Klem's Book of Observations, excerpt vi

A beard without a moustache bothers me. No intended offense to Abe Lincoln.

Surface area. It’s underrated.

The sound of pure innocence? An infant laughing.

A new tub of Play-Doh. Is there a better smell?

To concern yourself with what others think of you is a sure route to losing track of your priorities.


-klem

Too Cold To Walk

I Have mentioned that my collegiate years were spent at U.C. Santa Barbara. It’s a lovely campus matched by scenic coastal beauty and wonderful weather. The weather, at its coldest, can reach the 40s-F, however. Sure that’s a long way from frostbite, but cold presents a nuisance for students prepared to go the length of the year with an abbreviated roster of jeans, plaid shorts, t-shirts, and a flannel shirt.

A large student community lived immediately adjacent to campus in overstuffed sub par overpriced apartments. The students, naturally, want to be close enough to campus so that they may walk, bike, or skateboard to class. This creates a strong gravitational pull to the rental dominated community described above. Isla Vista.

With such a large collection of pedestrian related personnel, Friday and Saturday night socializing often entailed walking the streets looking for parties denoted by people spilling out of an apartment and loud music blaring. A keg was often at hand. A smile, self-introduction, and a smattering of decent manners yielded access with surprising success.


Q1 1989

It was very late and very cold on a Saturday night. Parties had concluded and stragglers could be seen in the streets making their way back to their apartment units on foot. A friend and I were amongst this straggling classification. We’ll call this friend McGettigan the Elder. Our hands were tucked in deeply into our jeans pockets and we were shivering. The sound of footsteps quickly approached from behind, a jogger passed.

“Jogging at this hour,” McGettigan asked loudly with no intended mockery of the running man.

“No. It’s just too cold to walk,” replied the jogging stranger with his body swiveled slightly toward us to project his voice before continuing on his way.

“Good point,” McGettigan said to me.

We were a block away from our apartment. We were neighbors in the same apartment building. We jogged it.


The weather would return to its gentler temperature range within weeks. In the meantime we did occasionally jog when motivated by cold. Though infrequent, those impromptu jogging fits, we enjoyed a sophomoric chuckle as one of us was bound to say, “It’s too cold to walk.”
-klem

Don't Talk To Strangers

This past Friday Night Movie Night Wife Klem and I watched Taken (2008) starring Liam Neeson. It’s a good movie. Without giving the story away, the guy’s 17-year old daughter travels to Europe with a girlfriend and they get into grave trouble. Can dad come to the rescue?

It reminded me of a vacation tale a friend shared with me during a solo stint he was carrying out in Europe. We’ll call this friend Lee. It wasn’t grave trouble as in Taken, but an alarming experience when you’re in a foreign land alone.


1991

He was in a western European town taking in the historical sights and beautiful architecture. It was possibly the backpack or map that cast him as the obvious tourist, but two locals approached and engaged him in conversation.

“Where are you visiting from,” asked one knave.

“Have you seen any good sights,” was a follow up.

After sizing up their prey, they went for the hit. “Hey, we’re going to a pub. Want to join us?” He said yes, and off they went.

The experience was going swimmingly for over an hour and they were enjoying lively conversation. The table was littered with bottles, glasses, and plates when my pal got a sinking feeling, ‘Who’s gonna pay for all this?’ The owner of the establishment apparently shared the same concern. He came to the table and broached that subject.

Turned out the two locals had no money. Zip. They were empty and had been looking for a free night in a pub getting fat off someone else’s wallet. My buddy didn’t have enough to cover the evening’s tab, but he had some money. The owner liberated him of his cash and kicked out all three under a flurry of harsh foreign-tongued remarks.

They parted ways. One group happy with themselves for pulling off success. The other feeling low with embarrassment but wiser in the ways of ‘Don’t talk to strangers.’
-klem

Ant-Laden Chocolate Wafers

I’m not a guy who feels compelled to make eating an exciting activity. An event, even, thank you, no. Delicious and ample are adjectives that I find desirable when thinking of a preferred meal. Exciting, however, not so. Having said that, Wife Klem and I had a snack today that is clearly outside my comfortable food parameters.

We ate four ant-laden white chocolate wafers. Truth. No, they were not yard ants captured in the wild, those miniscule pests that scurry about in a seeming complete absence of the need for sleep. These ants, that are currently in our bellies, were an actual intended ingredient in the wafers. They were of the large ‘farm raised’ variety. Yes, farm-raised ants, raised for the purpose of consumption.

“How so this came to be, Klem, you eating ant wafers,” you legitimately ask.

My cousin married recently. That delightful occasion was mentioned briefly here. Her husband is a learned entomologist. Bugs are a passion of his and this package of chocolate ant wafers were amongst the party favors.





The minor members of Team Klem opted to forgo the wafer consumption. This put Wife Klem and me in a bind. Being advocates for avoiding waste, we had to stomach the entire task so that the kids could be spared the burden.

The treats were delicious, this fella tasted only the chocolate. The ants were undetectable with not even a leg or antennae presenting itself as a troubling misalprobe during mastication.

Should you have any curiosity as to the wares of an entomology merchant, please click on the link for or an entertaining and colorful review of possibilities available from www.BugUnderGlass.com. Insect populated dioramas and colorful butterflies abound.
-klem

A Word From Woodward

We have all met people along the way that make life interesting, trying, amusing, and grating. With that preface, I refer to a certain friend of mine. He’s a different kind of animal who often bears a unique, though often faulty, perspective, so says I. I mentioned him previously here. We’ll continue to call him Woodward.

In what manner does he rankle, you ask? Two opposing positions can be discussed in a conversation. At a later date, when he finds that he was, indeed, incorrect, he’ll conveniently reverse possession of the two positions so that he was ‘correct’ all along.

After a lengthy Cost-Benefit Analysis it remains to be seen whether or not this Woodward makes the world a better place. But more entertaining? I say yes, so long as you maintain a safe distance from him.

We had a phone conversation last weekend. He thinks he has taken legitimate steps toward attaining business success. I’m feeling oddly out of synch on his business prospects. In the bulk of his prior professional decisions I’ve played the devil’s advocate. He thinks he’s on the right track this time, and I feel myself standing on unstable ground because I actually agree with him!

“I’ve always been a jackass and money’s not gonna change me,” was his amusing revelation to me over the phone. Yes, he referred to himself as a jackass and I was plenty prepared not to talk him out of it.

The downside, should his action plan come to fruition and he experience success, would be that I’ll have to hear about it. Me and the other handful of friends he claims to have, and hear about it in very pompous and obnoxious tones. But he’s my pal and I’ll keep him. Though in only small intermittent doses.

I do hope you find business success, Woodward. Enjoy yourself jackassing it up.
-klem

A Regrettable Spanish Conversation in France

A friend of mine during our college years met, dated and, ultimately, married a woman who hailed from France. During their courtship years friends of each party became chummy. A second pal of mine, by the time the wedding had come around, was dating a friend of the bride. We’ll call this friend of mine McGettigan the Elder. She was living at the time in the U.S., but hailed originally from France and her parents lived there still.


July 1996

The wedding, for the first couple mentioned above, was in France, Toulouse, and a number of college chums were to be in attendance. This McGettigan the Elder was to meet the parents of his French girlfriend for the first time. He and I were actually to be overnight guests at their abode. There was a hitch, however. The parents spoke no English, the two of us spoke no French, and the daughter was not yet to be present as a go-between by the time we were meeting her parents. This first impression was to be formulated over a two hour period where verbal communication could not be achieved. Tough going.

The mom, as it turned out, spoke a minimal amount of Spanish and I had taken three years of Spanish in high school. But, sadly, I’d never really put much focus on learning the language. These meager bits of an auxiliary tongue was the only linguistic overlap until relief arrived. The awkwardness reigned.

McGettigan had comfortably, and smartly as it turned out, decided to make due with generous amounts of smiling, head nods, and polite behavior. To the contrary, at the height of awkwardness I tried making conversation with the mom implementing my poor Spanish skills. Regrettable. I recalled some family and clothing related Spanish vocabulary high school class and clumsily put it to use. In what probably equated to a first or second grade-level chit chat, I made an effort to communicate. I feebly asked the mom about her family to which she amusingly tried to respond. After a subsequent awkward silence I mentioned that my shoes were for playing basketball ‘but that I could not slam dunk.’ I was wearing high top basketball shoes.

We were at the airport in Nice, France awaiting the daughter’s arrival. It was delayed! With no relief in sight the father, seeming to have lost patience with the Gong Show proceedings, suggested we go for a walk.

The airport was in a nice coastal area. Walking we passed numerous souvenir shops along a boardwalk abutting the Mediterranean coast. I tried to indicate that I wanted to buy a Scuba diving sticker (i.e., ‘I dove in Nice’) but couldn’t find one. I tried to ask and somehow mimicked a Scuba diving motion. The horror I experience now just recounting the episode bothers me still.

Based on my reading of his gesticulating, the dad thought I wanted to Scuba dive, rather than simply buy a sticker. There wasn’t enough time for a scuba break as his daughter’s flight would be arriving within the hour, but he didn’t want to be a dud. The parents seemed to have begrudgingly given in to this perceived request as I tried to explain that there was a misunderstanding. Meanwhile, the dad became gung ho asking shop owners about scuba rentals. I tried explaining ‘sticker only’ in English.

Meanwhile, my friend was enjoying a very hearty laugh at the misunderstanding. Dad looking for a Scuba merchant, me explaining ‘no thank you’ and hoping he wouldn’t find one, and McGettigan laughing at my plight, “How are you gonna get out of this?”

Thankfully, daughter’s flight arrived with no further delay and my Spanish skills were solidly locked away from further usage. My time in Nice ended without the purchase of a Scuba sticker.
-klem

College Orientation Weekend

He had finished high school just two months ago and was on his way to college. The university offered an Orientation program which entailed incoming freshman students making a two-day overnight visit to become acquainted with the campus. He accepted.

It was Saturday night of the Orientation program and a movie had been scheduled. His interest in the film had waned and was soon extinguished. He wanted time away from the hundreds of other incoming students to clear his thoughts on the rapidly approaching adventure that would be college. He grabbed his skateboard and walked away from the congregation and into the night.

He wasn’t familiar with the campus, where he was going or in what direction, but he strode forth. With little concern he skated, occasionally weaving in and out and around obstacles. After some time he eventually came to the 30-foot wide break. A line of demarcation, if you will. No buildings or trees for this 30-foot wide concrete path. He would months later recognize this as a major bicycle thoroughfare at the northern perimeter of campus where students trafficked to and away from classes.

Looking beyond, he saw apartments lining both sides of the street. He paused, then picked up his skateboard and started to walk on the path perpendicular to the residential neighborhood. He noticed two ladies nearby and they him. They were his senior by perhaps two years, maybe three. The three of them got to talking and walked along the path. Both ladies had large beverage cups from a fast food franchise in hand.

“It’s beer. You want a sip,” asked one.

“Please,” taking a pull of the warm unpleasant alcohol and handing it back. “I’m here for an Orientation program,” he explained.

The ladies were students returning for another year of schooling. As they walked they came across a gentleman passed out on the path. The guy was face down, gone to the world. Not beaten unconscious, just hooch-induced. Clutched firmly in one hand was a plastic ring. Attached to the ring were the remaining five beer cans from a six-pack. One could only guess how many six-packs had preceded this partially consumed one.

The erstwhile high school kid reached down and pulled two beer cans from the ring and handed one to each lady. They accepted and issued amused ‘Thank yous'. The slumbering inebriant was unfazed.

With that he initiated good byes. He hopped back on his skateboard and took a leisurely skate back to Orientation. He looked very much forward to starting college two weeks later.


[This was my introduction to college. Q3 1985]
-klem

Compiled Quotes, vii

“When you do the right thing, good stuff has a way of happening.” Randy Pausch, professor Carnegie Mellon University [1960 - 2008]


‘when he was asked last week to name his first love, he replied, without hesitation, “Cartoons.” forgotten


“When evil men plot, good men plan.” Martin Luther King, civil rights leader [1929 - 1968]

Ooops. Sorry, Amigo.

Team Klem had been on the road this past weekend. My lovely cousin married a fellow of whom we’re quite fans.

We stayed at a hotel, nice accommodations, with a complimentary breakfast. Saturday morning found the dining area to be tight, the upper reaches of capacity were at hand. We managed to secure a table but we were one chair shy. There was a guy sitting next to us, he was alone. I sought to politely plunder his chair.

“May I take this chair, please,” I asked the solo diner.

An affirmative head nod was issued.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile dragging it away.

Two minutes passed. His wife and daughter arrived, said something in Spanish, and he set about rustling chairs for his own team. I felt bad. I had asked him for the chair in my own native tongue, but I am to surmise now that he probably did not understand my question. The head nod may have simply been body language for ‘I don’t know what you’re asking me. Please be gone.’

I kept his chair even after I became aware of his plight. I guess that makes me crummy.
-klem

Klem’s Corollaries on Life, an excerpt

(1) Say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’.

(2) The way you speak of others tell others about you.

(3) In carpentry a person is taught to measure twice and cut once. Same premise applies to speaking. Think twice, speak once.

(4) Admitting errors or folly is Step 1 toward self improvement.

(5) Doubt is to be expected, but not obeyed. Kevin Carroll, author of The Rules of the Red Rubber Ball.

(6) Don’t write in ALL caps. It takes longer to read and makes the author look like a pompous clown.

(7) Fertilize your lawn. Easier to keep it healthy than to heal it or replace it.

(8) Eat fruit.

(9) Teach your kids to swim.

(10) Teach your kids when and how to dial 9 1 1.

-klem

Nickel! Nickel!

Video games please me, they do. I have a weakness in this area that is immune to almost any degree of strength that I might muster up for resistance. Given that, you can imagine my glee when a friend proposed a jaunt to the video arcade last week! That friend we’ll call Cassidy.

Would you believe that a place exists where a guy can play a video game for a nickel? Would you believe that some games could even be played for free? Of course not. Foolishness to let one’s mind get lost in such bacchanalian thought. But it does exist, this place!

The name of the arcade is Nickel! Nickel! There was an entrance fee which got me off to a skeptical start. Skeptical, but not yet jaded, was I. When I was advised the fee was a meager $1.95 per person, I withheld the skepticism until further cause. Next step was coinage with which one was to feed the machines. It was here I noticed the bags of nickels behind the counter. The games actually worked on nickels! And with that, my fear that I’d been roped in under embellished promises slipped away like hunger at an all you can eat pizza deal. Admittedly, some games required the insertion of as many as four nickels! The horror. But most of the games that I wanted to play were entirely free! Truly free.

The games from my youth, apparently, get very little foot traffic as these games were the freebies. Centipede, Galaga, Tetris, Ms. Pac-Man (Pac Man was not present) and others were available at no charge. The majority of the games were newer video games, or at least from the 1990s and more recent. Would’ve been nice if the video gaming availability from my era were better represented (i.e., Joust, Berzerk, Asteroids, Bosconian). But legend has it another Nickel! Nickel! video arcade exists. Per’aps also this desired vintage representation.

To stand in the arcade and experience the relentless drumming ambient noise resonating from each machine no longer has the enticing embrace I experienced over two decades ago during my gaming era. More like a headache inducing throb to my older self of today. It took over two hours before I was sated and able to make a safe means of egress.

Nickel! Nickel! I hope to be seeing you again soon.
-klem

Root Beer Floats

A new Klem family tradition is upon us. The boy, eight years old, made a bid for root beer floats on the 4th of July. Actually, he wants that this be done every July 4th.

The guy’s been a picky eater, but he’s been open to negotiation over the past year. It’s his sweet tooth that Wife Klem and I tug to entice a meal of ‘strong’ food down his gullet. A hot dog today qualified him for the float. His little sister qualified as well!



Root beer float Year 1 is in the bag!
-klem

Cap-And-Trade, a look at farcical legislation

The House of Representatives passed a Cap and Trade bill last week. The bill seeks to address climate change concerns and how the United States produces and uses energy. The bill sets limits, caps, on emissions of heat-trapping gasses (i.e., carbon dioxide) while some industries, such as energy production, will be allowed to trade pollution permits or allowances among themselves. If passed by the Senate it could be in effect in 2012.

The idea behind Cap and Trade is to steer business toward less ‘greenhouse gases.’ It’s a nice utopian idea to encourage alternative energies, but the steps implemented to achieve this end are faulty. The harmful business and economic hurdles created by the bill would yield an end contrary to the stated goals.

The presumption is that as costs of energy production and use increase over the years, from fees and costs created by the bill, companies will be motivated to find cleaner ways of making and using energy. It won’t work because it only applies to U.S. companies, these are not worldwide emission standards. The bill burdens U.S. companies with the built in disadvantage of additional production costs. This would result in U.S. companies producing less energy because of these costs.

‘OK,’ an advocate will say, ‘the company produces less heat-trapping gases, so the climate change concern is successfully addressed.’

‘Not so,’ is my retort. The Cap and Trade regulations will push U.S. energy companies to produce less, even close plants, and seek to make up demand by increasing their imports. The non-U.S. companies produce the same product, but under less restrictive pollution and emission regulation. So the end result is actually more heat-trapping gases or greenhouse gases, the very thing the bill is hoping to reduce!

Energy companies based outside the U.S. would also be operating at an advantage; (1) it costs less for them to produce and refine than U.S. companies and (2) they would have increased demand because there is less supply being produced by their U.S. competitors. In addition, this increased import demand has the unfortunate result of making the U.S. even more dependent on foreign oil.


I offer a better idea than penalizing the energy producers to reach a desired goal. Just create a reward. If you want green energy, incentivize the desired behavior.

Example: Give tax breaks or incentives to reward the desired behavior of researching and developing alternative energy. For tax purposes, treat these clean energy or renewable energy producing companies as nonprofit organizations during their Research & Development stage. Once a product is ready for market, decrease or phase out these tax incentives.

A rewards-based incentive plan would have the illuminating effect of putting the U.S. alternative energy producing companies at a global advantage!


Cap and Trade does not do this. It attempts to penalize into submission. Here’s one kid that hopes Cap and Trade meets defeat in the Senate.
-klem

Turning 21, Alcohol Eligible

I consider myself a beer snob, but it was not always so.

In my early college years, when drinking related recreation was on hand, I would typically drink whatever alcoholic beverage was present. This ‘settling’ for any alcohol was due to the fact that I was not yet of legal drinking age, but details can be a bother. This left me with the choice of either ‘Drink it or not’, rather than, ‘Would you like this or that’. I quickly realized that the hard alcohol affected my tender young body more harshly than beer, pushing my preference to the carbonated barley drink.

Drinking and driving was not a problem at U. C. Santa Barbara. The community of Isla Vista was immediately adjacent to the university campus and was jammed packed with students. This made ample local party roving conducive to bicycle, skateboard, or feet. My mode of transport consisted of a skateboard and, intermittently, a bicycle.


June 1988

I turned 21. My alcohol intake took on a surprisingly steadying change. Now that I was 21 I could drink whatever I wanted. No longer was I subject to the inhospitabilities of a ‘take it or leave it’ drinking prospect. My drink of choice became beer. I typically knew the affect beer was going to render unto me. I knew how many beers I could consume in a night without involuntarily discarding my motor skills.


When I graduated from college, socializing was no longer foot traffic friendly. It now involved driving. My friends and I might meet at a rendezvous point and then drive to the designated entertainment area.

With driving as the primary mode of transport, my beer consumption was limited to one or two in an evening. Naturally, I wanted to retain my senses so as to be able to drive. With the decrease in my beer quantity, quality of said hooch became the emphasis. I now began to take some preference in what I wanted to drink. [A friendly note, here: Drinking and driving is dangerous and should not be done.]

This was the early stage of me becoming the beer snob that I am today. I have traversed much land in my beer studies. I have enjoyed my findings.


Thank you Wife Klem for the lovely birthday beers; Paulaner Original Munich, the Belgian Peche Lambic, Franziskaner weissbier, Warsteiner, and the two fancy soda pops. I’m lucky to have such a temptress as you.
-klem

Sunday Dinner at The Safehouse

Every family has their traditions. A family favorite of mine is Sunday night family dinner.

When I was a kid my grandparents lived only a few miles away. For as long back as I remember we went to my grandparents’ house every Sunday. Yes, every. As a wee tyke this entailed breakfast. I still remember grandma’s huge pile of pancakes on a platter and her complaining to my mom that the kids (me and four siblings) weren’t eating enough and that my mom should make us eat more. At some point this changed from breakfast to lunch. In the late 1970s the final incarnation became Sunday Night Dinner. When my maternal grandparents passed away Sunday dinner tradition moved to my parents’ house.

We live 30 miles from my parents’ house, code name The Safehouse. On account of the mileage Sunday dinner tradition has been modified to every other Sunday. Sunday dinner entails my parents, my team with two kids, and my older brother’s team and their two kids. It’s always a nice bonus when out of town siblings or aunts and uncles join in. A few weeks ago my younger brother was visiting from Alaska with his two kids. Good times getting all the little cousins together to cause a jovial ruckus.

I look back on my youth going to grandma and grandpa’s every Sunday. I didn’t appreciate it at that time fully as time with the grandparents and family. When I was in college, and occasionally still attending Sunday dinner, grandma regularly issued me extra homemade sauce and boxes of noodles to take back and share with my roommates and friends.

As I got older I became aware of a grander sense of what I had gained from this weekly get-together and knowing who my grandparents were and what their experiences were at different stages of their life.

The memories I have as a kid horsing around on Sunday at the grandparents’ have taken on a new perspective. The younger generation of my kids and niece and nephew now occupy the former role of myself and siblings, while my siblings and I have bumped up to my parent’s former role, and so forth.

Importance of family has been thickly and delightfully entrenched. I like that the kids have so much interaction with their cousins. Over the years seeing each other with such regularity will carry on into the future in a significant way.

Tonight’s dinner was a pre-July 4th barbecuing of burgers and hot dogs with beans. The nightcap included cake and ice cream, on top of the Drumstick ice cream bar I snaked out of the freezer before dinner when nobody was looking. My belly is flush with good times.
-klem

Child Development

It’s a sad occasion when your child is sick. The runny noses, coughing, the fever, and the helplessness experienced as a parent being unable to take the illness yourself and having to watch the kids suffer on. Of course, as the child gets older they’re able to tend to themselves to some extent. While that may help to ease the parental burden of providing care as the child becomes more self-sufficient, the mental burden remains with the inability to remove the child’s pain. But even in illness there are occasional thresholds worthy to note.


2006

Our boy was five years old and had been feeling punk, as Pop Klem is apt to say. We were having supper and the boy came to a momentary pause. As a parent you know your child’s expressions and body language.

“Do you want to throw up,” I asked him.

“Yes,” he replied calmly.

“Can you make it to the sink in the bathroom?”

He hopped off his chair and sprinted down the hall into the bathroom. Emission completed and sink rinsed.


Sure, it’s a bummer about the sickness, but hey, no clean up! Let’s hope future vomit episodes meet a similarly tidy fate.
-klem

The Los Angeles Zoo, a trespassing

July 1979

Two sets of brothers hopped on their bicycles and rode. One set of siblings was me and my younger brother, the other brothers we’ll call the Stewarts.

“What do you guys want to do,” asked one.

“Let’s ride to the park,” suggested a second.

The park was fine and crowded on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Crowded, but not overextended. We bicycled to a walking trail overlooking the Los Angeles River. Seeing a compromised section of fence we discarded the bicycles in a thick batch of vegetation in a sub par effort to hide our vehicles. We stepped through the fence and onto the gentle concrete perimeter downslope toward the water. The water was curiously high and rapid for the summer.

The first set of brothers entered the water with their jeans pulled up over their kneecaps and shoes tied together and hanging over their shoulders with stockings stuffed within. Like fearless pioneers they traversed the 50-foot expanse of water and progressed up the gentle concrete upslope on the other side of the river. My team now set in motion. We crossed helping each other for strength to defeat the current and equaled the performance. Socking up and shoeing forth we inclined the embankment to find another opening in the perimeter fence and removed ourselves.

Proceeding on foot we traveled briskly to the foot of a hill and blazed straight up until we reached a well worn dirt path. Impossible to resist, the path was engaged. Talking, joking, and throwing rocks we walked. Then we came to a 10-foot tall metal chain link fence. The condition of the fence was impeccable with the exception of the fact that the bottom of the fence was a full three-feet above the ground! The intention of the fence was now no more than a farce. We went down onto hands and feet, keeping our pants tidy, and awkwardly crab-walked underneath. With not so much as a dirt stain, we stood up to reevaluate our doings.

We each had an adrenaline rush brought on by the thrill of trespassing and were incapable of retreat. With a heightened sense of awareness the sound of dirt under our shoes was occasionally interrupted by a flurry of unique bird and animal noises. But most curious was the ambient noise as would be dispersed by a large gathering of people. The path intersected with an asphalt paved maintenance road. Craning our necks around the corner and peaking down this same path revealed an aviary, nicely maintained lawn, and a sign. The sign indicated the ELEPHANTS were down a path to the left and JUNGLE CATS to the right. We had entered the Los Angeles Zoo! And at no charge!

We scrounged up a map and perused the wild caged beasts. With a mild feeling of remorse at the unlawful transgression, I thought to pump a dollar into the zoo as a way of dissipating a degree of guilt. One dollar was slipped into the machine and it produced a wax tiger souvenir. It was pastel blue and ill shaped as exhibited by a coarse unformed wax ball in the hind vicinity where two legs and a tail were expected. The machine had performed inadequately; fitting given the means by which access to the premises had been gained. I shoved the figurine into my pocket and we exited the zoo through the main gate.

Crossing the LA River, via a bridge this time, we came to the sloppily hidden bikes and exchanged good byes.

-klem

Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt v

Insatiable? My capacity for cheese puffs.

Elephants. Now there’s an example of no arch support.

Silly? Furniture with manufactured stress marks.

People don’t eat enough beets.

In regard to domesticated beasts, I’m glad that homosapiens ended up with such likable beasts as the dog rather than domesticated kangaroos or giraffes.


-klem

Klem’s Corporate Corollaries, an excerpt

21) A goal without an action plan or road map is a mere dream. Don’t settle for being a dreamer.

22) Stop complaining. If you want to be heard, you need only speak constructively.

23) In regard to rumors and gossip, practice avoidance. You’ve got better things to do than to get intertwined with them or accidentally connected as a source. Don’t foster the denigration of your own good name by becoming attached to such stuff. (i.e., ‘ . . . so and so said . . .’)

24) Afraid to speak in public? So is everyone else. Prevail over this fear and speak up, lest you relegate yourself to the ranks of everyone else.

25) Have a comment, pertinent remark, or idea when asked for one.


[Corollaries #1-10 can be viewed here]
[Corollaries #11-20 can be viewed here]

-klem


[The enumeration of these 25 Corporate Corollaries completes a 2009 Goal.]

Austrian Night

September 1995

On a late Sunday night in the sleepy little town of Salzburg, Austria six friends and I slowly chewed back dinner and enjoyed a leisurely conversational recounting of the trips’ highlights.

Exiting the restaurant after the meal we found the town dark, quiet, and no shops of any sort still open. On the saunter to our accommodations one fella offered up a round of cigars which he had purchased earlier that afternoon. Four blocks to the rented loft and not a soul on the streets. With a stogie alight and a failed attempt at blowing a smoke ring, "Wouldn’t it be great if we had a beer in our hand right now," said one aloud just to say what we had all been thinking.

Turning the corner the streets were empty but for one person. A beer vendor of all people! What’re the odds?! One man with a large push cart of merchandise and an ice chest of cold beers. In the spirit of the moment we pondered the following: The beer vendor was certainly thinking that one of two possibilities was about to take place as he saw seven men walk toward him. The vendor was thinking that he was either (1) going to sell many beers to the seven that approached or (2) he was soon to be manhandled and mugged with no chance of police intervention or even a single eyewitness. With concealed relief he was pleased to be dealt option one.

The beers were not your very average 12 oz. cans or bottles one could expect to encounter stateside, they were the larger bottles of the local good stuff. Stiegls. Having already been enjoying ourselves the evening had received an unexpected, though welcome, upgrade. Stogies and chilled bottles of beer we trudged forth.

Returned home I reflected back on the beer vendor transaction in terms of a riddle of who was happier to see whom? The vendor happier to see the seven guys approach to purchase his wares and not get mugged? Or us who had eagerly purchased his wares?

-klem

Afloat

The breeze was cool, almost cold, and constant. But he had stopped being bothered by this more than a week ago.

He lay uncomfortably on his back. He was barefoot, shirtless, unkempt, and his trousers were torn and soiled. His shirt had been long ago removed and arranged to block the sun from his face. His lips were badly swollen and cracked. They hurt. He was long beyond the thoughts of applying a layer of soothing lip balm in hopes of relief.

He thought only of water and food. A glass of water, he wanted. A gallon, really. He had been without drink for five days, maybe six. Food was ample, but frustratingly inaccessible. Numerous tins of meat, fish, and soups lay at his feet. The labels has been torn from several cans and severely dented from violent smashings together in a bootless attempt to defeat the canning process. The can opener lay on the floor of the vessel in two parts. Broken! Maddening beyond belief.

He didn’t know how far, or near, he was from the nearest landfall. It had been two days since he last had the strength to raise his head and look over the edge of his small vessel. A wooden boat, a row boat, twelve feet in length. He saw nothing but water at his last peak, an endless sea.

Several nights ago a fish jumped out of the sea and landed in the boat. Dumb luck. He ate it hungrily. Raw, squirming in his hands until he discarded the head and fins. Last night two fish landed in the boat. He was too weak and clumsy to handle either of them. They tumbled through his fumbling hands and safely back into the sea.

Despite the circumstances, the nights were actually beautiful. With not a light shining for miles around, the stars appeared as bright as street lamps. The shirt was removed nightly from sunscreen duty and, instead, employed as a pillow as he let his mind wander amongst the stars. This was his escape from the cageless captivity. He was an astronaut floating weightless in space. He was an ancient Phoenician sailor traveling from one land to the next looking to the stars to confirm his way. A 25th century B.C. laborer building pyramids in the desert of Cairo enjoying the night’s break from labor and heat as he stared at the stars and lost himself in his imagination.

An island with fresh water and fruit trees was on the starboard side. It was less than a mile away, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t looked over the side since the island had broken the horizon. The vessel was drifting parallel to the coastline and was getting no closer. Even if he saw it he probably wouldn’t have the strength to swim to it. He had only one oar, the other was lost fighting off the other passengers of the sinking ship. He had been concerned the food would not be enough for everyone.

It was a calm gentle rolling sea that kept him afloat.


-klem

Klem’s Top 25 Books

I've made prior mention of my strong standing as a bibliophile. In my younger days I would read a book and keep it, like a trophy, I guess. I couldn’t bear to give it away, retaining every book I read and, ultimately, stuffing them in boxes where they might go years without seeing daylight.

I later came to understand that’s a sad existence for any tome. It was 2002 when Wife Klem and I moved to our current abode. I realized my folly on moving day. There were several heavy boxes of books to lug forward. It was at that moment I began to formulate my new book purge program. Read it, then find it a new home. No more heavy boxes than I need. Besides, a book deserves to be read, not locked away like a criminal. [With the exception, of course, any book written by James Joyce.]

The books were slowly given away to friends or donated to the library. I still have two shoe boxes full of books in the garage that I have retained over the years. I also have a bookcase in the garage loaded with books that I intend to read. Of course, we’ll actively seek another home for them after they’re done with me.

The bookcase is divided into three shelves: (1) Books on the List of Top 150 novels of the 20th century, (2) Novels not on the List, but have piqued my interest, and (3) war and history books. The bulk of these books have been purchased used (predominately from library book sales - I’m not much for new books) or gifted from friends after they’ve read them.

I’ve voiced my disappointment with the List of the Top 150 novels of the 20th century. Once I recognized and acknowledged that disappointment, I started compiling my own list. A therapeutic activity, it was, to help me overcome some of the tripe listed in the 150. I offer you this list of verifiably good books.


Klem’s list of 25 Favorite novels:

1. Lonesome Dove – Larry McMurtry
2. Dry Guillotine – Rene Belbenoit
3. Papillon – Henri Charriere
4. No One Here Gets Out Alive – Jerry Hopkins
5. Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
6. Soldier of the Great War – Mark Helprin
7. Slaughterhouse 5 – Kurt Vonnegut
8. The World According to Garp – John Irving
9. Uncle Tom’s Cabin – Harriet Beecher Stowe
10. Catch 22 – Joseph Heller

11-20

Interview With the Vampire – Ann Rice
All Quiet on the Western Front – Erich Maria Remarque
Gone With the Wind – Margaret Mitchell
The Call of the wild – Jack London
The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkken
Shogun - James Clavell
Watership Down – Richard Adams
The Good Earth – Pearl Buck
The Godfather – Mario Puzo
Curious Case of Sidd Finch – George Plimpton

21-25

Roots – Alex Haley
Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
The Fountainhead – Ayn RandTime Machine - H.G. Wells
Hunchback of Notre Dame – Victor Hugo
Tai-Pan - James Clavell


The list is a work in progress. Please advise if you've a book worthy of consideration.
-klem

Compiled Quotes, vi

“To explain his feelings to people would mean he needs their good opinion.” forgotten


“It is best to be concerned with the quality of one’s goals than the quantity of one’s goods.” Lyndon Baines Johnson, U.S. President from 1963-1969 [1908 - 1973]


“A writer’s function is not to write what he must, but rather, to write what he would write if his life depended on his taking responsibility for it.” J.D. Salinger [1919] in his book Seymour

A Las Vegas Alley, alternate ending

A reader of this blog requested an alternate ending to Saturday’s ‘A Las Vegas Alley’ post. It is my pleasure to comply.


A Las Vegas Alley, alternate ending


I was in Vegas with a friend of mine. We’ll call him Jones. It was late Sunday afternoon and we were en route to the freeway to drive home. We were at a traffic signal waiting for a left turn arrow. There had already been several greens, but only a few cars were trickling through per signal.

Across the street to the left was an alley, and in this alley were five or so guys. One of the alley dwellers crossed the street and approached me.

"If you pull in over there (pointing to the alley), I can fix that dent," pointing to the dent over my front left fender.

Eager to have the unsightly blemish repaired, I swing a U-turn at the green arrow.

After pulling into the alley I exited the vehicle and extended a hand to greet the artisan. A knuckle sandwich was awaiting me making direct and solid contact with my nose. I collapsed like a heap of wet towels. Jones bolted out of the car and put forth a scrappy effort, so he told me later, but also succumbed to the violence of several aggressors.

Five minutes passed.

"You can stop playing dead. They’re gone," said a bludgeoned Jones tapping me with his shoe.

The vehicle had miraculously not been vandalized nor tires slashed. The keys were still in the ignition, car door ajar, with a beeping emanating from the vehicle warning not to lock the keys in the cab.

Swollen nose and various other wounded parts and blood stained clothes, we got back in the car and drove away in silence. Would have been nice to get a cool drink for the drive, but our wallets were long gone. So also were our adversaries.

The fender dent remained sorely visible as if now mocking my naiveté.


-klem

A Las Vegas Alley

1993

I was in Vegas with a friend of mine. We’ll call him Jones. It was late Sunday afternoon and we were en route to the freeway to drive home. We were at a traffic signal waiting for a left turn arrow. There had already been several greens, but only a few cars were trickling through per signal.

Across the street to the left was an alley, and in this alley were five or so guys. One of the alley dwellers crossed the street and approached me.

“If you pull in over there (pointing to the alley), I can fix that dent,” pointing to the dent over my front left fender.

I politely declined the offer.

I don’t know if I actually thought he had a Bondo application ready to go, but in reflecting back, I’m confident it wasn’t really for reasons of dent repair I was being encouraged into the alley. I probably avoided getting rolled. It was not my street smarts that saved me, but because it was late and we had to hit the highway. The street signal finally turned green.


Maybe getting beaten down and mugged in an alley in Vegas would’ve made for a better blog post.
-klem

Parenting Milestone - The Toilet Masters

There are certain moments a parent tends to remember. Milestones in a child’s development, their special achievements, and happy events. While we can agree that these special moments may vary from parent to parent, all can agree that the day a child no longer needs diapers is memorable.


November 2004

Our boy was three years old. In an effort to entice him out of diapers Wife Klem and I had established a reward. Guano in the toilet instead of diaper yields a viewing of Jurassic Park (1993) and two handfuls of m&ms. (The guy loved dinosaurs and he had asked many times if he could watch that film.)

Late one afternoon after considerable coaxing, the guy delivered! He triumphantly took his position on the couch and stuck an eager hand in the full Tupperware container of m&ms. As per the agreement, he was prompted to take a second handful. He gave a double take pondering his good fortune before sending a second hand swimming amongst the candy delights.

He sat mostly in silence with eyes fixed to the tv watching for his dinosaurs taking down m&ms until he could gag down not one more. It wasn’t until then that he then offered to share with mommy and daddy.

In retrospect, Jurassic Park is not appropriate for three year olds. The guy had a nightmare that night. Oh well, sorry fella, but thanks for not regressing from being a toilet master.


Q1 2006

Our daughter was not yet two and her diaper typically needed a change shortly after dinner. We had come to the amusing practice of asking our boy to smell his baby’s diaper to see if she needed a change.

“Will you smell your baby's bottom, please. Does she have go-go," I asked the boy one evening after dinner. Overhearing the conversation she ran away as he approached. She knew the routine.

"There's your answer," said Wife Klem.

He caught her, put his nose to her bottom, and confirmed, "She has go-go." I carried the crying little girl off toward that clean diaper.

She wasn’t going to suffer that indignity for long. Her toilet master status was attained prior to three years.
-klem

If I Could Stop Time . . .

Imagine yourself with the ability to stop and start time at your whim. Snap your fingers and everything stops around you, yet you alone retain freedom of motion. Finger snap again and movement commences. What would you do if you could stop time and then start it back up at your convenience?

Maybe I’m an oddball, but I get this very strong desire to stop time when I am in a snack food establishment such as an ice cream store, yogurt shop, or bakery. If I could stop time I would gorge on the yogurt and assorted toppings, the wonderful olfactory peaking baked goods behind the bakery’s glass counter, and milk shakes and multiple ice cream scoops with chocolate coated waffle cones.

Silly thing is, I have little hankering to freely consume the prepackaged goods, those encumbered with the UPC tracking codes, under these same imagined time-stoppage intervals. Soda pops and fancy bottled teas in the beverage refrigerator I say ‘No thanks’. Ice cream sandwiches and It’s-It ice cream treat in the stand-alone ice cream cooler, ‘Thank you, no,’ again I say.

Delicious, all, undeniably so, but little desire to abscond with these. Maybe its the idea that the missing prepackaged items with UPC codes could mess up a business owner’s inventory tracking. Possibly even cause an employee to falsely get nailed for alleged employee dishonesty on account of my weakness. The loose merchandise such as the frozen yogurt that is dispensed at the flip of a lever seems almost a temptress. Scoops of ice cream from the five gallon tubs, ‘Who’ll miss two scoops,’ says I. I might even employ a courtesy hand washing before engaging the tubs.

The idea of stopping time to take a nap or get in some bonus reading is also appealing, but curiously not as strong as the pull of the free desserts.

I guess I would need to rotate the merchants, should I be able to cultivate this ‘time-stoppage’ ability, so as not to decimate the supplies of any single store. I mean, I’d be in it for an occasional treat, not to crush someone’s bottom line . . . or my appetite for supper.


Feel free to chime in on when you’d implement your time stoppage.
-klem

My Annual Clothes Shopping Trip

I am not a manufacturer’s dream. Retail stores do not know me by name. I’m a stubborn consumer who frowns upon the accumulation of stuff.

As recent as only a few years ago I had difficulty accepting that an article of clothing had run its course and needed to be chucked. When is an item deemed worthy of one last wear before it is taken off at the end of the day and thrown into the garbage bin instead of the hamper? A pair of favored trousers with a frayed cuff. Must they be thrown out with as little consideration as a spent watermelon rind? A loyal shirt is faded rendering it a shadow of its former self. Must it be duly cast out like a glass of juice unfortunately bejeweled with a fly?

With some exceptions, I have come to accept the truth that articles of clothing do eventually achieve their expiration date. And to replace the discards I must be willing on occasion to play the part of consumer, reluctant though I be. Rather than throwing a tantrum at the prospect of clothes shopping, I decided to embrace the idea of one annual clothes shopping trip per year. This past weekend was my big trip! The task is done until 2010!

A man of such decadent taste as myself deserves the best. For that reason the bulk of my clothing purchases, since the inception of this doctrine, has transpired at Kohl's. This 2009 shopping venture was fairly modest and was carried out satisfactorily quick; two trousers and three pull over polo shirts. I tried on four pants, selected two, was processed through the cashier, and was out the door in under 30 minutes!

I give full credit for this impressive efficiency rating to Wife Klem. We discussed in advance my goals, she mixed in smart prompting queries to help hone my needs, and even checked online for availability and pricing. With coupons in hand to double team an in-store sale, we emerged unscathed for the experience.

Onward to 2010!
-klem

Happy Hour

1990

I had graduated from college, gotten a job, an apartment, and bought a new car. The professional stage of my life had been engaged. The evenings of Sunday through Thursday, for over two decades known to me as school nights, were now relatively free and not laden with the burden of homework. Was this to be the fruits of my years of study? Evenings of leisure?

I had the good fortune of stumbling across a few local friends who hailed from the college years. We convened weekly for a happy hour, and it was good. We’ll call several of these locals Wolfe, Picarelli, and Storer. Happy hour was about the camaraderie, though the inelegance of cheap dining was a definite mood enhancer. For the price of a beer one was granted free reign of the taco bar. Not so much tacos as ‘bowel burners’, so dubbed not because of the zesty zing at the point of entry. This gregarious meal became a highlight of the week.

The happy hour schedule was maintained for well over a year. Eventually people moved and jobs changed until happy hour was no longer a mainstay. The weekly gatherings dwindled to intermittent and finally disbanded. Over the years I lost touch with several cohorts.


After a gap of many years I came across a friend from this era of young adulthood at LinkedIn.com. Turns out he’s a freelance journalist, among other things. Last week he generously endured a battery of questions I posed regarding freelance protocol. I have enjoyed writing for several years and a foray in the area of freelance writing has been a recent curiosity of mine. Wonder if I learned anything from our conversation?

Oh, you can read his blog here.
-klem

A Science Experiment

Our boy is closing out second grade this week. He has done well with his schooling, Wife Klem and I are proud parents. A high note was when he attained the Star Reader Award! That entailed the reading of books and taking tests to show his level of reading comprehension.

Wife Klem had dangled an incentive where if he earned the Star Reader Award we would furnish him with a $50 Borders gift card. Last weekend we went to the book store to use up the card.

The boy maximized his $50 credit by adding in a 20% discount that Wife Klem found online! He bought seven books including a few graphic novels and The Book of Totally Irresponsible Science - 64 Daring Experiments for Young Scientists by Sean Connolly.

The Experiments book is pretty cool. Most of the experiments are not very time consuming and typically only require common household items. We liked the Overcoming Gravity experiment on page 188.


Things needed:
drinking glass
water
postcard
towel (in case experiment’s results are flawed)


Method:
1) Fill glass 3/4 with water
2) Place card, glossy side, completely over mouth of glass (make sure there’s no gap)
3) Press the card to the rim, turn over the glass
4) Once the glass is upside down, remove the hand from the card
5) The card should remain attached and no water leaks out! [Note: Don’t wait too long. If the postcard gets soggy, the experiment will come to an abrupt end.]


[Video removed by Klem on 7/26/2010.]


-klem

Birth of Bongo

June 7, 2001

Our first baby was born. Wife Klem had been anticipating the projected June 7 date and made up her mind that she was done lugging the guy around in her belly. She took it upon herself to get this thing underway.

We engaged a lengthy and vigorous walk after dinner the evening of June 6. I was somewhat alarmed at her tenacious pace and was mentally making emergency preparations in my head in case we didn’t get home before the birthing commenced; ‘If it happens right now, I will run home, get the car, come back to retrieve the laboring Wife Klem, rush to the hospital . . .’ Luckily the contractions didn’t begin until after we returned from the walk.

At 10:00 pm we arrived at the hospital and had the whole place to ourselves. We were early by several hours, as it was explained to us, and other than the appearance of a few medical professionals, there wasn’t any real commotion until the morning.

The boy was born at 10:30 am ranking in at 7 lbs. 13 oz., 21” tall, roughly a 2-Regular in suit size, we’ll say.

He came out looking like an ape what with his purplish wrinkled skin. Luckily, he quickly morphed into a lovely little guy. This was the first grandchild on both sides, so you can imagine the fawning reception as he was being passed around the horn to family members.

Those first 24 hours after birth were very hectic. At one point while Wife Klem and the baby were still in the hospital, I made a return visit home. Retrieve some gear for another overnighter at the hospital, feed the dog (Kira), take her out for her toileteering, and refresh her water bowl. We were advised by the dog trainer, a few months prior, to bring a blanket home that had wrapped the baby to let the dog get familiar with the scent. By doing this, when the baby comes home the dog will have had some introduction to this new animal in the home.

So on this trip I let Kira smell the baby blanket. I was very busy so I put the little blanket on the floor for her to smell while I completed my checklist of things to do. When I finished my chores I found Kira lying on the floor with her nose on the baby blanket. I took this for a good omen as to how she would be with the baby. A good dog.

When the boy arrived home from the hospital the dog’s tail was wagging vigorously like I’d never seen before. This was the first time they met, she and the baby boy, and she wanted to see what kind of little beast we had brought home in mommy’s arms. She got in many good snufflings of him. The next day the dog slept on the floor at the foot of the boy’s crib during his nap, just as Wife Klem had hoped.


The baby’s first Friday Night Movie Night was Castaway with Tom Hanks. The boy was one week old. We didn’t want to break completely from household protocol just because of a baby, so we continued our FNMN tradition, but slimmed the viewings down from two videos to one.

Those first few days we occasionally thought it odd to be handed the kid and sent home in fairly quick succession. ‘What? No manual for this thing?’

Eight years later and he’s still alive! Thankfully he’s shown more resilience than pet guinea pigs and hamsters I’ve had as a kid.

‘Considering all the time and work that babies require, good thing they are cute so that parents would fall in love with them,’ observation from Wife Klem.


Happy Birthday, Bing! We love you, man.
-klem

Friday Night Pig Ear

I’ve made no secrets here of my eager anticipation of each and every Friday night. Every Friday brings Friday Night Movie Night at the Klem homestead. It denotes a break from the drudgery of gainful employment to bask in the glories of a well earned leisure.

The Friday night pleasantries date back to when I was just a little rascal of four years, at least that’s my earliest recollection. Mom and Dad Klem would put out a bed sheet in front of the tv and allow me and my brothers, I don’t think my baby sister was yet tossed into this Friday night melee, to heartily ply ourselves with Cheetos, potato chips, popcorn, and soda. It was an hour of magic.

Wife Klem and I have enjoyed our own Friday Night Movie Night routine for over a decade now. As Friday winds down at work a smile crosses my face as I realize I’m closing in on movie time.

We also implemented a Friday night treat for our dog. After the kids are in bed on Friday she gets a pig ear. Pig ears! Actual ears of pigs that’ve been baked up to a crunchy goodness. Some ears are even visibly equipped with the numerical ID tattoo from the commercial pigging operation. Good times! She, Kira the dog, takes her pig ear and lies down on her rug and eats it down with the elegance of a child placed in front of a plate of donuts.

Today is a special day, I lift a pig ear prerequisite. I had been requiring that our noble beast eat all her dog food to qualify for the pig ear. If she didn’t eat it all, she didn’t qualify for the ear. She dines daily on 1/2 can of wet food and almost two cups, or a pint as we prefer in the grog shops, of dry food mixed together in one bowl. She likes the wet, tolerates the dry. She’s a good dog, that Koob. Even if she sometimes leaves a few dry food kernels in her bowl.

[Proudly showing that she’d zeroed out her dinner.]


































[Waiting for the ‘pig ear’ cabinet to open and yield its reward.]


After putting the kids to bed she eagerly greets me at the bottom of the stairs and prances into the kitchen. The dog prances, I just walk, where she’ll stare at the ‘pig ear’ cabinet waiting for it to open, wagging her tail in anticipation.

Tonight’s Friday Night Movie Night is The Wrestler (2008) starring Mickey Rourke.
-klem

A Tumble From a Moving Vehicle

Vehicles today have numerous safety features that were absent a few decades ago. Present day, the vehicle tells you if a passenger’s seat belt is not fastened. If a door is not securely closed a light will indicate this compromised condition to the driver. Good thing that these safety upgrades, amongst numerous others, are in place. After all, wouldn’t want someone to tumble out of a moving vehicle.


1977

It was Sunday morning and the Klem family had visited an aunt and uncle en route to our weekly visit to grandma and grandpa’s. As us five kids exited the residence we piled into the station wagon, the ‘Steaming Pile’ was this vehicle dubbed for reasons not to be elaborated here. I was second to last, and thinking that the final sibling would simply enter the vehicle after me, I didn’t latch the door.

As things would have it, the sibling entered through a different door. I quickly forgot that my door was ajar, plus I was not belted, and the automobile pulled away from the curb of this peaceful residential neighborhood. These were different times the 1970s, the ‘Click-It or Ticket’ slogan was decades away.

As the vehicle gained speed the door swung open, I had been leaning on the door and I slipped out of the car. Moving my legs as fast as I could, I took a few steps running alongside holding the car door. I looked at my older brother who had been sitting next to me. He looked at me and he got a visual of the terror that was certainly on my face. I was ten years old and my little legs couldn’t keep up, too fast, slipped, tripped, I tumbled to the pavement in the middle of the street. Asphalt. I had been sitting on the driver’s side in the middle row. Luckily, no vehicles were heading in the opposite direction. My left arm was scraped up and bloody, but no major injuries, stitches, breaks, or hospital visit needed.

I recall lying on the couch at grandma and grandpa’s and being offered a 7-Up. I declined because I had this silly notion that the carbonation of the beverage would somehow translate to an uncomfortable bubbling of my open wound. I know, that’s crazy talk.

On the drive home I did not sit adjacent to the door.
-klem

Daring Gambit

1993

I was a bachelor, it was a Saturday night, and I was out for the evening with several bachelor pals at a club. A night club or dance club, if you will. Not an exotic dance club, just to make perfectly clear in case Mom Klem is listening in.

It was crowded and the line to get inside was several people deep. There was mild jostling at the entrance with people vying for position, plus the doormen appeared to be experiencing confusion amongst themselves. One doorman checked ID, a second guy collected money, and a third stamped one’s hand signifying they had paid and then allowed entrance.

Visibility at the front door was limited on account of the crowded tightly packed confines and poor illumination. In the melee of limbs and bodies, mixed with the distraction of the glut of doormen, I sought to take advantage.

While my ID was being checked by guy #1 I saw that the money collector, guy #2, was occupied with another patron. I reached my arm ahead to the hand stamper, guy #3, whose attention was momentarily directed elsewhere. Without even looking, he stamped the hand that found its way to him. Mine. As everyone advanced one slot I proceeded to the money collector and confidently showed my hand stamp. He waived me through with no money collected!

I beat the system. Net gain from this daring gambit? Five bucks. Sweet victory.
-klem

Paralyzed!

1977

It was Saturday morning and my oldest brother was playing in a soccer game at a local school. The established routine during the games was that the siblings, however many of us were lugged forth, would roam the school grounds while mom watched my oldest broheim in his soccer match. On this day it was my younger brother and I who tagged along with Mom Klem. Furthermore, it was I who got into some trouble.

We were eight and ten years old. We were walking around the classroom buildings just wasting time hoping the game would be over quickly. I don’t recall the specifics of our unsupervised mischief, but at one point I was lying on my belly on the walkway leaning over a storm drain adjacent to a building, and I fell. My hands and arms were occupied somehow so they were not free to stop my fall. I landed on my head. It was only a three foot drop, but the landing surface was concrete.

“I can’t move my arms,” I said to my brother. I was a scared little guy, but not yet frantic.

I awkwardly got back to my feet without the use of my hands and arms on account of the paralysis. (Really awkward without the benefit of these two nifty limbs. Try it.) I then had to get back up to the walkway. There were handrails that I could previously have used to pull myself back up to grade level, but they were useless to me given my state of paralysis. The walkway to which I was trying to reestablish myself was at belly button height. I bent forward lying on my belly and chest then rolled over to get back up there. I again awkwardly got to my feet.

The plan, I guess, was to tell mom that I had an accident and half my limbs were now nonfunctional. Luckily, after taking a few steps my arms and hands tingled back to life and their use was restored!

A scary two minutes quickly faded away and was never discussed again.
-klem

The Parade

I recently walked in a parade. I was a little nervous, but it was fun, and I didn’t trip.

Our daughter’s in a baton twirling class. The class is composed of 12 girls of varying ability and age, she’s the youngest at four years. The troop was scheduled to walk in a parade. We’d talked about it with her leading up to the event and she sounded excited. But at the pre-parade warm up she said she didn’t want to walk and was discouragingly adamant. Too bad, I was hoping she’d have a chance to show off her ‘tree chop’ maneuver that she’d been performing so well. We even offered to buy her a milk shake if she’d walk. [I admit it, I was hoping for another milk shake miracle.]

With only a few minutes before ‘go time’, and much hopeful cajoling, she was still maintaining that she didn’t want to walk. As a last resort I asked if she’d walk in the parade if I walked with her. She gave a big smile and said ‘Yes.’ I wonder if she was trying to call my bluff. (‘There’s no way daddy would actually walk in this thing’.) Her coach gave us the go-ahead and we took our position.

As the parade progressed up the street we held our position going hand in hand. She was doing her ‘pancaking’ with the baton, so it’s called this baton rotating while in hand. It was nice her bashful expression when I explained how all the crowd and applause were for her and her teammates.

I felt like a goof ball, the only dad walking with the twirlers. Plus, I hoped I was not too much of a distraction taking attention away from the other twirlers. They really did a super job.


(The Boogie in all her smiling glory.)

(Too bad I look like an angry man here.) [Photos removed by Klem on 7/26/2010.]


We ran the gauntlet and enjoyed the experience. This also qualified her for the earlier offer of the milk shake. She chose vanilla.
-klem

Klem’s Corporate Corollaries, an excerpt

11) Never say, “I knew it.” Voice your opinion when it counts.

12) Good manners. Everyone deserves them, so treat everyone as though they do.

13) Body language matters.
a. Don’t cross your arms.
b. Be an example of good posture.
c. No scowling in the office. Save it for driving in traffic.

14) When e-mailing, use the Subject line. Do not leave it blank.

15) Start meetings on time. If attendees are late, it’s on them.

16) If you want to be heard, you need only to speak constructively.

17) Stop casting blame. Look for a solution and proceed with its implementation.

18) When talking or listening to someone, look them in the eyeballs.

19) Leadership > Consensus. Do NOT confuse the two as they are mutually exclusive. Consensus means, simply, ‘End of discussion, now let’s move on to the next item.’ Leadership entails actively making a well thought out decision in the best interest of the entity, even if its not popular.

20) ‘The best way to become truly great is to become as accomplished as possible, and then help others through your leadership.’ James Citrin, executive consultant


[Corollaries #1-10 can be found here.]

-klem

Grecian Bus Ride

You ever tried stuffing yourself into an overly crowded elevator? No, of course not. The idea of physical contact with strangers is not always a comfortable notion. How about an overly crowded bus? Forcibly stuff yourself in? No, again, it’s just not proper protocol. Now then, how about actually getting your shoulders down low and shoving with all your force against another passenger so that you might board a bus? Here’s my tale.


June 1994

Athens, Greece. I was on vacation with four chums heading for the island of Ios. This necessitated taking a bus ride from the airport to the ferry which would deliver our travel weary carcasses to our Mediterranean isle. We’ll call these chums McGettigans the Elder and Younger, Cousin John, and Taylor.

The bus pulled up. To our dismay the thing was already stuffed tight. Standing room only, in fact. By U.S. standards, you’d wait it out and take the next bus. But not here. Bus stopped, patrons started courteously trying to make room for more bodies. There were five of us plus our duffel bags and many other folks after us hoping to get aboard. Commence loading.

The standing room only slowly made room for entry. The effort to compress the current bus patrons was not significant, or at least not significant enough. My four chums squeezed in, just barely. Now I had no choice but to render myself somehow aboard with my luggage. If I missed the bus, I’d miss the ferry, and be lost in the wake like so much chum.

McGettigan the Younger was immediately in front of me and his back was directly where the door would be closing, if it could close. But the heck if I was about to be separated in a foreign land where I boasted no communication skills, I speak no Grecian.

I started shoving to get myself aboard. Really shoving! With my feet still on the street I got my shoulders down low and started shoving my friend trying to get in. He didn’t mind the shoving, he understood the gravity of the circumstances, he was actually amused that the situation had deteriorated to this. I managed to get my bag in, then worked on getting myself aboard. I’m pushing with everything I’ve got, but making no progress and advise my pals of my conundrum. Becoming aware for the first time of my problem they now begin to explain in incompatible English and politely shove against strangers in an attempt to forcibly annex enough space so that I may actually stand inside the bus.

The bus couldn’t leave until the door closed and it was closing on my shoulder with my arm, shoulder, and a leg still outside. So close, was I. The beginning stage of panic began to set in as a stranger started pulling my arm and barking at me in a foreign tongue trying to pull me off of the bus. If I got pulled out I would be separated from my duffel bag and passport. The four Americans recognizing my peril now worked in unison to beat back the Grecians on board. With one final surge I shook my arm free, slipped inside the bus, door closed, and the driver hit the gas pedal.

I was sweating profusely, my heart racing, and it was hot as all get-out in that crummy bus. Yet, I couldn’t have been happier to be onboard.

We reached the ferry. A round of beers arrived denoting that vacation was now underway.
-klem

Life After People

It amuses me the things that grab a kid’s attention. The boy saw an advertisement for ‘Life After People’. This is a television series on the History Channel about what would happen to cities, buildings, and the ‘hardware’ leftover from civilization if mankind were wiped off the face of the earth. [To avoid a morbid theme the program skips over how exactly mankind is eliminated, just that it is.]

We have watched and recorded the first 4 of 10 episodes with new episodes already coming available. Very entertaining, I concede. Well, the guy was smitten hard. So hard, in fact, that he wrote a Life After People book summarizing much of what he saw, plus a few of his own ideas. He told me the other day that he had to get on the computer to do more research on Washington, D.C. to round out one of his chapters.

He wrote the chapters, not robust with verbiage, but he’s got a few sentences per chapter, and added drawings and magazine clippings. Not taking any shortcuts, he also included a table of contents, glossary, and index. Wife Klem pitched in by scanning an advertisement to incorporate as the book’s cover.

He’s a capitalist, observes this proud dad. He was going to write several books and charge $12.99 each. Wife Klem and I teased him that we’d wait to see if we could get it cheaper on Amazon.com. This must have caused him to revise his business plan. Shortly after he asked how he could make it available on Amazon himself.

‘Welcome to Earth. Population: 0.’


(photo of the author holding his book)

(a sneak peek at the contents) [Photos removed by Klem on 7/26/2010.]


“What are you going to do with the money from your book sales,” I asked.

“Buy books. What else,” he said matter of factly. That puts him way ahead of me at eight years old. I’d put it all toward baseball cards and candy.
-klem

Magglio Cervantes, an excerpt

Please humor me here. Imagine that you are immortal and have lived for hundreds of years, yet you are physically as healthy as you were at 25 years old. You have reaped immense amounts of learning and experiences in your time. You’ve spent centuries amassing wealth and it’s been generations since you’ve had to consider living expenditures and the inconvenience of gainful employment.

Through folly or crime your wealth has been lost. You now must seek work amongst the mortals with whom you will now be forced to mingle daily. No more quietly living in sheltered and luxuriously equipped anonymity.

The following excerpt is a piece of fiction I have in progress based on that scenario.


Magglio Cervantes, an excerpt


After so many years of luxurious living where anything and everything could be had or accumulated at the merest fancy, he was now feeling restricted as though by a claustrophobic episode. His finances reduced to a few simple thousands after so long basking in the deepest realms of riches, though by appearance this was not visibly noticeable, had him mentally reeling. ‘How can one survive on such a meager sum,’ thought Magglio knowing full well that it could be done and, in fact, is done by all but 3% of the world’s richest people. To be cast into these circumstances by the doings of a crook, even if it was his own error that practically invited the infiltration, burdened him greatly.

Having gone yet a third night without sleep, encumbered was he by his plight, he clumsily allowed his legs to carry him downstairs where he seated himself upon a tall stool at his kitchen counter. Elbows on the countertop of the finest black granite with his chin resting uncomfortably in his hands.

“What am I, to get a job,” he questioned through pursed lips with motion restricted by his chin in his hands. Surprised and somewhat alarmed was he for even speaking such nonsense aloud. Leaning forward over the counter and reaching into the impeccably undermounted kitchen sink, he acquired a slightly used glass, and filled it halfway with tap water. So distraught with his circumstances, as he’s finally come to accept the depth from which he is now to operate, he thought not to even allow the faucet to run in an effort to get a cool flow of water. Sipped the room temperature liquid and put the glass down on the counter with no thought of a coaster. Early afternoon and noticing just now his three days of beard growth. Thick and as dark as the day he turned 25 was his beard. His finances, too, were now no different than those meager days, he pondered.

Unable to shake these feelings of defeat, he stepped over to the refrigerator where he retrieved a box of frozen chocolate chip Eggo waffles from the freezer, tossed a pair into the toaster, returned the resealed box to the freezer and stared blankly at the toaster watching it do its job. One minute it took to toast and pop. Coincidentally, some semblance of clarity came to Magglio as the waffles burgeoned from their cocoon of heating coils.

A job he will get. Not only that, given his current state of finances, he must rent out his finely equipped abode and lease a cheaper domicile for his own domesticated occupancy. This was sadly necessitated not so much by a concern over expenses but as a means of gaining another income. He could rent something for himself for much less than his current home could fetch on the rental market. In these desperate times the income he could gain would be of much importance.

Eggos in hand. Wallet in pocket. He intended for one last luxury before making a life change for the modest. Three blocks to the Spanish bakery where he purchased a cranberry scone with the sugared lemon peel shavings of which he was so fond, a tall latte with two generous shakes of nutmeg, and a local newspaper. Now occupying one of those seemingly miniature tables fit for no more than one person but most appropriate, it would appear, for nothing more than a telephone and note pad for jotting down messages. Briefly assessing the diminutive surface space at his disposal he placed his latte and scone, minus one hearty bite, on the table and turned his chair sideways extending his legs perpendicularly away from the table. This allowed him to read the newspaper by suspending it in air rather than the more pedestrian manner of lying it flat on a table and hovering over it as is his preference. This preferred style also acted as a crumb catcher what with his biting and chewing taking place over the page.

Opening the paper and getting directly to the Classified Ads, he perused the Help Wanted columns for a line of work for which he might feel a hankering or inclination. Minutes passed.

Popping the final bit of scone into his mouth and draining his now luke warm, though delectable beverage, he folded the paper several times and cleanly placed it into the rubbish bin. He felt not inclined, as it developed, for a job of telemarketing, real estate appraising, contractor of any sort, insurance underwriter, or bank teller. Nor even coxswain or spelunker should such openings exist. His momentary inspiration that drove him out of his kitchen one hour before had evaporated and his gumption quickly waned.

Looking now out the window and across the street he saw Cassidy’s Irish tavern place a Help Wanted sign in the window. Cassidy’s. A comfortable grog shop of which he finds himself traipsing through often. Often enough, anyway, to know that the sink in the Men’s room at the far wall always splashes one’s trousers and that the pinball machine nearest the rear exit tilts to the left. Throwing darts, wrecking a game of billiards, or simply sampling a finely aged pint of hops Cassidy’s confines of leisure appealed to him.

He stood, enjoyed a flamboyant and thorough stretch, and casually brushed a scone crumb from his mouth. With the easy knowing confidence of a professional baseballer participating in a celebrity softball game he proceeded across the street toward his goal.


-klem

Jumpsuits

Let’s face it, babies’ clothes rule. They’re built for comfort and body heat retention. Why grow up and start wearing silly stuff like trousers, shirts with all those bothersome buttons, belts, and ties. Why not transcend these same considerations for baby clothes into adult theme attire?

Jumpsuits, for example, are great for infants and toddlers. Wrestle the uncooperative legs and arms into the holes and zip it up. Done. Let’s now incorporate the same for corporate America.

Step into an adult size jumpsuit, zit up, grab your brief case and cell phone and you’re ready for the day.

Big meeting at the office? Wear the pinstripe jumpsuit.

Expecting warm weather? Better get out that baby blue short sleeve jumpsuit.

Looking for a wild Friday night? Sport your colorful jumpsuit decorated with funky images or designs.

Want to capitalize on first impressions? The classic jumpsuit with feet.

Want to play the part of goofball? Jumpsuit with button-down back flap.

Why trouble oneself with a wardrobe of so many individual pieces and their infinite number of possible combinations? Stop wasting brain power wading through proper color matches between your shirts and trousers. Pick a jumpsuit off the hanger and you’re ready to take on the world in a matter of minutes. Plus the comfort of the body heat retention.
-klem

Dirt Storm

Have you ever experienced a sand storm? I had the pleasure of a very mild one in Palm Springs which I took in from the comfortable confines of a company car. Being a company car I worried little about windshield pitting. The thought of walking around outside my vehicle at the time would have been a tremendously sub par experience.

Also had the pleasure of a mild dirt storm. I saw something during the storm that horrified me. To this day I reflect back on it periodically and cringe.


1997

I live in southern California where you may have seen news footage of our annual wildfires. The soil, after a fire, is very light and, of course, full of ash. There seems very little in the way of cohesive forces to keep the post-fire dirt molecules piled together into large heavier dirt molecules or clumps. This lack of cohesive forces allows gusts of wind to blow vast amounts of dirt and soil a considerable distance.

A wildfire had recently delivered its wrath to a neighboring community near the foothills of the Angeles National Forest. Much brush, native vegetation, and homes had been burned to the ground. The wind was strong and dirt and ash had buoyantly filled the air.

It was not fear of the dirt storm that bothered me, like one would fear a hurricane, but the discomfort that is often experienced with airborne dirt. I wear contact lenses, dirt in there puts me in sour spirits.

I had a location to visit in the name of work. This necessitated that I abandon the clean work place and expose myself to the dirt storm outside. Standing by the door looking out at the brown sky, I did my mental preparation and visualization technique planning how to minimize my exposure by streamlining my every motion. The car was fifty feet away. With car keys in hand, eyeballs already puckered into a protective squint to keep out the dirt, took a deep breath, held it, opened the door and exited the office. Proceeding at a quick hustling pace I attained safety inside the vehicle without incident.

As I brought the vehicle around from the rear of the building, I spied the vision before me that remains unfortunately ingrained. I saw a man on the sidewalk. He was walking. Bummer being relegated to walk in that misery. But wait, there’s more. With dirt swirling all around I saw him raise something to his mouth. He was eating! Eating while casually walking in a dirt storm as if it were just any other normal day! A burger partially concealed in a fast food wrapper in mid-consumption. Wow! ‘Dude, have some burger with your dirt,’ I thought to myself.

I have been bothered with the thought of how much dirt he was taking in with each bite. How much dirt was getting onto his exposed partially wrapped burger? You know that crunching feeling when you get a grain of sand in your mouth? Imagine the crunching that must have been going on in his mouth with each bite.

I paused at the driveway before hitting the street allowing this lost soul to walk right in front of me. Like a self inflicted wound, he took another bite and trudged on.
-klem

Earthquakes

We had an earthquake Sunday night here in southern California. A 4.7 magnitude. It was minor, though stronger than most, and lasted less than ten seconds, though longer than most. Having spent my whole life in California I have long ago accepted earthquakes as part of my life.


February 1971

The Sylmar Earthquake of 1971 was the first earthquake I remember. I was just a little guy of four and got to experience a 6.6 magnitude on the Richter scale! That correlates to a BIG one. I remember my dad hustling about the house looking for all the kids; there were four of us then. He told me and my older brother to stand in the door frame of the hallway, a strong point in case of earthquake-induced structural collapse.

I thought the earthquake was kind of fun, although I found out many years later this quake caused much property damage. With that as my first earthquake experience, and thinking it was fun, I had never really been bothered or upset by them and have been lucky enough to not be harmed, physically or financially, by one to date.


January 1994

My good natured acceptance of earthquakes changed with the Northridge Earthquake! The force of this 6.7 magnitude and the sound it produced was VERY scary.

Most earthquakes are so minor and short lived that I usually merely pause from what I’m doing for a few seconds during the actual shaking without bolting for safety. But Northridge was different. I lived then 20 miles away from the epicenter, the center of the quake, and the jolt scared me so much that I immediately went for the door frame. It occurred at 4:30 am. I tumbled to the ground trying to get out of bed. Across the hall was one of my roommates standing in his door frame. Twenty seconds it lasted! That is an amazingly long time for an Earthquake to shake. A 6.7 magnitude shaking for 20 seconds does catastrophic damage!


Wife Klem and I strive to help our kids overcome Earthquake fear. Convey an understanding of what to do so that they are not immobilized from fear. We’re native Californians and plan to remain Californians, so living in fear of earthquakes would be a real bummer.


“I’m scared,” said our daughter after Sunday’s shaker.

“No you weren’t. That was like a ride at Disneyland,” smiling back to her. She laughed at the mention of Disneyland and lay back in bed.

We’ll follow up with a conversation to review Earthquake protocol. The Northridge one, though, that was no Disney ride. That was a perspective changer.
-klem

[p.s. I understand that standing in a door frame is now outdated procedure. Current Life / Safety procedure for earthquakes now suggests that a person is to get under something sturdy, like a firm table or desk. And stay away from windows and potentially heavy falling objects.]

Things Kids Say

July 2004

We went to the Wild Animal Park in San Diego. Interesting the stuff a guy can learn at such a place. Did you know that the difference between the Ape family and Monkey family is that monkeys have tails? It’s true.

Equipped with this knowledge I asked my three year old son, “Do you have a tail?”

“No. I have a butt,” he responded.

So true, thought this proud daddy.

December 2006

Every parent wants to believe that their little girls are perfect little ladies. Well, that desired imagery does not emerge unscathed here.

My girl had been picking her nose lately. She’s only two, so I guess that’s gonna happen. As a precautionary measure I've advised her, "Don't eat your boogers."

She came to me today with a booger on her finger. "Don't eat it," she said offering it to me with a smile. She then waited for me to peel it off her finger and dispose of it. Either that or she wanted to make sure that I’m also trained up on the ‘no eating’ rule.


-klem

Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt iv

Be at peace, but not at rest.

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.

One-upmanship. Don’t do it. Gracefully allow someone else the spotlight.

Killer bees. That’s much more acceptable to me thank killer ants.

Musical medleys? No, thank you.


-klem

Klem’s Corporate Corollaries, an excerpt

1) Don’t use foul language. You’ll look like a buffoon.

2) Shake hands like you mean it.

3) Sarcasm. Not in the office. A handful of the cohorts with whom you work won’t get it.

4) Remain calm under all circumstances. It’ll elevate your status in the eyes of others. Plus, the opposition finds it intimidating.

5) Dress code. Don’t dress down to the lowest threshold just to comply. The dress code outlines the minimum standard. If a pull over polo shirt and Sketchers don’t fit your own self image, then don’t fulfill it.

6) Control your temper and emotion in the office. As Albert Camus wrote in The Fall, ‘Being master of one’s moods is the privilege of the larger animals.’ Be a larger animal.

7) It’s OK to call in sick once in a while if you’re an ailing bag of bones. A runny nose, insatiable cough, and baggy eyes cut not the image of a corporate power. Go home and take a nap.

8) Communication. Learn to write well and speak effectively. Anyone can perform poorly in this area. Don’t be just anyone.

9) Walk with purpose, even if it’s feigned. Nobody can tell the difference.

10) Enter a room with confidence, even if it’s false bravado. Nobody can tell the difference on this one either.

-klem

The Water Park, season passes

We live in close proximity to a popular water park. Having a pair of kids we frequent the place with our season passes. We can leave the house and be inside the park within 12 minutes. We’re so close, in fact, that we’ll often go for as little as 1.5 hours after dinner. Makes for a fast paced evening; dinner, water park, baths, snack and a video, and the kids are in bed by 8:00. Nice to see the kids excited at the prospect of going and it really enhances the delight of the hot summer eves.

I’m not a fiscal freewheeler, so when we purchase our season passes there is consideration as to the break-even point. We challenge ourselves to see how many visits we can make between the park’s May opening and the early September close dates. Our personal record is 21 park visits set in that fabled summer of 2005! Good times.

We have fallen well shy of our personal record these last few summers. But this year, we’re looking to push 20! The park’s opening day was today. Game on.
-klem

A Tar Pit Scuffle

The La Brea Tar Pits is a Los Angeles County Museum. The museum is located on the exact site where a whole mess of fossils of predators and plant eaters have turned up after being buried in tar for thousands of years.

I had gone to this museum several times when I was a youngster. It’s fun now going with my own son. I had wondered as a little guy how so many animals had become stuck in the tar . . .


A Tar Pit Scuffle


It was 30,000 years ago, the Paleolithic Period or Stone Age. Several Pronghorn antelope (Antilocapra americana) were grazing on the land and enjoying the bounty of a recent rainfall. One of them saw a batch of bright red berries on a bush and went to fill its belly.

The ground was soft and marshy, but the antelope continued. Reaching the plant it started eating the berries, and they were plentiful. The animal called back to its pals who left the bland offerings of the tall grass they had been eating. Their hooves sank deeply into the soil. But the berries were good and with some effort they continued through the thickly viscous mud.

There were four of them. The first antelope had been eating for several minutes without any movement. Seeing another clutch of berries on the neighboring plant he tried raising its hooves. To no avail. It’s mood quickly descended to panic, much like a human having a claustrophobic attack, and wildly contorted its body in attempt to lift its legs. Still nothing. With an effort to leap straight up into the air it merely lost its balance and flopped over. One limb was now free, but the animal could not regain an upright position. It was not mud or quick sand, as it turned out. It was tar! And it quickly enveloped this early mammal.

With one limb flailing wildly it called out in a high pitched bleating. The panic was vocally evident. Two other antelope had already sunk in nearly to their furry white belly. They were stuck and now commenced their own life struggle. The fourth, though stained with tar, managed to regain firm ground.

The loud panicked calls were sure to bring predators. Dire wolves (Canis dirus) were abundant in the region. In fact, there were several already underway following the cries of compromised prey. The single free antelope bolted at top speed. The wolves saw it running away, but were not interested. That one would require too much work.

At full speed two wolves jumped and landed on an antelope and tumbled over into the tar. The two battled each other over the meal until they were fully exhausted. One wolf had no fight left. Too tired, it lay on its belly in tar with its large paws buried in the thick black substance. The other wolf, with one paw free, clawed at the antelope puncturing its hide and causing blood to flow. Skin was torn, but little more. The wolf had little energy left after the brawl, and no leverage with which to sink teeth. These wolves were down, now. The culmination would follow in the next day or two.

A third wolf stood on top of another antelope and tore into it while it was still alive. Ravenous and unaware, the wolf. The extra weight of the wolf pushed the antelope under the tar by nightfall, but it had expired hours before.

The third antelope was stuck and sinking. It lay with its back to the commotion not knowing why the predators had not yet attacked it. The antelope could see nothing of what was happening behind it. In terror, it slowly sank thinking that at any moment it would be torn into by the vicious predators. But no. Late the next afternoon struggling for a final gasp of air of which it could not achieve. The pressure of the tar compressing around its torso was making breathing difficult. It lost consciousness.

-klem
4/2009