Dexter's Midnight Musings

Holiday in DFW or Moscow?

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sun, 04 Sep 2016 16:24:00 +0000

The one good thing about not blogging very often is I get to save up a lot of stories/incidents to blog about later. If I can just remember them all. This travel story happened last December.

On December 28, the last day of my Christmas holiday family visitation trip, the weather forecasters predicted 27 inches of snow at home. As usual, they were completely wrong; we only got 24 inches. But I was far away and unconcerned in unusually balmy weather in Tennessee. With two days to clear the snow from the runway and with the airport within walking distance of home if necessary, I didn't worry.

Amazingly, on my last night away, with humid conditions and a 68 degree temperature, we had a perfect night to sit by the hotel firepit without even a jacket. Two of my brothers were there along with assorted other hotel guests as we relaxed and eventually closed down the bar which proved to be my first mistake as hotel bars generally close at 11:00 or midnight, and I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. to catch a 6:00 a.m. flight home.

One of the other hotel guests opened up a travel bag and pulled out a bottle of whiskey for just such an emergency. When he asked us if we wanted some, my answer of "sure" became my second mistake. We enjoyed conversation late into the night, and I had become completely oblivious to the time. As we staggered back into the hotel, my brother said, "I can't believe it's 3:00 a.m." Crud.

At that point, I decided if I went to sleep I'd never get up for my flight so I just sat on the bed watching tv for an hour trying to stay awake. Finally at 4:00 a.m., I got up to get in the shower as my phone buzzed with a voicemail.

"That can't be good," I thought as I grabbed the phone and played the message.

"Hello, this is We Don't Fly in Snow Airlines. We regret to inform you that your flight from Dallas to Antarctica has been cancelled. However, we have booked you on a later flight which departs on January 2."

"January! That's next year!" I fumed to no one. "Four days? I can't get home for four days?"

I settled down and decided not to panic. I've been in these situations before; I'm sure I can get a flight via standby. I also realized that I could just stay in town for another day or two and at least visit family and catch a flight later in the week.

I checked in at the airport and told the agent that if I could book a later flight, I'd just hang around a few days. She glanced at the long line behind me and suggested that all flights were booked up forever and ever and that I should be happy just to get to Dallas. I figured she might be right, and at least St. Pauli Girl could always drive to Dallas to pick me up. So I headed toward the gate.

I finally collapsed into my seat on the plane ready to sleep for a solid two hours during the flight. An older man in jeans and a straw cowboy sat next to me (normal attire on a flight to Texas). I quickly closed my eyes to signal him not to bother me.

The plane finally took off, and I tried to get comfortable for my nap. I heard a slight buzzing sound and a light rap that slowly grew louder. I opened my eyes and noticed the man next to me humming some sort of chant while patting out time with his hands on his thighs. Then the chant went quiet and suddenly got loud again. I decided the best plan of action would be to ask him about it and see if he could keep it a little quieter.

"That's a lovely hymn you got going there," I said. "What does it mean?"

"Thank you. It doesn't really translate to English. But it basically means, 'hope the plane don't crash.'"

"Keep up the good work," I said as I turned back to the window and closed my eyes.

Thanks to his chanting, we made it safely to Dallas and I was now running on about 20 minutes of sleep in 24 hours. I decided I would treat myself to breakfast plus coffee before my next flight. I liked my chances; with the snow two days old, surely they had plowed the runway by now? As I finished my eggs, my phone received another voicemail.

"Hello, this is See You Next Year Airlines, your 9:30 flight has been cancelled. We booked you on standby on a 2:30 p.m. flight but don't hold your breath. And remember we still have a seat saved for you on that January 2 flight. Have a nice day!"

By the time I had paid my check, and left the restaurant, I looked up at a departures screen to see the 2:30 flight had been cancelled already. I called St. Pauli Girl to relay the good news. Originally, we had planned to drive back to Dallas on the 30th anyway to celebrate my birthday and spend the weekend there. We came up with a brilliant plan that I could just spend the night in Dallas, and she would drive out the next day like we had planned.

I decided I had better talk to a real airline agent to get everything straightened out. After an hour, I made it to the front of the line and spoke to an agent.

I said, "Look my wife is gonna pick me up tomorrow, so just keep me on that January 2 flight just in case. I'll just spend the night here."

Relieved that he didn't have to think or that I wasn't the typical angry psychopath airline passenger, he said, "Would you like a discounted hotel room?"

"Why yes, yes I would. Of course, I suppose I can't check in until this afternoon..."

"Nonsense, an airport shuttle will meet you over there by exit G."

Finally, things were looking up for me... ( to be continued)

Things That I Should Have Said

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sun, 31 Jul 2016 20:54:00 +0000

It was fitting that we ended up in the church we had mostly grown up in. Attired in jackets, ties or dress, we paraded down the main aisle reminiscent of Christmases long ago. But this time, we had reserved seats, and no usher necessary to seat us.

Back when we were scattered about at various school locations, Christmas was the only time of the year when we were all together. We always went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve with my parents going at about 11:00 p.m. to save good seats for everyone. The rest of us kids would arrive just before the opening procession.

It must have been difficult to hold onto those seats for the entire family for an hour. That service is always very popular with standing room only by 11:30 p.m. Mr. P, the head usher, prided himself on being able to fill the pews with 600 people when normal maximum capacity should have been 400. He would stand next to a pew, hold up the number of fingers representing the number of people he intended to seat there, then beckon with a wave of those fingers. If no one came forward, he would start pointing at specific people standing against the back wall. Then he would look down at the people in the pew with a stern face that seemed to say, "You best be moving over."

I'm sure he tried several times over the years to force people into the pew my mom had reserved with coats. My dad probably didn't care and would have thought "serves the kids right for waiting until the last minute to show up."

But I'm sure my mom gave Mr. P a glare that said, "You best be looking to seat those people elsewhere."

And every year, we would saunter in just before midnight and sit in the pew that my mom had saved.

I think we always thought our "just in time appearance" irked her considerably. But we found out years later that she loved having us dressed in our best clothes parading through the entire congregation to our seat as if showing off the family. She said we looked like the mafia all dressed up with stern looks on our faces. Except for the crime, I guess.

I'm glad we did it one last time for her.

Five or six years ago, after another Christmas visit, I prepared to leave my parents' house to catch my flight. My mom still displayed a sense of understanding with an occasional word, maybe a laugh and that goofy look as if saying, "Are you kidding me?" I wore some ghastly t-shirt with raised lettering, and when I went to hug her goodbye, she traced the "S" on my shirt with her finger and said, "Superman."

I don't know if it was a lucid thought, a hibernating memory suddenly shot out of the dark recesses of the brain or if she was even talking about me. But I chose to think she was talking about me. I almost missed my plane because of having to pull over a few times to clear my eyes and get my thoughts together.

All these years later, it has finally dawned on me that she wasn't talking about me at all. She was talking about my dad. I don't know anyone that would or could possibly argue that he isn't Superman.

Most people, simply from watching television if nothing else, are familiar with the classic marriage vows, "to have and to hold, in sickness and health, until death do us part." I don't know if those vows are still in use, but I'm pretty sure it's hard to find a minister who actually believes it or can say it with a straight face. In my lifetime, I doubt I will witness anyone that can honor those vows as my parents did for 57 years.

"To have and to hold": that first dance, holding hands, that first kiss, a wedding kiss, an embrace on the first born, then another child, and another child, etc. A few stolen moments on weekend getaways, the kitchen make-out sessions when you thought there were no kids around (or just didn't care), the hugs upon family deaths, weddings, and minor surgeries. Holding hands in a custom built treehouse as the sun sets, holding her up on the first slip to holding/carrying her wherever she needed to go, to the final act of placing her in her resting place.

In retrospect, I guess the kids should have been the ones saving the seats for my parents at Midnight Mass. We might not have staved off Mr. P the usher with an easy glare, but with two lawyers in the family, they'd issue subpoenas and depositions while the rest of us engaged in fisticuffs, half'-nelsons, full-nelsons, eye-gouging ("Hey Mr. P, I got two right here!") and quite possibly a Stooges pie fight.

My parents probably would have avoided the fracas and simply taken a seat somewhere in the back. My mom would have put her head on my dad's shoulder and said, "Oh how I love them."

And we love her too, forever and ever.

Mayor McCheese?

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sat, 18 Jun 2016 22:35:00 +0000

Late one evening, St. Pauli Girl and I were sitting in our courtyard enjoying a cocktail when we noticed a light reflecting off the side of the house. It disappeared then came back. The courtyard is surrounded by a five foot high brick wall, so we couldn't see beyond it without standing up. Having sat out there on many a night, I knew it couldn't be the headlights of a car.

"What's that light?" I asked. "Is that a flashlight?"

Then we heard a grunt.

"That sounded like an animal," I said.

"Yeah but they don't normally carry flashlights."

I pushed my wrought iron chair back dragging the legs along the bricks trying to make as much noise as possible.

"Hello?" I called out as I walked to the brick wall.

I peered out out over the wall and saw a scruffy man in a white t-shirt, grey shorts and sandals and using his cell phone as a flashlight.

"Hello, can I help you?" I yelled out trying to be firm and civil

He said something, but I couldn't understand it. He stood still staring at his phone.

"Time to get serious," I thought.

"Hey! What are you doing on my lawn?" I said in the deepest foreboding drill seargant voice I could muster.

"I'm looking for my wife," he snapped back as he resumed looking at his phone.

"Not good enough. What are you doing on my property?" I demanded.

I turned to look at St. Pauli Girl to tell her to get ready to call 911, but she was gone. Then I saw the front porch light come on. I quickly ran into the house and to the front door. I came out into the front yard and saw St. Pauli Girl talking to the stranger. I ran toward them as St. Pauli Girl walked back toward the garage.

"Marcellus Wallace, I live three houses down." the stranger said as he held out his hand to me. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.)

I introduced myself and shook his hand.

"Just looking for my wife," he said. "So you bought the De La Hoya house?"

"What?" I asked while still trying to grasp how this weird situation had now become a normal conservation. "I didn't know the house had a name."

"They were the previous owners," he said smirking.

At this point I noticed his wobbly legs as St. Pauli Girl came back from the garage.

"Well she's not in the garage," she said. "Did you meet Mr. Wallace? He said he saw his wife walk up here."

"Yeah, I was concerned," he said. "She was pretty drunk, and I'm just trying to get her home safely."

"I don't think so," I said, "we've been out here all night and haven't seen or heard a thing."

"Hmmm, maybe next door."

We watched him stumble across the driveway into the neighbor's yard.

"I wonder who's drunker, him or his wife," I said as we walked back to the courtyard.

"You know who that was don't you?"

"No."

"That was the ex-mayor."

"What? Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, can't remember when exactly but I guess before you moved to the Great Republic of Texas."

We resumed our cocktails when about ten minutes later, we saw the same light flashing on the house. We walked back out to see Marcellus walking up our driveway again.

"She's not here," I yelled. "We would have seen her."

"Just let me check your garage."

St. Pauli Girl walked through the garage and told him the same thing.

Marcellus threw up his hands and walked down the driveway and back to the street. He weaved badly in and out of the street. We stood and watched him stumble up and down the street a couple of times.

"Do you think we should call the police?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

"I'm torn between not wanting to stay up all night getting interviewed by the police and being awakened by his cell phone flashlight shining in our bedroom window. If we see him come by again before we call it a night, we'll call the police."

We sat down and quietly contemplated the incident for a few minutes.

I finally broke the silence. "You know, considering this is Texas, it's amazing and lucky that we were both unarmed."

We didn't see him again the rest of the night.

Several weeks later, St. Pauli Girl called me at work to tell me the dogs had escaped from the backyard. Both the sidegate and back gate were wide open, and I failed to notice when I let the dogs out.

"Do you think the mayor was looking for his wife again?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

(The dogs returned safely.)

Golfers are just the Best

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sun, 15 May 2016 22:02:00 +0000

(After a much longer sabbatical than otherwise planned, I have returned! Hello, is anyone still out there? Anyone?)

We live almost across the street from a private golf club (no, I am not a member so I yell and shake a fist at whoever may hit a golf ball into our yard). One day earlier in the spring, while raking leaves in the yard, I wiped my brow and hoped that St. Pauli Girl would come out, offer me a beer and tell me to quit for the day. Suddenly I heard a thumping noise as a car came down the road next to the golf course. Someone definitely had a flat tire.

The car slowly veered onto our street and stopped in the middle of the street in front of our house. Now our street is very narrow and appears more like a driveway, but nevertheless it is still a street where cars do go in both directions often times much faster than they should.

I stood and waited for the driver to exit the car. Knowing that chivalry would demand that I offer to help if the driver were female, I prayed for a male driver. Luckily, the driver was a man, an older man, but I judged him fit enough to change the tire by himself. I resumed raking.

Despite the fact that the back tire was flat, he knelt down by the front tire and examined it for some reason. After a few minutes, he went behind the car and opened the trunk. I saw him moving some things around, then he came back and looked at the back flat tire. I felt relieved that I would not have to go down and point out the correct flat tire. He then pulled out his phone and made a call.

"Ah," I thought in relief. "he's calling AAA or a buddy so I don't have to worry about whether or not I should offer to help."

Upon completion of his call, he went back to the trunk where he pulled out his golf clubs which I assumed were blocking his access to the spare tire and jack. Instead, he closed the trunk and stepped onto the grass bordering the golf course. He pulled out some golf clubs and started swinging them to loosen up.

"Interesting," I thought. "I guess maybe he called his friends to have them pick him up on the way to the golf course."

He then grabbed his golf bag and carried it down next to a tree bordering the first fairway. A few minutes later, a golf club worker pulled up in a golf cart. They threw his bag in the back and drove back to the first tee. Apparently, so as not to miss his tee time, he had called the golf club pro shop and asked to have someone come pick him up.

It's quite possible I would have done the same thing except for the part where he parked his car in the middle of our road.

"Whatever," I thought. "Maybe AAA is going to come fix it while he plays golf. At least it's Sunday and there's not much traffic on the road."

But AAA never came. And as darkness settled in, the golfer never came back either. The disabled car remained parked in the middle of the road overnight and through most of Monday as well. I finally noticed at some point Monday night, the car had disappeared.

I tried to decide if he was arrogant or just stupid then realized that was a waste of my own time trying to figure that out. The lesson in retrospect, was that I should have offered to help. He may have declined my offer, but at least when the caddy came up in the golf cart, I could have said, "Woah, woah, woah, buddy. Let's get this car off the road and out of the way before you get to your jolly, jaunty golf game. And whatever you do, don't park it on my lawn!"

Pope Rockefeller the First

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 31 Mar 2015 20:25:00 +0000

In recent news, an Arizona state legislator has come up with the novel idea that the federal government should force people to attend the church of each person's choice once a week. Alert readers would think that I would object to this jack-booted federal overreach seeing as how I tried to avoid church whenever possible as a kid. But these dear readers would be wrong. No, I don't want to be forced to go to church every Sunday, but I would like to own and operate churches in a country where citizens are forced to attend church.

What is almost as much fun as going to church on Sundays? Watching sports of course, especially football. Welcome to my new church: The Church Of the NFL or CON for short. As the first Pope of this church, I have taken the name Pope Rockefeller.

Allow me to sermonize:

"In the name of Lombardi, Shula, and Halas, let's huddle up. Amen. A preacher once said, 'If Jesus played football, he'd play it hard-nosed but within the rules. He wouldn't hesitate to run over you, but then he'd shake your hand after the game win or lose.'

"You know what else Jesus would have wanted if he played football? He'd want you to watch. On a 75 inch high-def big screen. Welcome to our CON sanctuary featuring 60 big screen televisions and a plush leather recliner for each worshiper. Our altar has 17 taps featuring the finest Abbey Ales, Trappist Ales and of course every flavor from St. Arnold Brewery.

"Start the day in our confessional where you can confess your sins or discuss the upcoming games and point spreads with Father Bookie. (Wink, wink.) What's better than professional cheerleaders on a big screen tv? Live ~~cheerleaders~~ Altar Girls. They'll come around with the collection plate and for a special price will take you back to the ~~VIP room~~ confessional where you can negotiate an even bigger donation.

"At halftime and between games, you'll be invited to take part in the holy sacrament of Buffalo Wings and Nachos. Wash it down with some holy water from our own Bishop Jack Daniels. And then we'll pray, 'May the coin toss be with you.'

(Response: 'And also with you.')

'You may now fist bump your neighbor.'

"The only singing in our sanctuary is that old 'Houston Oilers, Houston Oilers...' song. Chanting and foul language are allowed - when you feel the holy spirit of Curly Lambeau coursing through your veins, you can ask to be saved and baptized under a shower of Natural Lite.

"All of this can be yours for the small tithe of $39.95 per week plus a 2-drink minimum of our sacramental wine or beer."

As Pope of this new style of Sunday morning worship, I would offer other ~~franchises~~ denominations as well:

First Baseball Church

Major Church of the NCAA (Major CON )

NASCAR Witnesses

National Cathedral of Hockey (Canadian licensing available)

First United Basketball Church

Anglican Church of Lesser Sports

So now hiring, Bishops, Rooks, Arch-Bishops and altar girls.

For more info, contact me at pope.rockefeller@con.com

Another Love Letter to Las Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Wed, 25 Mar 2015 19:01:00 +0000

Long time readers will remember our affinity for Las Vegas, if not, you can find it here, here and here or just go here for all of them. Anyway, we spent another spring break in the adult Disney World and came away with these observations/incidents:

Early Winners

On the plane, we treated ourselves to cocktails with some complimentary drink coupons. Since it was vacation, we ordered a second round without the coupons. We offered the credit card to the airline hostess who just looked away. Free drinks! Winners already!

Sightseeing

In pretty much every major city these days I believe, you can find people dressed in superhero costumes that will pose for pictures with tourists (which begs the question, "shouldn't you be out fighting crime?"). Downtown Las Vegas (Fremont Street) takes this to another level. You can pose with showgirls, strippers, beefcake guys, women in catsuits, guys in thongs and some guy that operates a dancing wooden Indian puppet. I'm pretty sure you could lay down in the street, put out a tip jar and a sign that says, "This is what Elvis looked like when he died", and you could make a small fortune.

To top it all off, we saw a 60 year old woman wearing angel wings, jean shorts, and exposing her large, long, pendulous breasts with only duct tape covering the nipples. I'm not sure if you could pose for pictures with her, but one could argue the duct tape resembled a Captain America shield. We just moved out of the way because I'm pretty sure she could have kicked my ass even if she wasn't Captain America.

Juuuuuuune!

One night while playing blackjack in a casino, an old hippy-ish gentleman with a long beard came rolling by in a wheelchair with a sound system blasting "Jackson" by Johnny Cash.

The Chinese blackjack dealer sighed, "Only in America."

"Only in Vegas," I corrected her.

That Guy

We went to brunch at Bouchon which is a nice restaurant at the Venetian. We were seated next to a large man in a track suit with a Donald Trump knockoff toupee and bare feet. Now, yes, this restaurant is near the pool, but really, he couldn't slip on some sandals at least? Then we overheard this conversation on his phone:

"So yeah, we can get your wife on the board. I mean with your help and mine, we can do it. And then we have zero liability."

Yeah, that doesn't sound fishy coming from a barefoot guy in a track suit in Las Vegas.

Bring Your Own Broads
One night we finally ventured into "Oscar's Beef, Booze and Broads" which is a steakhouse owned by the ex-mayor. Apparently, the broads part of the name referred to the fact female hostesses would sit at your table and engage you in conversation. Kind of like if Disney World had a "Hooker Experience" ride.

Anyway, we finally asked our server where the broads were.

"Oh she only comes in on weekends," she replied.

She? There's only one? The sign promised us broads damn it! I guess we'll bring our own next time.

Reason #3879 Why I Love Las Vegas

So I'm sitting at a bar next to a couple of local guys boozing it up on St. Patrick's Day. Their conversation went something like this:

"You want a shot, bro?"

"You know it, bro."

"Man, that was a good shot."

"You know it, bro."

"You want another one, bro?"

"You know it, bro."

Later one of them said to the bartender, "Hey did you see that protest on the news? What was it, anti, anti, what do you call it? Anti-seminism."

"Uh-oh," I thought. "He means anti-Semitism which means he's probably about so say something disturbing or at least grossly inappropriate."

Then he started talking about pregnant women, and I realized he actually meant, "artificial insemination." Or maybe "anti-semenism."

Jessie's Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 13 Mar 2015 19:33:00 +0000

Today we have another episode of: Songs I Find Perplexing.

If you grew up in the eighties, you are quite familiar with soap opera star turned pop star Rick Springfield's hit song "Jessie's Girl." Or maybe you just currently listen to an oldies station, and you are now familiar with that song. The song was a massive hit because to be honest it had a good beat, and I guess you could dance to it. But I'm not sure anyone ever paid much attention to the lyrics.

Quick synopsis (full lyrics or song): Rick is jealous of his friend Jessie's new girlfriend. And being the good friend that he is, Rick kind of would like to make that girl his girlfriend. Or just talk dirty to her, I'm not sure.

It's one thing to be envious or even a little jealous of a friend's lover, but when you start fantasizing and scheming, you're crossing the line into creepy stalker territory. Because of that, I felt I needed to write the rebuttal song from Jessie's point of view (to the tune of the original song):

Jessie's Friend

Rick is an old friend

Yeah more like some guy I know than friend

But something changed when I dated Chiffon

Now he follows us around like a lost puppy

And he's watching us with that telescope

And he's doing something with his hand, I just know it

He even knocks on our door, late late at night

Chorus:

You know I wish that Rick would go away

We never have time to ourselves

Where can we find a hiding place?

Chiffon told me 'bout the calls

Some guy breathing heavy then hanging up

I did some CSI, found the payphone booth

Saw Rick coming out, said "you seem out of breath"

He said hey I was looking to have a beer with you

I said Rick I think the beer is kind of moot

And he said, no you mean Moosehead

Chorus:

Why am I having a beer with Rick?

Why's he asking 'bout Chiffon's underwear?

Where can I find a hobby for Rick?

Bridge:

And we look in the mirror all the time

Wondering if he's coming up behind us

He brings Chiffon perfume and wine

Winks and tells her she needs a napkin

cus she seems dirty

Chorus:

You know I wish that Rick would go away

He's creepy and gettin' pretty scary

Why must I be Chiffon's bodyguard?

So we went to the police

Told them about Rick the stalker

They laughed and said that's impossible

Rick's a big soap star and makes so much bank

He's banging every Hollywood starlet

They just know it

He's still on the radio 30 years later

Chorus:

You know he'll never go away

Rick could have had any girl

Chiffon's asking 'bout his riches

Where can she find net worth like that?

How Can I Help?

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 06 Mar 2015 22:07:00 +0000

Almost everyone has had a memorable/horrible experience dealing with technical support on the phone. But you might be surprised at how awful some of those technical calls go on behind the scenes for the technical people.

For example, let's pretend I work for a large company that runs the gas pumps at 70,000 gas stations across the U.S.A., Canada and Australia. One day, you swipe your credit card at the pump and start pumping gas. Suddenly, the pump just stops after about a gallon. You look at the station attendant who just shrugs his shoulders. You can't decide if you should just wait or leave and hope the next customer doesn't get to use the credit card you swiped.

Meanwhile, far, far away, my phone rings:

Operations: Hey Dexter, we got a problem. Your gas program is sending alerts that it can't connect to the gas station server. Can you look at it?

Dexter: Sure. (after a few minutes of looking on the computer) Well, looks like we got a networking issue. The program keeps trying to connect but gets refused. Can we get someone from networking on the call?

(Suddenly we hear haunting religious music and a Gregorian chant on the phone)

Network Manager: Yeah, what can I do for you?

Dexter: What's that music?

Network Manager: Sorry, that's my theme music. I'll turn it down.

Dexter: Yeah, well we can't connect to the gas station server. Can you take a look at the network?

Network Manager: Hold on. (a few minutes later) Looks good here. I don't see any errors in the log files.

Dexter: Still can't connect. Can you get a sniffer on there to see what's happening?

Network Manager: Hooh boy. That would take some work. I can't do it without a work order. And since there's no errors in the log file, I don't feel much like putting out a work order.

Dexter: Fine, I'll do a work order.

Network Manager: Well you can, but I won't respond until next week since there's no errors.

CEO (joining the call): Hello. What the hell is going on? Who's got this? Who's got this? Who's on this?

Dexter: We're all working on it sir. Seems like a networking issue.

Network Manager: Woah, woah, woah. That's downright sacrilegious! Or slanderous or libelous or at least really mean. (in the background, "There, there. He didn't really mean it." and the sound of purring) There's no errors in our log files!

Dexter: Well we got a network error in our log files.

Network Manager: Sounds like your program is broken.

CEO: Okay, can everyone hold on for a minute. My boat is about to go under a bridge, and I'm going to lose reception.

(While CEO is gone)

Operations: Should we hang up and say it's good?

Dexter: Well it's not. Aren't you getting a lot of customer calls about this?

Operations: Yeah so I just put on a recorded message that says we're all out on a team building exercise.

Dexter: You can't do that. Just leave a message that we're having trouble and we'll get it fixed as soon as possible.

Operations: That would just make people madder, and they'd keep calling back.

CEO: Alright, I'm back. Let's get the database folks in on this.

Operations: Roger.

Dexter: We don't need them. This has nothing to do with the database. They can't help. It's a network issue. Look I can't even connect to the server from my laptop. Can we at least run a trace to figure out where it's dying.

Network Intern: Sure, I can do that.

Network Manager: What? Who said that? Asok is that you? Get down on your knees and bow down to the mighty T1 line. Then say ten Hail Mary's, and we'll pretend this never happened.

Network Intern: Sorry.

Network Manager: Yeah, we could run a trace. And you know what it would say? It would say your program sucks!

Database Administrator: Hello? I'm here. Do you want me to restart the database?

CEO: Yeah, let's do that.

Dexter: That's not going to do anything! It's going to drag out the process.

Operations: Well at least she's trying something.

Network Manager: Yeah, Dexter.

Dexter: Fine. Operations, restart my program and see if that changes anything.

CEO: Alright, sounds like we're making progress. In the meantime, let's get the hardware vendor on the call.

Database Administrator: Okay, I bounced the database. It will be back up in an hour.

Operations: Program restarted. Still can't connect. Must be broken.

Hardware Vendor: Hi, how can I help you?

CEO: Yeah, we're having some problems with our system and thought maybe you could help.

Hardware Vendor: Oooh, looks like we never got your last payment for support.

CEO: Is that important?

Hardware Vendor: Critical. When you pay for support, I'm like your co-pilot, mechanic, architect, and gardener all rolled into one. I'm with you every step of the way to solve your problems.

CEO: Alright, we'll send a check next week.

Hardware Vendor: Great. I'll go ahead and give you a freebie. How can I help?

Network Manager: Well knucklehead's program stopped connecting to the network.

Hardware Vendor: Oh, your software?

Dexter: Yeah, but that's not...

Hardware Vendor: See, we guarantee our hardware as long as you don't do anything to it. You know how when you drive a new car off the lot and it depreciates by 50% when you cross the curb? Hardware is the same way. As soon as you put your crappy programs on it, I can no longer be responsible for it. Look if you hadn't done that, I'd put a new server in my car and drive out there right now to replace it. But you poisoned my baby, so I can't help you. But hey, look forward to your check next week. Bye!

CEO: So where are we on this? Wind is picking up, and I gotta drop the jib.

Dexter: Network is still down.

Network Manager: I've about had enough of you! I can't remember the last time I've seen an error in my log files. You know I got a sign on my door that says, "No Network Errors in 747,520 days!"

Dexter: What? That's gotta be like 1000 years!

Network Manager: Over 2000 actually. You know where the network comes from don't you? It was a gift from Jesus. Yep, he built the first router out of some fish, bread and wine. And since then he has passed down his infallibility to his networking disciples of which I am one.

Dexter: I thought it was the Pope who was infallible?

Network Manager: He was until he sold his soul to Novell.

CEO: Look Dexter, he's right. The network and all network engineers are infallible.

Dexter: What? Wait, didn't you start your career in networking?

CEO: Well yeah, but then I went into marketing. Look can you please fix your program?

Operations: Hey everyone, we're connected and running again! Gas is flowing!

Everyone: Woohoo! Alright! Good job everyone!

CEO: Great! So what'd you do to fix it Dexter?

Dexter: Nothing!

CEO: Alright, I don't want to keep everyone, but we're going to need someone to write an After Action Report. Who's got it?

Network Manager: Ooh, I just remembered another meeting I gotta get to. Bye.

(Silence for a minute)

Dexter: Since it was a network issue...

CEO: Great, thanks for volunteering Dexter. Remember as per our operating procedures, you need to have that done in four hours. Of course, I'll be fishing until Monday, but shoot me an email anyway.

Database Administrator: Database is back up!

HGTV: Eat Your Heart Out!

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 27 Feb 2015 21:00:00 +0000

We hereby nominate ourselves for the award of Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Reclamation or Salvage or Something. Essentially we're very proud of what we did with our old billiard table.

We purchased this table back in 2001 (from Craigslist no less). We loved the woodwork and although the manufacturer had long gone out of business, we were able to estimate the table was probably made in about 1917.

Alas, in 2009, we packed the table in crates as we made the first of several moves. Unfortunately, previous homes did not have the space or we did not have the inclination to unpack and set it up. (Plus it costs money to have it done right.) But finally, when we arrived at our current house last September, we picked out a room and decided to set it up.

The day before the installers arrived, I went around gathering up the miscellaneous pieces and parts and brought them to the new game room. I picked up the four rails and unwrapped them from their protective cloth. I tried to figure out how they pieced together and that's when I realized there should have been six rails. Uh-oh.

We looked all over the house and garage but could not find the missing rails. I figured we must have left them at our last house in the huge detached garage.

The next day, the billiard guy stopped by, and I told him our tale of woe. I figured somehow we could get replacement rails.

"Your best bet would be to contact the manufacturer," he said. "They could probably make replacements."

"Yeah they've been out of business for forty years."

"Hmmm, well, when you find them give me a call back," he said as he left.

We knew we would never find them or get them back. Now we were stuck with a good looking antique empty shell of a table. Then it hit me, with the walls and the sunken middle, it sure looks a lot like a ...

craps table! That's right, we now have live Las Vegas action gaming in our game room! We just put some plywood down, ordered the felt and St. Pauli Girl worked her magic to add padding on the walls of the table.

We used the slate as the bartop for our new bar.

At this point I would like to point out that this table is strictly used for entertainment purposes and all chips used are worth exactly zero dollars and cents. The owners of this house and craps table neither approve or disapprove of gambling. If you feel like gambling has devoured your soul, we urge you to seek help from problem gambling resources.


I can assure you that this house runs a very honest, fair game.

So Property Brothers, Rehab Addict, Waco Fixer Uppers, Hilary and David, you can all stick that in your peace pipe and smoke it ... Or wait, you can all get wheelbarrows of cash, I mean, worthless chips, come on over and let's throw some dice!

Should Have Sold It

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 17 Feb 2015 20:35:00 +0000

My father-in-law once told the story of someone trying to dispose of some old furniture. The gentleman put the furniture in the front yard with a sign that said "free." After a week, no one had bothered to grab it so the man replaced the "free" sign with a "$20" sign instead. The furniture disappeared later that night.

Luckily in these modern times, hordes of people are constantly scanning Craigslist ads for free stuff. I am quite certain that I could post an ad for "free case of empty motor oil cans and a box full of used diapers. Act now, and I'll throw in a broken rake." And I would be contacted within the hour. Then I would get email messages for another week asking, "you still got those empty motor oil cans?"

Our most recent house had an old wooden free-standing swing in the front yard:

We didn't much care for it and would probably never use it. We put it on Craigslist, free to anyone who wanted to come haul it away. Sure enough, within an hour, a gentleman by the name of Enos said he would come get it.

A little while later, Enos sent a text asking for directions to our house. This didn't look promising as most people who are familiar with the internet and Craigslist are usually pretty familiar with how to find maps to addresses. An hour later, Enos still hadn't shown up while another dozen responses rolled in hoping to claim the swing. We texted Enos who said he would come the next day.

Since I work from home, I kept an eye out for Enos. At about 10:00, I saw a pickup truck in the driveway and a couple of people messing with the swing. I texted St. Pauli Girl that the swing had been removed so she could take the Craigslist ad down. A little while later, I glanced back outside. The truck and the bench seat from the swing were gone, but the swing frame still stood in the front yard.

"No big deal," I thought. "Probably didn't have enough room in the pickup. They're probably coming back for a second load or getting some tools to disassemble the frame."

But Enos never came back. A flurry of texts went back and forth between St. Pauli Girl and Enos:

St. Pauli Girl: Are you coming back for the rest of the swing?

Enos: No, it wouldn't fit in the truck.

St. Pauli Girl: But I was offering you a swing. You just took a seat.

Enos: We can just put some hooks in the ceiling and hang the seat from there."

St. Pauli Gir: Or... or... or you can take the frame, and you won't have to bother with hooks.

Enos: Oh, well we already sold it.

So I guess we get to test my theory that you really can get rid of anything on Craigslist with our new ad: "Free wooden frame. Would make a great swing. Just needs a seat."

And if that doesn't work, I'll take my father-in-law's advice and put a "$20 for sale" sign on it.

A Tip for Great Service

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 20:49:00 +0000

I've recently noticed a lot of articles arguing that the U.S. should eliminate tipping in restaurants and replace it with service charges or higher prices. While I mostly agree with the premise, I think most of the arguments against tipping are wrong. For instance, one common argument is that tipping does not result in better service because you tip after the meal/service. Well if you really want good service:

Many years ago, an uncle told me about his trips to Las Vegas and how to live like a big shot. He would go sit at the hotel pool and order a drink. When the server brought the drink, he would hand her/him an extra $20 and say, "Make sure that glass is never empty." You know who got great service? My uncle.

In my youth, I spent one summer working at a convention center setting up rooms/stages/banquet halls/dance floors for various meetings, receptions and conventions. Despite the manual labor, most of the time we sat around in the big easy executive chairs while smoking and running away to hide when the bosses came around. One week, a large appliance convention rolled into town. We met the head guy for the convention, and he pointed out how he wanted the room set-up.

Just as I started to pretend we had another room to go set up, he pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed $20 each to my co-worker and myself. "I trust you'll be around," he said.

You know who got great service? That appliance convention.

We pretty much stayed by that guy's side all week and even helped unload two trucks full of dishwashers, washers and dryers, and stoves. By the end of the convention, we had pulled in an extra $100 each in tips which was $100 more in tips than I made all summer. (At this time I'd like to apologize to the family reunion that didn't have enough chairs that week. Seems like we were too busy with the appliance convention to help you out.)

As many long-time readers may recall, St. Pauli Girl and I owned a restaurant for six years. One day I studied our liquor invoices and wondered why we had ordered a bottle of Glenlivet 18 year old Scotch as we already had plenty including the 12 year old Glenlivet. I asked our bartender who said, "Oh yeah, someone called and requested it. Said he would come here more often if we had it. Don't worry, you're going to love this guy."

Later that night, this man (we'll call him Felix), came in with a rather loud, rowdy party of six. When they got to the table, he handed the hostess $20 then went to the bar, ordered a Glenlivet (18 year old) and tipped the bartender $20. You know who got great service? Felix and everyone he ever came in with.

Felix came in almost weekly always with four to eight people. When he walked in the door, the entire front of house staff would practically mob him to say hello, hug him and hopefully get a little cash. Felix knew everyone's name and anyone new on the staff made it a point to stop by his table and introduce himself/herself.

Felix happened to be a very picky eater. In fact, Felix didn't really order from the menu. He ordered one of our pasta dishes with sauce we used on another dish and "absolutely no cheese! If cheese is anywhere on the table, I'll go crazy and never come in here again."

You know who gets to special order their own entrees that aren't on the menu? Felix and anyone else who throws out cash like rice at a wedding.

I never really came to love Felix as our bartender had suggested I would. Probably because he didn't tip me although one of his friends did buy my Guinness necktie from me for $50. But he always made the place more lively, and the staff loved him.

So even if the U.S. does totally get rid of tipping someday, we'll never truly really get rid of tipping because some people just like living large. And it's no different than politics. You know who gets great service from an elected official? The people that gave the politician a lot of money before the politician won the election.

Of Mice and Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sat, 31 Jan 2015 19:16:00 +0000

If you have never lived in a drought area, you might be surprised that one of the side effects is the attractiveness of your home to mice and other rodents. Yes, we live in a drought area.

We first became suspicious when our cats would sit very still in front of the refrigerator for 15 minutes at a time as if waiting for something to come out from underneath. But of course they could have also just been hoping we'd pull something out of the refrigerator to feed them.

St. Pauli Girl first noticed the mouse droppings in our pet food cabinet right before Christmas. We immediately went into the first stage of denial and assumed they had been there since before we moved in or the mice had gotten their fill of pet food and moved on.

A few days later, we were having happy hour at the kitchen table when I noticed a blur out of the corner of my eye. I looked around and chalked it up to an illusion. But then I saw the mouse scurrying across the kitchen floor and underneath the cabinets.

"I see the mouse," I whispered as I remained as still as possible. "It's under the cabinets and looking right at me."

St. Pauli Girl wanted to get closer to see, but I urged her to remain still as well. The mouse moved a few steps closer and looked at me again. I'm not sure why I waited for it to get closer. I doubted that I could dive on the floor and catch it.

The pet food cabinet had originally been the location of the kitchen sink when the house was built 50 years ago. So it had ventilation holes in the bottom of the cabinet that hung out over the floor. The mouse looked at me one last time then ran to the cabinet and climbed up inside through the ventilation hole.

"Ha! He's trapped," I shouted as I jumped up. "We've got him now!" I ran to the other room and grabbed one of our cats. "Dinner time," I told her.

I carried her to the kitchen and set her in front of the cabinet. I pulled the cabinet door open. "Go on, get the mouse!"

The cat just looked up at me as if to say, "why did you wake me from my deep sleep?"

She stood still, and if she smelled the mouse, she really didn't care. But then my plan backfired as our dogs, old Bo and puppy Bonny, saw the cat on the floor and immediately charged. They all took off running, screeching and barking to other parts of the house. We were on our own.

We pulled the various pet food containers out only to find an empty cabinet. There were more ventilation holes in back through which the mouse had probably gone back into the wall.

Now that we had an actual mouse sighting, we went from the denial stage to the hunting stage. We bought several mouse traps and placed them in strategic spots throughout the house. But three days later, the traps remained empty.

A few nights later, we sat at the kitchen table again when I once again saw the mouse creeping along the floor beneath the cabinets. This mouse was huge; he made Gus from the Cinderella movie look like Dolph Lundgren. Apparently he enjoyed our generous servings of pet food. He tried to climb up into the pet food cabinet and got stuck. But this time, the dogs were on it; I didn't even bother to wake up the cats.

Bonny immediately latched onto the mouse's tail and tried to pull it out, but the mouse put up a fierce resistance. After several minutes, the mouse finally came out of the hole in a desperate attempt to escape. But the resilient Bonny kept at it, grabbed the mouse in her mouth and appropriately carried it to the dining room.

We didn't want Bonny to dismember the mouse in the dining room so we encouraged her to take it outside. Big mistake. She lost her grip, and the mouse scurried away.

A few nights later, we were relaxing in front of the fire in our living room with Bo and Bonny sleeping at our feet. Our cats were sleeping somewhere far away, probably in the lushest chairs they could find.

Suddenly St. Pauli Girl yelled, "The mouse!" as it scurried out from behind a curtain.

Bo and Bonny jumped into action chasing the mouse back behind the curtain. But this time they would not be denied. The mouse darted about, but they kept after it. Finally, Bo, who is about 98 in human years, managed to grab the mouse in his mouth. Sensible Bo headed straight for the door where we let him outside to finish up the grisly business.

Later we hailed Bo the conquering hero while making sure we didn't make enough noise to wake up the cats. So apparently you don't have to teach an old dog new tricks which is great because you can't teach cats anything.

Flying on the Ground

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 27 Jan 2015 16:02:00 +0000

We continue from the previous post with more "Great Moments in Customer Service."

Several years ago, I made it a personal policy that a trip must be more than 1000 miles before I will consider flying. It's not that I am afraid of flying; it's just that I have found a 1000 mile trip in a tiny car with no air conditioning, screaming kids, bald tires and tornado warnings is just as pleasant as a 1000 mile flight. Usually we even drive the 1200 miles to visit my family, but I found some cheap airfare for the holidays, and we decided to fly instead.

The travel experience went pretty well even though we could only fly within 120 miles of our destination and had to drive the rest of the way. The final leg of the journey home involved a short flight from Dallas-Fort Worth to our small paradise here in the Great Republic. As we sat on the plane and neared our departure time, the captain came on the intercom and said, "Well folks, we're all set to go. We're just waiting to get fueled up. I keep calling for the fuel truck, but no one is answering the phone."

Although ensuring planes get the necessary fuel would be considered the primary part of the job of the fuel truck operator, I decided I would shrug off this inconvenience. Everyone has a bad day now and then. Plus, we're already on the plane for the last leg of the journey, not much else could go wrong.

The fuel truck eventually showed up, and we departed maybe twenty minutes late. After a short flight, we touched down an hour later at our home airport.

"Isn't it nice we live so close to the airport now?" St. Pauli Girl asked. "We'll probably be home in ten minutes."

The plane taxied from the runway then stopped just short of the gate area. The captain's voice came over the intercom, "Well folks, there's another plane currently at our gate. He should be on his way shortly. We'll have to wait here a few more minutes."

Let's review our time dictionary:

If you say: I hear:

Just a second 1 to 5 seconds

In a moment 5 to 30 seconds

In a minute 30 to 90 seconds

In a couple of minutes 1.5 to 2.5 minutes

In a few minutes 2.5 to 3.5 minutes

In five minutes 4.5 to 5.5 minutes

15 minutes Oh no

A long time I'll never hear from you again

Even if you don't totally agree with my chart, I think we can all agree that "a few minutes" is a lot less than "30 minutes" which is how long we waited for that plane to move. And this is a small airport. There are only eight gates of which only five are actually used. How hard could it be to go to another gate?

Finally, the plane started moving to the gate area. You could hear the entire cabin sigh in relief. The plane maneuvered toward an empty gate 8. Then suddenly, the plane did a complete 180 degree turn back to where we came from then stopped again. The captain's voice came on again, "Well folks, we're not quite there yet, we just had to move out of the way for another plane that just landed."

I watched in awe as the other plane pulled up to an empty gate. I could see passengers standing up, ready to disembark. About five minutes later, our plane started moving again. This time I could see a crew set up to guide our plane to a gate. We finally managed to get off the plane 45 minutes after having landed.

I went to retrieve the car while St. Pauli Girl waited in baggage claim for our lone bag. I pulled up to the baggage claim area only to find a long line of cars ahead of me. They were all idle and no one seemed to be exiting the terminal. Another twenty minutes passed with no sign of action. I tried to call St. Pauli Girl but she didn't answer. I noticed a few people with baggage come out of the terminal. I pulled out of the line of cars and decided to double park by the door. When I got there I saw St. Pauli Girl with no luggage. She reported our luggage hadn't come off the plane yet.

Turned out that our wonderful airline had only two people working that night. They had to load up the plane that we had been waiting to clear the gate and handle our plane after we parked. At the same time. I'm pretty sure those flights had been on the schedule for a few months. I'm pretty sure a smart cookie supervisor could have scheduled enough people or called in someone on fear of losing his/her job or death.

We eventually got our bag and made it home two hours after having landed. (Did I mention we live five minutes from the airport?) But to top it all off, we paid $25 for the expert handling of our luggage! I'm pretty sure I could have offered anyone in the terminal $20 to go retrieve our bag from the plane, and we'd have gotten it within five minutes.

So I've decided to update my policy: 1500 miles or less, we drive.

Carjacking Versus Valet Parking

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 13 Jan 2015 22:49:00 +0000

Like a lot of people, we did some traveling over the holidays. That can only mean one thing: another episode of Great Moments in Customer Service!

One night, my brother and his wife treated the entire immediate family to dinner at an upscale steak house which we shall refer to as Ruth's Chris because that was the name of it. After a fantastic evening of great food, drink and cheer, we ambled to the parking lot where the alert valet had already brought our cars up. Except for one.

My brother and sister-in-law were the last to leave. As they looked around for their car, the valet mumbled something like, "I'm sorry. I can't find your keys."

Now I'm not an expert, but I would think that the most important thing they teach you in valet training is to always secure the keys. Sure, parking and retrieving the car are important, but really, the whole enterprise falls apart if you don't secure the keys. Instead, his training apparently consisted of:

A. How to burn rubber

B. How to fishtail the car in reverse into a parking space

C. How to jump curbs and do wheelies in SUVs.

D. Always remember to change the radio station to something awful and crank up the volume

E. Scour for loose change in the seats

F. If we have time, we'll teach you how to store the keys

You might think, "Yes, that was an unfortunate incident, but you just get the spare keys, and it's just a minor headache."

But it was much worse.

Imagine Monty Hall came into the parking lot during dinner to play "Let's Make a Deal" with the valet. Monty tells the valet, "I will let you pick any car on the lot, and you will give me the keys to that car. If by the end of the night, that car owner is still able to leave in a timely manner, I will give you what's behind door number three. If not, you get the goat behind door number two, and you're fired."

A smart valet would probably pick an older vehicle which perhaps he could get into with a coat hanger and then hotwire so the owner could eventually leave. Unfortunately, this valet picked my brother's car which was probably the worst possible choice because:

A. The car was very expensive

B. It had one of those new fangled computer programmed locks where you can't even insert the key in the door (much less a coat hanger)

C. The spare key was 400 miles away

D. My brother had to leave town the next morning (preferably in his own car)

E. My brother and sister-in-law are lawyers

After awhile, there wasn't much more the apologetic valet could do other than grovel. My brother approached the manager of the steak house to notify him of the incident. Having just spent a few grand on dinner, he thought maybe the manager of an upscale joint would send out some cooks and servers to search the parking lot for the missing key. But apparently upscale does not translate to this steak house's service. The manager responded more like the manner of service you could expect from an airline, the DMV, Leavenworth prison, or maybe North Korea.

The manager simply noted that the valet service was a contractor, and the restaurant had nothing to do with it. Sure that's all nice and legal, but you're pretty much admitting that one night you might have valet parking and the next night it just might be carjackers. You just never know.

My brother ended up with a rental car to drive home. They towed his car to the nearest dealership where it had to wait three days to get a new key properly programmed. Then the car had to be transported 400 miles to his home where it now happily resides once again.

On the bright side, I learned that you are not necessarily being cheap by avoiding valet parking, because apparently what goes on in a Ruth's Chris parking lot, stays in the parking lot. Unless it's your keys.

Up on the Rooftop

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 21:23:00 +0000

We didn't put up outdoor Christmas lights this year. (Not that we have ever set up a spectacular winter wonderland in the past; we have always put up a modest string of lights or two just so the neighbors didn't think we were a family of Scrooges.)

Simply put, I looked at the outside of our new house and realized lights could not be put up without climbing up on the roof. Longtime readers will think this is because of my recent ladder incident. Although there may be a smidgeon of truth to that, the real reason was that in my old age, I have become scared of heights.

My 12 year-old self would never have believed this. Although I certainly never did handstands on the edge of tall buildings, heights never bothered me, and I sometimes very much enjoyed them.

Back in the day, my family annually put up a somewhat elaborate display of Christmas decor including lights, wooden reindeer pulling a wooden sleigh carrying a wooden Santa Claus. After getting vandalized one year, we started putting the reindeer and sleigh on the roof as appropriate. Our two story split-level house had a lower roof on one story and a higher roof on the two-story side. Originally we put the reindeer on the lower roof but decided people might miss it if coming down the road from the opposite side. So my brother amazingly convinced my parents that we should put the reindeer on the higher roof.

We set up our ladder on the lower roof only to find it didn't quite reach. I think we were going to try it anyway by climbing up as high as possible, grasping the overhanging ledge with a hand or arm and then pulling the rest of our bodies up. Luckily smarter minds decided we should borrow the neighbor's ladder instead.

Our house also had a basement which actually sat above ground on the side and in the back. This meant a three story drop from the top roof to the concrete driveway. Of course the first thing we did up on the roof was to glance down to appreciate the long drop. Then we sat and took in the panoramic view thinking we could see the entire world. Setting up the reindeer wasn't much fun, but I loved being up on the high roof.

Flash forward thirty years to find myself standing on a ten-foot step ladder getting ready to climb on the roof of my one-story house. From the step-ladder, I would have to throw my body onto the roof while I imagined myself quickly sliding down the slope and down onto the patio below. I stood on the ladder a long time before I finally talked myself into it. I survived and learned that using the step-ladder wasn't so bad.

Ten years after that, we now had an extension ladder which should have made climbing onto the roof even easier. After a big hailstorm, I watched roofers all over the neighborhood practically sprinting up ladders and stepping onto roofs. I decided I could do the same. After chickening out a few times, I climbed up the ladder without thinking and without stopping. I made it to the roof easily.

I spent about an hour cleaning up debris and cutting branches from an overhanging tree. As I cleared the debris, I realized I wouldn't get closer than five or six feet from the edge. The closer I got, a nervousness grew in my stomach. I imagined myself getting dizzy and threw branches from as faraway from the edge as I could.

"This is strange," I thought. "I've never felt like this before. I still remember running around on the top roof of my parent's house never worried about falling."

When I finished I walked back to the ladder and sat down on the roof. I realized I would have to go to the edge to climb down the ladder. I slowly slid down the roof from my sitting position until I rested next to the ladder. I turned and tried to set my left foot on a rung only to push the ladder away. Luckily it didn't fall but that made me sit back down and rethink my predicament.

After a few more failed attempts, I realized the ground was only about ten feet down. A jump wouldn't be so bad. Or better yet, if the gutter could support me, I could just slide down, hold onto the gutter then drop easily to the ground. I seriously contemplated this until I realized the gutter would never support me. Twenty minutes later, probably too tired to care anymore, I finally managed to slowly get my feet on the ladder and climb down.

There are other incidents which make me think I'm scared of heights now, but being afraid to go on the roof has mystified me. Maybe it's just a matter of age perspective:

Twelve-year-old self probably looked down and thought, "If I land just right and drop to the ground like a paratrooper, worst case scenario is a broken arm or leg."

Current self looks down and thinks, "If I fall, best case scenario is a broken arm or leg."

Rule 34A: Ladders Can Turn on You

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Thu, 11 Dec 2014 21:03:00 +0000

I try to live my life by a few simple rules. For example:

1. The workday ends at 6:00 p.m. unless there's a life and death reason to continue. (Note: this mainly applies to weekends and finishing up household chores and duties)

2. Happy hour starts at 6:00 p.m. (this rule also helps St. Pauli Girl tolerate rule number one)

These are just a couple of examples, but I never know when I'll be adding a new rule.

Our new house has motion detector floodlights in the backyard. We never noticed this until one morning after a vicious thunderstorm, St. Pauli Girl saw the lights flashing like a strobe light on a disco ball.

"The poor dogs probably didn't get any sleep," she said.

"Yeah, well they were probably dancing."

She didn't find that humorous and later that day, I climbed up a ladder to disable the motion detector. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a power switch; instead I set the sensor to its lowest setting and aimed the detector at the wall. Unless we had an earthquake, the lights shouldn't come on again.

A week later, we went to put the dogs outside at about 11:00 p.m. For some reason, the lights were flashing, and no one was dancing. I pulled the ladder from the garage and set it against the house. This was an extension ladder where you could slide part of the ladder higher and some sort of locking mechanism would hold it in place.

I started climbing the ladder then paused to shield my eyes from the blinking floodlights above me. Suddenly, the ladder slid down by one rung. The locking mechanism must have failed. Luckily, I kept my balance and remained standing on the ladder. Then everything seemed to go in slow motion.

The ladder slipped down another rung. I held onto the ladder but this time my left foot got caught between two rungs. A sharp stab of pain shot through my foot. At this point I realized the ladder would continue to collapse rung by rung, so I would have to free myself. Luckily, I noticed I stood only three rungs above the ground. Before the ladder gave way again, I stretched and got my right foot on the ground. This improved my situation, but my left foot remained stuck in the ladder.

I yanked my left leg hoping to pull my foot from the ladder. Instead the entire ladder pulled back from the house toward me. But the top heavy ladder shifted and started falling to the ground left of me, pulling my foot with it. I danced and hopped on one leg toward it as it fell. When it hit the ground, it spun me around, and I fell onto my left arm on the concrete sidewalk. As I lay on the ground cursing and wondering what part of me hurt more, Bonny the dog came over and licked my face in a friendly gesture. Either that or she hoped to eat my dead carcass.

The good news was that my foot was no longer stuck in the ladder. The better news was that my foot no longer hurt or maybe it just didn't hurt in comparison to the pain in my arm. I suffered enough injuries in my youth to realize nothing was broken. I self-diagnosed myself with a bruised elbow and sprained wrist.

After a sleepless night, I spent the next day wondering how cavemen survived. "I could hardly type much less kill a sabre-tooth tiger or even gather nuts and berries," I thought. "Stuff like this must have happened to them all the time."

After six weeks, I'm mostly recovered although I probably couldn't operate a tomahawk right now if I had to. Luckily I'm right-handed. But this incident forced me to add a new rule/caveat to my life:

Nothing good happens that involves a ladder after 11:00 p.m.

Where's Lassie When You Need Her?

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Wed, 03 Dec 2014 21:00:00 +0000

As I had mentioned in a previous post, we recently moved again. During the first few weeks in the new house, a multitude of workers came and went fixing this and that or turning on utilities. One day, when I wasn't expecting anyone, I answered the door where an older woman waited.

"Hello," she said, "I'm your new neighbor. Sorry to meet like this, but do you have a grey dog? I just saw a grey dog I hadn't seen before running down the street."

"Oh that's impossible," I said. "He's locked in the fence in the backyard. I'll double check. Thanks for asking."

I walked through the backyard only to find no sign of Bo. I then ran to the front yard and wandered down the street. About three houses down, I saw a grey blur darting through a backyard. Luckily he stopped when I called his name, and I carried him home.

I inspected the backyard and noticed that the fence gates won't close completely unless you turn the handle while closing the gate. Some visiting worker must have left the gate open. From then on, I inspected the gates after workers left.

A couple of weeks later, we acquired a new puppy named Bonny. Her energy overwhelmed all of us including Bo. Bonny definitely believed she had the job of pack leader and couldn't tolerate Bo getting any attention.

One day as dusk fell, I realized I hadn't seen Bo in a while. I walked through the backyard and found no trace of him. I checked the gates, but they were all secure.

"Looks like Bo got out again," I told St. Pauli Girl. "We must have a hole in the fence somewhere."

We wandered through the neighborhood then drove around in the car but could not find him and at that point it would have been difficult to see our grey dog in the dark. I walked with Bonny through the backyard one last time hoping she might provide a clue. But she never left my side, and Bo never responded to my calls. We finally gave up and hoped someone had taken him in for the night.

The next morning I wandered around the yard hoping Bo had come back to the gate. Once again, there was no sign of him. I went out through the garage, ventured down the driveway but came up empty. As I walked up the driveway, I glanced at the well-house in the backyard and noticed a board sticking up out of the roof.

"Oh no!" I thought as I ran to the backyard.

Our well-house is a brick shed built into the side of a hill. The entrance is on top and drops down about eight feet. Unfortunately, the hinges on the door had rusted away, and the opening now was simply a board on top of the hole, and the well inspectors had failed to secure it with the bricks that had been on top.

I ran to the top of the well-house and pulled out the board that had been sticking out of the opening. I peered down and sure enough, Bo stood there looking up at me. Then he ran around a bit so I knew he wasn't hurt.

"Really Bo?" I said. "You couldn't have barked?"

He wagged his tail.

I went back to the house to get St. Pauli Girl and a flashlight. I would need help to pull Bo out, and I wanted to make sure I could see what I was climbing down into as the well-house seemed like a great home for snakes and scorpions.

I climbed down the ladder into the well-house, grabbed Bo and hoisted him up and out to St. Pauli Girl who gave the hungry dog a treat. Then I made sure I secured the top as best I could although I doubted Bo would ever run across it again. Bo survived the ordeal just fine.

Later that day, I played fetch with Bonny. She would fetch the ball then show it to Bo as if to demonstrate her superiority before she returned the ball to me.

"You sure weren't much help last night," I told her. "You're no Lassie."

She looked up at me and wagged her tail. She had a gleam in her eye; she definitely liked being top dog. Then I started to wonder, "Hmmm, maybe Bo was pushed?"

Bo Knows Ice Cream

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Thu, 20 Nov 2014 22:55:00 +0000

We adopted our dog, Bo, from the pound almost two years ago. We used our special method of picking the dog that wasn't yapping its head off when you walked into the pound. They told us his name was Bo which was fine with us. (On a side note, this is the first time I've actually written out his name. I always assumed it would be as Beau because he has a grey coat, tall regal ears and bushy eyebrows. He looked like he could be a confederate general. Unfortunately, his doofus personality reminds me more of Bo Duke from the "Dukes of Hazzard", and so "Bo" it is.) Bo has been a good dog and not caused any trouble up until this past August.

One day St. Pauli Girl got distracted while opening the front door. Stealthy Bo snuck out when she wasn't looking. Unfortunately, she didn't notice he was gone until about two hours later. She quickly posted an online ad knowing he probably couldn't get far without someone from the neighborhood taking him in. About an hour later, someone called with good news.

"Yeah, I'm calling about a lost schnauzer," said the female caller.

"Oh good, you found him?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

"Well, I found a schnauzer. This one doesn't have any tags so I don't know who he is or who he belongs to."

St. Pauli Girl slapped her forehead. "Yeah, we had just given him a bath and forgot to put his collar back on."

"Doesn't smell like he's had a bath recently..."

"Well he has one of those chips in his neck so he can be tracked."

"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"

"Look, where are you?" St. Pauli Girl asked in a rising voice.

"At the Dairy Queen on University."

"That's our neighborhood. That must be Bo."

"Bo! Bo!," the woman shouted in the background. "Well he doesn't come when he's called. Can you identify him? This one is grey."

"Aren't all schnauzers grey?"

"No, I had one that was brown once."

"Well is this dog brown?"

"No, like I said, he's grey."

"Then that must be Bo. I'll be right there."

St. Pauli Girl jumped into the car and headed to Dairy Queen. As she drove, she felt relieved Bo successfully managed to cross six lanes of traffic without getting hit by a car. Then she realized that was even stranger because Bo was basically afraid of his own shadow. She parked the car and saw an older woman with a couple of kids and Bo sitting at an outdoor table.

"Thank you so much," St. Pauli Girl said.

"He didn't come running to you. Are you sure he's yours?"

"He started wagging his tail when he saw me." St. Pauli Girl walked up to Bo and began petting him. Then she noticed a white substance on his whiskers. "What's that on his face?"

"Ice cream."

"You fed him ice cream?"

"He got into my granddaughter's. Or maybe she gave him some. I don't know, but you owe me three dollars for the ice cream."

"What? Who told you to buy him ice cream?"

"Well my granddaughter couldn't rightly eat it after he stuck his snout in it."

St. Pauli Girl sighed. "I don't have three dollars on me."

The woman just waved and shook her head. "Never mind. You just get right on down to Petsmart right now and get him a tag."

"Uh, thanks."

St. Pauli Girl loaded Bo up in the car and drove off.

"Well Bo, I hoped you've learned your lesson. You're not planning on more adventures are you?"

Bo just licked his lips and stared out the window at the Dairy Queen as they drove away.

I Have Returned

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Thu, 06 Nov 2014 20:25:00 +0000

Well, we moved again. From the middle of July up until a couple of weekends ago, we've been constantly busy either getting the house ready to sell or slowly moving into the new one. So with life getting back to normal it's time to get back to the blog. But first, just a few random observations of rude and/or weird people:

If you're going to tell a lie, make sure your lie is plausible. Case in point: we were trying to order carpet for the new house and have it installed before we moved all of our furniture in. Carpet guy took measurements and said he'd send us a quote the next day. Three days later, we still hadn't heard from him. St. Pauli Girl finally called him.

"Oh I tried to call your husband," said the carpet guy. "There was no answer and his voice mailbox was full."

Hmmm, well, let's assume for a moment that I don't delete voicemails after I listen to them. The problem is I get maybe three phone calls a year. If I let them all roll to voicemail, it would take at least ten years to fill up the mailbox. And that's assuming a lot of evangelicals are calling me to leave voicemail sermons about saving my soul. Luckily, we found a different carpet installer who did 90% of the job and then just disappeared. But that's another story.

A few weeks ago, we were leaving the grocery store. I saw a woman empty her cart full of bags into the trunk of her car. Then she simply pushed the cart behind the car next to hers, and drove away.

I almost always return my shopping cart to a corral in the parking lot unless it's raining/snowing or it's ridiculously inconvenient. But if not, I would always make sure I don't block a parking spot and try to anchor it somehow so it doesn't roll away. I'm trying to think of what circumstances would cause me to just park it behind another car.

Hmmmm.... if the car had a bumper sticker that said "I Love ISIS".... if the car belonged to my arch-nemesis from grade school .... if the car had "Venemous Snakes on Board" sign in the back window... if the car was a giant jacked up pick-up truck blocking my view of traffic.... if the car was partially parked in my space. No, I would either do a lot worse or nothing at all in those situations. I think it's safe to say that if you park a shopping cart behind another car, you are just a jerk.

Last week, St. Pauli Girl and I were out of town and stopped in the hotel bar for a nightcap. As we entered, the waiter said, "And what brings you here?"

"Brandy," St. Pauli Girl said getting right to the point.

"Oh, and you're staying here?"

"Do you have brandy?" St. Pauli Girl asked. "Do you have E&J Brandy?"

"Um, let me check." The waiter stepped away.

"I think you two are on a different tangent," I said. "I think he meant what brings us into town?"

The waiter came back to our table. "Yes, we do have that brandy," he said as he started writing in his pad. "And sir, what would you like?"

"I'll have a brandy as well."

"Great. Spicy or non-spicy?"

For those few readers of this blog who are unfamiliar with alcohol, as far as I know, brandy does not come spicy. It's generally just served straight up from the bottle (unless you ask for something with it). But the young kids these days, who knows?

"Non," I answered with a straight face.

The waiter disappeared for several minutes in fact, much longer than it should take to pour a couple of brandies in a practically empty bar. Finally, the bartender came over to our table.

"Did you want your Bloody Mary spicy or non-spicy?" she asked St. Pauli Girl.

We finally got the drinks straightened out and relaxed for awhile. When we finished, the waiter came back.

"Would you like anything else?"

"No, I think we're all set," I said.

The waiter started laughing, practically cackling.

"We're ready for the check," I said to make myself clear.

"Yeah," he said and kept laughing as he walked away.

"Was that funny? Are we that drunk?" I asked St. Pauli Girl.

"No, but maybe he is."

Glenpyramid Glen Vitamin

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 17:23:00 +0000

On our last night in Las Vegas, I sat at the bar getting in one last session of video poker. A young gentleman in his twenties with a beard and half black hair and half blue hair sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender set down the beer, and they started chatting like they knew each other.

Blue: Just got back from dinner on top of the Stratosphere.

Bartender: Yeah? How was it?

Blue: Alright. I didn't know fancy dinners took so long. We were there 4 and a half hours! I wasn't paying so I figured I'd stay til the end.

Bartender: Took my girlfriend there once. Was good but probably not worth the price.

Blue: Yeah, I had the sirloin. Better than Golden Corral but you know, a sirloin is a sirloin. You can get them anywhere. Anyway, I'm expecting some friends, can I start a tab?

(A few minutes later, a guy in his mid fifties showed up and sat next to Blue.)

Blue: English Dan! How the hell are you? (They shake hands) How was your flight?

Dan: A flight's a flight.

Blue: Tell me about it. I'm wiped. Just got back from dinner on top of Stratosphere. Didn't want to go but Dad woke me from my nap and insisted.

(Me thinking: He's there with his dad. Interesting.)

Dan: Stratosphere? What you doing up there?

Blue: Oh man, I'm sorry. Geno called this afternoon. Said he wanted to meet the whole team but his only free night this week was tonight. So he took us up there. Man, I told him you couldn't make it but he said that's his only night and he'd make it up to you.

Dan: Yeah? How so?

Blue: He'll probably buy you lunch or a drink sometime.

Dan: Yeah? On top of the f*%$ing Stratosphere?

Blue: Geno's good for it. I saw the bill. Over two grand. And Geno's a good tipper.

(Me thinking: Okay, so these guys work for Geno in some capacity along with Blue's dad. And I can tell by looking at English Dan, he's been around the block a few times. He's not bought into this company and wonders if he's going to get paid while Blue is the young idealist thinking he's going to score big.)

Blue: The food wasn't very good anyway. You didn't miss anything.

Dan: Where's everyone else?

Blue: I think they're still at the Stratosphere. Geno took everyone up top to ride the rides. He paid for everything. (pause) Don't worry, Geno's gonna make it up to you.

Dan: How? Take me on a f*&%ing rollercoaster ride?

(another guy, Ray, in his twenties with short brown hair sat down with them)

Ray: English Dan! Good to see you!

Dan: Yeah, you go to the Strat too?

Ray: Just got off the rollercoaster. Geno woofed his dinner on it! Chunks of tenderloin flying out his mouth at 75 miles per hour and falling 150 stories!

Blue: Yeah, they still there?

Ray: The man can't be stopped. Went to the bar, had a shot, then did the sky jump. Unbelievable. Man, this is a long walk from the Stratosphere. How'd we end up staying here? (Main Street Station)

Blue: Because last year we were at California Club. Dad got drunk and trashed the room. We got banned for life so Mom booked us here.

(Me thinking: Getting weirder. He's here with mom and dad and apparently they like to party pretty hard.)

Dan: So how was your dinner Ray? Blue said not so hot.

Ray: Fantastic! Best salad I ever had. Dressing was amazing like a cool ranch blue cheese thing. And it just got better after that.

Dan: F*&% you.

Blue: Come on Ray. Wasn't English Dan's fault he missed the dinner. I was just telling him Geno promised to make it up to him.

Ray: He's right English Dan. I sat next to Geno and Geno said, "who's not here?" And I said English Dan. And he's asking me how he can make it up to you. And I said it's gotta be something good like a big ol Po'boy or something.

Dan: F*&% you.

Ray: Aw, English Dan, I'm just bustin' your balls. Geno's good for it. I don't know what he's gonna do but he's gonna make it up to you.

(Me thinking: Why do they keep calling him English Dan? Can't he just go by Dan? And why don't I have a tape recorder. From now on, I need to bring a tape recorder to Vegas.)

Ray: So where's mom and dad?

Blue: Mom's in bed already. Tired after all the traveling. Last I saw Dad was at Stratosphere. He got pretty lit up then walked down the stairs from the top of the Stratosphere. Can you believe it? What's that, like 300 stories? Anyway, hostess sees him come out of the stairwell, and he's drenched in sweat. She's like, "what happened to you?" And he says, "I was looking for the restroom." She points across the lobby and he says, "Oh don't worry, I found one on the 50th floor."

Ray: Oh man, I love Dad.

(Me thinking: Okay, so mom and dad must not really be their parents because they're definitely not brothers. Some sort of code name.)

Blue: Anyway, we meet Mom and Dad at 9:00 for breakfast. Then we set up shop at 2:00. Geno's gonna be in and around. He's got meetings all week.

(Me thinking: I started to get the picture. Geno is the head of a pyramid scheme. Mom and Dad are the local bosses of the team while Blue, Ray and English Dan are at the bottom of the pyramid. Blue and Ray are the suckers while English Dan knows it's going nowhere. I just can't figure out what they're selling. But the whole conversation reminded me of the film "Glengarry Glen Ross" except without the suits and without the real estate and less profanity. My best guess was that they're selling vitamin supplements. But I also realized I had now spent an extra $20 on the video poker that I wasn't planning on spending just to keep listening to them. But it was worth it.)

Ray: What do you say we hit that Fremont Street experience. Supposed to be pretty cool.

Dan: I'm going to bed.

Blue: Lighten up English Dan. I told you Geno's gonna make it up to you. Hey Ray, did I tell you I saw the check at the Stratosphere? Over 3 grand!

Ray: Yeah and I bet Geno left a big tip too. English Dan, when Geno buys you a beer, hold out for something better than a Miller Lite. Like a Guinness or Stella Artois or something.

Dan: (flips off Ray)

Ray: (to bartender) Hey, can I get a cup of coffee?

Me: (I hit the cash out button on the machine and stand up.) Coffee? Coffee is for closers!

More Notes From Las Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Fri, 22 Aug 2014 16:51:00 +0000

We recently returned from Las Vegas (again). Here's a few notable stories:

For some reason, I had a difficult time adjusting to the time difference on this trip. This led me to going downstairs to get coffee every morning at 7:00 a.m. One morning, I rode the elevator down to the lobby; as the door opened, a man and his wife came barging in, pushing me to the back of the elevator.

"Oh sorry," I didn't think anyone else would be up this early," he said.

I managed to circle my way around them and stumbled off the elevator without saying what I really wanted to say, "No, jerkwad, civilized people wait for the doors to fully open, verify no one is in the elevator or let them get out before entering the elevator themselves. Or in a moment of forgetfulness, when they bump into someone getting off the elevator, they apologize then get out of the way rather than barreling ahead pushing the person back onto the elevator."

I don't know, maybe they just thought I was joyriding the elevator.

One morning I happened to walk past a slot machine tournament. I stopped for a minute to take in the action. If you haven't seen one, well, it's exactly what you'd expect. Thirty or forty mostly older people sitting at slot machines constantly slamming their hands on the "max credits" button. And on top of that, no one seemed to be having fun. It seemed to be the equivalent of working in some foreign sweatshop factory stamping U.S. corporate logos on some cheap product. Except at the end, a winner would be declared.

Anyway, I don't understand why they just don't put bricks on the "max credits" button and people can bet on which machine will reign supreme. Seems it would be easier and more fun.

One early evening, I found an empty seat at the bar and started playing some video poker while minding my own business. The gentleman next to me started sighing loudly and mumbling, "wow, just wow."

I refused to take the bait but then he finally turned to me and said, "Did you hear the news about Robin Williams?"

"Yes," I said without looking up. "That's awful."

Then he shoved his cell phone showing an article reporting the death into my face. I wasn't sure what to do, did he not hear me the first time or was he trying to demonstrate that you can look at newspapers on cell phones?

"Yeah, that's terrible," I said and went back to playing my game.

He continued to sigh and played with his phone. Then he heard a group of people at the end of the bar talking about Robin Williams. He ran to the end of the bar and showed them the article on his phone. Meanwhile, I scanned the bar for another empty stool but no luck.

He came back and sat down next to me. "It's amazing, I was just watching some of his videos on youtube just last night," he said.

"Then it must be your fault," I wanted to say but did not.

After a few minutes of silence, he tried a new tactic. "Hey, did you hear about that baseball player that swung the bat and it broke in half and he didn't even hit the ball?"

"Must have been a powerful swing," I said without looking up.

I thought he had finally taken the hint as he went back to playing with his phone. But then he started playing some sort of loud concert video footage on his phone and put the phone on a little stand on the bar so I guess everyone could enjoy whatever it was along with him.

I finally took the hint and cashed out. As I got up, I said, "Dude you really need to find a friend."

One Step From Immortal Glory

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Sun, 03 Aug 2014 15:46:00 +0000

As I get older, I am constantly amazed at the ancient personal memories that get stuck in my head:

In the summer of my sixth year on earth, my t-ball team, the crickets, met the birds in the t-ball championship. In case you are not familiar, t-ball was the baseball starter league for 5 and 6 year-olds where players hit the ball from a stationary tee. Everyone got to play with about twelve kids in the outfield at a time. You might think this would be unfair and lead to low scoring games except for the fact that when the ball came to most of the kids in the outfield, they just threw their gloves in the air and started running. Sometime they even ran toward the ball.

We were probably the third or fourth best team in the league while the birds were the equivalent of the New York Yankees. They were undefeated and won their games by an average score of 33 - 5. Despite the odds against us, we played well and kept the game close. Early in the game, the ball came to me in shallow left field. As a runner ran toward third base, I picked up the ball ready to throw him out. Unfortunately, our third baseman who I shall call Brooks, stood with his back to me, and staring at I don't know what. He certainly wasn't staring at girls unless he was trying to figure out which ones had cooties.

"Brooks," I yelled as I wound up ready to throw. "Brooks! Over here! Come on!"

Maybe because of the loud screaming parents, he didn't hear me. The runner neared third base so I finally just threw the ball at Brooks hoping he would turn around. The ball bounced off the back of his head. I had to run and pick up the ball while the runner scored. Luckily, Brooks shook it off, and if we were lucky, the ball knocked some sense into him.

We finally took the lead but the birds got to bat last. We just needed three outs for immortal t-ball glory. The birds scored a few runs to pull within one, but there were two outs with runners on first and second. With a force out at any base, things looked good. The next batter hit the ball on the ground right to me. I scooped it up knowing we just needed the force out at third. I pulled my arm back ready to throw. Brooks stood on third base waiting to catch it.

I hesitated remembering what happened last time. But Brooks stood on the bag with his glove open ready for the throw. I quickly decided to do the sure thing; I took off running figuring I could beat the baserunner to third base. Brooks yelled at me to throw it, but even a ten meter throw from a 6 year old is no sure thing. I focused on the runner; I had a step on him. But he had an extra gear and managed to get in front of me.

He made it the base first while I came in hoping I could tag him if he stepped off the base. Instead, I tripped over the base and fell into foul territory. Luckily I held onto the ball. The umpire helped me up and I noticed the birds cap on his head. Even if I had tackled the baserunner and tagged him out fifty times, he probably still would have been called safe.

Our coaches told us to cheer up and focus. After all, we still only needed one more out with the bases loaded. But the next batter hit the ball over everyone's head as our outfielders threw their gloves in the air and ran away from the ball.

The birds won. I learned two valuable lessons that day:
1. If you want to make sure something gets done, do it yourself.
2. If you do something yourself and do not achieve the desired results, expect persons in authority (and teammates) to get mad at you.

I've been wondering why I keep thinking about that game lately. At first I thought I remembered that I had beaten the runner, and the umpire had made a bad call. All these years later, I felt the deep wound of injustice. But I guess that was selective memory trying to rewrite my history. Upon further review, I still remembered what really happened. So even after forty years, I still can't outrun my mistakes, much less the kid running to third base.

The Sauce Must Have Been Good

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Thu, 24 Jul 2014 21:31:00 +0000

I recently read an online discussion about restaurant dining on a newspaper website. One person wrote about a time he left a 1% tip: drinks didn't arrive until after the entrees, one entrée came out 30 minutes before the other one, the second order was completely wrong although the server insisted other wise and they had to wait an hour for their check. Sure that may justify no tip, but what amazed me, was how long people will actually put up with poor experiences before being pushed hard enough to fight back. If I have to wait more than five minutes to order a drink after I'm seated, I start muttering, "who do I have to kill to get a drink in this place?"

That story reminded me of an incident that happend in our restaurant:

It took a good year and a half before I finally decided that our restaurant was going to make it. I would go home after a successful day then come in the next day wondering if any customers would show up. During this time, as guests were leaving, they frequently asked if I was the owner. I would begrudgingly answer affirmatively while bracing myself for a slap in the face, a kick to the groin, or a challenge to a duel, or at least a firm tongue lashing. But probably 95% of the time, they had really nice things to say about the restaurant. 4% of the time, they might have valuable constructive criticism while the other 1% challenged me to duels. I had gotten used to feeling the love.

One Saturday night, I came in about 5:00. Only one table was occupied by a family of four in the corner. I didn't pay much attention as I went about my business getting ready for the dinner rush. As they got up to leave, I happened to be standing near the door. The father of the family asked if I was the owner. I smiled brightly and almost held out my hand ready to be kissed.

"This restaurant is a disgrace," he started. "I've never had a worse meal in my life. The food was cold and way too expensive. My wife's chicken was raw!"

Like a punching bag hanging from the ceiling I kept swinging back for more. Finally, I managed to jump in and tried to solve the problem. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Did you talk to the server and have the chicken replaced?"

"No, we didn't."

"Well let me get you something else. I would hate for you to leave hungry."

"I wouldn't touch your food if you gave me a million dollars."

(I guessed he wouldn't be enthused about a complimentary gift certificate.)

"We don't want anything," he continued. "We just wanna get out of here so we can go tell our friends about it."

"Yeah," the wife finally chimed in. "And we're gonna put it all over facebook so our friends can tell their friends. No one's gonna come here again."

They stormed out the door as I struggled to find anything to say. I ran back to the kitchen and found the server who was one of our best.

"What happened? Did they say anything to you?" I asked.

"No, everything was fine. They never complained. They weren't talkative, but I had no idea there was a problem."

We went back to the table and inspected the plates. They were empty, no sign of any leftover half-eaten, much less raw chicken. I walked back to the office and sat down trying to comprehend what had happened. The best I could figure was that they were hoping to get salmonella poisoning for a lawsuit payday or just to prove some sort of point.

That day I realized that complainers are nothing to worry about or fear; their problems are usually easily fixed. It's the people that have a bad experience and walk out without saying a word that are the ones to worry about.

Luckily, their Facebook campaign (if they indeed waged one) didn't hurt our business. But at the time I thought, "Yes, please tell your friends that you were served raw chicken. And that you just went ahead and ate it anyways."

How Not to Die from Sitting

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 15 Jul 2014 21:55:00 +0000

I recently read this article about how sitting all day is really bad for you. It listed the usual reasons like standing burns more calories, muscle metabolism changes, and you are at increased risk for various cancers. To top it all off, each hour of sitting results in a loss of 21.8 minutes from your life expectancy. Seeing as how I've been sitting most of my life, I probably have minutes to live.

After crunching some numbers, it's fair to assume that I've lost over four years of my life expectancy. I knew I had to put a stop to it. Not only that, I had to figure out how to get those four years back before it was too late. So I decided to alter my habits and keep a diary to hold myself accountable:

Friday July 11

4:00 p.m. Let's get started!

4:01 p.m. Since I've already been sitting here for the last six hours, we'll just wait and start the diary tomorrow.

Saturday July 12

11:00 a.m. Stood in my office thinking about my next blog post.

11:20 a.m. Sat down to write blog post then realized since it takes about an hour to write one, I'm sacrificing 22 minutes of my life for my dear readers. I hope you appreciate it, all five of you.

11:25 a.m. Decide to take a walk to offset my sitting problem. Walk to refrigerator and pour myself a glass of wine. Maybe alcohol isn't the best choice for my new lifestyle, but I believe it greatly improves my mental outlook so that offsets any bad effects from sitting.

11:26 a.m. Try to stand and type my blog. I do not have a standing desk. Ouch, there goes my back. I take a sip of wine.

11:30 a.m. A brilliant idea! Some exercise should get me some time back on the lifetime clock. I get on a stationary bike and start pedaling. But now there's a new problem: although I am exercising, I'm still sitting down, so the two acts just cancel each other out. I've got it! I take my laptop and get back on bike. Although I'm not gaining any time, I'm not wasting 22 minutes of life writing this blog.

11:32 a.m. Sweat starts dripping onto my laptop. I'm now worried about getting eletrocuted. I put laptop back on my desk and get back on bike.

11:34 a.m. This is boring. I get my glass of wine and sip wine while riding stationary bike.

11:45 a.m. Lunch time! Prepare a big healthy salad of spinach and spring mix. Pour half a bottle of bleu cheese dressing on it.

11:57 a.m. Maybe that salad wasn't so big as I'm still hungry. I fix a large plate of bacon (it's okay, I'm on a low carb diet and can eat all the bacon I want).

12:15 p.m. I happen to glance in the pantry to see a bag of Fritos. I grab a handful, but I eat them while standing. Unfortunately, you can't have just a handful of Fritos. I take the entire bag out. But I walk around the block while eating the bag. I'm starting to get the hang of this.

12:45 p.m. Feeling a little sleepy. Decide to take a nap. That article said nothing bad about laying down or sleeping.

2:30 p.m. St. Pauli Girl hands me a grocery list. The store is too far away to walk to but I really hate the thought of sitting while driving to the store. While driving, I open the window and poke my head outside the window. I believe that trying to keep my head still against the speed of the car offsets the sitting in the seat. I stop at a traffic light with my head still outside the window. A dog in the car next to me pokes his head out and barks at me. I bark back.

2:55 p.m. A genius move! I have the checkout kid bag my groceries in plastic so I can strap them all onto my arms. I load up all twelve bags on my arm and with my free hand pick up the 12 pack of pop. The cashier asks if I'm sure I don't need a carryout. "No," I grimace. I get to the car and realize I have to drop all of the bags to the ground to get the keys out of my pocket. I don't care; this exercise has probably added a solid 90 seconds to my life expectancy.

3:30 p.m. Decide to watch some golf on tv but while standing of course. To make it more interesting, I imitate all of the players' swings as they happen. I've never played so well in my life.

5:35 p.m. Happy hour! St. Pauli Girl and I sit on the patio and discuss the day's events over a glass of wine. I want to stand but my heels are actually killing me. I come up with an idea:

"Let's arm wrestle!" I challenge her.

"What?"

"Yeah, we're killing ourselves by sitting here. So let's get some exercise. I'll even go left handed!"

"You're stupid."

"You'd be stupid not to play! I'm going left-handed plus I'm pretty sore from golfing."

"Why don't you be useful, and cook dinner," she finally said.

6:15 p.m. That was a great idea; I can easily man the grill while standing. We have three grills, so I choose the manly Weber charcoal grill. I light the fire and stand next to the grill as it burns down.

6:45 p.m. I throw some hamburgers on the hot grill. I lean down and inhale deeply that wonderful charcoal hamburger cooking aroma. Then I slap myself on the head. I sit down next to St. Pauli Girl.

"I don't know. I just can't win," I say.

"What's the matter?"

"Charcoal has carcinogens. That breath probably cost me four seconds of life expectancy."

We sit quietly for a minute before St. Pauli Girl refills our wine glasses. She holds her glass out to me, "Here's to life."

"Every single day of it," I reply with a smile. Clink.

Bearly Escaped

noreply@blogger.com (Dexter Klemperer) — Tue, 08 Jul 2014 16:14:00 +0000

Alert readers will remember my previous reminiscence on bears. This past weekend we returned to the remote New Mexico cabin of St. Pauli Girl's brother and sister-in-law who I affectionately nicknamed Mr. and Mrs. Grizzly because they built the cabin themselves on a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

This cabin is in an area populated by people who do not wish to be found (all six of them). It is so remote that mobsters will tell you that you only need to go about a quarter ways up the road if you want to bury a body. It is so remote that even UFOs are afraid to go there (and we all know how much UFOs love New Mexico). But more importantly, this is a place where you learn what "night" really means. If you haven't been in the dark hundreds of miles from the nearest city light, you don't know about night.

During the weekend, St. Pauli Girl kept making fun of me for being afraid of bears while I maintained that I had a healthy respect for bears. She apparently thought that if a bear appeared, you packed it up a nice picnic basket and sent it on its way. We spent the day hiking up the mountain while practicing our bear scare tactics like stepping on broken branches, banging on rocks and calling out to the bears so as not to surprise them. Meanwhile, I imitated the sound of a .50 caliber machine gun and World War II howitzers thinking that would best scare bears. After barely making it back to the cabin before a thunderstorm, we spent the remainder of the day and night in the cabin.

Main Cabin

The cabin had only one bedroom and a loft which is where we slept last year. However, this year, Mr. and Mrs. Grizzly had set up an old small camper behind the cabin as a little guest cottage. We said goodnight and headed to the tiny camper.

Guest Cottage

After we went to bed, I looked out the window and noted, "It's much brighter tonight than last night."

There was a half-moon and some cloud cover which provided a surprising amount of light. About forty minutes later, as I was drifting into unconsciousness, I suddenly opened my eyes. I didn't hear anything so I must have sensed the dark now coming through the window. I saw a silhouette of an animal's head and two large paws in the window. A bear!

My bear survival instinct immediately kicked in, and I screamed. As St. Pauli Girl sat up, the shadow disappeared. We looked at each other and realized I had had a bad dream. But then the shadow popped back up in the window. So apparently, dreams can't come true, but nightmares can. I leaned forward and closed the window while we both yelled and screamed at the bear to go away because bears are supposedly frightened of humans making noise. The bear disappeared again, and we thought we were safe.

Then it appeared in the back window. I struggled to find the handle to close that window. We kept yelling and pounding on the side of the wall. I got the window closed then tried to close the curtains thinking that would save us. Then I thought that's stupid, I can't see what's happening. I pulled the curtains open and saw that was one ugly, mean looking bear. So I closed them again right as he slammed a paw against the window.

Meanwhile, St. Pauli Girl put a pillow up against the window. I sat back and tried to think of something to scare the bear.

"Oooga-Booga-Boo!" I shouted.

"Wait," St. Pauli Girl said. "Did you just go Oooga-Booga...?"

"Well you're the one trying to start a pillow fight with him!"

I then resorted to pirate talk, "Arggggghhhhh!" I shouted. I noticed the cabin lights had come on. "That's good, I guess Mr. and Mrs. Grizzly heard us. They'll save us. They must have a machine gun or a bazooka to deal with this thing."

A minute later, we heard Mrs. Grizzly on the deck banging on pots and pans. At last, this disrupted the bear because he was torn between engaging in a pillow fight and getting called to dinner.

Mr. Grizzly came out onto the deck and sized up the situation. He looked at the bear then at the twisted, dented skillet in Mrs. Grizzly's hands. "You're gonna need a bigger pot."

He grabbed a shovel and waved it over his head, cautiously approaching the bear which lumbered away. He grabbed a small flashlight and set off after the bear. And by small flashlight, I mean it would have been good for a dentist looking for cavities but not so much looking for a 300 pound black bear in the dark night.

We finally felt safe enough to step out of the camper. Figuring our noise and the shovel had scared the bear away, we began to calm down and relax. Mr. Grizzly called out from the darkness that he couldn't see the bear anywhere.

"I think he went under the camper," St. Pauli Girl said.

I jumped back about five feet. "Then why are we standing right next to it?"

Mr. Grizzly shined the light under the camper, but the bear was nowhere to be found. We all stood next to the deck and breathed a sigh of relief. After a few minutes, Mrs. Grizzly shined her flashlight just beyond the camper and onto the bear's head. He had been sitting there less than ten meters from us the whole time. Now if Yogi was smarter than the average bear, this bear was valedictorian with scholarship offers from Harvard, Yale, Stanford and naturally, the University of Maine.

We shouted and yelled and banged on the pans again. He slowly got up and began to saunter away like he had been caught with a fake ID at a bar. As he moved up the trail, he looked back over his shoulder at us. I couldn't decide if he was thinking, "You guys are no fun" or "yeah, I'll be back."

We weren't taking any chances. We moved our belongings into the cabin and the spent the rest of the night in the loft.

Outhouse in the distance. That's a really long walk after dark.

The next morning we conducted a postmortem over coffee. We decided had we simply closed the windows and kept quiet, the curious bear would have eventually left of his own volition. We also learned that bears can be vewy, vewy, quiet, fearless and leave no footprints despite the rain of the previous day. In short, bears probably prowl the area more than anyone realized. But then the discussion degenerated into puns like "we bearly escaped" and "it gives you paws for thought."

But if you're keeping score at home: Bears: 1, Pots and Pans: 0 (with one skillet on the disabled list).