I went to college at UC Santa Barbara in the late ‘80s. Great community for a youngster to experience a few years of growth, education, and play. With a large number of students living in such relatively close confines there’s ample opportunity for playful interaction, partying, ridiculous behavior, and hooch - legal and illicit. Going to class, studying, and taking exams are also sprinkled in to round out a well balanced college experience. This young populace was a key factor in a well known UCSB tradition. Halloween.
The street along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Isla Vista, the neighboring residential community immediately adjacent to the UCSB campus, is Del Playa, or known by locals as DP. There are apartments and rental homes lining both sides of the street.
On Halloween thousands of visitors descend upon Isla Vista (IV) for a vigorous round of this fabled Halloween partying. In my years as a UCSB student one was not allowed to drive their car into IV unless they had a letter addressed indicating an IV mailing address that matched their ID. This was done because it is a tiny community that is quickly congested with cars and people creating a sickly logjam if everyone who wanted to drive in for Halloween were allowed to do so.
Once all the Halloween party goers have assembled they commence with the drinking too much and otherwise inebriating themselves. As the darkness of night sets in so does a comfortable level of bravado as the youngsters don their Halloween costumes and walk along DP looking for more hooch and parties. So crowded is the street of Del Playa for a mile that you can’t walk without first considering the people in front of you and on all sides. Really, shoulder to shoulder pedestrian traffic. And let’s face it, tempers sometimes flare when drunks from different groupings commingle in passing.
I was witness on one very special Halloween galavandering to unusual and amusing fighting words. One guy, dressed as Gumby - a popular claymation character from the ‘60s and ‘70s - had apparently offended a fellow partier of another group.
“I’m gonna kick your ass, Gumby,” loudly blathered the offended one. After the laughter died down from those within ear shot there was no actual no fisticuffs.
Halloween at UCSB. Fun times. Happy I don't live like that anymore.
-klem
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
THE Vending Machine
It was a machine well beyond any reality that I could comprehend. 30 years I had lived to that point and such a mechanical device I had not imagined. Perhaps it was the culture within which I had been raised. Issues of legality would make the device difficult to wield. But let the record reflect that it exists. I saw it.
August 1996
I was vacationing with friends in Barcelona, Spain. A night of drinking Spanish hooch was safely winding down despite having engaged inebriation. The hour was late and we had walked back to our hotel. We were standing out front when we saw it.
A vending machine in the lobby of the neighboring hotel caught our eye due to its unique merchandise. The oddity was not immediately distinguished, yet something about it caught our attention. We locked visuals on this machine and approached. It was a mere ten feet away behind the locked glass lobby door. The lobby was well illuminated with the machine occupying a focal point as if mocking us with its cool majestic indifference. From this vantage point our observations were digested. A beer vending machine!
Yes, you enter your peseta [‘peseta’ as this is pre-euro] into the slot and remove a cool bottle of beer . . . if it were not for the unfortunate locking mechanism keeping us apart from this product of impeccable ingenuity. We were not drunk, though certainly not in need of more beer. Heck, we were just going to go upstairs and be asleep soon. But this machine beckoned with its offerings of golden suds.
A security guard sat in the lobby shaking his head ‘no’ indicating that we were to be denied the pleasure of this desired commercial transaction. This guard, I thought later, was he guarding the hotel lobby or the vending machine? Guarding it from any harm that might be issued from such fingers as my own tainted by their desirous hankerings? Either way, this control he steadfastly declined to compromise. Even when we offered to buy him a beer for allowing access. Damn his gumption!
A beer vending machine. It exists. I saw it. It’s in Spain.
-klem
August 1996
I was vacationing with friends in Barcelona, Spain. A night of drinking Spanish hooch was safely winding down despite having engaged inebriation. The hour was late and we had walked back to our hotel. We were standing out front when we saw it.
A vending machine in the lobby of the neighboring hotel caught our eye due to its unique merchandise. The oddity was not immediately distinguished, yet something about it caught our attention. We locked visuals on this machine and approached. It was a mere ten feet away behind the locked glass lobby door. The lobby was well illuminated with the machine occupying a focal point as if mocking us with its cool majestic indifference. From this vantage point our observations were digested. A beer vending machine!
Yes, you enter your peseta [‘peseta’ as this is pre-euro] into the slot and remove a cool bottle of beer . . . if it were not for the unfortunate locking mechanism keeping us apart from this product of impeccable ingenuity. We were not drunk, though certainly not in need of more beer. Heck, we were just going to go upstairs and be asleep soon. But this machine beckoned with its offerings of golden suds.
A security guard sat in the lobby shaking his head ‘no’ indicating that we were to be denied the pleasure of this desired commercial transaction. This guard, I thought later, was he guarding the hotel lobby or the vending machine? Guarding it from any harm that might be issued from such fingers as my own tainted by their desirous hankerings? Either way, this control he steadfastly declined to compromise. Even when we offered to buy him a beer for allowing access. Damn his gumption!
A beer vending machine. It exists. I saw it. It’s in Spain.
-klem
Monday, October 26, 2009
First Steps
Infants are curious beasts. You never know for sure what they’re thinking or what they’re gonna do.
June 2001
My son took his first steps at exactly one year old. I got home from work and Wife Klem was in an especially good mood.
“Come here,” she said with a large smile as I entered the house. “Your boy has something to show you.”
With help from Pretty Mommy the boy rose to his feet. With one hand on the hall wall to maintain his balance he took a step and started to laugh. He took another step and continued laughing. [Laughing why? Happy with his newly gained altitude? Walking’s more funny than crawling? Just pleased himself maybe.] He walked down the hall. As he walked by me I thought two things: (1) Wow, he’s walking well, and (2) Where’s he going?
He turned the corner into the office, still laughing. I followed him in and saw that he was walking toward his dog’s toy bin. He approached, looked in, and started tossing the dog’s toys out onto the floor.
The guy finally attains some degree of walking ability, substantially upgrading his mobility, and that’s what was on his mind? The dog’s toy bin? Silly animal. But he’s our silly animal.
-klem
June 2001
My son took his first steps at exactly one year old. I got home from work and Wife Klem was in an especially good mood.
“Come here,” she said with a large smile as I entered the house. “Your boy has something to show you.”
With help from Pretty Mommy the boy rose to his feet. With one hand on the hall wall to maintain his balance he took a step and started to laugh. He took another step and continued laughing. [Laughing why? Happy with his newly gained altitude? Walking’s more funny than crawling? Just pleased himself maybe.] He walked down the hall. As he walked by me I thought two things: (1) Wow, he’s walking well, and (2) Where’s he going?
He turned the corner into the office, still laughing. I followed him in and saw that he was walking toward his dog’s toy bin. He approached, looked in, and started tossing the dog’s toys out onto the floor.
The guy finally attains some degree of walking ability, substantially upgrading his mobility, and that’s what was on his mind? The dog’s toy bin? Silly animal. But he’s our silly animal.
-klem
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt viii
‘How does it feel to be a wage slave?’ asked the sign I saw overhanging a freeway while driving in the course of work. Rewarding, I say, to be able to provide for my family.
I’m glad that cockroaches don’t have teeth.
Overrated: Food described in terms of its visual presentation rather than taste.
Reenactments are asinine. A poorly outfitted reenactor moving about on artificially grainy film is poor viewing. Tell the story, show a photograph or depiction of the character in question, and move on.
If given the choice, I’d rather have ESPN than ESP.
-klem
I’m glad that cockroaches don’t have teeth.
Overrated: Food described in terms of its visual presentation rather than taste.
Reenactments are asinine. A poorly outfitted reenactor moving about on artificially grainy film is poor viewing. Tell the story, show a photograph or depiction of the character in question, and move on.
If given the choice, I’d rather have ESPN than ESP.
-klem
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
My First Memory
What is my earliest memory, I got to thinking one day? A memory prompt, I figured, might help bring me back to my earlier days. I came up with the following memories.
I liked baseball as a kid, so what’s the earliest World Series that I remember? Dodgers versus A’s in 1974. I was 7. Super Bowl? Steelers versus Cowboys in 1976 with Lynn Swan’s beautiful catch. Nine years old. Grade school, 1st grade, and kindergarten I can all remember in descending degrees of detail. I even remember one impressive crying bout I had in preschool. Yes, preschool. I wanted to climb the fence and get outta there on one particular occasion. Four years old, was I for that embarrassing episode. GP, our pet Guinea Pig, again four years old. I came up with another four year old memory. It is possibly my earliest. The birth of my baby sister.
October 21. Glendale, CA.
The day struck me as odd. My two older brothers and I were at home and the only adult with us was Grandpa Tedesco. He was babysitting us. We loved gramps, but babysitting? Even at four years old it didn’t seem to be anywhere near his comfort zone.
What extreme circumstances necessitated this? The birth of my sister, the fifth and final Klem offspring. Mom, dad, Grandma Tedesco, and my younger brother, still just an infantile little fella, went to the hospital.
I remember gramps walking nervously around the house while we sat on the dark green shag carpeting watching tv. I can only guess what the instructions were to gramps, ‘Just keep these three alive. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’ He did.
Happy birthday, JQ. I’m glad you arrived.
-klem
I liked baseball as a kid, so what’s the earliest World Series that I remember? Dodgers versus A’s in 1974. I was 7. Super Bowl? Steelers versus Cowboys in 1976 with Lynn Swan’s beautiful catch. Nine years old. Grade school, 1st grade, and kindergarten I can all remember in descending degrees of detail. I even remember one impressive crying bout I had in preschool. Yes, preschool. I wanted to climb the fence and get outta there on one particular occasion. Four years old, was I for that embarrassing episode. GP, our pet Guinea Pig, again four years old. I came up with another four year old memory. It is possibly my earliest. The birth of my baby sister.
October 21. Glendale, CA.
The day struck me as odd. My two older brothers and I were at home and the only adult with us was Grandpa Tedesco. He was babysitting us. We loved gramps, but babysitting? Even at four years old it didn’t seem to be anywhere near his comfort zone.
What extreme circumstances necessitated this? The birth of my sister, the fifth and final Klem offspring. Mom, dad, Grandma Tedesco, and my younger brother, still just an infantile little fella, went to the hospital.
I remember gramps walking nervously around the house while we sat on the dark green shag carpeting watching tv. I can only guess what the instructions were to gramps, ‘Just keep these three alive. We’ll be back as soon as we can.’ He did.
Happy birthday, JQ. I’m glad you arrived.
-klem
Saturday, October 17, 2009
That’s Not My $10,000
It’s a familiar day dream that we’ve probably all had at one time or another. Free money. You go to the ATM and it shoots $20 dollar bills at you. Or the bank makes and error and adds a zero or two to your account balance. Fun thoughts. But what if it really happened?
2000
I’m not overzealous with daily or even weekly balance checks on our investment and retirement accounts. Quarterly, that’s the typical frequency I’ll tune in for a review plus a once per year overhaul, as needed. But this particular evening I logged in, out of schedule, and discovered an irregularity. An irregularity in my favor. $10,000 in my favor!
I immediately logged off and walked away from the computer. Could I just leave it there, pretend I knew nothing, benefit from someone’s error and keep it? Could they track the error back to me and reclaim the money at some future date? Would another customer actually be out the $10,000? Or would the financial institution cover the error? Those were questions I would never have answered. A guilty conscience got the better of me. Ten minutes passed and I logged back into the account online and called a customer service representative.
I advised the phone representative of the error. After a short review, he countered by advising me that the error was mine, the $10,000 belonged in my account, and could he do anything else to help. I was then in the amusing situation of asking to speak with someone else to insist that the errant $10,000 be removed from my account. This time, the message was heard and my request was followed through with a thanks. My good samaritan phone call was rewarded by being credited a free trade next time I bought or sold stock. I accepted the token of thanks, street value about $15.
My day dream henceforth changed. No longer ‘What if my account is credited erroneously,’ but rather ‘What if I found a large paper bag of dollar bills?’ Heck, that’d be cool! No electronic tracking, just a guilt-free sack of money. Hot dog! That’d be fun!
-klem
2000
I’m not overzealous with daily or even weekly balance checks on our investment and retirement accounts. Quarterly, that’s the typical frequency I’ll tune in for a review plus a once per year overhaul, as needed. But this particular evening I logged in, out of schedule, and discovered an irregularity. An irregularity in my favor. $10,000 in my favor!
I immediately logged off and walked away from the computer. Could I just leave it there, pretend I knew nothing, benefit from someone’s error and keep it? Could they track the error back to me and reclaim the money at some future date? Would another customer actually be out the $10,000? Or would the financial institution cover the error? Those were questions I would never have answered. A guilty conscience got the better of me. Ten minutes passed and I logged back into the account online and called a customer service representative.
I advised the phone representative of the error. After a short review, he countered by advising me that the error was mine, the $10,000 belonged in my account, and could he do anything else to help. I was then in the amusing situation of asking to speak with someone else to insist that the errant $10,000 be removed from my account. This time, the message was heard and my request was followed through with a thanks. My good samaritan phone call was rewarded by being credited a free trade next time I bought or sold stock. I accepted the token of thanks, street value about $15.
My day dream henceforth changed. No longer ‘What if my account is credited erroneously,’ but rather ‘What if I found a large paper bag of dollar bills?’ Heck, that’d be cool! No electronic tracking, just a guilt-free sack of money. Hot dog! That’d be fun!
-klem
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Allowance Revisited
We have revisited the weekly allowance for the kids, specifically the amount of remuneration. In speaking with a few parents from school, it sounds as though our positions of $1 for a third grader and $0.50 for kindergarten may be on the low end of the allowance spectrum.
The updated compensation level for the boy proposes $3 per week based on him cleaning his bathroom and keeping his room clean. Failure to meet with compliance yields what is now considered a meager $1. He has performed adequately so far at bathroom cleaning which includes emptying the bathroom’s trash bin. His Achilles Heal has proven to be cleaning his room. The first few weeks under this program his remuneration has been a lowly $1, I’m sad to report.
The problem, you see, is the guy’s Hot Wheeling inclination. He likes making Hot Wheels tracks. He especially likes incorporating his entire room, desk, dresser, his dinosaurs, dominoes, and all his other toys into the landscape of the tracks. It really is all encompassing. So much so, that before I check on him before I go to bed, I can’t get to him without stepping on some portion of the track. He maintains that the track must remain standing until all his cars, of which there are about 100, have driven it. He then immediately sets out to modify the track which necessitates that he repeat the process with all the cars. The room never actually gets clean because there’s no down time between tracks.
As for our daughter, she’s been bumped up to $2 weekly. Her responsibility in return is twofold:
(1) She practices writing her alphabet. The task is supposed to be done daily, but my diligence sometimes falls short. The capital letters have been mastered and she’s working on the lower case. The ‘j’ has proven problematic for her as to which way it curls.
(2) She practices her numbers daily. This entails a variation of writing her numbers from 1 to 30 and counting by tens to 100 or counting to 100. She’s really gathering steam here, although that ‘50’ is sometimes elusive.
They’re good kids, but let’s not tell them that. Wouldn’t want to spoil them.
-klem
The updated compensation level for the boy proposes $3 per week based on him cleaning his bathroom and keeping his room clean. Failure to meet with compliance yields what is now considered a meager $1. He has performed adequately so far at bathroom cleaning which includes emptying the bathroom’s trash bin. His Achilles Heal has proven to be cleaning his room. The first few weeks under this program his remuneration has been a lowly $1, I’m sad to report.
The problem, you see, is the guy’s Hot Wheeling inclination. He likes making Hot Wheels tracks. He especially likes incorporating his entire room, desk, dresser, his dinosaurs, dominoes, and all his other toys into the landscape of the tracks. It really is all encompassing. So much so, that before I check on him before I go to bed, I can’t get to him without stepping on some portion of the track. He maintains that the track must remain standing until all his cars, of which there are about 100, have driven it. He then immediately sets out to modify the track which necessitates that he repeat the process with all the cars. The room never actually gets clean because there’s no down time between tracks.
As for our daughter, she’s been bumped up to $2 weekly. Her responsibility in return is twofold:
(1) She practices writing her alphabet. The task is supposed to be done daily, but my diligence sometimes falls short. The capital letters have been mastered and she’s working on the lower case. The ‘j’ has proven problematic for her as to which way it curls.
(2) She practices her numbers daily. This entails a variation of writing her numbers from 1 to 30 and counting by tens to 100 or counting to 100. She’s really gathering steam here, although that ‘50’ is sometimes elusive.
They’re good kids, but let’s not tell them that. Wouldn’t want to spoil them.
-klem
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Compiled Quotes, x
“Zeal without knowledge is fire without light.” Thomas Fuller, English rector and historian [1608-1661]
“If you have a clear mind and an open heart, you won’t have to search for direction.” St. Paul, apostle [?-65]
“Hey, Lasorda,” one fan once heckled the robust Dodger Manager Tom Lasorda, “is that your belt or the equator?”
“If you have a clear mind and an open heart, you won’t have to search for direction.” St. Paul, apostle [?-65]
“Hey, Lasorda,” one fan once heckled the robust Dodger Manager Tom Lasorda, “is that your belt or the equator?”
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Opa
My father-in-law passed away last week after a battle with pancreatic cancer. Any pain and suffering from the illness was his secret until six weeks before he passed away.
We’d regularly taken trips to a beach a short drive from his house, he and my family. He liked to take his grand kids to look for sea life in the tide pools and watch them play in the gentle surf. It was on one such beach trip in August the first signs of trouble appeared. He lost his balance a few times and was uncharacteristically out of breathe. The hospital visits began shortly thereafter.
Opa, as the whole family often preferred to call him, grew up in W.W.II Germany. He was a very mature 12 years old by the end of the war as one might imagine such experiences shaping his youth. As the oldest of three siblings one primary responsibility was to look out for the safety of his little brothers and sister.
He left Germany in 1954 after an apprenticeship in electronics. One time over coffee and Wife Klem’s blackberry cake, of which he was so fond, he explained why he left Germany, his family, and all that he knew. He said simply that he wanted to see ‘how the victors made out.’ He was twenty years old and ready to engage the world, make his way. With that he departed for Canada and entered the U.S. a year later.
He was a man of numerous exciting and entertaining tales, many of which I’ve written down to pass on to our kids. When they get older and curious about their family history they’ll be better able to know the life of their Opa.
He was a good dad to my wife and I couldn’t have asked for a better father-in-law. He was very involved with his grandchildren and consistently took full advantage of a grandparent’s privilege of plying his grandchildren with candy regardless of whether or not a base of strong food had first been consumed. It was always a Happy Opa Day.
Peace to you, dad.
-klem
We’d regularly taken trips to a beach a short drive from his house, he and my family. He liked to take his grand kids to look for sea life in the tide pools and watch them play in the gentle surf. It was on one such beach trip in August the first signs of trouble appeared. He lost his balance a few times and was uncharacteristically out of breathe. The hospital visits began shortly thereafter.
Opa, as the whole family often preferred to call him, grew up in W.W.II Germany. He was a very mature 12 years old by the end of the war as one might imagine such experiences shaping his youth. As the oldest of three siblings one primary responsibility was to look out for the safety of his little brothers and sister.
He left Germany in 1954 after an apprenticeship in electronics. One time over coffee and Wife Klem’s blackberry cake, of which he was so fond, he explained why he left Germany, his family, and all that he knew. He said simply that he wanted to see ‘how the victors made out.’ He was twenty years old and ready to engage the world, make his way. With that he departed for Canada and entered the U.S. a year later.
He was a man of numerous exciting and entertaining tales, many of which I’ve written down to pass on to our kids. When they get older and curious about their family history they’ll be better able to know the life of their Opa.
He was a good dad to my wife and I couldn’t have asked for a better father-in-law. He was very involved with his grandchildren and consistently took full advantage of a grandparent’s privilege of plying his grandchildren with candy regardless of whether or not a base of strong food had first been consumed. It was always a Happy Opa Day.
Peace to you, dad.
-klem
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Things They Say
Conversations with kids. You never know what kind of gems you’ll be gifted. The following transpired last week with both kids driving to my son’s golf lesson.
“Daddy, our home isn't very fun,” said my daughter in a dejected tone of voice from the back seat of the car.
“No fun? What do you mean? You’ve got that cool tent set up in the office for you and your stuffed animals,” I countered kind of surprised. “You’ve got your own room. That’s pretty good. And your big girl bed.” She was very pleased with herself when we removed the rails from her bed a month ago.
“Well, some day you’ll own your own house,” I continued after a pause. “Do you know when that’s going to be?”
“After college,” said my son from his booster seat in the back.
“That’s right. And after college you’ll get a job, get your own place to live, have your own family, and buy your own house too,” I said wrapping things up.
“Dad, of all the things, I’m not looking forward to kissing the bride,” said my boy.
I suggested to him that some day he may change his mind. He appeared skeptical.
-klem
“Daddy, our home isn't very fun,” said my daughter in a dejected tone of voice from the back seat of the car.
“No fun? What do you mean? You’ve got that cool tent set up in the office for you and your stuffed animals,” I countered kind of surprised. “You’ve got your own room. That’s pretty good. And your big girl bed.” She was very pleased with herself when we removed the rails from her bed a month ago.
“Well, some day you’ll own your own house,” I continued after a pause. “Do you know when that’s going to be?”
“After college,” said my son from his booster seat in the back.
“That’s right. And after college you’ll get a job, get your own place to live, have your own family, and buy your own house too,” I said wrapping things up.
“Dad, of all the things, I’m not looking forward to kissing the bride,” said my boy.
I suggested to him that some day he may change his mind. He appeared skeptical.
-klem
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Compiled Quotes, ix
“If you’re not going to tell the truth, at least be accurate.” Lou Duva, boxing trainer [1922]
“Ignorance is not bliss, it is oblivion.” Philip Wylie, author [1902 - 1971]
“Anyone can become angry, that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not easy.” Aristotle, Greek philosopher [384BC-322BC]
“Ignorance is not bliss, it is oblivion.” Philip Wylie, author [1902 - 1971]
“Anyone can become angry, that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not easy.” Aristotle, Greek philosopher [384BC-322BC]
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Return to the NFL
I mentioned recently how the NFL and I had parted ways. That abstinance turned out to have an expiration date.
October 2004.
Our daughter was born September 2004. She had a restless first couple weeks as exhibited by gobs of crying during the day and resisting the peaceful embrace of a sleepy slumber at night for more crying. Poor, baby. One thing she did like, though, was being carried. If you merely held her and sat down or held her and stood still, she wasn’t going to tolerate that for long. Pick her up and maintain motion.
Wife Klem and I worked in shifts holding her and playing with her. During my shift I would often walk around the house holding her, talking to her, and showing her photos that hung from the wall, even though her eyeballs at that time were probably not visually operable other than seeing fuzzy shapes and colors. I eventually came to turning on ball games, the late season baseball stretch was in progress and the baseball playoffs were on a rapid approach.
The rhythm of the games actually worked out well. Watch a couple pitches, walk around the house with my baby, return for a few more pitches then walk around and talk to her. Repeat process. So my evening shifts were occupied thusly intermixed with a few feeding sessions and diaper changes.
Curious thing. After a few weeks I found that I had enjoyed watching baseball. The World Series concluded with the Sox of Boston beating the St. Louis Cardinlas 4 games to 0. Baseball season was over but I had a longing for more athletics. It was at ths point I boldly substituted football for the playoff baseball. This proved to be agreeable. My NFL sabbatical had come to a close.
To date I still crave my footballs. The viewing experience can be enhanced when my daughter concedes to being held while watching. Being as her football tolerance is low, this presents but a fleeting opportunity.
-klem
October 2004.
Our daughter was born September 2004. She had a restless first couple weeks as exhibited by gobs of crying during the day and resisting the peaceful embrace of a sleepy slumber at night for more crying. Poor, baby. One thing she did like, though, was being carried. If you merely held her and sat down or held her and stood still, she wasn’t going to tolerate that for long. Pick her up and maintain motion.
Wife Klem and I worked in shifts holding her and playing with her. During my shift I would often walk around the house holding her, talking to her, and showing her photos that hung from the wall, even though her eyeballs at that time were probably not visually operable other than seeing fuzzy shapes and colors. I eventually came to turning on ball games, the late season baseball stretch was in progress and the baseball playoffs were on a rapid approach.
The rhythm of the games actually worked out well. Watch a couple pitches, walk around the house with my baby, return for a few more pitches then walk around and talk to her. Repeat process. So my evening shifts were occupied thusly intermixed with a few feeding sessions and diaper changes.
Curious thing. After a few weeks I found that I had enjoyed watching baseball. The World Series concluded with the Sox of Boston beating the St. Louis Cardinlas 4 games to 0. Baseball season was over but I had a longing for more athletics. It was at ths point I boldly substituted football for the playoff baseball. This proved to be agreeable. My NFL sabbatical had come to a close.
To date I still crave my footballs. The viewing experience can be enhanced when my daughter concedes to being held while watching. Being as her football tolerance is low, this presents but a fleeting opportunity.
-klem
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Birthday Wishes to Mom Klem
It’s possible that Mom Klem is not renowned for her wild ways. Well hear me out.
In high school she had a teacher who occasionally issued assignments on green paper. Mom Klem and her merry band of pranksters, the sneaks, wrote in green ink on these occasions. The befuddled teacher was reduced to straining her eyeballs to read the green on green.
Lent is a time of meat-free Fridays for Catholics. Well, Mom Klem and her clever vixenous girlfriends late on a Friday night during the Lenten season, on more than one occasion, would order a pepperoni pizza pie. That’s right, these wildcats ordered a meat pizza before midnight, the pies would then be cooked, served, and eaten after midnight, now Saturday morning, free of the meat restriction. It would be a failed effort on your part should you aspire to convince me that such a cavalier move was anything short of a boldness personified.
These scamps would frequent the local Catholic school dances on the weekend. One could do little more than hope they were satisfactorily sated by this revelry fearing what madness and havoc they might otherwise instigate.
There’s so much good stuff along the way from which I could easily pull to show examples of your good deeds, Mom. But let’s not get bogged down in the drudgery.
I love you, Mom. Happy birthday.
-klem
In high school she had a teacher who occasionally issued assignments on green paper. Mom Klem and her merry band of pranksters, the sneaks, wrote in green ink on these occasions. The befuddled teacher was reduced to straining her eyeballs to read the green on green.
Lent is a time of meat-free Fridays for Catholics. Well, Mom Klem and her clever vixenous girlfriends late on a Friday night during the Lenten season, on more than one occasion, would order a pepperoni pizza pie. That’s right, these wildcats ordered a meat pizza before midnight, the pies would then be cooked, served, and eaten after midnight, now Saturday morning, free of the meat restriction. It would be a failed effort on your part should you aspire to convince me that such a cavalier move was anything short of a boldness personified.
These scamps would frequent the local Catholic school dances on the weekend. One could do little more than hope they were satisfactorily sated by this revelry fearing what madness and havoc they might otherwise instigate.
There’s so much good stuff along the way from which I could easily pull to show examples of your good deeds, Mom. But let’s not get bogged down in the drudgery.
I love you, Mom. Happy birthday.
-klem
Sunday, September 13, 2009
I Meet My Bride
December 1995
A work related move took me to another office 60 miles away. I met a cubicle neighbor, we got along well, and we went to a burger franchise and got acquainted over a couple of Whoppers, mine was without mayonnaise.
Returning to the office he introduced me to some new work cohorts, including my neighbor across aisle. She was beautiful! I did what I could to maintain my cool before departing that afternoon.
My neighbor across the aisle and I were both single. A combination of being shy, in addition to being leery of an in-office romance, I fostered a friendly, though clumsy, familiarity. Brief chit chats about weekend events and social goings-on was the typical conversation. She was quick to laugh and had a delightful smile when engaged in conversation. I was hooked hard and continued looking for reasons and topics of discussion.
May 1996
Six months later she turned in her two-weeks notice. She was leaving the company. Mustering up my strength, I managed to ask her out. I got strength in thinking that if she declined, it would be an awkward two weeks but then it’d be over and she’d be gone. But to my delight, she smiled, wrote down her phone number, folded the paper in half, and handed it to me. I think she even brushed at her hair with her hand during this brief exchange.
The evening of our first date had arrived. The conversation was no longer clumsy. We decided on a second date.
Today marks our 11th year as bride and groom! I love you, Sweet Pea. Happy Anniversary.
-klem
A work related move took me to another office 60 miles away. I met a cubicle neighbor, we got along well, and we went to a burger franchise and got acquainted over a couple of Whoppers, mine was without mayonnaise.
Returning to the office he introduced me to some new work cohorts, including my neighbor across aisle. She was beautiful! I did what I could to maintain my cool before departing that afternoon.
My neighbor across the aisle and I were both single. A combination of being shy, in addition to being leery of an in-office romance, I fostered a friendly, though clumsy, familiarity. Brief chit chats about weekend events and social goings-on was the typical conversation. She was quick to laugh and had a delightful smile when engaged in conversation. I was hooked hard and continued looking for reasons and topics of discussion.
May 1996
Six months later she turned in her two-weeks notice. She was leaving the company. Mustering up my strength, I managed to ask her out. I got strength in thinking that if she declined, it would be an awkward two weeks but then it’d be over and she’d be gone. But to my delight, she smiled, wrote down her phone number, folded the paper in half, and handed it to me. I think she even brushed at her hair with her hand during this brief exchange.
The evening of our first date had arrived. The conversation was no longer clumsy. We decided on a second date.
Today marks our 11th year as bride and groom! I love you, Sweet Pea. Happy Anniversary.
-klem
Our Daughter is Born
9/13/2004
We’re having a baby! Wife Klem awakened me at 12:07 am to advise that our daughter was ready to meet us. We woke up the boy and arrived at the hospital at 12:30 am. After a couple phone calls I returned home to leave the boy with my big brother and Wife Klem’s dad who had by now driven in after receiving a pair of rushed requests to baby sit.
Our daughter burgeoned forth at 3:36 am. She ranked in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. Not much eye contact or interest in looking around at anyone or anything, our daughter. Until, that is, she heard Mommy! Her eyes opened wide and looked right at Wife Klem. No interest in anyone else, but lots in Mommy. Probably wants to see from whence that pleasant voice has come those preceding nine months.
Today is our son's first day of school. I called to say that he won’t be in today on account of his new baby sister. The benefit of having a sister pays off immediately for him with his ‘Get out of school’ pass. Before returning to Wife Klem at the hospital I made a round of family phone calls advising of our daughter’s arrival. I also took down a celebratory breakfast of two Eggo waffles and chocolate milk.
She’s really a super kid, this baby, occasionally running through her repertoire of facial expressions. Her rendition of the large unencumbered smile ranking as my favorite.
6:30 pm. Our special in-hospital birthing celebration supper. Shrimp for me, filet mignon (that’s fancy for meat) for Wife Klem each with a single serving sparkling cider and an apple pie dessert. Good. Robust? No, but I don’t think I’d successfully manage to consume a robust meal at this point. Wife Klem? I boldly say no. The baby now beckons for a feeding. Wife Klem complying despite the meal interruption. Generous, she is.
It’s an amazing procedure the human birth. All the way up to and including the doctor holding up the spent placenta and showing us the opening from where the baby emerged. And then he casually chucked it into the garbage bin, the nut. Birth by hatching on the other hand? Much less dramatic. Much more adorable.
We love you, Boogie. Happy birthday.
-klem
We’re having a baby! Wife Klem awakened me at 12:07 am to advise that our daughter was ready to meet us. We woke up the boy and arrived at the hospital at 12:30 am. After a couple phone calls I returned home to leave the boy with my big brother and Wife Klem’s dad who had by now driven in after receiving a pair of rushed requests to baby sit.
Our daughter burgeoned forth at 3:36 am. She ranked in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. Not much eye contact or interest in looking around at anyone or anything, our daughter. Until, that is, she heard Mommy! Her eyes opened wide and looked right at Wife Klem. No interest in anyone else, but lots in Mommy. Probably wants to see from whence that pleasant voice has come those preceding nine months.
Today is our son's first day of school. I called to say that he won’t be in today on account of his new baby sister. The benefit of having a sister pays off immediately for him with his ‘Get out of school’ pass. Before returning to Wife Klem at the hospital I made a round of family phone calls advising of our daughter’s arrival. I also took down a celebratory breakfast of two Eggo waffles and chocolate milk.
She’s really a super kid, this baby, occasionally running through her repertoire of facial expressions. Her rendition of the large unencumbered smile ranking as my favorite.
6:30 pm. Our special in-hospital birthing celebration supper. Shrimp for me, filet mignon (that’s fancy for meat) for Wife Klem each with a single serving sparkling cider and an apple pie dessert. Good. Robust? No, but I don’t think I’d successfully manage to consume a robust meal at this point. Wife Klem? I boldly say no. The baby now beckons for a feeding. Wife Klem complying despite the meal interruption. Generous, she is.
It’s an amazing procedure the human birth. All the way up to and including the doctor holding up the spent placenta and showing us the opening from where the baby emerged. And then he casually chucked it into the garbage bin, the nut. Birth by hatching on the other hand? Much less dramatic. Much more adorable.
We love you, Boogie. Happy birthday.
-klem
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Rock Concert
Before our daughter was born I would often take the boy in his stroller, then three years old, and the dog for a weekend morning walk to the nearby park. This one specific morning there was a crew setting up an extensive arrangement of temporary chain link fencing. Something major was underway.
9/12/2004
“What’s going on,” I asked a guy.
“George Thoroughgood is playing today,” he replied. Thoroughgood. That’s a rock band. A decade or so beyond their prime, but still, playing here? At the park?
“They’re opening for Blue Oyster Cult,” he continued.
With that my attention was fully piqued! BOC, for those of us in the know, was a favorite rock band of my brothers back in the ‘80s. Having been fortunately furnished with this chance information, my day’s plans were to be altered.
I had a few chores to do, but my boy and I were going to see BOC live! He was excited when I proposed that we come back for a picnic lunch to watch a rock concert. I liked his enthusiasm. Although I venture to say he didn’t really grasp what ‘rock concert’ meant.
Returning home I had to hustle around to complete the yard chores before we went. It was getting close to start time when I had just finished. Stepping into the house I was expecting to have to quickly make sandwiches and pack a lunch. But I was instead greeted by a smiling Wife Klem who had packed lunch for me and the boy and offered to drop us off near the park. How lucky am I? Thanks, Wife Klem.
“Are you ready?! On your feet, or your knees, for the amazing . . . Blue Oyster Cult!!” blared through the sound system as we entered the park. The big ‘80’s rock band had just taken the stage. We navigated around the paying customer seating and luncheoned 50 yards to the left of the stage beyond the metal chain link temporary perimeter fence under a tree on a grassy knoll. Sandwiches in hand, along with binoculars, we took in the scene. Good view of the stage, beach balls bouncing among the crowd, and the money-paying spectators, of which we were not. A $25 ticket price secured them a patch of grass in the sun within their fenced-in confines.
The event was hosted by Harley Davidson. This would be readily attested by the amusingly rugged contingent of Harley gear-wearing folks in attendance, in addition to the numerous limping personnel and various other physical observations seemingly resultant of a hard living.
We stayed for an hour. He had fun, but I sensed that he had his fill when he started to ask after every song, “It’s over, Daddy?”
We got home, put the guy down for his nap. The next day his sister would be born.
-klem
9/12/2004
“What’s going on,” I asked a guy.
“George Thoroughgood is playing today,” he replied. Thoroughgood. That’s a rock band. A decade or so beyond their prime, but still, playing here? At the park?
“They’re opening for Blue Oyster Cult,” he continued.
With that my attention was fully piqued! BOC, for those of us in the know, was a favorite rock band of my brothers back in the ‘80s. Having been fortunately furnished with this chance information, my day’s plans were to be altered.
I had a few chores to do, but my boy and I were going to see BOC live! He was excited when I proposed that we come back for a picnic lunch to watch a rock concert. I liked his enthusiasm. Although I venture to say he didn’t really grasp what ‘rock concert’ meant.
Returning home I had to hustle around to complete the yard chores before we went. It was getting close to start time when I had just finished. Stepping into the house I was expecting to have to quickly make sandwiches and pack a lunch. But I was instead greeted by a smiling Wife Klem who had packed lunch for me and the boy and offered to drop us off near the park. How lucky am I? Thanks, Wife Klem.
“Are you ready?! On your feet, or your knees, for the amazing . . . Blue Oyster Cult!!” blared through the sound system as we entered the park. The big ‘80’s rock band had just taken the stage. We navigated around the paying customer seating and luncheoned 50 yards to the left of the stage beyond the metal chain link temporary perimeter fence under a tree on a grassy knoll. Sandwiches in hand, along with binoculars, we took in the scene. Good view of the stage, beach balls bouncing among the crowd, and the money-paying spectators, of which we were not. A $25 ticket price secured them a patch of grass in the sun within their fenced-in confines.
The event was hosted by Harley Davidson. This would be readily attested by the amusingly rugged contingent of Harley gear-wearing folks in attendance, in addition to the numerous limping personnel and various other physical observations seemingly resultant of a hard living.
We stayed for an hour. He had fun, but I sensed that he had his fill when he started to ask after every song, “It’s over, Daddy?”
We got home, put the guy down for his nap. The next day his sister would be born.
-klem
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Klem’s Corollaries on Life, excerpt iii
(21) Reach for a dictionary once in a while. Look it up.
(22) Dude, if you’re rocking a pony tail and it’s not for a Halloween costume or a prank, cut if off. Who’re you, Steven Segal?
(23) When picking up a heavy object, lift with your legs, not your back.
(24) Vanity license plates. Almost never a good idea.
(25) Happiness comes with seeking satisfaction and fulfillment. Not from the pursuit of happiness.
(26) Have a plan. Periodically review that plan for improvements.
(27) Read constantly. Novels, newspapers, magazines, the Bible. Doesn’t matter, just read something. When you finish it, pick something else to read. Repeat process.
(28) If you feel compelled to criticize, mix in constructive comments.
(29) If you feel you have to mumble, then it’s probably not worth saying. Stop mumbling.
(30) Use spell check.
-klem
(22) Dude, if you’re rocking a pony tail and it’s not for a Halloween costume or a prank, cut if off. Who’re you, Steven Segal?
(23) When picking up a heavy object, lift with your legs, not your back.
(24) Vanity license plates. Almost never a good idea.
(25) Happiness comes with seeking satisfaction and fulfillment. Not from the pursuit of happiness.
(26) Have a plan. Periodically review that plan for improvements.
(27) Read constantly. Novels, newspapers, magazines, the Bible. Doesn’t matter, just read something. When you finish it, pick something else to read. Repeat process.
(28) If you feel compelled to criticize, mix in constructive comments.
(29) If you feel you have to mumble, then it’s probably not worth saying. Stop mumbling.
(30) Use spell check.
-klem
Saturday, September 5, 2009
My Involuntary NFL Sabbatical
It was September 1, 1996 at 10:04 am Pacific Time. Sunday morning, Week 1 of football season and a game was just then kicking off.
I’d been a football fan since 1975, I was eight, and my team had always been the Cleveland Browns. Very sadly, the Browns had moved to Baltimore at the conclusion of the previous football season and changed their name to the Baltimore Ravens. My Cleveland Browns no longer existed!
I was tremendously disappointed with this development, but couldn’t be certain how it would affect me until football returned. I’d been a football watcher on Sundays during football season for 20 years. Would I still feel compelled to watch the great pageantry that is professional football even though I was now without a team? For whom, now, should I root? I was riddled with confusion. Today I would find my answers as the first games of the season kicked off across the country.
“Honey, do you want this?” My girlfriend at the time, who later, to my glee, would become my bride, asked if I had an interest in watching the football game that was airing on the television.
Thinking briefly upon Sweet Pea’s query, “No thanks.”
Silly thing, I didn’t know how I would feel about football again until that first kick off of the new season. Here we were. I was surprised at how easily I had turned the page on the NFL. Its draw for me had been extinguished.
-klem
[Note: An NFL team returned to Cleveland in 1999. It would be a few years more before I made my peace with the NFL and returned as a spectator.]
I’d been a football fan since 1975, I was eight, and my team had always been the Cleveland Browns. Very sadly, the Browns had moved to Baltimore at the conclusion of the previous football season and changed their name to the Baltimore Ravens. My Cleveland Browns no longer existed!
I was tremendously disappointed with this development, but couldn’t be certain how it would affect me until football returned. I’d been a football watcher on Sundays during football season for 20 years. Would I still feel compelled to watch the great pageantry that is professional football even though I was now without a team? For whom, now, should I root? I was riddled with confusion. Today I would find my answers as the first games of the season kicked off across the country.
“Honey, do you want this?” My girlfriend at the time, who later, to my glee, would become my bride, asked if I had an interest in watching the football game that was airing on the television.
Thinking briefly upon Sweet Pea’s query, “No thanks.”
Silly thing, I didn’t know how I would feel about football again until that first kick off of the new season. Here we were. I was surprised at how easily I had turned the page on the NFL. Its draw for me had been extinguished.
-klem
[Note: An NFL team returned to Cleveland in 1999. It would be a few years more before I made my peace with the NFL and returned as a spectator.]
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Student Discount
The student discount has been a favorite of mine for many years. You know, you go to the movie theater, zoo, or other fee-for-entry establishments and the student discount is often available for the asking and photo ID verification. I’ve rarely taken advantage of it, but have cherished it each time as one might cherish an unassisted triple play in baseball or a safety in football.
I was last officially a student in June 1990 when I graduated from college. Strictly speaking the student discount was no longer available to me for the balance of my days.
In 1992 I took Scuba diving classes with my kid brother and we became certified divers. We were issued student diver ID cards on the front end of the our training.
It was this student identification card with photo and official student number that I called into use over the years to score this youth-intended discount. I pulled the stunt as recently as last year when Team Klem went to the Los Angeles County Museum of History. My boy likes dinosaurs, we go periodically and let the fella refresh his interest by staring at the ancient bones.
I saved maybe $2 with the discount that afternoon. Wife Klem amusedly suggested that I retire from the student discount racket. Maybe she’s right. I should probably give up the ghost on this. But in a moment of weakness I cannot guarantee that should I be under the influence of a squirrelly mood that I’d be able to muster the needed gumption to once again resist pulling that card from my wallet and showing it to a clerk. I can only try to do my best.
A rascal or a scoundrel, am I? You decide.
-klem
non-student
I was last officially a student in June 1990 when I graduated from college. Strictly speaking the student discount was no longer available to me for the balance of my days.
In 1992 I took Scuba diving classes with my kid brother and we became certified divers. We were issued student diver ID cards on the front end of the our training.
It was this student identification card with photo and official student number that I called into use over the years to score this youth-intended discount. I pulled the stunt as recently as last year when Team Klem went to the Los Angeles County Museum of History. My boy likes dinosaurs, we go periodically and let the fella refresh his interest by staring at the ancient bones.
I saved maybe $2 with the discount that afternoon. Wife Klem amusedly suggested that I retire from the student discount racket. Maybe she’s right. I should probably give up the ghost on this. But in a moment of weakness I cannot guarantee that should I be under the influence of a squirrelly mood that I’d be able to muster the needed gumption to once again resist pulling that card from my wallet and showing it to a clerk. I can only try to do my best.
A rascal or a scoundrel, am I? You decide.
-klem
non-student
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Water Park. Defeat.
We’re on the cusp of admitting defeat, is Team Klem. The goal of 20 is a distant thought well beyond the horizon from where we stand at present.
In May we bought season passes to the local water park and were excited at the prospect of pushing toward our personal record for number of visits in one summer! Sadly, we’ve visited the amusement locale only seven times since the acquisition of said passes. I’m embarrassed about how I let ourselves fall so far behind pace. The park closes in two weeks. We’ll have until May 2010 when it reopens next year to ponder how we’ve underperformed this summer.
I could blather on, offer explanations, reasons, and excuses as to our rather pedestrian number of visits. But it’s best if I just provide the facts and let them speak for our lack of gumption in this regard. Seven.
I suspect we’ll try again next year with another batch of season passes. The goal may have to be set at a more lackluster, though attainable, elevation. Or do we abstain next summer breaking the streak that links back to 2003?
Disappointed but not entirely dejected. Tomorrow we’ll seek something different on which to claim victory.
-klem
In May we bought season passes to the local water park and were excited at the prospect of pushing toward our personal record for number of visits in one summer! Sadly, we’ve visited the amusement locale only seven times since the acquisition of said passes. I’m embarrassed about how I let ourselves fall so far behind pace. The park closes in two weeks. We’ll have until May 2010 when it reopens next year to ponder how we’ve underperformed this summer.
I could blather on, offer explanations, reasons, and excuses as to our rather pedestrian number of visits. But it’s best if I just provide the facts and let them speak for our lack of gumption in this regard. Seven.
I suspect we’ll try again next year with another batch of season passes. The goal may have to be set at a more lackluster, though attainable, elevation. Or do we abstain next summer breaking the streak that links back to 2003?
Disappointed but not entirely dejected. Tomorrow we’ll seek something different on which to claim victory.
-klem
Friday, August 28, 2009
A Gift of Ears
“Who mailed us corn,” asked a surprised Wife Klem the other day staring down at the contents of an unsolicited package that arrived with the mail and had just been opened. After barely a moment’s pause I knew from whence it came. I also knew without any further inspection that it was of the sweet corn variety.
I’ve got this friend of mine, quite a chum, really. We’ll call him Dan At A Slower Pace. We met at work nearly two decades ago, a friendship that transcended the work confines. This friend and his family have ample property at their home and have employed a portion of it as a generously dimensioned personal “garden”. How generous? And why is “garden” in quotes? 15 acres dedicated to a noncommercial farm operation is tough to call a garden, but qualifies easily as generous. He, too, blogs and recently posted about his crops and this season’s haul.
Growing up in southern California, as I did, a farm, or 15 acres of personal garden, holds a certain mystique for me. Upon reading his post I couldn’t contain my unsophisticated agricultural curiosity. To read his post, peruse the photos, and mock my city boy comments [click here] and fast forward to his August 9 post. Dan graciously volunteered to feed my curiosity with the aforementioned unsolicited gifted ears of corn.
Thanks for the sweet corn, Mr. At A Slower Pace. The ears were delicious and consumed enthusiastically.
-klem
I’ve got this friend of mine, quite a chum, really. We’ll call him Dan At A Slower Pace. We met at work nearly two decades ago, a friendship that transcended the work confines. This friend and his family have ample property at their home and have employed a portion of it as a generously dimensioned personal “garden”. How generous? And why is “garden” in quotes? 15 acres dedicated to a noncommercial farm operation is tough to call a garden, but qualifies easily as generous. He, too, blogs and recently posted about his crops and this season’s haul.
Growing up in southern California, as I did, a farm, or 15 acres of personal garden, holds a certain mystique for me. Upon reading his post I couldn’t contain my unsophisticated agricultural curiosity. To read his post, peruse the photos, and mock my city boy comments [click here] and fast forward to his August 9 post. Dan graciously volunteered to feed my curiosity with the aforementioned unsolicited gifted ears of corn.
Thanks for the sweet corn, Mr. At A Slower Pace. The ears were delicious and consumed enthusiastically.
-klem
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Klem’s Book of Observations, excerpt vii
People who dress their dogs in outfits or a sweater. That’s too bad.
Pumpkins are deserving of better standing than the secondary thought attributed to a seasonal fruit.
Based on it’s pronunciation, I’m not comfortable with the spelling of ‘colonel’.
Cardigan sweaters do not exude a spirit of aggressive intent.
Cats bury their guano. Sissies. But then, you gotta respect their tidiness when compared to poo-throwing monkeys.
-klem
Pumpkins are deserving of better standing than the secondary thought attributed to a seasonal fruit.
Based on it’s pronunciation, I’m not comfortable with the spelling of ‘colonel’.
Cardigan sweaters do not exude a spirit of aggressive intent.
Cats bury their guano. Sissies. But then, you gotta respect their tidiness when compared to poo-throwing monkeys.
-klem
Monday, August 24, 2009
Canine Insectivore
[Warning: A graphic carnage-filled video follows.]
It happened this summer during a slumber party. The entire Team Klem was being hosted by the entire Team Adornato. It started with the cats, of which there were two.
One feline had caught a moth, a large one, while playing outside and brought it indoors where it was released. The cats jumped and chased the thing as it skittered along near the ceiling. The dog got worked up by the frenzy and joined in the rumpus. Perhaps it was due to the confusion of the melee, the moth made a strategic error by recklessly diving down to a more attainable altitude for it’s landlubber assailants for which it paid dearly. Snatched!
Emerging from the room victorious was the dog, Lucy Chew. She plopped on the ground holding her prize, the moth, deftly between her paws and ‘playfully’ pulling at the moth’s wings with her teeth. An entertaining scene for the callous of heart. The carnage was caught on video.
Thanks again to Team Adornato for hosting the slumber party this summer. Good times, unless you were the moth.
-klem
It happened this summer during a slumber party. The entire Team Klem was being hosted by the entire Team Adornato. It started with the cats, of which there were two.
One feline had caught a moth, a large one, while playing outside and brought it indoors where it was released. The cats jumped and chased the thing as it skittered along near the ceiling. The dog got worked up by the frenzy and joined in the rumpus. Perhaps it was due to the confusion of the melee, the moth made a strategic error by recklessly diving down to a more attainable altitude for it’s landlubber assailants for which it paid dearly. Snatched!
Emerging from the room victorious was the dog, Lucy Chew. She plopped on the ground holding her prize, the moth, deftly between her paws and ‘playfully’ pulling at the moth’s wings with her teeth. An entertaining scene for the callous of heart. The carnage was caught on video.
Thanks again to Team Adornato for hosting the slumber party this summer. Good times, unless you were the moth.
-klem
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Little Treat
‘What happened to my car,’ I thought to myself walking past it in the parking lot at work the other day. It looked so . . . clean.
I have a field job. I drive to the office Monday morning, retrieve the company car, and drive it around all week in the name of work. My personal car domiciles overnight in the parking lot three or four nights each week.
A vendor is contracted to periodically visit the lot and wash the company cars. You know, it puts up a good clean positive image when employees meet customers looking tidy. It makes sense.
The company cars are parked in two aisles and don a company sticker on the rear bumper. My personal car is a former company car. The company sticker, though cracking and far from pristine due to age, remains affixed on my rear bumper. On Monday morning I parked it in a spot adjacent to the two aisles, but not in one of the aisles.
The car cleaning vendor washed cars this week. I saw my personal car the other day as I walked to the office after parking my company car. It had an unfamiliar shine to it. They had cleaned my car by accident! I smiled at the treat of an unexpected washing, then left it in the lot two more nights.
I drove home from the office this afternoon into the weekend looking through a squeaky clean windshield. Well, at least squeaky clean on the outside. I wonder if they’da vacuumed the interior if I left it unlocked?
-klem
I have a field job. I drive to the office Monday morning, retrieve the company car, and drive it around all week in the name of work. My personal car domiciles overnight in the parking lot three or four nights each week.
A vendor is contracted to periodically visit the lot and wash the company cars. You know, it puts up a good clean positive image when employees meet customers looking tidy. It makes sense.
The company cars are parked in two aisles and don a company sticker on the rear bumper. My personal car is a former company car. The company sticker, though cracking and far from pristine due to age, remains affixed on my rear bumper. On Monday morning I parked it in a spot adjacent to the two aisles, but not in one of the aisles.
The car cleaning vendor washed cars this week. I saw my personal car the other day as I walked to the office after parking my company car. It had an unfamiliar shine to it. They had cleaned my car by accident! I smiled at the treat of an unexpected washing, then left it in the lot two more nights.
I drove home from the office this afternoon into the weekend looking through a squeaky clean windshield. Well, at least squeaky clean on the outside. I wonder if they’da vacuumed the interior if I left it unlocked?
-klem
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Health Care Reform
Health Care reform has gotten plenty of attention the last few months, and for good reason. The cost of providing health care and the level of care that best befits one’s family are important issues. Anyone would be hard pressed to successfully argue that improvements are not needed.
The ongoing health care reform discussion presented by the President and Congress are based on two major points:
1) Our current health care system is too expensive.
2) Health care should be provided to everyone, mainly the uninsured.
I’d like to air out my concerns by addressing both.
(1) Health care is expensive. Most people will agree with that. Estimates place health care costs in the United States at about 15% of Gross Domestic Product. That’s a significant amount of jack. The Federal government is looking to interject itself as the solution by actually providing health care. Does anybody really expect that health care will become less expensive if the Federal government takes over?
From an expenses standpoint, this health care reform has absolutely no merit. The private sector is, and will continue to be, a less expensive option than any version of Government health care. As the saying goes, ‘If you think it’s expensive now, wait until it’s free!’
(2) So you want the uninsured not just to be insured, but to be provided health care at no charge. That sounds like an expensive proposition. This in itself seems to defeat the first point.
There’s some disagreement as to the actual number of Americans without health insurance, but let’s go with the high estimate of 15%, 45 million. Are we really going to change the entire health care system to accommodate 15%? Does that not sound extreme? In the least it sounds like a reckless thing to do.
A few additional issues to discuss in the face of the proposed legislation:
(a) We are told that people will be able to retain their employer-provided plans if they prefer them to the public option, the Government plan. That’s baloney! Once the government offers a free plan, employers will more than likely drop the employer-health care benefit feature. ‘Why continue with this expense if government provides it at no cost,’ employers will ponder. This employer-option will cease to exist.
(b) Health care options would decrease. As the other health insurance options disappear in the wake of the Government’s plan, options for health care will actually become fewer, not more as is being boasted with this reform. That’s too bad, this result of fewer options. People need options because we all place different priorities and values on health insurance and the level of care people want depending on what stage in life they’re in. Whether a person is single, married with young kids, or elderly drives this sliding scale of need.
A one-size-fits-all plan is inappropriate for health care. In fact, one-size-fits-all does not work outside the realm of tube socks and spandex.
Think of houses, for example. People place value on different features. Some folks may want a fancy house, ranch style for others, a two story home versus a one story, and beach front preference to mountain areas. Our current health care system does offer different choices. A government plan ultimately stifles choice as explained above.
The same level of health care for all is a bad idea. This is especially so when this ‘same level’ relegates everyone to a sub par standard. People want different things and strive to complete their own dreams, desires, and goals. If some desire, have planned for, and have secured the level of care they want for themselves they should be able to have it. These freedoms of choice are motivation for people to improve themselves and their circumstances to meet their goals and provide for their family.
Health care is in need of reform. Perhaps these reform ideas are worthy of consideration:
1) Amend the way medical services are charged. How about paying for medical and health care based on results rather than services performed and medication dispensed? That pair of $50 aspirins maybe won’t be prescribed unnecessarily if there’s no 1,000% mark up.
2) Malpractice law suits. If a suit is deemed to have no merit, then the claimant and their law firm should be subject to absorb the entire cost of all legal expenses or a significant penalty. The desired effect is to discourage frivolous lawsuits. This will bring down the cost of medical malpractice insurance which will result in a lower cost of practicing medicine.
Health care is an important topic that is worthy of more detail than these abbreviated offerings. But if I don’t cut this down to a more digestible size nobody would bother to read this but Mom Klem. With that, I close.
-klem
The ongoing health care reform discussion presented by the President and Congress are based on two major points:
1) Our current health care system is too expensive.
2) Health care should be provided to everyone, mainly the uninsured.
I’d like to air out my concerns by addressing both.
(1) Health care is expensive. Most people will agree with that. Estimates place health care costs in the United States at about 15% of Gross Domestic Product. That’s a significant amount of jack. The Federal government is looking to interject itself as the solution by actually providing health care. Does anybody really expect that health care will become less expensive if the Federal government takes over?
From an expenses standpoint, this health care reform has absolutely no merit. The private sector is, and will continue to be, a less expensive option than any version of Government health care. As the saying goes, ‘If you think it’s expensive now, wait until it’s free!’
(2) So you want the uninsured not just to be insured, but to be provided health care at no charge. That sounds like an expensive proposition. This in itself seems to defeat the first point.
There’s some disagreement as to the actual number of Americans without health insurance, but let’s go with the high estimate of 15%, 45 million. Are we really going to change the entire health care system to accommodate 15%? Does that not sound extreme? In the least it sounds like a reckless thing to do.
A few additional issues to discuss in the face of the proposed legislation:
(a) We are told that people will be able to retain their employer-provided plans if they prefer them to the public option, the Government plan. That’s baloney! Once the government offers a free plan, employers will more than likely drop the employer-health care benefit feature. ‘Why continue with this expense if government provides it at no cost,’ employers will ponder. This employer-option will cease to exist.
(b) Health care options would decrease. As the other health insurance options disappear in the wake of the Government’s plan, options for health care will actually become fewer, not more as is being boasted with this reform. That’s too bad, this result of fewer options. People need options because we all place different priorities and values on health insurance and the level of care people want depending on what stage in life they’re in. Whether a person is single, married with young kids, or elderly drives this sliding scale of need.
A one-size-fits-all plan is inappropriate for health care. In fact, one-size-fits-all does not work outside the realm of tube socks and spandex.
Think of houses, for example. People place value on different features. Some folks may want a fancy house, ranch style for others, a two story home versus a one story, and beach front preference to mountain areas. Our current health care system does offer different choices. A government plan ultimately stifles choice as explained above.
The same level of health care for all is a bad idea. This is especially so when this ‘same level’ relegates everyone to a sub par standard. People want different things and strive to complete their own dreams, desires, and goals. If some desire, have planned for, and have secured the level of care they want for themselves they should be able to have it. These freedoms of choice are motivation for people to improve themselves and their circumstances to meet their goals and provide for their family.
Health care is in need of reform. Perhaps these reform ideas are worthy of consideration:
1) Amend the way medical services are charged. How about paying for medical and health care based on results rather than services performed and medication dispensed? That pair of $50 aspirins maybe won’t be prescribed unnecessarily if there’s no 1,000% mark up.
2) Malpractice law suits. If a suit is deemed to have no merit, then the claimant and their law firm should be subject to absorb the entire cost of all legal expenses or a significant penalty. The desired effect is to discourage frivolous lawsuits. This will bring down the cost of medical malpractice insurance which will result in a lower cost of practicing medicine.
Health care is an important topic that is worthy of more detail than these abbreviated offerings. But if I don’t cut this down to a more digestible size nobody would bother to read this but Mom Klem. With that, I close.
-klem
Monday, August 17, 2009
Bitten By a Goose
The petting zoo never disappoints. All those baby goats, sheep, and pigs available for the petting. Cool stuff. Except for the time a goose gave me a bloody lip.
1973
The family went to the Los Angeles Zoo. I was just a little guy of six years entering the petting zoo quadrant. After looking at the caged beasts for over an hour my siblings and I were pretty lathered up at the idea of actually touching some.
Petting zoos are commonly equipped with feed dispensers. Toss a coin into the slot, turn the knob, get the feed from the dispenser, and commence enticing the animals to come close for a touching. If one hasn’t coins to load into the machine, guile must be employed to get within arm’s reach of the more elusive creatures. My older brother, I saw, had seemed to prove hearty in this area.
With nothing in his hand, he would cup it, as if it were loaded with oats and whatever, and extend it toward the desired animal. This proved effective in getting the animal’s attention and they would approach, unwitting prey. The downside, though, was that the animals would scamper off once they were close enough to observe the cupped hand was merely nude. So close, but lacking success. Try again.
I liked the sense of sport in this. Optimistic that I’d work this technique to fruition, I spied the object of my desire. A big goose. I wanted to pet that goose. Empty hand was cupped and extended. Goose’s attention gained, he approached, observed the deceit in my hand, honked, and walked away.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I thought to myself. I pursued. Goose quickened its pace, I equaled it. He went under an unskirted building that had been raised on pillars. With almost three feet of clearance, I followed. At this point the goose turned. ‘I’m gonna touch him!’ I thought. And I was right. But not as I had hoped.
He ran at me, too fast for the clumsy unhoned motor skills of my six years. He bit me on the lip!
I emerged from under the building a crying little guy and a bloody lip. Pop Klem bought me a snow cone in hopes to minimize the swelling. Once he saw that I was fine, more scared than harmed, I can imagine the effort he had to summon to suppress the laughter that this lip biting goose must have inspired.
I have since forgiven the goose and bear it no ill will.
1976
A second incident at the same petting zoo involved my sister and a baby goat. The goat head-butted my sister. ‘A baby goat. How cute,’ one might think initially. Except for the small set of horns starting to protrude from the goat’s head. My sister, a tough five years, remained afoot despite blood flowing from her forehead. With a handful of napkins Pop Klem was present to staunch the bleeding.
My two kids have remained unscathed in their petting zoo visits. Though Wife Klem and I will continue to tempt fate.
-klem
1973
The family went to the Los Angeles Zoo. I was just a little guy of six years entering the petting zoo quadrant. After looking at the caged beasts for over an hour my siblings and I were pretty lathered up at the idea of actually touching some.
Petting zoos are commonly equipped with feed dispensers. Toss a coin into the slot, turn the knob, get the feed from the dispenser, and commence enticing the animals to come close for a touching. If one hasn’t coins to load into the machine, guile must be employed to get within arm’s reach of the more elusive creatures. My older brother, I saw, had seemed to prove hearty in this area.
With nothing in his hand, he would cup it, as if it were loaded with oats and whatever, and extend it toward the desired animal. This proved effective in getting the animal’s attention and they would approach, unwitting prey. The downside, though, was that the animals would scamper off once they were close enough to observe the cupped hand was merely nude. So close, but lacking success. Try again.
I liked the sense of sport in this. Optimistic that I’d work this technique to fruition, I spied the object of my desire. A big goose. I wanted to pet that goose. Empty hand was cupped and extended. Goose’s attention gained, he approached, observed the deceit in my hand, honked, and walked away.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ I thought to myself. I pursued. Goose quickened its pace, I equaled it. He went under an unskirted building that had been raised on pillars. With almost three feet of clearance, I followed. At this point the goose turned. ‘I’m gonna touch him!’ I thought. And I was right. But not as I had hoped.
He ran at me, too fast for the clumsy unhoned motor skills of my six years. He bit me on the lip!
I emerged from under the building a crying little guy and a bloody lip. Pop Klem bought me a snow cone in hopes to minimize the swelling. Once he saw that I was fine, more scared than harmed, I can imagine the effort he had to summon to suppress the laughter that this lip biting goose must have inspired.
I have since forgiven the goose and bear it no ill will.
1976
A second incident at the same petting zoo involved my sister and a baby goat. The goat head-butted my sister. ‘A baby goat. How cute,’ one might think initially. Except for the small set of horns starting to protrude from the goat’s head. My sister, a tough five years, remained afoot despite blood flowing from her forehead. With a handful of napkins Pop Klem was present to staunch the bleeding.
My two kids have remained unscathed in their petting zoo visits. Though Wife Klem and I will continue to tempt fate.
-klem
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Football Haiku
It’s nearly football season! The pageantry of the game, the highlights, the statistics, the emotional highs and lows of the football games enriching each game day. The anticipation of the NFL puts a little extra spring in my step. Really I can’t wait. With that, I offer a football haiku.
-klem
Hundred yards of green
Pigskin hash marks pads and ball
Football I’ve missed you
Pigskin hash marks pads and ball
Football I’ve missed you
-klem
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Klem’s Corollaries on Life, excerpt ii
(11) Don’t be rude.
(12) Don’t use foul language. It depreciates your own character rather than that of the person to whom your foul language is directed.
(13) It’s not always what you’re obligated to do that’s most important. Oftentimes, it’s what you don’t have to do but care enough to do it anyway.
(14) Change the filters in your furnace and air conditioning intake.
(15) Don’t be a one-upper. Let someone else have their moment.
(16) Complaining is for those who have given up. Remain above that self-degradation. Just think of a solution and move on.
(17) Sun block. Use it. Your kids too. This’ll make more sense once you’re 40+ years old.
(18) Eat vegetables.
(19) Read to your kids. And once they’re able to read, take the time to listen to them read.
(20) Train your dog.
-klem
(12) Don’t use foul language. It depreciates your own character rather than that of the person to whom your foul language is directed.
(13) It’s not always what you’re obligated to do that’s most important. Oftentimes, it’s what you don’t have to do but care enough to do it anyway.
(14) Change the filters in your furnace and air conditioning intake.
(15) Don’t be a one-upper. Let someone else have their moment.
(16) Complaining is for those who have given up. Remain above that self-degradation. Just think of a solution and move on.
(17) Sun block. Use it. Your kids too. This’ll make more sense once you’re 40+ years old.
(18) Eat vegetables.
(19) Read to your kids. And once they’re able to read, take the time to listen to them read.
(20) Train your dog.
-klem
Monday, August 10, 2009
Heroes. Not Dorks.
We recently visited a college buddy of mine and his family for a weekend. We’ll call them Team Adornato. They’ve got a pair of kids, same ages as ours, and they all played well together with only a few minor flare-ups.
At one point Adornato and I slipped away to get in some video gaming. Yes, my weakness for video gaming raises its head yet again. The gaming system for the weekend was the Xbox. The game was Guitar Hero III Legends of Rock.
“You guys are dorks,” said his daughter, a smart eight years old, as she came across the two of us discussing our gaming. There is certainly a healthy dose of validity to her comment. Although I am humbly inclined to suggest that ‘Heroes’ might be more accurate, ‘Guitar Heroes’ to be precise.
For those not familiar with the Guitar Hero game series, please allow me to briefly explain. You have the option of one or two players. Team Adornato being equipped with two guitar gaming controllers, we rocked out simultaneously alternating duty between lead and bass guitars. We proved to be a commendable force in this capacity.
In the game, the players select a song and the game delivers a color coded sequence denoting the guitar riffs. The players are to duplicate the color coded sequence of notes with their guitar controllers. If performed inadequately, players miss too many notes for example, the players are ‘booed off stage’ and the game abruptly ends the song. You may then try again, choose a different song, or try an easier setting. More songs are gradually unlocked, made available, as the players proficiently complete the easier songs. I don’t mind admitting, it’s fun stuff.
Sunday night when the kids went to sleep, we unleashed a fury unto the game that unlocked the 35 songs plus 15 bonus tracks in just over two hours! There remained a number of songs available on the Guitar Hero virtual store, but those remain for purchase rather than earned on merit as we had become accustomed.
Upon this recounting, I feel compelled to reconsider my earlier rebuke. Perhaps Dorks is more appropriate.
-dork
At one point Adornato and I slipped away to get in some video gaming. Yes, my weakness for video gaming raises its head yet again. The gaming system for the weekend was the Xbox. The game was Guitar Hero III Legends of Rock.
“You guys are dorks,” said his daughter, a smart eight years old, as she came across the two of us discussing our gaming. There is certainly a healthy dose of validity to her comment. Although I am humbly inclined to suggest that ‘Heroes’ might be more accurate, ‘Guitar Heroes’ to be precise.
For those not familiar with the Guitar Hero game series, please allow me to briefly explain. You have the option of one or two players. Team Adornato being equipped with two guitar gaming controllers, we rocked out simultaneously alternating duty between lead and bass guitars. We proved to be a commendable force in this capacity.
In the game, the players select a song and the game delivers a color coded sequence denoting the guitar riffs. The players are to duplicate the color coded sequence of notes with their guitar controllers. If performed inadequately, players miss too many notes for example, the players are ‘booed off stage’ and the game abruptly ends the song. You may then try again, choose a different song, or try an easier setting. More songs are gradually unlocked, made available, as the players proficiently complete the easier songs. I don’t mind admitting, it’s fun stuff.
Sunday night when the kids went to sleep, we unleashed a fury unto the game that unlocked the 35 songs plus 15 bonus tracks in just over two hours! There remained a number of songs available on the Guitar Hero virtual store, but those remain for purchase rather than earned on merit as we had become accustomed.
Upon this recounting, I feel compelled to reconsider my earlier rebuke. Perhaps Dorks is more appropriate.
-dork
Friday, August 7, 2009
Wingtip Repair
My first week of work at a full time post-college job concluded 19 years ago today.
August 1990
I reported to work, my first day on the job, in the pinstripe suit, a striking blue tie, my favorite, and new black leather wingtip shoes. By the end of the first day my feet were blistered and sore. So recent from college was I that the footwear to which I remained best accustomed were sandals and high-top basketball shoes. But being one who enjoyed personal milestones I cheerfully noted, at the end of day one, that this had been the longest I’d ever worn the wingtips, nearly ten hours including drive time to and from the office. Hopefully, the shoes would become more comfortable with each successive day, I thought to myself.
By noon on the fifth day my tender toes had had enough. Blisters were several, one had popped, and walking had become painful. At lunch I walked 200 yards to the neighboring enclosed shopping mall where I located a retail Florsheim shoe store. Having pleaded my case of too tightly bound feet, the shoe merchant gladly took the lightly worn dogs and placed them on the shoe stretching machine in the stock area. This machine, in those few minutes, became my favorite mechanical innovation.
While the wingtips were being racked, I perused the shoe shelves from the comfort of my stockinged feet. Eating a honey roasted turkey breast sandwich with American cheese, which I had packed myself, I felt somehow gleeful in the setting what with my suit and tie, but no shoes as I strolled the aisles with sandwich in mid-consumption.
In due time, the shoes were returned, sandwich taken down, stockinged feet neatly enveloped by the complimentary stretched leathers, and 200 yards were counted off as I returned to the 11-story office building.
My first professional conundrum had been swiftly tackled. A mounting sense of invincibility began to develop.
-klem
August 1990
I reported to work, my first day on the job, in the pinstripe suit, a striking blue tie, my favorite, and new black leather wingtip shoes. By the end of the first day my feet were blistered and sore. So recent from college was I that the footwear to which I remained best accustomed were sandals and high-top basketball shoes. But being one who enjoyed personal milestones I cheerfully noted, at the end of day one, that this had been the longest I’d ever worn the wingtips, nearly ten hours including drive time to and from the office. Hopefully, the shoes would become more comfortable with each successive day, I thought to myself.
By noon on the fifth day my tender toes had had enough. Blisters were several, one had popped, and walking had become painful. At lunch I walked 200 yards to the neighboring enclosed shopping mall where I located a retail Florsheim shoe store. Having pleaded my case of too tightly bound feet, the shoe merchant gladly took the lightly worn dogs and placed them on the shoe stretching machine in the stock area. This machine, in those few minutes, became my favorite mechanical innovation.
While the wingtips were being racked, I perused the shoe shelves from the comfort of my stockinged feet. Eating a honey roasted turkey breast sandwich with American cheese, which I had packed myself, I felt somehow gleeful in the setting what with my suit and tie, but no shoes as I strolled the aisles with sandwich in mid-consumption.
In due time, the shoes were returned, sandwich taken down, stockinged feet neatly enveloped by the complimentary stretched leathers, and 200 yards were counted off as I returned to the 11-story office building.
My first professional conundrum had been swiftly tackled. A mounting sense of invincibility began to develop.
-klem
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Compiled Quotes, viii
“I was gratified to be able to answer promptly. I said I don’t know.” Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, author [1835 - 1910]
“I didn’t like the play, but then I saw it under adverse conditions, the curtain was up.” Groucho Marx, comedian [1890 - 1977]
“Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.” Thomas Jefferson, U.S. President from 1801-1809 [1743 - 1826]
“I didn’t like the play, but then I saw it under adverse conditions, the curtain was up.” Groucho Marx, comedian [1890 - 1977]
“Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances.” Thomas Jefferson, U.S. President from 1801-1809 [1743 - 1826]
Monday, August 3, 2009
A Professional Wardrobe
July 1990
It was the first suit I ever owned. I recall trying it on, liking it very much, but thinking it was too powerful, if that sounds odd. Black pinstripes. I tried to express that sentiment to the salesman.
“No old man’s going to be offended by this,” he reassured. He knew this was the suit for my first real job interview.
I bought it. A week later I was offered the job! I had successfully maneuvered the transition from carefree college student to contributing member of the workforce. I was pleased with myself.
There were two weeks until I was to report for work. The clock was now running and there was much to do. Other than one suit, my wardrobe consisted of generous servings of sweat pants, t-shirts, white socks, and athletic footwear. An upgrade was needed to suits, leather shoes, sports coats, collared shirts, ties, black socks, and slacks.
This clothing upgrade was a very difficult issue for me. I did like the cut professional attire would furnish a fella. The purchase of the correct pieces and donning them in a combination to be considered an acceptable ensemble in the workplace, however, seemed a stretch for someone of my casual stylings.
August 1990
I was a young scribe freshly emerged from the coastal University of California at Santa Barbara. It was Monday. I commenced my professional infancy looking both awkward and adorable in my black pinstripe business suit.
Work. This is how it began 19 years ago this week.
-klem
It was the first suit I ever owned. I recall trying it on, liking it very much, but thinking it was too powerful, if that sounds odd. Black pinstripes. I tried to express that sentiment to the salesman.
“No old man’s going to be offended by this,” he reassured. He knew this was the suit for my first real job interview.
I bought it. A week later I was offered the job! I had successfully maneuvered the transition from carefree college student to contributing member of the workforce. I was pleased with myself.
There were two weeks until I was to report for work. The clock was now running and there was much to do. Other than one suit, my wardrobe consisted of generous servings of sweat pants, t-shirts, white socks, and athletic footwear. An upgrade was needed to suits, leather shoes, sports coats, collared shirts, ties, black socks, and slacks.
This clothing upgrade was a very difficult issue for me. I did like the cut professional attire would furnish a fella. The purchase of the correct pieces and donning them in a combination to be considered an acceptable ensemble in the workplace, however, seemed a stretch for someone of my casual stylings.
August 1990
I was a young scribe freshly emerged from the coastal University of California at Santa Barbara. It was Monday. I commenced my professional infancy looking both awkward and adorable in my black pinstripe business suit.
Work. This is how it began 19 years ago this week.
-klem
Friday, July 31, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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
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
Monday, July 27, 2009
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
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
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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
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
Monday, July 20, 2009
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
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
Friday, July 17, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
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]
‘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]
Monday, July 13, 2009
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
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
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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
(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
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
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
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
Sunday, July 5, 2009
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
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
Thursday, July 2, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
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
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, June 28, 2009
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
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
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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
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
Friday, June 26, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
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
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
Monday, June 22, 2009
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.]
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.]
Saturday, June 20, 2009
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
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
Thursday, June 18, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
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
“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
Monday, June 15, 2009
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, 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
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