo,” answered Woodward surprised at the use of his pal’s fancy word. “You accidentally been watching the History Channel again?”
“What do you mean an insurrection? From who,” asked Mondo having already forgotten that it was his idea.
“From whom,” schooled Cassidy.
“OK. From whom? His family,” pursued a confused Mondo.
“Hey, look smart guy,” announced Woodward to Cassidy with an air of self importance. “We’re fighting for our buddy here. Let’s find a way to save Emmett. You can play smart guy with someone else. So an insurrection’s been proposed.”
“But his wife wants us to take him out. Heck, she’s offered to buy the beer if we just take him out. Doesn’t seem like a revolt to me,” Cassidy retorted.
“Stop clowning around you two. I’d like to find a way to save our friend. Can you do this with me,” asked Woodward. “OK, so his wife offered to buy beers. Good. There’s our seed money for the movement.”
- - -
After much bickering, the boys convinced Emmett, guilt-tripped, more accurately, into entering the dark confines of the exotic dance club. Emmett was a decent man, but not impeccable. They ordered their draft beers, the first of their two minimum drink purchase as required with entry fee, approached the main dance floor, and spied several available seats. Three ladies were sharing center stage with two smaller stages along the perimeter at the back of the club, each smaller stage hosting a single dancer. Woodward, Cassidy, and Mondo, mouths slightly agape, head tilted slightly aloft to view the dancers at their performance elevation. Each man reaching for his wallet in a non-thinking action. With a stack of singles pre-folded they set the bills at the edge of the stage resembling small green pyramids when viewed from the side. These three were lost in their debaucherous desires as the commendably physiqued fancy nubiles shook their junk on stage. To the credit of the boys, they were not yet drooling on themselves.
Emmett, though, kept himself together. There was no ogling. He had not given himself up to the vile environment in which he was relegated. The dancers were not the focus of his attention. He had not descended to the existence of non-thinking inanimate objects, as had his chums. He sipped his draft beer. It didn’t matter what brand. His enemy here was time, the sipping of a beer would be his prop in accomplishing this task. Burn off those few hours that must be killed so that he may retire back to his homestead and his people. But first, he must endure.
As the three full grown delinquents turned themselves over to this voluntary debasing, Emmett fell prey to his own. Over the robust ambient cacophonous racket that passed for music, he heard, so he thought, a faint noise indicating a delight beyond his expectations.
He parted from the three without a word or gesture and went in hunt. He walked in the direction of one of the smaller stages and passed without so much as a courtesy glance at the sweaty undulating body wearing little more than body glitter. It would be through the doorway dead ahead if his instincts were correct, instincts that had been honed over very many hours from the incessant video gaming of his youth. He stepped in. Bliss. Video games. Full standing cabinet arcade style games. Vintage games. Classics. He felt like a teenager again. The exhilaration. He could feel the forthcoming action in his fingers from so many hours of playing, training, those years ago. Five games, one stool, no other patrons. Like his pals reaching for their folded singles, he reached for a stash of quarters in a pocket of his wallet. Setting his beer down and moving the stool into position, he got things underway.
- - -
Two hours passed. One by one they all went broke. Mondo was first as he accidentally tossed out a few tens on stage while lost in his trance. Cassidy, taking an avuncular approach to Mondo, kept him in the game by floating him a few singles and another beer. Woodward, lost to the world, couldn’t hardly tear his eyeballs away. And when he did, the adjustment to darkness after staring at center stage caused a nearly painful squint. The three of them sitting up front with no money left. That lasted almost two minutes before a bouncer forcibly asked them to vacate the seats so that paying customers may occupy them. They stood up without complaint and moved into the shadows away from the lights of center stage. They noticed now for the first time that Emmett was absent.
When they found him, he was a sweaty mess. His shirt soaked through and his hair matted down on the sides and back with wetness. He was still gaming and had been doing so nonstop, taking only short breaks to move the stool from one game to the next. His beer was sitting on top of the Galaxian arcade game where he’s set it down over two hours ago. Mondo, without asking, grabbed it, drank it with relish, and put it back where he got it.
“Emmett, have you been in here the whole time,” asked Woodward almost sympathetically.
“Not now, I’ve almost got the high score in Joust,” exclaimed Emmett lightly agitated at the distraction. He wasn’t angry, just laden with adrenaline.
“Look at this. He’s got all the high scores,” announced Cassidy, pleased with his friend’s skillful craft.
“Dude, give it a rest. You’re getting all worked up,” said an irritated Woodward.
“You’re one to talk. You were pretty worked up watching the dancers,” responded Cassidy keeping Woodward from unduly elevating himself.
The video game ended. Emmett entered hs initials. Another high score. He grabbed his empty pint glass and walked away with no words. The four made for the exit and he placed his glass on the end of the bar without breaking stride.
- - -
They drove to Emmett’s, nearly silent except for the radio. With the motor idling Emmett exited the vehicle.
“Thanks for the time, guys,” Emmett offered. With a wave to the three in the car he walked to the front door and reached for his key. The three yelled their final denigrating remarks.
They drove away in silence for a few blocks. Pals, they were, and would continue to be for years. But socially it was over. There would be very little intersecting, if at all, from this point forward. They shared a common beginning, but are different today. They all knew it, even Mondo.
“He’s damaged goods. He can’t be fixed,” Woodward said seeing that Emmett was beyond them now.
“He can be fixed. Wasn’t he vasectomized last year,” Mondo said proud of his clever comment.
“That’s not what I meant,” Woodward said wrestling with the realization that it was not Emmett who was the damaged goods. They were perpetual adolescents with such trademark maneuvers as short changing the part-time fast food cashier with a flurry of questions while they were counting change or trying to tilt a vending machine looking to score free junk food.
Emmett was lost to them. Yet he was happy. Somehow whole. The three had extended their best effort, and were defeated. Emmett had seemingly evolved, while the three remained in flux. There would be no successful intervention. Nor an insurrection.
END
7/2009
The winner, if you’d like to give it a whiff, can be read by clicking here.
-klem
Thursday, November 5, 2009
"Wake Time!"
I don’t know about you, but when I wake up in the morning I could easily lie about in bed for an extra few minutes slowly joining the day. No need to immediately bounce out of bed and commence the day with a flurry of activity just because the sun has poked up above the horizon shining its inviting glow outside the bedroom window. Children, however, seem to have no gray area in this regard. They’re either awake or asleep.
2003
When our boy was three years old he’d wake up with the sun and, because he was awake, expect the same of his fellow residents.
The boy would consistently wake up at or around 6:00 am and announced his awakened state in this manner. Standing in his crib yelling, “Wake time! Wake time!”
Wife Klem and I advised him a number of times, ‘It’s OK if mommy and daddy sleep. You can play with your dinosaurs or read your books. There’s no need to wake us up too.’
He eventually got it and stopped yelling out to announce the beginning of each new day. I regret, however, not recording the audio of his morning wake up calls. Especially when he banged on the wall with his hand for added effect while issuing his ‘Wake time’ shout out.
-klem
2003
When our boy was three years old he’d wake up with the sun and, because he was awake, expect the same of his fellow residents.
The boy would consistently wake up at or around 6:00 am and announced his awakened state in this manner. Standing in his crib yelling, “Wake time! Wake time!”
Wife Klem and I advised him a number of times, ‘It’s OK if mommy and daddy sleep. You can play with your dinosaurs or read your books. There’s no need to wake us up too.’
He eventually got it and stopped yelling out to announce the beginning of each new day. I regret, however, not recording the audio of his morning wake up calls. Especially when he banged on the wall with his hand for added effect while issuing his ‘Wake time’ shout out.
-klem
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Things They Say
Kids say the silliest things. Sure, sometimes they’re just talking nonsense, but it’s a treat when the nonsensical remark is an unintended treasure.
July 2007
Team Klem was in an airport waiting to catch our flight at the front end of vacation. I was reading a magazine when an advertisement with a bicyclist and a bull caught my eye. I showed the advertisement to my daughter, three years old then, and asked her if she was faster than the bull. Confused possibly with my line of questioning, she said that she’d ride the bike. I countered that she didn’t know yet how to ride but would she be faster than a bull if she rode her scooter.
She paused as if trying to grasp what daddy was asking her, then responded “[her big brother’s name] a mammal.”
“Yes, he is a mammal, you smart girl,” I said overjoyed at the creative response and hoped that additional gems would flow. But she cooly remained silent after that and returned to her coloring book seemingly content with her conversational contribution.
She must’ve been stumped by the question, but I prefer her answer to one I could have anticipated. ‘Mammal,’ I thought to myself. Possibly a byproduct of a Discovery channel program?
-klem
July 2007
Team Klem was in an airport waiting to catch our flight at the front end of vacation. I was reading a magazine when an advertisement with a bicyclist and a bull caught my eye. I showed the advertisement to my daughter, three years old then, and asked her if she was faster than the bull. Confused possibly with my line of questioning, she said that she’d ride the bike. I countered that she didn’t know yet how to ride but would she be faster than a bull if she rode her scooter.
She paused as if trying to grasp what daddy was asking her, then responded “[her big brother’s name] a mammal.”
“Yes, he is a mammal, you smart girl,” I said overjoyed at the creative response and hoped that additional gems would flow. But she cooly remained silent after that and returned to her coloring book seemingly content with her conversational contribution.
She must’ve been stumped by the question, but I prefer her answer to one I could have anticipated. ‘Mammal,’ I thought to myself. Possibly a byproduct of a Discovery channel program?
-klem
Monday, November 2, 2009
Daylight Savings. A Sneaky Move.
Daylight savings. Certainly we can discuss its origin and whether or not it remains applicable to today’s society. But instead, I’d like to show off how Wife Klem and I used it to our advantage.
Sunday night
8:00 is bed time for our kids. At this time they’re sent scampering upstairs to bed for their toileteering, reading, and tucking them in. Now then, what did we do when the daylight savings clock shows 6:30 pm, but the kids’ internal clocks were still locked in at 7:30 pm? We took advantage of clocking differences and sent them to bed early, did Wife Klem and I.
Sunday evening we started snack and a video at 6:30 and got them upstairs by 7:00 pm instead of the normal 8:00! Yes, put them down an hour early and gained ourselves an extra hour of free time. The kids were none the wiser.
What's the worst that could happen, we thought? They’ll get up an hour early in the morning. No biggie, heck tomorrow’s a school day. Success again was ours! They both got up early and came down for breakfast without us having to negotiate them out of bed.
Daylight savings. Is it necessary in today’s day and age? Probably not. Can it still be wielded effectively for someone’s advantage? Yes, as evidenced above.
-klem
Sunday night
8:00 is bed time for our kids. At this time they’re sent scampering upstairs to bed for their toileteering, reading, and tucking them in. Now then, what did we do when the daylight savings clock shows 6:30 pm, but the kids’ internal clocks were still locked in at 7:30 pm? We took advantage of clocking differences and sent them to bed early, did Wife Klem and I.
Sunday evening we started snack and a video at 6:30 and got them upstairs by 7:00 pm instead of the normal 8:00! Yes, put them down an hour early and gained ourselves an extra hour of free time. The kids were none the wiser.
What's the worst that could happen, we thought? They’ll get up an hour early in the morning. No biggie, heck tomorrow’s a school day. Success again was ours! They both got up early and came down for breakfast without us having to negotiate them out of bed.
Daylight savings. Is it necessary in today’s day and age? Probably not. Can it still be wielded effectively for someone’s advantage? Yes, as evidenced above.
-klem
Friday, October 30, 2009
Halloween
I went to college at UC Santa Barbara in the late ‘80s. Great community for a youngster to experience a few years of growth, education, and play. With a large number of students living in such relatively close confines there’s ample opportunity for playful interaction, partying, ridiculous behavior, and hooch - legal and illicit. Going to class, studying, and taking exams are also sprinkled in to round out a well balanced college experience. This young populace was a key factor in a well known UCSB tradition. Halloween.
The street along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Isla Vista, the neighboring residential community immediately adjacent to the UCSB campus, is Del Playa, or known by locals as DP. There are apartments and rental homes lining both sides of the street.
On Halloween thousands of visitors descend upon Isla Vista (IV) for a vigorous round of this fabled Halloween partying. In my years as a UCSB student one was not allowed to drive their car into IV unless they had a letter addressed indicating an IV mailing address that matched their ID. This was done because it is a tiny community that is quickly congested with cars and people creating a sickly logjam if everyone who wanted to drive in for Halloween were allowed to do so.
Once all the Halloween party goers have assembled they commence with the drinking too much and otherwise inebriating themselves. As the darkness of night sets in so does a comfortable level of bravado as the youngsters don their Halloween costumes and walk along DP looking for more hooch and parties. So crowded is the street of Del Playa for a mile that you can’t walk without first considering the people in front of you and on all sides. Really, shoulder to shoulder pedestrian traffic. And let’s face it, tempers sometimes flare when drunks from different groupings commingle in passing.
I was witness on one very special Halloween galavandering to unusual and amusing fighting words. One guy, dressed as Gumby - a popular claymation character from the ‘60s and ‘70s - had apparently offended a fellow partier of another group.
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Gumby,” loudly blathered the offended one. After the laughter died down from those within ear shot there was no actual no fisticuffs.
Halloween at UCSB. Fun times. Happy I don't live like that anymore.
-klem
The street along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Isla Vista, the neighboring residential community immediately adjacent to the UCSB campus, is Del Playa, or known by locals as DP. There are apartments and rental homes lining both sides of the street.
On Halloween thousands of visitors descend upon Isla Vista (IV) for a vigorous round of this fabled Halloween partying. In my years as a UCSB student one was not allowed to drive their car into IV unless they had a letter addressed indicating an IV mailing address that matched their ID. This was done because it is a tiny community that is quickly congested with cars and people creating a sickly logjam if everyone who wanted to drive in for Halloween were allowed to do so.
Once all the Halloween party goers have assembled they commence with the drinking too much and otherwise inebriating themselves. As the darkness of night sets in so does a comfortable level of bravado as the youngsters don their Halloween costumes and walk along DP looking for more hooch and parties. So crowded is the street of Del Playa for a mile that you can’t walk without first considering the people in front of you and on all sides. Really, shoulder to shoulder pedestrian traffic. And let’s face it, tempers sometimes flare when drunks from different groupings commingle in passing.
I was witness on one very special Halloween galavandering to unusual and amusing fighting words. One guy, dressed as Gumby - a popular claymation character from the ‘60s and ‘70s - had apparently offended a fellow partier of another group.
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Gumby,” loudly blathered the offended one. After the laughter died down from those within ear shot there was no actual no fisticuffs.
Halloween at UCSB. Fun times. Happy I don't live like that anymore.
-klem
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
THE Vending Machine
It was a machine well beyond any reality that I could comprehend. 30 years I had lived to that point and such a mechanical device I had not imagined. Perhaps it was the culture within which I had been raised. Issues of legality would make the device difficult to wield. But let the record reflect that it exists. I saw it.
August 1996
I was vacationing with friends in Barcelona, Spain. A night of drinking Spanish hooch was safely winding down despite having engaged inebriation. The hour was late and we had walked back to our hotel. We were standing out front when we saw it.
A vending machine in the lobby of the neighboring hotel caught our eye due to its unique merchandise. The oddity was not immediately distinguished, yet something about it caught our attention. We locked visuals on this machine and approached. It was a mere ten feet away behind the locked glass lobby door. The lobby was well illuminated with the machine occupying a focal point as if mocking us with its cool majestic indifference. From this vantage point our observations were digested. A beer vending machine!
Yes, you enter your peseta [‘peseta’ as this is pre-euro] into the slot and remove a cool bottle of beer . . . if it were not for the unfortunate locking mechanism keeping us apart from this product of impeccable ingenuity. We were not drunk, though certainly not in need of more beer. Heck, we were just going to go upstairs and be asleep soon. But this machine beckoned with its offerings of golden suds.
A security guard sat in the lobby shaking his head ‘no’ indicating that we were to be denied the pleasure of this desired commercial transaction. This guard, I thought later, was he guarding the hotel lobby or the vending machine? Guarding it from any harm that might be issued from such fingers as my own tainted by their desirous hankerings? Either way, this control he steadfastly declined to compromise. Even when we offered to buy him a beer for allowing access. Damn his gumption!
A beer vending machine. It exists. I saw it. It’s in Spain.
-klem
August 1996
I was vacationing with friends in Barcelona, Spain. A night of drinking Spanish hooch was safely winding down despite having engaged inebriation. The hour was late and we had walked back to our hotel. We were standing out front when we saw it.
A vending machine in the lobby of the neighboring hotel caught our eye due to its unique merchandise. The oddity was not immediately distinguished, yet something about it caught our attention. We locked visuals on this machine and approached. It was a mere ten feet away behind the locked glass lobby door. The lobby was well illuminated with the machine occupying a focal point as if mocking us with its cool majestic indifference. From this vantage point our observations were digested. A beer vending machine!
Yes, you enter your peseta [‘peseta’ as this is pre-euro] into the slot and remove a cool bottle of beer . . . if it were not for the unfortunate locking mechanism keeping us apart from this product of impeccable ingenuity. We were not drunk, though certainly not in need of more beer. Heck, we were just going to go upstairs and be asleep soon. But this machine beckoned with its offerings of golden suds.
A security guard sat in the lobby shaking his head ‘no’ indicating that we were to be denied the pleasure of this desired commercial transaction. This guard, I thought later, was he guarding the hotel lobby or the vending machine? Guarding it from any harm that might be issued from such fingers as my own tainted by their desirous hankerings? Either way, this control he steadfastly declined to compromise. Even when we offered to buy him a beer for allowing access. Damn his gumption!
A beer vending machine. It exists. I saw it. It’s in Spain.
-klem
Monday, October 26, 2009
First Steps
Infants are curious beasts. You never know for sure what they’re thinking or what they’re gonna do.
June 2001
My son took his first steps at exactly one year old. I got home from work and Wife Klem was in an especially good mood.
“Come here,” she said with a large smile as I entered the house. “Your boy has something to show you.”
With help from Pretty Mommy the boy rose to his feet. With one hand on the hall wall to maintain his balance he took a step and started to laugh. He took another step and continued laughing. [Laughing why? Happy with his newly gained altitude? Walking’s more funny than crawling? Just pleased himself maybe.] He walked down the hall. As he walked by me I thought two things: (1) Wow, he’s walking well, and (2) Where’s he going?
He turned the corner into the office, still laughing. I followed him in and saw that he was walking toward his dog’s toy bin. He approached, looked in, and started tossing the dog’s toys out onto the floor.
The guy finally attains some degree of walking ability, substantially upgrading his mobility, and that’s what was on his mind? The dog’s toy bin? Silly animal. But he’s our silly animal.
-klem
June 2001
My son took his first steps at exactly one year old. I got home from work and Wife Klem was in an especially good mood.
“Come here,” she said with a large smile as I entered the house. “Your boy has something to show you.”
With help from Pretty Mommy the boy rose to his feet. With one hand on the hall wall to maintain his balance he took a step and started to laugh. He took another step and continued laughing. [Laughing why? Happy with his newly gained altitude? Walking’s more funny than crawling? Just pleased himself maybe.] He walked down the hall. As he walked by me I thought two things: (1) Wow, he’s walking well, and (2) Where’s he going?
He turned the corner into the office, still laughing. I followed him in and saw that he was walking toward his dog’s toy bin. He approached, looked in, and started tossing the dog’s toys out onto the floor.
The guy finally attains some degree of walking ability, substantially upgrading his mobility, and that’s what was on his mind? The dog’s toy bin? Silly animal. But he’s our silly animal.
-klem
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt viii
‘How does it feel to be a wage slave?’ asked the sign I saw overhanging a freeway while driving in the course of work. Rewarding, I say, to be able to provide for my family.
I’m glad that cockroaches don’t have teeth.
Overrated: Food described in terms of its visual presentation rather than taste.
Reenactments are asinine. A poorly outfitted reenactor moving about on artificially grainy film is poor viewing. Tell the story, show a photograph or depiction of the character in question, and move on.
If given the choice, I’d rather have ESPN than ESP.
-klem
I’m glad that cockroaches don’t have teeth.
Overrated: Food described in terms of its visual presentation rather than taste.
Reenactments are asinine. A poorly outfitted reenactor moving about on artificially grainy film is poor viewing. Tell the story, show a photograph or depiction of the character in question, and move on.
If given the choice, I’d rather have ESPN than ESP.
-klem
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
My First Memory
What is my earliest memory, I got to thinking one day? A memory prompt, I figured, might help bring me back to my earlier days. I came up with the following memories.
I liked baseball as a kid, so what’s the earliest World Series that I remember? Dodgers versus A’s in 1974. I was 7. Super Bowl? Steelers versus Cowboys in 1976 with Lynn Swan’s beautiful catch. Nine years old. Grade school, 1st grade, and kindergarten I can all remember in descending degrees of detail. I even remember one impressive crying bout I had in preschool. Yes, preschool. I wanted to climb the fence and get outta there on one particular occasion. Four years old, was I for that embarrassing episode. GP, our pet Guinea Pig, again four years old. I came up with another four year old memory. It is possibly my earliest. The birth of my baby sister.
October 21. Glendale, CA.
The day struck me as odd. My two older brothers and I were at home and the only adult with us was Grandpa Tedesco. He was babysitting us. We loved gramps, but babysitting? Even at four years old it didn’t seem to be anywhere near his comfort zone.
What extreme circumstances necessitated this? The birth of my sister, the fifth and final Klem offspring. Mom, dad, Grandma Tedesco, and my younger brother, still just an infantile little fella, went to the hospital.
I remember gramps walking nervously around the house while we sat on the dark green shag carpeting watching tv. I can only guess what the instructions were to gramps, ‘Just keep these three alive. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’ He did.
Happy birthday, JQ. I’m glad you arrived.
-klem
I liked baseball as a kid, so what’s the earliest World Series that I remember? Dodgers versus A’s in 1974. I was 7. Super Bowl? Steelers versus Cowboys in 1976 with Lynn Swan’s beautiful catch. Nine years old. Grade school, 1st grade, and kindergarten I can all remember in descending degrees of detail. I even remember one impressive crying bout I had in preschool. Yes, preschool. I wanted to climb the fence and get outta there on one particular occasion. Four years old, was I for that embarrassing episode. GP, our pet Guinea Pig, again four years old. I came up with another four year old memory. It is possibly my earliest. The birth of my baby sister.
October 21. Glendale, CA.
The day struck me as odd. My two older brothers and I were at home and the only adult with us was Grandpa Tedesco. He was babysitting us. We loved gramps, but babysitting? Even at four years old it didn’t seem to be anywhere near his comfort zone.
What extreme circumstances necessitated this? The birth of my sister, the fifth and final Klem offspring. Mom, dad, Grandma Tedesco, and my younger brother, still just an infantile little fella, went to the hospital.
I remember gramps walking nervously around the house while we sat on the dark green shag carpeting watching tv. I can only guess what the instructions were to gramps, ‘Just keep these three alive. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’ He did.
Happy birthday, JQ. I’m glad you arrived.
-klem
Saturday, October 17, 2009
That’s Not My $10,000
It’s a familiar day dream that we’ve probably all had at one time or another. Free money. You go to the ATM and it shoots $20 dollar bills at you. Or the bank makes and error and adds a zero or two to your account balance. Fun thoughts. But what if it really happened?
2000
I’m not overzealous with daily or even weekly balance checks on our investment and retirement accounts. Quarterly, that’s the typical frequency I’ll tune in for a review plus a once per year overhaul, as needed. But this particular evening I logged in, out of schedule, and discovered an irregularity. An irregularity in my favor. $10,000 in my favor!
I immediately logged off and walked away from the computer. Could I just leave it there, pretend I knew nothing, benefit from someone’s error and keep it? Could they track the error back to me and reclaim the money at some future date? Would another customer actually be out the $10,000? Or would the financial institution cover the error? Those were questions I would never have answered. A guilty conscience got the better of me. Ten minutes passed and I logged back into the account online and called a customer service representative.
I advised the phone representative of the error. After a short review, he countered by advising me that the error was mine, the $10,000 belonged in my account, and could he do anything else to help. I was then in the amusing situation of asking to speak with someone else to insist that the errant $10,000 be removed from my account. This time, the message was heard and my request was followed through with a thanks. My good samaritan phone call was rewarded by being credited a free trade next time I bought or sold stock. I accepted the token of thanks, street value about $15.
My day dream henceforth changed. No longer ‘What if my account is credited erroneously,’ but rather ‘What if I found a large paper bag of dollar bills?’ Heck, that’d be cool! No electronic tracking, just a guilt-free sack of money. Hot dog! That’d be fun!
-klem
2000
I’m not overzealous with daily or even weekly balance checks on our investment and retirement accounts. Quarterly, that’s the typical frequency I’ll tune in for a review plus a once per year overhaul, as needed. But this particular evening I logged in, out of schedule, and discovered an irregularity. An irregularity in my favor. $10,000 in my favor!
I immediately logged off and walked away from the computer. Could I just leave it there, pretend I knew nothing, benefit from someone’s error and keep it? Could they track the error back to me and reclaim the money at some future date? Would another customer actually be out the $10,000? Or would the financial institution cover the error? Those were questions I would never have answered. A guilty conscience got the better of me. Ten minutes passed and I logged back into the account online and called a customer service representative.
I advised the phone representative of the error. After a short review, he countered by advising me that the error was mine, the $10,000 belonged in my account, and could he do anything else to help. I was then in the amusing situation of asking to speak with someone else to insist that the errant $10,000 be removed from my account. This time, the message was heard and my request was followed through with a thanks. My good samaritan phone call was rewarded by being credited a free trade next time I bought or sold stock. I accepted the token of thanks, street value about $15.
My day dream henceforth changed. No longer ‘What if my account is credited erroneously,’ but rather ‘What if I found a large paper bag of dollar bills?’ Heck, that’d be cool! No electronic tracking, just a guilt-free sack of money. Hot dog! That’d be fun!
-klem
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Allowance Revisited
We have revisited the weekly allowance for the kids, specifically the amount of remuneration. In speaking with a few parents from school, it sounds as though our positions of $1 for a third grader and $0.50 for kindergarten may be on the low end of the allowance spectrum.
The updated compensation level for the boy proposes $3 per week based on him cleaning his bathroom and keeping his room clean. Failure to meet with compliance yields what is now considered a meager $1. He has performed adequately so far at bathroom cleaning which includes emptying the bathroom’s trash bin. His Achilles Heal has proven to be cleaning his room. The first few weeks under this program his remuneration has been a lowly $1, I’m sad to report.
The problem, you see, is the guy’s Hot Wheeling inclination. He likes making Hot Wheels tracks. He especially likes incorporating his entire room, desk, dresser, his dinosaurs, dominoes, and all his other toys into the landscape of the tracks. It really is all encompassing. So much so, that before I check on him before I go to bed, I can’t get to him without stepping on some portion of the track. He maintains that the track must remain standing until all his cars, of which there are about 100, have driven it. He then immediately sets out to modify the track which necessitates that he repeat the process with all the cars. The room never actually gets clean because there’s no down time between tracks.
As for our daughter, she’s been bumped up to $2 weekly. Her responsibility in return is twofold:
(1) She practices writing her alphabet. The task is supposed to be done daily, but my diligence sometimes falls short. The capital letters have been mastered and she’s working on the lower case. The ‘j’ has proven problematic for her as to which way it curls.
(2) She practices her numbers daily. This entails a variation of writing her numbers from 1 to 30 and counting by tens to 100 or counting to 100. She’s really gathering steam here, although that ‘50’ is sometimes elusive.
They’re good kids, but let’s not tell them that. Wouldn’t want to spoil them.
-klem
The updated compensation level for the boy proposes $3 per week based on him cleaning his bathroom and keeping his room clean. Failure to meet with compliance yields what is now considered a meager $1. He has performed adequately so far at bathroom cleaning which includes emptying the bathroom’s trash bin. His Achilles Heal has proven to be cleaning his room. The first few weeks under this program his remuneration has been a lowly $1, I’m sad to report.
The problem, you see, is the guy’s Hot Wheeling inclination. He likes making Hot Wheels tracks. He especially likes incorporating his entire room, desk, dresser, his dinosaurs, dominoes, and all his other toys into the landscape of the tracks. It really is all encompassing. So much so, that before I check on him before I go to bed, I can’t get to him without stepping on some portion of the track. He maintains that the track must remain standing until all his cars, of which there are about 100, have driven it. He then immediately sets out to modify the track which necessitates that he repeat the process with all the cars. The room never actually gets clean because there’s no down time between tracks.
As for our daughter, she’s been bumped up to $2 weekly. Her responsibility in return is twofold:
(1) She practices writing her alphabet. The task is supposed to be done daily, but my diligence sometimes falls short. The capital letters have been mastered and she’s working on the lower case. The ‘j’ has proven problematic for her as to which way it curls.
(2) She practices her numbers daily. This entails a variation of writing her numbers from 1 to 30 and counting by tens to 100 or counting to 100. She’s really gathering steam here, although that ‘50’ is sometimes elusive.
They’re good kids, but let’s not tell them that. Wouldn’t want to spoil them.
-klem
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Compiled Quotes, x
“Zeal without knowledge is fire without light.” Thomas Fuller, English rector and historian [1608-1661]
“If you have a clear mind and an open heart, you won’t have to search for direction.” St. Paul, apostle [?-65]
“Hey, Lasorda,” one fan once heckled the robust Dodger Manager Tom Lasorda, “is that your belt or the equator?”
“If you have a clear mind and an open heart, you won’t have to search for direction.” St. Paul, apostle [?-65]
“Hey, Lasorda,” one fan once heckled the robust Dodger Manager Tom Lasorda, “is that your belt or the equator?”
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Opa
My father-in-law passed away last week after a battle with pancreatic cancer. Any pain and suffering from the illness was his secret until six weeks before he passed away.
We’d regularly taken trips to a beach a short drive from his house, he and my family. He liked to take his grand kids to look for sea life in the tide pools and watch them play in the gentle surf. It was on one such beach trip in August the first signs of trouble appeared. He lost his balance a few times and was uncharacteristically out of breathe. The hospital visits began shortly thereafter.
Opa, as the whole family often preferred to call him, grew up in W.W.II Germany. He was a very mature 12 years old by the end of the war as one might imagine such experiences shaping his youth. As the oldest of three siblings one primary responsibility was to look out for the safety of his little brothers and sister.
He left Germany in 1954 after an apprenticeship in electronics. One time over coffee and Wife Klem’s blackberry cake, of which he was so fond, he explained why he left Germany, his family, and all that he knew. He said simply that he wanted to see ‘how the victors made out.’ He was twenty years old and ready to engage the world, make his way. With that he departed for Canada and entered the U.S. a year later.
He was a man of numerous exciting and entertaining tales, many of which I’ve written down to pass on to our kids. When they get older and curious about their family history they’ll be better able to know the life of their Opa.
He was a good dad to my wife and I couldn’t have asked for a better father-in-law. He was very involved with his grandchildren and consistently took full advantage of a grandparent’s privilege of plying his grandchildren with candy regardless of whether or not a base of strong food had first been consumed. It was always a Happy Opa Day.
Peace to you, dad.
-klem
We’d regularly taken trips to a beach a short drive from his house, he and my family. He liked to take his grand kids to look for sea life in the tide pools and watch them play in the gentle surf. It was on one such beach trip in August the first signs of trouble appeared. He lost his balance a few times and was uncharacteristically out of breathe. The hospital visits began shortly thereafter.
Opa, as the whole family often preferred to call him, grew up in W.W.II Germany. He was a very mature 12 years old by the end of the war as one might imagine such experiences shaping his youth. As the oldest of three siblings one primary responsibility was to look out for the safety of his little brothers and sister.
He left Germany in 1954 after an apprenticeship in electronics. One time over coffee and Wife Klem’s blackberry cake, of which he was so fond, he explained why he left Germany, his family, and all that he knew. He said simply that he wanted to see ‘how the victors made out.’ He was twenty years old and ready to engage the world, make his way. With that he departed for Canada and entered the U.S. a year later.
He was a man of numerous exciting and entertaining tales, many of which I’ve written down to pass on to our kids. When they get older and curious about their family history they’ll be better able to know the life of their Opa.
He was a good dad to my wife and I couldn’t have asked for a better father-in-law. He was very involved with his grandchildren and consistently took full advantage of a grandparent’s privilege of plying his grandchildren with candy regardless of whether or not a base of strong food had first been consumed. It was always a Happy Opa Day.
Peace to you, dad.
-klem
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Things They Say
Conversations with kids. You never know what kind of gems you’ll be gifted. The following transpired last week with both kids driving to my son’s golf lesson.
“Daddy, our home isn't very fun,” said my daughter in a dejected tone of voice from the back seat of the car.
“No fun? What do you mean? You’ve got that cool tent set up in the office for you and your stuffed animals,” I countered kind of surprised. “You’ve got your own room. That’s pretty good. And your big girl bed.” She was very pleased with herself when we removed the rails from her bed a month ago.
“Well, some day you’ll own your own house,” I continued after a pause. “Do you know when that’s going to be?”
“After college,” said my son from his booster seat in the back.
“That’s right. And after college you’ll get a job, get your own place to live, have your own family, and buy your own house too,” I said wrapping things up.
“Dad, of all the things, I’m not looking forward to kissing the bride,” said my boy.
I suggested to him that some day he may change his mind. He appeared skeptical.
-klem
“Daddy, our home isn't very fun,” said my daughter in a dejected tone of voice from the back seat of the car.
“No fun? What do you mean? You’ve got that cool tent set up in the office for you and your stuffed animals,” I countered kind of surprised. “You’ve got your own room. That’s pretty good. And your big girl bed.” She was very pleased with herself when we removed the rails from her bed a month ago.
“Well, some day you’ll own your own house,” I continued after a pause. “Do you know when that’s going to be?”
“After college,” said my son from his booster seat in the back.
“That’s right. And after college you’ll get a job, get your own place to live, have your own family, and buy your own house too,” I said wrapping things up.
“Dad, of all the things, I’m not looking forward to kissing the bride,” said my boy.
I suggested to him that some day he may change his mind. He appeared skeptical.
-klem
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Compiled Quotes, ix
“If you’re not going to tell the truth, at least be accurate.” Lou Duva, boxing trainer [1922]
“Ignorance is not bliss, it is oblivion.” Philip Wylie, author [1902 - 1971]
“Anyone can become angry, that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not easy.” Aristotle, Greek philosopher [384BC-322BC]
“Ignorance is not bliss, it is oblivion.” Philip Wylie, author [1902 - 1971]
“Anyone can become angry, that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not easy.” Aristotle, Greek philosopher [384BC-322BC]
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Return to the NFL
I mentioned recently how the NFL and I had parted ways. That abstinance turned out to have an expiration date.
October 2004.
Our daughter was born September 2004. She had a restless first couple weeks as exhibited by gobs of crying during the day and resisting the peaceful embrace of a sleepy slumber at night for more crying. Poor, baby. One thing she did like, though, was being carried. If you merely held her and sat down or held her and stood still, she wasn’t going to tolerate that for long. Pick her up and maintain motion.
Wife Klem and I worked in shifts holding her and playing with her. During my shift I would often walk around the house holding her, talking to her, and showing her photos that hung from the wall, even though her eyeballs at that time were probably not visually operable other than seeing fuzzy shapes and colors. I eventually came to turning on ball games, the late season baseball stretch was in progress and the baseball playoffs were on a rapid approach.
The rhythm of the games actually worked out well. Watch a couple pitches, walk around the house with my baby, return for a few more pitches then walk around and talk to her. Repeat process. So my evening shifts were occupied thusly intermixed with a few feeding sessions and diaper changes.
Curious thing. After a few weeks I found that I had enjoyed watching baseball. The World Series concluded with the Sox of Boston beating the St. Louis Cardinlas 4 games to 0. Baseball season was over but I had a longing for more athletics. It was at ths point I boldly substituted football for the playoff baseball. This proved to be agreeable. My NFL sabbatical had come to a close.
To date I still crave my footballs. The viewing experience can be enhanced when my daughter concedes to being held while watching. Being as her football tolerance is low, this presents but a fleeting opportunity.
-klem
October 2004.
Our daughter was born September 2004. She had a restless first couple weeks as exhibited by gobs of crying during the day and resisting the peaceful embrace of a sleepy slumber at night for more crying. Poor, baby. One thing she did like, though, was being carried. If you merely held her and sat down or held her and stood still, she wasn’t going to tolerate that for long. Pick her up and maintain motion.
Wife Klem and I worked in shifts holding her and playing with her. During my shift I would often walk around the house holding her, talking to her, and showing her photos that hung from the wall, even though her eyeballs at that time were probably not visually operable other than seeing fuzzy shapes and colors. I eventually came to turning on ball games, the late season baseball stretch was in progress and the baseball playoffs were on a rapid approach.
The rhythm of the games actually worked out well. Watch a couple pitches, walk around the house with my baby, return for a few more pitches then walk around and talk to her. Repeat process. So my evening shifts were occupied thusly intermixed with a few feeding sessions and diaper changes.
Curious thing. After a few weeks I found that I had enjoyed watching baseball. The World Series concluded with the Sox of Boston beating the St. Louis Cardinlas 4 games to 0. Baseball season was over but I had a longing for more athletics. It was at ths point I boldly substituted football for the playoff baseball. This proved to be agreeable. My NFL sabbatical had come to a close.
To date I still crave my footballs. The viewing experience can be enhanced when my daughter concedes to being held while watching. Being as her football tolerance is low, this presents but a fleeting opportunity.
-klem
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Birthday Wishes to Mom Klem
It’s possible that Mom Klem is not renowned for her wild ways. Well hear me out.
In high school she had a teacher who occasionally issued assignments on green paper. Mom Klem and her merry band of pranksters, the sneaks, wrote in green ink on these occasions. The befuddled teacher was reduced to straining her eyeballs to read the green on green.
Lent is a time of meat-free Fridays for Catholics. Well, Mom Klem and her clever vixenous girlfriends late on a Friday night during the Lenten season, on more than one occasion, would order a pepperoni pizza pie. That’s right, these wildcats ordered a meat pizza before midnight, the pies would then be cooked, served, and eaten after midnight, now Saturday morning, free of the meat restriction. It would be a failed effort on your part should you aspire to convince me that such a cavalier move was anything short of a boldness personified.
These scamps would frequent the local Catholic school dances on the weekend. One could do little more than hope they were satisfactorily sated by this revelry fearing what madness and havoc they might otherwise instigate.
There’s so much good stuff along the way from which I could easily pull to show examples of your good deeds, Mom. But let’s not get bogged down in the drudgery.
I love you, Mom. Happy birthday.
-klem
In high school she had a teacher who occasionally issued assignments on green paper. Mom Klem and her merry band of pranksters, the sneaks, wrote in green ink on these occasions. The befuddled teacher was reduced to straining her eyeballs to read the green on green.
Lent is a time of meat-free Fridays for Catholics. Well, Mom Klem and her clever vixenous girlfriends late on a Friday night during the Lenten season, on more than one occasion, would order a pepperoni pizza pie. That’s right, these wildcats ordered a meat pizza before midnight, the pies would then be cooked, served, and eaten after midnight, now Saturday morning, free of the meat restriction. It would be a failed effort on your part should you aspire to convince me that such a cavalier move was anything short of a boldness personified.
These scamps would frequent the local Catholic school dances on the weekend. One could do little more than hope they were satisfactorily sated by this revelry fearing what madness and havoc they might otherwise instigate.
There’s so much good stuff along the way from which I could easily pull to show examples of your good deeds, Mom. But let’s not get bogged down in the drudgery.
I love you, Mom. Happy birthday.
-klem
Sunday, September 13, 2009
I Meet My Bride
December 1995
A work related move took me to another office 60 miles away. I met a cubicle neighbor, we got along well, and we went to a burger franchise and got acquainted over a couple of Whoppers, mine was without mayonnaise.
Returning to the office he introduced me to some new work cohorts, including my neighbor across aisle. She was beautiful! I did what I could to maintain my cool before departing that afternoon.
My neighbor across the aisle and I were both single. A combination of being shy, in addition to being leery of an in-office romance, I fostered a friendly, though clumsy, familiarity. Brief chit chats about weekend events and social goings-on was the typical conversation. She was quick to laugh and had a delightful smile when engaged in conversation. I was hooked hard and continued looking for reasons and topics of discussion.
May 1996
Six months later she turned in her two-weeks notice. She was leaving the company. Mustering up my strength, I managed to ask her out. I got strength in thinking that if she declined, it would be an awkward two weeks but then it’d be over and she’d be gone. But to my delight, she smiled, wrote down her phone number, folded the paper in half, and handed it to me. I think she even brushed at her hair with her hand during this brief exchange.
The evening of our first date had arrived. The conversation was no longer clumsy. We decided on a second date.
Today marks our 11th year as bride and groom! I love you, Sweet Pea. Happy Anniversary.
-klem
A work related move took me to another office 60 miles away. I met a cubicle neighbor, we got along well, and we went to a burger franchise and got acquainted over a couple of Whoppers, mine was without mayonnaise.
Returning to the office he introduced me to some new work cohorts, including my neighbor across aisle. She was beautiful! I did what I could to maintain my cool before departing that afternoon.
My neighbor across the aisle and I were both single. A combination of being shy, in addition to being leery of an in-office romance, I fostered a friendly, though clumsy, familiarity. Brief chit chats about weekend events and social goings-on was the typical conversation. She was quick to laugh and had a delightful smile when engaged in conversation. I was hooked hard and continued looking for reasons and topics of discussion.
May 1996
Six months later she turned in her two-weeks notice. She was leaving the company. Mustering up my strength, I managed to ask her out. I got strength in thinking that if she declined, it would be an awkward two weeks but then it’d be over and she’d be gone. But to my delight, she smiled, wrote down her phone number, folded the paper in half, and handed it to me. I think she even brushed at her hair with her hand during this brief exchange.
The evening of our first date had arrived. The conversation was no longer clumsy. We decided on a second date.
Today marks our 11th year as bride and groom! I love you, Sweet Pea. Happy Anniversary.
-klem
Our Daughter is Born
9/13/2004
We’re having a baby! Wife Klem awakened me at 12:07 am to advise that our daughter was ready to meet us. We woke up the boy and arrived at the hospital at 12:30 am. After a couple phone calls I returned home to leave the boy with my big brother and Wife Klem’s dad who had by now driven in after receiving a pair of rushed requests to baby sit.
Our daughter burgeoned forth at 3:36 am. She ranked in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. Not much eye contact or interest in looking around at anyone or anything, our daughter. Until, that is, she heard Mommy! Her eyes opened wide and looked right at Wife Klem. No interest in anyone else, but lots in Mommy. Probably wants to see from whence that pleasant voice has come those preceding nine months.
Today is our son's first day of school. I called to say that he won’t be in today on account of his new baby sister. The benefit of having a sister pays off immediately for him with his ‘Get out of school’ pass. Before returning to Wife Klem at the hospital I made a round of family phone calls advising of our daughter’s arrival. I also took down a celebratory breakfast of two Eggo waffles and chocolate milk.
She’s really a super kid, this baby, occasionally running through her repertoire of facial expressions. Her rendition of the large unencumbered smile ranking as my favorite.
6:30 pm. Our special in-hospital birthing celebration supper. Shrimp for me, filet mignon (that’s fancy for meat) for Wife Klem each with a single serving sparkling cider and an apple pie dessert. Good. Robust? No, but I don’t think I’d successfully manage to consume a robust meal at this point. Wife Klem? I boldly say no. The baby now beckons for a feeding. Wife Klem complying despite the meal interruption. Generous, she is.
It’s an amazing procedure the human birth. All the way up to and including the doctor holding up the spent placenta and showing us the opening from where the baby emerged. And then he casually chucked it into the garbage bin, the nut. Birth by hatching on the other hand? Much less dramatic. Much more adorable.
We love you, Boogie. Happy birthday.
-klem
We’re having a baby! Wife Klem awakened me at 12:07 am to advise that our daughter was ready to meet us. We woke up the boy and arrived at the hospital at 12:30 am. After a couple phone calls I returned home to leave the boy with my big brother and Wife Klem’s dad who had by now driven in after receiving a pair of rushed requests to baby sit.
Our daughter burgeoned forth at 3:36 am. She ranked in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. Not much eye contact or interest in looking around at anyone or anything, our daughter. Until, that is, she heard Mommy! Her eyes opened wide and looked right at Wife Klem. No interest in anyone else, but lots in Mommy. Probably wants to see from whence that pleasant voice has come those preceding nine months.
Today is our son's first day of school. I called to say that he won’t be in today on account of his new baby sister. The benefit of having a sister pays off immediately for him with his ‘Get out of school’ pass. Before returning to Wife Klem at the hospital I made a round of family phone calls advising of our daughter’s arrival. I also took down a celebratory breakfast of two Eggo waffles and chocolate milk.
She’s really a super kid, this baby, occasionally running through her repertoire of facial expressions. Her rendition of the large unencumbered smile ranking as my favorite.
6:30 pm. Our special in-hospital birthing celebration supper. Shrimp for me, filet mignon (that’s fancy for meat) for Wife Klem each with a single serving sparkling cider and an apple pie dessert. Good. Robust? No, but I don’t think I’d successfully manage to consume a robust meal at this point. Wife Klem? I boldly say no. The baby now beckons for a feeding. Wife Klem complying despite the meal interruption. Generous, she is.
It’s an amazing procedure the human birth. All the way up to and including the doctor holding up the spent placenta and showing us the opening from where the baby emerged. And then he casually chucked it into the garbage bin, the nut. Birth by hatching on the other hand? Much less dramatic. Much more adorable.
We love you, Boogie. Happy birthday.
-klem
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Rock Concert
Before our daughter was born I would often take the boy in his stroller, then three years old, and the dog for a weekend morning walk to the nearby park. This one specific morning there was a crew setting up an extensive arrangement of temporary chain link fencing. Something major was underway.
9/12/2004
“What’s going on,” I asked a guy.
“George Thoroughgood is playing today,” he replied. Thoroughgood. That’s a rock band. A decade or so beyond their prime, but still, playing here? At the park?
“They’re opening for Blue Oyster Cult,” he continued.
With that my attention was fully piqued! BOC, for those of us in the know, was a favorite rock band of my brothers back in the ‘80s. Having been fortunately furnished with this chance information, my day’s plans were to be altered.
I had a few chores to do, but my boy and I were going to see BOC live! He was excited when I proposed that we come back for a picnic lunch to watch a rock concert. I liked his enthusiasm. Although I venture to say he didn’t really grasp what ‘rock concert’ meant.
Returning home I had to hustle around to complete the yard chores before we went. It was getting close to start time when I had just finished. Stepping into the house I was expecting to have to quickly make sandwiches and pack a lunch. But I was instead greeted by a smiling Wife Klem who had packed lunch for me and the boy and offered to drop us off near the park. How lucky am I? Thanks, Wife Klem.
“Are you ready?! On your feet, or your knees, for the amazing . . . Blue Oyster Cult!!” blared through the sound system as we entered the park. The big ‘80’s rock band had just taken the stage. We navigated around the paying customer seating and luncheoned 50 yards to the left of the stage beyond the metal chain link temporary perimeter fence under a tree on a grassy knoll. Sandwiches in hand, along with binoculars, we took in the scene. Good view of the stage, beach balls bouncing among the crowd, and the money-paying spectators, of which we were not. A $25 ticket price secured them a patch of grass in the sun within their fenced-in confines.
The event was hosted by Harley Davidson. This would be readily attested by the amusingly rugged contingent of Harley gear-wearing folks in attendance, in addition to the numerous limping personnel and various other physical observations seemingly resultant of a hard living.
We stayed for an hour. He had fun, but I sensed that he had his fill when he started to ask after every song, “It’s over, Daddy?”
We got home, put the guy down for his nap. The next day his sister would be born.
-klem
9/12/2004
“What’s going on,” I asked a guy.
“George Thoroughgood is playing today,” he replied. Thoroughgood. That’s a rock band. A decade or so beyond their prime, but still, playing here? At the park?
“They’re opening for Blue Oyster Cult,” he continued.
With that my attention was fully piqued! BOC, for those of us in the know, was a favorite rock band of my brothers back in the ‘80s. Having been fortunately furnished with this chance information, my day’s plans were to be altered.
I had a few chores to do, but my boy and I were going to see BOC live! He was excited when I proposed that we come back for a picnic lunch to watch a rock concert. I liked his enthusiasm. Although I venture to say he didn’t really grasp what ‘rock concert’ meant.
Returning home I had to hustle around to complete the yard chores before we went. It was getting close to start time when I had just finished. Stepping into the house I was expecting to have to quickly make sandwiches and pack a lunch. But I was instead greeted by a smiling Wife Klem who had packed lunch for me and the boy and offered to drop us off near the park. How lucky am I? Thanks, Wife Klem.
“Are you ready?! On your feet, or your knees, for the amazing . . . Blue Oyster Cult!!” blared through the sound system as we entered the park. The big ‘80’s rock band had just taken the stage. We navigated around the paying customer seating and luncheoned 50 yards to the left of the stage beyond the metal chain link temporary perimeter fence under a tree on a grassy knoll. Sandwiches in hand, along with binoculars, we took in the scene. Good view of the stage, beach balls bouncing among the crowd, and the money-paying spectators, of which we were not. A $25 ticket price secured them a patch of grass in the sun within their fenced-in confines.
The event was hosted by Harley Davidson. This would be readily attested by the amusingly rugged contingent of Harley gear-wearing folks in attendance, in addition to the numerous limping personnel and various other physical observations seemingly resultant of a hard living.
We stayed for an hour. He had fun, but I sensed that he had his fill when he started to ask after every song, “It’s over, Daddy?”
We got home, put the guy down for his nap. The next day his sister would be born.
-klem
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Klem’s Corollaries on Life, excerpt iii
(21) Reach for a dictionary once in a while. Look it up.
(22) Dude, if you’re rocking a pony tail and it’s not for a Halloween costume or a prank, cut if off. Who’re you, Steven Segal?
(23) When picking up a heavy object, lift with your legs, not your back.
(24) Vanity license plates. Almost never a good idea.
(25) Happiness comes with seeking satisfaction and fulfillment. Not from the pursuit of happiness.
(26) Have a plan. Periodically review that plan for improvements.
(27) Read constantly. Novels, newspapers, magazines, the Bible. Doesn’t matter, just read something. When you finish it, pick something else to read. Repeat process.
(28) If you feel compelled to criticize, mix in constructive comments.
(29) If you feel you have to mumble, then it’s probably not worth saying. Stop mumbling.
(30) Use spell check.
-klem
(22) Dude, if you’re rocking a pony tail and it’s not for a Halloween costume or a prank, cut if off. Who’re you, Steven Segal?
(23) When picking up a heavy object, lift with your legs, not your back.
(24) Vanity license plates. Almost never a good idea.
(25) Happiness comes with seeking satisfaction and fulfillment. Not from the pursuit of happiness.
(26) Have a plan. Periodically review that plan for improvements.
(27) Read constantly. Novels, newspapers, magazines, the Bible. Doesn’t matter, just read something. When you finish it, pick something else to read. Repeat process.
(28) If you feel compelled to criticize, mix in constructive comments.
(29) If you feel you have to mumble, then it’s probably not worth saying. Stop mumbling.
(30) Use spell check.
-klem
Saturday, September 5, 2009
My Involuntary NFL Sabbatical
It was September 1, 1996 at 10:04 am Pacific Time. Sunday morning, Week 1 of football season and a game was just then kicking off.
I’d been a football fan since 1975, I was eight, and my team had always been the Cleveland Browns. Very sadly, the Browns had moved to Baltimore at the conclusion of the previous football season and changed their name to the Baltimore Ravens. My Cleveland Browns no longer existed!
I was tremendously disappointed with this development, but couldn’t be certain how it would affect me until football returned. I’d been a football watcher on Sundays during football season for 20 years. Would I still feel compelled to watch the great pageantry that is professional football even though I was now without a team? For whom, now, should I root? I was riddled with confusion. Today I would find my answers as the first games of the season kicked off across the country.
“Honey, do you want this?” My girlfriend at the time, who later, to my glee, would become my bride, asked if I had an interest in watching the football game that was airing on the television.
Thinking briefly upon Sweet Pea’s query, “No thanks.”
Silly thing, I didn’t know how I would feel about football again until that first kick off of the new season. Here we were. I was surprised at how easily I had turned the page on the NFL. Its draw for me had been extinguished.
-klem
[Note: An NFL team returned to Cleveland in 1999. It would be a few years more before I made my peace with the NFL and returned as a spectator.]
I’d been a football fan since 1975, I was eight, and my team had always been the Cleveland Browns. Very sadly, the Browns had moved to Baltimore at the conclusion of the previous football season and changed their name to the Baltimore Ravens. My Cleveland Browns no longer existed!
I was tremendously disappointed with this development, but couldn’t be certain how it would affect me until football returned. I’d been a football watcher on Sundays during football season for 20 years. Would I still feel compelled to watch the great pageantry that is professional football even though I was now without a team? For whom, now, should I root? I was riddled with confusion. Today I would find my answers as the first games of the season kicked off across the country.
“Honey, do you want this?” My girlfriend at the time, who later, to my glee, would become my bride, asked if I had an interest in watching the football game that was airing on the television.
Thinking briefly upon Sweet Pea’s query, “No thanks.”
Silly thing, I didn’t know how I would feel about football again until that first kick off of the new season. Here we were. I was surprised at how easily I had turned the page on the NFL. Its draw for me had been extinguished.
-klem
[Note: An NFL team returned to Cleveland in 1999. It would be a few years more before I made my peace with the NFL and returned as a spectator.]
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Student Discount
The student discount has been a favorite of mine for many years. You know, you go to the movie theater, zoo, or other fee-for-entry establishments and the student discount is often available for the asking and photo ID verification. I’ve rarely taken advantage of it, but have cherished it each time as one might cherish an unassisted triple play in baseball or a safety in football.
I was last officially a student in June 1990 when I graduated from college. Strictly speaking the student discount was no longer available to me for the balance of my days.
In 1992 I took Scuba diving classes with my kid brother and we became certified divers. We were issued student diver ID cards on the front end of the our training.
It was this student identification card with photo and official student number that I called into use over the years to score this youth-intended discount. I pulled the stunt as recently as last year when Team Klem went to the Los Angeles County Museum of History. My boy likes dinosaurs, we go periodically and let the fella refresh his interest by staring at the ancient bones.
I saved maybe $2 with the discount that afternoon. Wife Klem amusedly suggested that I retire from the student discount racket. Maybe she’s right. I should probably give up the ghost on this. But in a moment of weakness I cannot guarantee that should I be under the influence of a squirrelly mood that I’d be able to muster the needed gumption to once again resist pulling that card from my wallet and showing it to a clerk. I can only try to do my best.
A rascal or a scoundrel, am I? You decide.
-klem
non-student
I was last officially a student in June 1990 when I graduated from college. Strictly speaking the student discount was no longer available to me for the balance of my days.
In 1992 I took Scuba diving classes with my kid brother and we became certified divers. We were issued student diver ID cards on the front end of the our training.
It was this student identification card with photo and official student number that I called into use over the years to score this youth-intended discount. I pulled the stunt as recently as last year when Team Klem went to the Los Angeles County Museum of History. My boy likes dinosaurs, we go periodically and let the fella refresh his interest by staring at the ancient bones.
I saved maybe $2 with the discount that afternoon. Wife Klem amusedly suggested that I retire from the student discount racket. Maybe she’s right. I should probably give up the ghost on this. But in a moment of weakness I cannot guarantee that should I be under the influence of a squirrelly mood that I’d be able to muster the needed gumption to once again resist pulling that card from my wallet and showing it to a clerk. I can only try to do my best.
A rascal or a scoundrel, am I? You decide.
-klem
non-student
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Water Park. Defeat.
We’re on the cusp of admitting defeat, is Team Klem. The goal of 20 is a distant thought well beyond the horizon from where we stand at present.
In May we bought season passes to the local water park and were excited at the prospect of pushing toward our personal record for number of visits in one summer! Sadly, we’ve visited the amusement locale only seven times since the acquisition of said passes. I’m embarrassed about how I let ourselves fall so far behind pace. The park closes in two weeks. We’ll have until May 2010 when it reopens next year to ponder how we’ve underperformed this summer.
I could blather on, offer explanations, reasons, and excuses as to our rather pedestrian number of visits. But it’s best if I just provide the facts and let them speak for our lack of gumption in this regard. Seven.
I suspect we’ll try again next year with another batch of season passes. The goal may have to be set at a more lackluster, though attainable, elevation. Or do we abstain next summer breaking the streak that links back to 2003?
Disappointed but not entirely dejected. Tomorrow we’ll seek something different on which to claim victory.
-klem
In May we bought season passes to the local water park and were excited at the prospect of pushing toward our personal record for number of visits in one summer! Sadly, we’ve visited the amusement locale only seven times since the acquisition of said passes. I’m embarrassed about how I let ourselves fall so far behind pace. The park closes in two weeks. We’ll have until May 2010 when it reopens next year to ponder how we’ve underperformed this summer.
I could blather on, offer explanations, reasons, and excuses as to our rather pedestrian number of visits. But it’s best if I just provide the facts and let them speak for our lack of gumption in this regard. Seven.
I suspect we’ll try again next year with another batch of season passes. The goal may have to be set at a more lackluster, though attainable, elevation. Or do we abstain next summer breaking the streak that links back to 2003?
Disappointed but not entirely dejected. Tomorrow we’ll seek something different on which to claim victory.
-klem
Friday, August 28, 2009
A Gift of Ears
“Who mailed us corn,” asked a surprised Wife Klem the other day staring down at the contents of an unsolicited package that arrived with the mail and had just been opened. After barely a moment’s pause I knew from whence it came. I also knew without any further inspection that it was of the sweet corn variety.
I’ve got this friend of mine, quite a chum, really. We’ll call him Dan At A Slower Pace. We met at work nearly two decades ago, a friendship that transcended the work confines. This friend and his family have ample property at their home and have employed a portion of it as a generously dimensioned personal “garden”. How generous? And why is “garden” in quotes? 15 acres dedicated to a noncommercial farm operation is tough to call a garden, but qualifies easily as generous. He, too, blogs and recently posted about his crops and this season’s haul.
Growing up in southern California, as I did, a farm, or 15 acres of personal garden, holds a certain mystique for me. Upon reading his post I couldn’t contain my unsophisticated agricultural curiosity. To read his post, peruse the photos, and mock my city boy comments [click here] and fast forward to his August 9 post. Dan graciously volunteered to feed my curiosity with the aforementioned unsolicited gifted ears of corn.
Thanks for the sweet corn, Mr. At A Slower Pace. The ears were delicious and consumed enthusiastically.
-klem
I’ve got this friend of mine, quite a chum, really. We’ll call him Dan At A Slower Pace. We met at work nearly two decades ago, a friendship that transcended the work confines. This friend and his family have ample property at their home and have employed a portion of it as a generously dimensioned personal “garden”. How generous? And why is “garden” in quotes? 15 acres dedicated to a noncommercial farm operation is tough to call a garden, but qualifies easily as generous. He, too, blogs and recently posted about his crops and this season’s haul.
Growing up in southern California, as I did, a farm, or 15 acres of personal garden, holds a certain mystique for me. Upon reading his post I couldn’t contain my unsophisticated agricultural curiosity. To read his post, peruse the photos, and mock my city boy comments [click here] and fast forward to his August 9 post. Dan graciously volunteered to feed my curiosity with the aforementioned unsolicited gifted ears of corn.
Thanks for the sweet corn, Mr. At A Slower Pace. The ears were delicious and consumed enthusiastically.
-klem
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt vii
People who dress their dogs in outfits or a sweater. That’s too bad.
Pumpkins are deserving of better standing than the secondary thought attributed to a seasonal fruit.
Based on it’s pronunciation, I’m not comfortable with the spelling of ‘colonel’.
Cardigan sweaters do not exude a spirit of aggressive intent.
Cats bury their guano. Sissies. But then, you gotta respect their tidiness when compared to poo-throwing monkeys.
-klem
Pumpkins are deserving of better standing than the secondary thought attributed to a seasonal fruit.
Based on it’s pronunciation, I’m not comfortable with the spelling of ‘colonel’.
Cardigan sweaters do not exude a spirit of aggressive intent.
Cats bury their guano. Sissies. But then, you gotta respect their tidiness when compared to poo-throwing monkeys.
-klem
Monday, August 24, 2009
Canine Insectivore
[Warning: A graphic carnage-filled video follows.]
It happened this summer during a slumber party. The entire Team Klem was being hosted by the entire Team Adornato. It started with the cats, of which there were two.
One feline had caught a moth, a large one, while playing outside and brought it indoors where it was released. The cats jumped and chased the thing as it skittered along near the ceiling. The dog got worked up by the frenzy and joined in the rumpus. Perhaps it was due to the confusion of the melee, the moth made a strategic error by recklessly diving down to a more attainable altitude for it’s landlubber assailants for which it paid dearly. Snatched!
Emerging from the room victorious was the dog, Lucy Chew. She plopped on the ground holding her prize, the moth, deftly between her paws and ‘playfully’ pulling at the moth’s wings with her teeth. An entertaining scene for the callous of heart. The carnage was caught on video.
Thanks again to Team Adornato for hosting the slumber party this summer. Good times, unless you were the moth.
-klem
It happened this summer during a slumber party. The entire Team Klem was being hosted by the entire Team Adornato. It started with the cats, of which there were two.
One feline had caught a moth, a large one, while playing outside and brought it indoors where it was released. The cats jumped and chased the thing as it skittered along near the ceiling. The dog got worked up by the frenzy and joined in the rumpus. Perhaps it was due to the confusion of the melee, the moth made a strategic error by recklessly diving down to a more attainable altitude for it’s landlubber assailants for which it paid dearly. Snatched!
Emerging from the room victorious was the dog, Lucy Chew. She plopped on the ground holding her prize, the moth, deftly between her paws and ‘playfully’ pulling at the moth’s wings with her teeth. An entertaining scene for the callous of heart. The carnage was caught on video.
Thanks again to Team Adornato for hosting the slumber party this summer. Good times, unless you were the moth.
-klem
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Little Treat
‘What happened to my car,’ I thought to myself walking past it in the parking lot at work the other day. It looked so . . . clean.
I have a field job. I drive to the office Monday morning, retrieve the company car, and drive it around all week in the name of work. My personal car domiciles overnight in the parking lot three or four nights each week.
A vendor is contracted to periodically visit the lot and wash the company cars. You know, it puts up a good clean positive image when employees meet customers looking tidy. It makes sense.
The company cars are parked in two aisles and don a company sticker on the rear bumper. My personal car is a former company car. The company sticker, though cracking and far from pristine due to age, remains affixed on my rear bumper. On Monday morning I parked it in a spot adjacent to the two aisles, but not in one of the aisles.
The car cleaning vendor washed cars this week. I saw my personal car the other day as I walked to the office after parking my company car. It had an unfamiliar shine to it. They had cleaned my car by accident! I smiled at the treat of an unexpected washing, then left it in the lot two more nights.
I drove home from the office this afternoon into the weekend looking through a squeaky clean windshield. Well, at least squeaky clean on the outside. I wonder if they’da vacuumed the interior if I left it unlocked?
-klem
I have a field job. I drive to the office Monday morning, retrieve the company car, and drive it around all week in the name of work. My personal car domiciles overnight in the parking lot three or four nights each week.
A vendor is contracted to periodically visit the lot and wash the company cars. You know, it puts up a good clean positive image when employees meet customers looking tidy. It makes sense.
The company cars are parked in two aisles and don a company sticker on the rear bumper. My personal car is a former company car. The company sticker, though cracking and far from pristine due to age, remains affixed on my rear bumper. On Monday morning I parked it in a spot adjacent to the two aisles, but not in one of the aisles.
The car cleaning vendor washed cars this week. I saw my personal car the other day as I walked to the office after parking my company car. It had an unfamiliar shine to it. They had cleaned my car by accident! I smiled at the treat of an unexpected washing, then left it in the lot two more nights.
I drove home from the office this afternoon into the weekend looking through a squeaky clean windshield. Well, at least squeaky clean on the outside. I wonder if they’da vacuumed the interior if I left it unlocked?
-klem
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Health Care Reform
Health Care reform has gotten plenty of attention the last few months, and for good reason. The cost of providing health care and the level of care that best befits one’s family are important issues. Anyone would be hard pressed to successfully argue that improvements are not needed.
The ongoing health care reform discussion presented by the President and Congress are based on two major points:
1) Our current health care system is too expensive.
2) Health care should be provided to everyone, mainly the uninsured.
I’d like to air out my concerns by addressing both.
(1) Health care is expensive. Most people will agree with that. Estimates place health care costs in the United States at about 15% of Gross Domestic Product. That’s a significant amount of jack. The Federal government is looking to interject itself as the solution by actually providing health care. Does anybody really expect that health care will become less expensive if the Federal government takes over?
From an expenses standpoint, this health care reform has absolutely no merit. The private sector is, and will continue to be, a less expensive option than any version of Government health care. As the saying goes, ‘If you think it’s expensive now, wait until it’s free!’
(2) So you want the uninsured not just to be insured, but to be provided health care at no charge. That sounds like an expensive proposition. This in itself seems to defeat the first point.
There’s some disagreement as to the actual number of Americans without health insurance, but let’s go with the high estimate of 15%, 45 million. Are we really going to change the entire health care system to accommodate 15%? Does that not sound extreme? In the least it sounds like a reckless thing to do.
A few additional issues to discuss in the face of the proposed legislation:
(a) We are told that people will be able to retain their employer-provided plans if they prefer them to the public option, the Government plan. That’s baloney! Once the government offers a free plan, employers will more than likely drop the employer-health care benefit feature. ‘Why continue with this expense if government provides it at no cost,’ employers will ponder. This employer-option will cease to exist.
(b) Health care options would decrease. As the other health insurance options disappear in the wake of the Government’s plan, options for health care will actually become fewer, not more as is being boasted with this reform. That’s too bad, this result of fewer options. People need options because we all place different priorities and values on health insurance and the level of care people want depending on what stage in life they’re in. Whether a person is single, married with young kids, or elderly drives this sliding scale of need.
A one-size-fits-all plan is inappropriate for health care. In fact, one-size-fits-all does not work outside the realm of tube socks and spandex.
Think of houses, for example. People place value on different features. Some folks may want a fancy house, ranch style for others, a two story home versus a one story, and beach front preference to mountain areas. Our current health care system does offer different choices. A government plan ultimately stifles choice as explained above.
The same level of health care for all is a bad idea. This is especially so when this ‘same level’ relegates everyone to a sub par standard. People want different things and strive to complete their own dreams, desires, and goals. If some desire, have planned for, and have secured the level of care they want for themselves they should be able to have it. These freedoms of choice are motivation for people to improve themselves and their circumstances to meet their goals and provide for their family.
Health care is in need of reform. Perhaps these reform ideas are worthy of consideration:
1) Amend the way medical services are charged. How about paying for medical and health care based on results rather than services performed and medication dispensed? That pair of $50 aspirins maybe won’t be prescribed unnecessarily if there’s no 1,000% mark up.
2) Malpractice law suits. If a suit is deemed to have no merit, then the claimant and their law firm should be subject to absorb the entire cost of all legal expenses or a significant penalty. The desired effect is to discourage frivolous lawsuits. This will bring down the cost of medical malpractice insurance which will result in a lower cost of practicing medicine.
Health care is an important topic that is worthy of more detail than these abbreviated offerings. But if I don’t cut this down to a more digestible size nobody would bother to read this but Mom Klem. With that, I close.
-klem
The ongoing health care reform discussion presented by the President and Congress are based on two major points:
1) Our current health care system is too expensive.
2) Health care should be provided to everyone, mainly the uninsured.
I’d like to air out my concerns by addressing both.
(1) Health care is expensive. Most people will agree with that. Estimates place health care costs in the United States at about 15% of Gross Domestic Product. That’s a significant amount of jack. The Federal government is looking to interject itself as the solution by actually providing health care. Does anybody really expect that health care will become less expensive if the Federal government takes over?
From an expenses standpoint, this health care reform has absolutely no merit. The private sector is, and will continue to be, a less expensive option than any version of Government health care. As the saying goes, ‘If you think it’s expensive now, wait until it’s free!’
(2) So you want the uninsured not just to be insured, but to be provided health care at no charge. That sounds like an expensive proposition. This in itself seems to defeat the first point.
There’s some disagreement as to the actual number of Americans without health insurance, but let’s go with the high estimate of 15%, 45 million. Are we really going to change the entire health care system to accommodate 15%? Does that not sound extreme? In the least it sounds like a reckless thing to do.
A few additional issues to discuss in the face of the proposed legislation:
(a) We are told that people will be able to retain their employer-provided plans if they prefer them to the public option, the Government plan. That’s baloney! Once the government offers a free plan, employers will more than likely drop the employer-health care benefit feature. ‘Why continue with this expense if government provides it at no cost,’ employers will ponder. This employer-option will cease to exist.
(b) Health care options would decrease. As the other health insurance options disappear in the wake of the Government’s plan, options for health care will actually become fewer, not more as is being boasted with this reform. That’s too bad, this result of fewer options. People need options because we all place different priorities and values on health insurance and the level of care people want depending on what stage in life they’re in. Whether a person is single, married with young kids, or elderly drives this sliding scale of need.
A one-size-fits-all plan is inappropriate for health care. In fact, one-size-fits-all does not work outside the realm of tube socks and spandex.
Think of houses, for example. People place value on different features. Some folks may want a fancy house, ranch style for others, a two story home versus a one story, and beach front preference to mountain areas. Our current health care system does offer different choices. A government plan ultimately stifles choice as explained above.
The same level of health care for all is a bad idea. This is especially so when this ‘same level’ relegates everyone to a sub par standard. People want different things and strive to complete their own dreams, desires, and goals. If some desire, have planned for, and have secured the level of care they want for themselves they should be able to have it. These freedoms of choice are motivation for people to improve themselves and their circumstances to meet their goals and provide for their family.
Health care is in need of reform. Perhaps these reform ideas are worthy of consideration:
1) Amend the way medical services are charged. How about paying for medical and health care based on results rather than services performed and medication dispensed? That pair of $50 aspirins maybe won’t be prescribed unnecessarily if there’s no 1,000% mark up.
2) Malpractice law suits. If a suit is deemed to have no merit, then the claimant and their law firm should be subject to absorb the entire cost of all legal expenses or a significant penalty. The desired effect is to discourage frivolous lawsuits. This will bring down the cost of medical malpractice insurance which will result in a lower cost of practicing medicine.
Health care is an important topic that is worthy of more detail than these abbreviated offerings. But if I don’t cut this down to a more digestible size nobody would bother to read this but Mom Klem. With that, I close.
-klem
Monday, August 17, 2009
Bitten By a Goose
The petting zoo never disappoints. All those baby goats, sheep, and pigs available for the petting. Cool stuff. Except for the time a goose gave me a bloody lip.
1973
The family went to the Los Angeles Zoo. I was just a little guy of six years entering the petting zoo quadrant. After looking at the caged beasts for over an hour my siblings and I were pretty lathered up at the idea of actually touching some.
Petting zoos are commonly equipped with feed dispensers. Toss a coin into the slot, turn the knob, get the feed from the dispenser, and commence enticing the animals to come close for a touching. If one hasn’t coins to load into the machine, guile must be employed to get within arm’s reach of the more elusive creatures. My older brother, I saw, had seemed to prove hearty in this area.
With nothing in his hand, he would cup it, as if it were loaded with oats and whatever, and extend it toward the desired animal. This proved effective in getting the animal’s attention and they would approach, unwitting prey. The downside, though, was that the animals would scamper off once they were close enough to observe the cupped hand was merely nude. So close, but lacking success. Try again.
I liked the sense of sport in this. Optimistic that I’d work this technique to fruition, I spied the object of my desire. A big goose. I wanted to pet that goose. Empty hand was cupped and extended. Goose’s attention gained, he approached, observed the deceit in my hand, honked, and walked away.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I thought to myself. I pursued. Goose quickened its pace, I equaled it. He went under an unskirted building that had been raised on pillars. With almost three feet of clearance, I followed. At this point the goose turned. ‘I’m gonna touch him!’ I thought. And I was right. But not as I had hoped.
He ran at me, too fast for the clumsy unhoned motor skills of my six years. He bit me on the lip!
I emerged from under the building a crying little guy and a bloody lip. Pop Klem bought me a snow cone in hopes to minimize the swelling. Once he saw that I was fine, more scared than harmed, I can imagine the effort he had to summon to suppress the laughter that this lip biting goose must have inspired.
I have since forgiven the goose and bear it no ill will.
1976
A second incident at the same petting zoo involved my sister and a baby goat. The goat head-butted my sister. ‘A baby goat. How cute,’ one might think initially. Except for the small set of horns starting to protrude from the goat’s head. My sister, a tough five years, remained afoot despite blood flowing from her forehead. With a handful of napkins Pop Klem was present to staunch the bleeding.
My two kids have remained unscathed in their petting zoo visits. Though Wife Klem and I will continue to tempt fate.
-klem
1973
The family went to the Los Angeles Zoo. I was just a little guy of six years entering the petting zoo quadrant. After looking at the caged beasts for over an hour my siblings and I were pretty lathered up at the idea of actually touching some.
Petting zoos are commonly equipped with feed dispensers. Toss a coin into the slot, turn the knob, get the feed from the dispenser, and commence enticing the animals to come close for a touching. If one hasn’t coins to load into the machine, guile must be employed to get within arm’s reach of the more elusive creatures. My older brother, I saw, had seemed to prove hearty in this area.
With nothing in his hand, he would cup it, as if it were loaded with oats and whatever, and extend it toward the desired animal. This proved effective in getting the animal’s attention and they would approach, unwitting prey. The downside, though, was that the animals would scamper off once they were close enough to observe the cupped hand was merely nude. So close, but lacking success. Try again.
I liked the sense of sport in this. Optimistic that I’d work this technique to fruition, I spied the object of my desire. A big goose. I wanted to pet that goose. Empty hand was cupped and extended. Goose’s attention gained, he approached, observed the deceit in my hand, honked, and walked away.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I thought to myself. I pursued. Goose quickened its pace, I equaled it. He went under an unskirted building that had been raised on pillars. With almost three feet of clearance, I followed. At this point the goose turned. ‘I’m gonna touch him!’ I thought. And I was right. But not as I had hoped.
He ran at me, too fast for the clumsy unhoned motor skills of my six years. He bit me on the lip!
I emerged from under the building a crying little guy and a bloody lip. Pop Klem bought me a snow cone in hopes to minimize the swelling. Once he saw that I was fine, more scared than harmed, I can imagine the effort he had to summon to suppress the laughter that this lip biting goose must have inspired.
I have since forgiven the goose and bear it no ill will.
1976
A second incident at the same petting zoo involved my sister and a baby goat. The goat head-butted my sister. ‘A baby goat. How cute,’ one might think initially. Except for the small set of horns starting to protrude from the goat’s head. My sister, a tough five years, remained afoot despite blood flowing from her forehead. With a handful of napkins Pop Klem was present to staunch the bleeding.
My two kids have remained unscathed in their petting zoo visits. Though Wife Klem and I will continue to tempt fate.
-klem
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Football Haiku
It’s nearly football season! The pageantry of the game, the highlights, the statistics, the emotional highs and lows of the football games enriching each game day. The anticipation of the NFL puts a little extra spring in my step. Really I can’t wait. With that, I offer a football haiku.
-klem
Hundred yards of green
Pigskin hash marks pads and ball
Football I’ve missed you
Pigskin hash marks pads and ball
Football I’ve missed you
-klem
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Klem’s Corollaries on Life, excerpt ii
(11) Don’t be rude.
(12) Don’t use foul language. It depreciates your own character rather than that of the person to whom your foul language is directed.
(13) It’s not always what you’re obligated to do that’s most important. Oftentimes, it’s what you don’t have to do but care enough to do it anyway.
(14) Change the filters in your furnace and air conditioning intake.
(15) Don’t be a one-upper. Let someone else have their moment.
(16) Complaining is for those who have given up. Remain above that self-degradation. Just think of a solution and move on.
(17) Sun block. Use it. Your kids too. This’ll make more sense once you’re 40+ years old.
(18) Eat vegetables.
(19) Read to your kids. And once they’re able to read, take the time to listen to them read.
(20) Train your dog.
-klem
(12) Don’t use foul language. It depreciates your own character rather than that of the person to whom your foul language is directed.
(13) It’s not always what you’re obligated to do that’s most important. Oftentimes, it’s what you don’t have to do but care enough to do it anyway.
(14) Change the filters in your furnace and air conditioning intake.
(15) Don’t be a one-upper. Let someone else have their moment.
(16) Complaining is for those who have given up. Remain above that self-degradation. Just think of a solution and move on.
(17) Sun block. Use it. Your kids too. This’ll make more sense once you’re 40+ years old.
(18) Eat vegetables.
(19) Read to your kids. And once they’re able to read, take the time to listen to them read.
(20) Train your dog.
-klem
Monday, August 10, 2009
Heroes. Not Dorks.
We recently visited a college buddy of mine and his family for a weekend. We’ll call them Team Adornato. They’ve got a pair of kids, same ages as ours, and they all played well together with only a few minor flare-ups.
At one point Adornato and I slipped away to get in some video gaming. Yes, my weakness for video gaming raises its head yet again. The gaming system for the weekend was the Xbox. The game was Guitar Hero III Legends of Rock.
“You guys are dorks,” said his daughter, a smart eight years old, as she came across the two of us discussing our gaming. There is certainly a healthy dose of validity to her comment. Although I am humbly inclined to suggest that ‘Heroes’ might be more accurate, ‘Guitar Heroes’ to be precise.
For those not familiar with the Guitar Hero game series, please allow me to briefly explain. You have the option of one or two players. Team Adornato being equipped with two guitar gaming controllers, we rocked out simultaneously alternating duty between lead and bass guitars. We proved to be a commendable force in this capacity.
In the game, the players select a song and the game delivers a color coded sequence denoting the guitar riffs. The players are to duplicate the color coded sequence of notes with their guitar controllers. If performed inadequately, players miss too many notes for example, the players are ‘booed off stage’ and the game abruptly ends the song. You may then try again, choose a different song, or try an easier setting. More songs are gradually unlocked, made available, as the players proficiently complete the easier songs. I don’t mind admitting, it’s fun stuff.
Sunday night when the kids went to sleep, we unleashed a fury unto the game that unlocked the 35 songs plus 15 bonus tracks in just over two hours! There remained a number of songs available on the Guitar Hero virtual store, but those remain for purchase rather than earned on merit as we had become accustomed.
Upon this recounting, I feel compelled to reconsider my earlier rebuke. Perhaps Dorks is more appropriate.
-dork
At one point Adornato and I slipped away to get in some video gaming. Yes, my weakness for video gaming raises its head yet again. The gaming system for the weekend was the Xbox. The game was Guitar Hero III Legends of Rock.
“You guys are dorks,” said his daughter, a smart eight years old, as she came across the two of us discussing our gaming. There is certainly a healthy dose of validity to her comment. Although I am humbly inclined to suggest that ‘Heroes’ might be more accurate, ‘Guitar Heroes’ to be precise.
For those not familiar with the Guitar Hero game series, please allow me to briefly explain. You have the option of one or two players. Team Adornato being equipped with two guitar gaming controllers, we rocked out simultaneously alternating duty between lead and bass guitars. We proved to be a commendable force in this capacity.
In the game, the players select a song and the game delivers a color coded sequence denoting the guitar riffs. The players are to duplicate the color coded sequence of notes with their guitar controllers. If performed inadequately, players miss too many notes for example, the players are ‘booed off stage’ and the game abruptly ends the song. You may then try again, choose a different song, or try an easier setting. More songs are gradually unlocked, made available, as the players proficiently complete the easier songs. I don’t mind admitting, it’s fun stuff.
Sunday night when the kids went to sleep, we unleashed a fury unto the game that unlocked the 35 songs plus 15 bonus tracks in just over two hours! There remained a number of songs available on the Guitar Hero virtual store, but those remain for purchase rather than earned on merit as we had become accustomed.
Upon this recounting, I feel compelled to reconsider my earlier rebuke. Perhaps Dorks is more appropriate.
-dork
Friday, August 7, 2009
Wingtip Repair
My first week of work at a full time post-college job concluded 19 years ago today.
August 1990
I reported to work, my first day on the job, in the pinstripe suit, a striking blue tie, my favorite, and new black leather wingtip shoes. By the end of the first day my feet were blistered and sore. So recent from college was I that the footwear to which I remained best accustomed were sandals and high-top basketball shoes. But being one who enjoyed personal milestones I cheerfully noted, at the end of day one, that this had been the longest I’d ever worn the wingtips, nearly ten hours including drive time to and from the office. Hopefully, the shoes would become more comfortable with each successive day, I thought to myself.
By noon on the fifth day my tender toes had had enough. Blisters were several, one had popped, and walking had become painful. At lunch I walked 200 yards to the neighboring enclosed shopping mall where I located a retail Florsheim shoe store. Having pleaded my case of too tightly bound feet, the shoe merchant gladly took the lightly worn dogs and placed them on the shoe stretching machine in the stock area. This machine, in those few minutes, became my favorite mechanical innovation.
While the wingtips were being racked, I perused the shoe shelves from the comfort of my stockinged feet. Eating a honey roasted turkey breast sandwich with American cheese, which I had packed myself, I felt somehow gleeful in the setting what with my suit and tie, but no shoes as I strolled the aisles with sandwich in mid-consumption.
In due time, the shoes were returned, sandwich taken down, stockinged feet neatly enveloped by the complimentary stretched leathers, and 200 yards were counted off as I returned to the 11-story office building.
My first professional conundrum had been swiftly tackled. A mounting sense of invincibility began to develop.
-klem
August 1990
I reported to work, my first day on the job, in the pinstripe suit, a striking blue tie, my favorite, and new black leather wingtip shoes. By the end of the first day my feet were blistered and sore. So recent from college was I that the footwear to which I remained best accustomed were sandals and high-top basketball shoes. But being one who enjoyed personal milestones I cheerfully noted, at the end of day one, that this had been the longest I’d ever worn the wingtips, nearly ten hours including drive time to and from the office. Hopefully, the shoes would become more comfortable with each successive day, I thought to myself.
By noon on the fifth day my tender toes had had enough. Blisters were several, one had popped, and walking had become painful. At lunch I walked 200 yards to the neighboring enclosed shopping mall where I located a retail Florsheim shoe store. Having pleaded my case of too tightly bound feet, the shoe merchant gladly took the lightly worn dogs and placed them on the shoe stretching machine in the stock area. This machine, in those few minutes, became my favorite mechanical innovation.
While the wingtips were being racked, I perused the shoe shelves from the comfort of my stockinged feet. Eating a honey roasted turkey breast sandwich with American cheese, which I had packed myself, I felt somehow gleeful in the setting what with my suit and tie, but no shoes as I strolled the aisles with sandwich in mid-consumption.
In due time, the shoes were returned, sandwich taken down, stockinged feet neatly enveloped by the complimentary stretched leathers, and 200 yards were counted off as I returned to the 11-story office building.
My first professional conundrum had been swiftly tackled. A mounting sense of invincibility began to develop.
-klem
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Compiled Quotes, viii
“I was gratified to be able to answer promptly. I said I don’t know.” Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, author [1835 - 1910]
“I didn’t like the play, but then I saw it under adverse conditions, the curtain was up.” Groucho Marx, comedian [1890 - 1977]
“Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.” Thomas Jefferson, U.S. President from 1801-1809 [1743 - 1826]
“I didn’t like the play, but then I saw it under adverse conditions, the curtain was up.” Groucho Marx, comedian [1890 - 1977]
“Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.” Thomas Jefferson, U.S. President from 1801-1809 [1743 - 1826]
Monday, August 3, 2009
A Professional Wardrobe
July 1990
It was the first suit I ever owned. I recall trying it on, liking it very much, but thinking it was too powerful, if that sounds odd. Black pinstripes. I tried to express that sentiment to the salesman.
“No old man’s going to be offended by this,” he reassured. He knew this was the suit for my first real job interview.
I bought it. A week later I was offered the job! I had successfully maneuvered the transition from carefree college student to contributing member of the workforce. I was pleased with myself.
There were two weeks until I was to report for work. The clock was now running and there was much to do. Other than one suit, my wardrobe consisted of generous servings of sweat pants, t-shirts, white socks, and athletic footwear. An upgrade was needed to suits, leather shoes, sports coats, collared shirts, ties, black socks, and slacks.
This clothing upgrade was a very difficult issue for me. I did like the cut professional attire would furnish a fella. The purchase of the correct pieces and donning them in a combination to be considered an acceptable ensemble in the workplace, however, seemed a stretch for someone of my casual stylings.
August 1990
I was a young scribe freshly emerged from the coastal University of California at Santa Barbara. It was Monday. I commenced my professional infancy looking both awkward and adorable in my black pinstripe business suit.
Work. This is how it began 19 years ago this week.
-klem
It was the first suit I ever owned. I recall trying it on, liking it very much, but thinking it was too powerful, if that sounds odd. Black pinstripes. I tried to express that sentiment to the salesman.
“No old man’s going to be offended by this,” he reassured. He knew this was the suit for my first real job interview.
I bought it. A week later I was offered the job! I had successfully maneuvered the transition from carefree college student to contributing member of the workforce. I was pleased with myself.
There were two weeks until I was to report for work. The clock was now running and there was much to do. Other than one suit, my wardrobe consisted of generous servings of sweat pants, t-shirts, white socks, and athletic footwear. An upgrade was needed to suits, leather shoes, sports coats, collared shirts, ties, black socks, and slacks.
This clothing upgrade was a very difficult issue for me. I did like the cut professional attire would furnish a fella. The purchase of the correct pieces and donning them in a combination to be considered an acceptable ensemble in the workplace, however, seemed a stretch for someone of my casual stylings.
August 1990
I was a young scribe freshly emerged from the coastal University of California at Santa Barbara. It was Monday. I commenced my professional infancy looking both awkward and adorable in my black pinstripe business suit.
Work. This is how it began 19 years ago this week.
-klem
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
