Happy Birthday Sean Kaempfer

 

Today is my youngest son Sean's 20th birthday. All this week I'll be dipping into the Father Knows Nothing archives to highlight some of my favorite Sean moments. Needless to say, he is not in favor of this tribute. This column below was priceless. I can't remember why it didn't make the final cut of my book, but I think you'll enjoy it. It's from 2007.

I was driving my son Sean to pre-school, when he casually dropped this little nugget.

“Dad,” he asked, “What do you call it when one person loves someone, but the other person doesn’t love them back?”

I looked in the rear view mirror to see the expression on his face. He really looked concerned.

“There isn’t really a word for it,” I said. “Why? Do you love someone?”

“No,” he said. “But someone loves me.”

I was intrigued. I knew the conversation would have ended right then and there if I didn’t proceed with caution. If I joked with him at all, I wouldn’t get another morsel. I gingerly continued my line of questioning.

“Who loves you?” I asked.

“Jennifer,” he said.

“How do you know she loves you?”

He sighed, and looked out the window. “She always follows me around,” he said.

“But you do that to your brothers,” I pointed out.

“She always wants to do stuff for me,” he said. His tone of voice was saying “Geez, Dad, you just don’t understand women, do you?”

“But you like to do stuff for your brothers,” I said. “Maybe she just loves you like a brother.”

“Trust me, Dad. This is different. She doesn’t love me. She loves me.”

I wish I could have taken a picture of that expression on his face. He was a (5-year-old) man with girl troubles, and he didn’t know what to do.

“You mean like a girlfriend loves you?”

“Uh huh.”

We drove in silence for a few moments, and I struggled not to laugh or smile.

“Why does she love you so much?” I asked.

“Because I’m cute,” he said.

I couldn’t be the serious confidante for one second longer. The real me popped right out.

“Did you ever think about asking her to marry you?” I asked.

“DAAAAAD! I’m way too young.”

“What’s old enough to get married?”

“You have to be old. Like you and mom.”

I shook off that little shot to the gut, and queried on. “But why don’t you love her back?”

He didn’t say anything for a few moments while he pondered that question. He sighed once more.  “I need my space,” he said.

When we arrived at preschool about two minutes later, Jennifer was the first person we saw. Her whole face lit up when she spotted Sean. She started waving frantically.

“Hi Sean!” she screamed.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

From the Writing Archives--My House is a Crime Scene

 Agatha Christie was born on this day in 1890. She is probably the best-known mystery writer of all-time, famous her elaborate murder plots. That inspired me to pull out this old Father Knows Nothing column. It didn't quite make the final cut for my Father Knows Nothing book, but I thought you might still get a kick out of it...

I really try my best to keep the house from becoming living-in-squalor-y, but if a team of forensic scientists ever came to my house with swabs, they would find a thousand blood samples. Right now there’s a pool of dried blood on my front steps that I can’t wash away. We’ve got blood stains on nearly every sheet and pillowcase in the house. Blood stains on shirts and pants. Blood stains on gloves (paging OJ). Blood drops on the floor, the walls, and probably the ceiling.

There are days it looks like Freddy Krueger lives here.

But we’re not a family of killers, cutters, or slashers. We’re just a family that gets a ridiculous number of bloody noses. My two oldest boys don’t just get those slow-leaking bloody noses. There are days they walk in the door covered with blood from the waist up.

One day I was in the basement when Tommy came home. I heard the front door open violently, followed by an urgent thump, thump, thump, and another door slamming. When I went to investigate, I saw the trail of blood. It was all over the living room floor, the hallway floor, on two doors, and every wall in between.

I knocked on the bathroom door. “Everything OK in there?” I asked.

“Yup,” he replied. “No problem. Just a bloody nose.”

We’re very ho-hum about those now. We’ve had so many bloody noses, the boys are able to stop the bleeding themselves. Usually the only way I find out they had one is by finding the trail of blood they neglected to clean up. Sometimes I find the trail while it’s still wet. Other times I don’t see it for a few days. Still other days the gigantic pile of bloody Kleenex in the bathroom garbage can is the only clue.

That’s the main reason I can’t invite any cops over to the house.

They know a crime scene when they see one.

From the Writing Archives--Christmas 1975

Today is my sister Cindy's birthday. That inspired me to dip into the writing archives, and pull out this piece I wrote in 2010 for the Shore Magazine Christmas issue. It's my recollections of Christmas 1975. I think you may get a kick out of it...

My sister and I are only a year apart, and we were sworn enemies.

 

We competed against each other for every conceivable thing with a knock-down drag-out winner-take-all mentality that was nothing short of blood sport; the winner taunting over the lifeless body of the vanquished opponent until he or she yelled “Mooooom!”

Now that I’m a dad myself, of course, I’m being given my karmic rewards. My two youngest sons fight every day. And listening to that constant bickering is like being stabbed in the ears repeatedly. I can only imagine what my mother went through in the 1970s. My fights with my sister weren’t as physical, but they were certainly as loud. And they were probably even more emotionally vicious.

I’ll give you an example that has become family lore.

 

It was Christmas Eve 1975. That Christmas season my mother came up with a great idea to help end the fighting. Cindy and I were to give each other Christmas presents for the very first time. We were told to give from the heart.

 

As a parent, I can see the logic. The mere act of thinking about what the other sibling wanted, then spending our own money to make that sibling happy, combined with the overall festiveness of the Holiday season HAD TO tone down the viciousness.

 

That moment is captured forever on film. My dad had one of those Super-8 home movie cameras and was eagerly filming every second of that Christmas. My little brother was only five, so most of the silent film focuses on him playing with his forts and cars, but then you can see my mom step in front of the camera and point to my sister.

 

Cindy, age 11, was getting ready to open the present from Ricky, age 12.

 

She smiles from ear-to-ear as she unwraps the present with anticipatory glee. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but it looks like she’s asking me if I wrapped the present myself. My dad pans over to my smiling nodding face, before returning to focus on the lucky girl and her Christmas gift from brother.

 

The box is oddly shaped and unlabeled.

“What is it?” you can see her mouthing.

She opens the box, and stops cold. She glares at me, then at the camera. It doesn’t take a lip reader to see what she says next.

 

“A BABY BOTTLE!”

 

Just in case you couldn’t read her lips, the baby bottle emerged, and Cindy stood up and fired that bottle at me—hitting me in the midsection—which was no easy task because I was laughing so hard.

 

Then the camera pans to my glaring mother, none too pleased at the development.

 

So what did my sister get me that Christmas? I honestly don’t remember, but it was a normal gift.

 

I do remember what she got me the next year though: Pampers. The year after that I bought her baby powder, and she gave me a pacifier. Another year we exchanged baby wipes and Gerber baby food. The battle lasted for the rest of the decade.

 

But you know what the story of my sibling rivalry with my sister represents most to me? Hope. That’s right, hope. Hope that my boys will eventually snap out of it the way Cindy and I did.

For us the thawing began thanks to my girlfriends in high school and college, and eventually my wife, all of whom pointed out that I was being a jerk. It thawed out forever when my kids were born. My sister turned out to be the most caring and loving aunt imaginable to those boys. She lives just a few miles away from us and spends time with them whenever she can. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that they love her more than they love me—and I think that’s wonderful.

 

Cindy and I actually get along great now. I probably see her or talk to her on the phone four or five times a week.

And when I tell my boys that she and I used to fight, they don’t even believe me. When they’re old enough not to copy their dad, I’ll prove it to them.

 

I’ll show them the film in the box labeled: “Christmas 1975.”

From the Writing Archives--What Your Car Says About You

 This little piece was written this week in 2007 as a "Half Empty" column, which is a humor column that Dave Stern and I wrote together on a weekly basis for about two years. I got a kick out of re-reading this piece because some of these cars don't even exist anymore.

It's big news in Chicago that Chicago Bears linebacker Lance Briggs smashed up his $350,000 Lamborghini, and fled the scene of the accident. News reports have been speculating why he left the car there, but we have a deeper question. What kind of a man spends $350,000 on a car? Let's just say that without even meeting him in the locker room after a shower, we can tell you a "little" bit about him, and why he feels he needs to overcompensate. 

But then again, we're gifted "car personality-ologists." 

Of course, anybody can identify the personality of a Lamborghini driver. We can do so much more. Take a look at the different types of cars below and find the kind of car you drive. We’ve tried to isolate one or two things we already know about you when we see you stepping out of that car. We make no judgment on whether any of these things are good or bad. 

ACURA—You have at least two words in your vocabulary that most typical American citizens no longer use in everyday conversation: “sharp” and “sporty.” I hope you don’t think I’m being “fresh.”

BMW—“Hey Charles, how did the Dow Jones do today?” 

BUICK—You are sick and tired of people saying you’re not happy at mealtime unless you have meat and potatoes. You ate a Tuna Melt at Denny’s last month and nobody even noticed. 

CADILLAC—It depends on the model and the neighborhood. Let’s say it’s a classic Cadillac Eldorado and you’re in the suburbs. Are you picking Myrtle up for Bingo this week or is she taking the bus? 

CHEVROLET—The Chevy driver runs the gamut, from Camaro (“That pack of smokes in your t-shirt sleeve is covering your tattoo”) to Corvette (“Divorced? You’re kidding!”) to El Camino (“Out of my cold, dead hands”) to Cavalier (“Did someone here order the pepperoni and mushroom?”). 

CHRYSLER—A PT Cruiser owner can complete this rhyme: “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the _________.” 

DODGE—The Neon owner is the only person you know that still makes Yugo jokes. The Intrepid driver always pays the extra buck or two for the hot wax at the gas station car wash. The Viper owner can easily tick off the names of the planets because the entire solar system revolves around him. 

FORD—Is that a fedora we see peeking over the steering wheel of the Crown Victoria or is it somehow driving itself? As for the Mustang owner, we know he is really into cars because he’s on a first-name basis with every mechanic in the area. The Taurus driver is definitely qualified to do our taxes. 

HONDA—When I see a Civic driver, we hope we don’t know her because we didn’t get her a graduation gift. The Accord driver has 2.2 children, 3 bedrooms, and 2.5 baths, and if we had to guess at a name we would say “Bob.” 

KIA—We couldn’t help admiring your faux Coach purse while we were watching Steel Magnolias. Did you get that at Marshall’s? 

MAZDA—The same as the Honda driver, but slightly less interesting. The Miata driver, however, is named Stephanie or Kimberly. That’s just a fact. 

MERCEDES—“Hi Hans, vant to vatch ze soccer game mit me? Oh sorry, you’re an American. Listen, I could use someone to represent me—I’m pretty sure this carpal tunnel syndrome is a workplace injury.” 

MERCURY—The Grand Marquis driver is a person we can count on for the casserole at the next church potluck dinner, and the Sable driver is definitely not able to help us reset the blinking time on our VCR. 

MITSUBISHI—If the Lancer, Gallant, Eclipse and Diamante drivers were movie actors, they would be listed as “Man #1,” “Woman #2,” “Man with Hot Dog,” and “Woman with Child” in the credits.

 NISSAN—It’s called a Pathfinder, you paid the extra money for the GPS, and you still got lost. How did that happen exactly? 

OLDSMOBILE—What happens when this one breaks down? You’ve gone from Cutlass to Delta 88 and back to Cutlass every four years since 1963, and now they pull the rug out from under you while you’re still only in your 70s. Don’t you hate progress? 

PONTIAC—What’s the difference between a Chevy Camaro owner and a Pontiac Firebird owner? The Firebird owner keeps her smokes in her purse. 

SATURN—You’re the kind of person who gladly eats a cold steak because it would be rude to send it back to the kitchen. And please. . .don’t tell us you got the manual transmission because you love driving. 

TOYOTA—Let me guess what color your Camry is. Is it blue? I’m also guessing that if I ever invite you to a party, you’ll be the first one there. I admire your punctuality. 

VOLVO—We understand. We're afraid of our wives, too. 

We know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: What do Mr. Smarty Pants Car Personality-ologists drive? You’ve probably seen people like us on the road. The telltale signs are obvious: the dead look behind the eyes, the sourpuss face that naturally forms when the temples throb for hours a day, the unmistakable look of defeat. 

That’s right. We both drive minivans. Does it really matter which kind?

From the Writing Archives--Elvis and Snow Domes

 

Today is the 45th anniversary of Elvis' death. That means it's the 35th anniversary of my snow dome collection. My last article for Lake Magazine (in 2004, before I switched over to Shore Magazine) was about that colleciton. I'm reposting that piece here today...

It started out as a joke. My buddies and I went to Graceland in 1987 for the tenth anniversary of Elvis’ death just because we wanted to witness the spectacle. Let me tell you; it was memorable. We felt like we had inadvertently wandered into the capital city of Tackyland for the coronation of the King. As we passed black velvet Elvis portrait after black velvet Elvis portrait, a thought occurred to me. I wanted to bring home the tackiest memento I could find as a tribute to this amazing weekend.

                When I saw a shelf full of $3 Elvis snow domes at the gift shop across the street from Graceland, I knew I had a winner. First of all, let’s face it, it was only three dollars. Secondly, the whole idea of honoring Elvis with a plastic water-and-fake-snow-filled dome seemed so profound. I had my own intellectual interpretation; the snow falling on his former home represents the chill the city of Memphis feels since he left us, and the snow falling on the Lisa Marie airplane represents the white light that awaited him as he “flew” up to his final destination.

That was the interpretation I planned on using when people asked me why I proudly displayed a Graceland snow dome in my home. I saw this plastic thing as nothing more than a conversation piece. How was I to know that it would become so much more than that? It was the beginning of a real problem; a sickness. From that moment on, whenever I traveled anywhere, I instinctively looked for a snow dome to commemorate my visit. I now own over a hundred snow domes from locations all over the world, and while I still mock them and come up with ridiculous kitschy reasons why a plastic water-and-fake-snow-filled dome is a perfect memento of a visit, I have to admit that I’ve grown to love these things.

In fact, I now effortlessly tick off my list of reasons to collect them.

ü  Affordability: The price is right. At most, a tourist snow dome will cost you five bucks. You’ll be hard pressed to find a better value for your collecting dollar.

ü  Convenience: There isn’t an airport in the world that doesn’t sell them. Your friends won’t even mind picking one up for you.

ü  Fun: Shake one and tell me it doesn’t bring a smile to your face. It’s fun for “kids” of all ages.

ü  Conversation: Since 1987 there hasn’t been a single visitor to my home that hasn’t asked me at least one question about my collection.

Frequently Asked Questions

  What if you travel somewhere it never snows?

This was the first dilemma I faced when I began to expand my collection. I like to travel to warm destinations. Luckily, this is shockingly not a problem. Among the snow domes in my collection: Cayman Islands, Jamaica, Hawaii, Arizona, Acapulco, Cancun, Barbados, St. Kitts, Bermuda, and the Dominican Republic. To me, these are the crown jewels of my collection because the entire concept is so ridiculous.

What is your most prized snow dome?

My favorite has to be the Pope John Paul II snow dome. My brother picked it up for me when he visited the Vatican. Shake it and watch a submerged Pope get covered with snow inside a cheap plastic dome. It’s an obvious keepsake for Catholics.

Is this really a worldwide phenomenon?

 I have snow domes from every continent on earth except Antarctica, the snowiest of the continents. In another ironic twist, the only location I have been completely unsuccessful finding one is China—where virtually all snow domes are made. Although I should note that I wasn’t the one who traveled to China; it was my sister-in-law. She might have just been too humiliated to purchase one. That happens occasionally.

Which one comes from the furthest location?

 I would have to get out my atlas to check the actual mileage, but I have snow domes from Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong and Tokyo.

  What are your favorites from this country?

 I personally cherish the snow domes from places that have no business producing snow domes. I have one from Iowa. It features cows. I have one from Harvard University. That just seems like an odd choice for Harvard, doesn’t it? I also like the snow domes that commemorate events. The one I bought in Richmond, Virginia commemorates the Civil War. The one I bought in Atlanta commemorates the 1996 Summer Olympics. Last but not least, I have a Las Vegas snow dome that doesn’t have any pizzazz at all. I just thought that was funny.

Do you have any local snow domes?

 I have one from Chicago, one from Wrigley Field, one from Springfield, Illinois, one from Indiana, one from Detroit, two from Lake Geneva, and one from Wisconsin that is exactly the same as my Iowa snow dome. Apparently, they got a deal on the cow picture. Minnesota and Ohio, by the way, both feature the exact same duck.

Why don’t you have any fancy snow domes?

I know there are beautiful glass snow domes on the market, but those don’t really fit into my personal collection. I pride myself in the cheapness factor.

Do you have any cautionary tales?

 Take it from a father of three boys; a child as young as two years of age can throw a snow dome up to fifteen feet. While a snow dome may cost only $5, it may cost a little more to go to Australia to buy it. And if you’re like me, and you have a three year old little darling who likes to watch a recently deceased Pope fly through the air, you may have to take drastic measures. My entire collection is currently in a box in the basement until the kids move out of the house.

That has a tendency to take the fun out of any collection.

From the Writing Archives--Break a Leg

This week I begin my last week in my 50s. In celebration of that, I'm dipping into the archives every day this week to feature something I've written in the past. Today is the 210th day of the year. The 210th Aesop Fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf, inspired this column which appeared on the back page of Shore Magazine in 2008.

You’re supposed to say “Break a Leg” to entertainers before a performance instead of “Good Luck,” because saying “Good luck” is actually considered bad luck.

I know, I know. It has never made sense to me either.

And after what I saw this past week, I will never say “Break a leg” to anyone ever again.

It happened on the ski slopes, about fifty yards away from the spot I tore the ligaments in my thumb last year. I was riding on the chairlift when I heard this horrible screaming. It was such a loud plaintive wail, that I thought it must have been kids goofing around, but within a few minutes I saw the Ski Patrol skiing in the direction of the cry.

A few minutes later, my sister was skiing up to me to let me know that the screaming in question was coming from my son Tommy.

“Oh no, is he OK?’” I asked.

 “It doesn’t sound like it, but with Tommy you never know.”

I should tell you that Tommy isn’t exactly known for his calm approach to pain and suffering. Let me put it this way; we often don’t know whether to say “Good Luck” or “Break a Leg” to him before treating his injuries. There’s always a chance that it’s a bit of a performance. He can make a stubbed toe sound like a gunshot wound.

When I arrived at the site of the accident, the Ski Patrol looked a little perplexed. Tommy was rolled into a little ball and was writhing in agony.

“Is he always like this?” they asked.

Honesty compelled me to admit he was.

“We have to stabilize the leg to move him,” they said. “Can you talk to him?”

So, I knelt down by his side and told him to be a man and straighten his leg so the Ski Patrol could move him. It took a few minutes, a few more condescending scoldings from me, and a few thousand screams, but he eventually did it.

I have to admit, I really didn’t think he was badly hurt. I know that sounds terrible, but the old ‘Boy who cried wolf’ story (a story I tell him after nearly every dramatic overreaction to a minor mishap), immediately came to mind. 

This time, unfortunately, the wolf was real.  And I was the father that allowed his son to be eaten by it.

Tommy had a broken tibia, which is an extremely painful injury. All of those screams and wails and moans were completely authentic. He was put on some pretty heavy duty pain medication for the next three days, and even with the meds, he was moaning in pain.

Real pain.

When they reset his leg at the doctor’s office after the swelling went down a few days later, it was like listening to a wounded animal. That sound is going to stay with me for awhile. As will my initial doubt about the severity of his pain, and my initial tone of voice to a suffering boy.

Did anyone ever interview the Boy who Cried Wolf’s father after his son was eaten? I’m betting he didn’t deliver the smiling ‘I told you so’ that the story implies.

I feel like I actually did that to my son.

And yes, I am beating myself up for it. No need to pile on.

On the other hand, this whole thing has also been a learning experience for me.

If “The Boy who Cried Wolf” is ever converted for the theater, I know exactly what I’ll say to the actor portraying the boy before he goes on stage.

“Good Luck.”

From the Writing Archives--50 things I've learned in 50 years

 

This week I begin my last week in my 50s. In celebration of that, I'm dipping into the archives every day this week to feature something I've written in the past. Today is my 59th birthday. This piece was published in Shore Magazine the day I turned 50 in 2013.

50 Things I have learned in 50 years

1. The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but everyone still hates the squeaky wheel.  Everyone.

2. Never trust a grown man who doesn’t cry at the end of “Field of Dreams”

3. When your kids ask for your permission, they’ve almost certainly already asked and received a “no” from your spouse.

4. People who claim they don’t lie, are in fact, lying.

5. The whole town is NOT talking about the Webb boys.

6. If you use the word “sincere”, you aren’t.

7. If someone says “that’s a fact” it means “I hope you don’t look it up”.

8. A mechanic’s eyes turn into cartoon cash registers when you try to explain a knock in the engine.

9. Sedentary people may not be as healthy as exercise junkies, but they almost never need knee replacements.

10. Never trust anyone older than thirty…to fix your computer.

11. If you live north of the Mason-Dixon line, don’t ever buy a house with a long driveway.

12. Make friends with the high school mathletes. They will eventually be hiring.

13. If you roll your eyes when your spouse tells a joke or story, you are ruining the moment for everyone in the room. 

14. “Self-Help Seminar” is an oxymoron.

15. When someone tells you to do things that scare you, they don’t mean do EVERYTHING that scares you. There is no good reason to wing-walk.

16. Punching the car radio when you hear the “Kars for Kids” commercial may turn off the jingle momentarily, but it cannot kill it.

17. “Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine, you blow my mind” is impossible to read without singing.

18. He who laughs at himself gets the most laughs.

19. The Do-It-Yourself crowd always eventually creates more business for the Do-it-For-You occupations.

20. Remember that even though the person tailgating you is enraged, you are giving the people he or she is rushing to meet five or six extra seconds to relax.

21. NEVER use the word “fetch” when asking your spouse to get you something.

22. No man has ever satisfactorily loaded a dishwasher.

23. If you think of a joke about someone’s name, resist the temptation. They have heard that joke a thousand times.

24. Never trust a man who calls you either “Sport” or “Chief”.

25. “High Maintenance” is never worth it.

26. People who wear sunglasses indoors should be avoided at all costs.

27. Basketball coaches are ten times more likely to have a combover than any other profession.

28. The only place to find someone without mother or father issues is Madame Tussaud’s.

29. You know who never runs out of small talk? A weatherman.

30. The most oft-repeated lie of all time is “I’m happy for you.”

31. A person who isn’t bothered by bad reviews is someone who has never gotten one.

32. Instant messaging someone is like jumping in front of them and screaming: “ANSWER ME NOW!”

33. “Stop and smell the roses” is great advice even if you take it literally.

34. If you need to talk to a musician, don’t do it before noon.

35. Pabst earned their blue ribbon 120 years ago. Look for a more recent winner.

36. If being an outdoorsman was so great, they wouldn’t have invented houses, furnaces, or air conditioning.

37. Every time your child says “I’m bored” you are justified in deducting the cost of their toys from their college fund.

38. The deliciousness of a meal is directly proportional to how bad your breath smells after eating it.

39. Telemarketers will never answer “yes” to the question “Can I call you right back?”

40. Your elected officials may be pathetic, but they were elected by you.

41. The person who tells you the best gossip is also telling your secrets to everyone they know.

42. No one has ever listened to the phrase immediately following…”When I was a kid…”

43. “Undetectable Plastic Surgery” is an oxymoron.

44. Little Tykes is the most ironically named company of all-time. They make toys the size of my house.

45. The only way to avoid naming a child something that doesn’t rhyme with a dirty word is to name them “Orange”.

46. Paul Anka was only 27 when he wrote “My Way”. His regrets are no longer “too few to mention”.

47. 100% of people working on your house will tell you the last person who did work there clearly didn’t know what he was doing.

48. Your family may love you, but your dog is the only one truly happy to see you when you come home.

49. There hasn’t been a “Caddyshack-quote-free” round of golf played in America in more than three decades.

50. All of your life accomplishments will be forgotten immediately if you die an embarrassing death.

 

From the Writing Archives--Letter from Son's Lawyer

 This week I begin my last week in my 50s. In celebration of that, I'm dipping into the archives every day this week to feature something I've written in the past. This particular piece is a Father Knows Nothing column from 2008. Sean was 6 years old at the time. He is now almost 20. It isn't in the final copy of the book, but it still brings back fond memories for me. 

A letter I expect to receive

Dear Mr Kaempfer:

I represent your youngest son Sean in the matter of Kaempfer vs. Kaempfer, Kaempfer, Kaempfer, & Kaempfer.

My client concedes that his wallet often includes many many more dollars than he should have at any given time, and he understands why this has aroused your suspicions and led to charges of intra-family theft. However, before you and the rest of the parties to this matter continue to levy these unsubstantiated charges, please consider the following…

*No one has ever witnessed my client actually taking money from someone else. Just because your wallet is short $5 and his wallet has $5 extra doesn’t prove a thing. The police department cannot and will not pursue this matter without an eye-witness account.

*My client’s claim of "magical money powers" has never been disproved. The burden of proof here clearly falls on the shoulders of those accusing him of theft.

*My client is quite cute and has been known to receive money from old people simply because of that cuteness.

*While my client has been known to say "finders keepers, losers weepers," this in no way proves that he is picking up any and all change he finds around the house and keeping it. It’s quite possible that he has some sort of a magnetic imbalance in his pocket-area that attracts the coins. Surely medical considerations should be taken into account.

*Has anyone considered that he may have earned that money legitimately? While gambling isn’t technically legal for someone his age, it also isn’t technically theft. Ban his gambling today, and you’ll kill his dream of playing professional Go Fish tomorrow.

*Even if someone were to prove that my client had illicitly acquired a few extra dollars from around the house, isn’t his mathematical development important to you? Keeping track of smaller denominations may be good training for a lesser mathematical mind, but surely adding and multiplying larger denominations will facilitate his mathematical growth. Consider any "lost" money an investment in his future earning potential, which could, in fact, pay for your inevitable nursing home care.

My client is a very reasonable 6-year-old and is willing to forgive and forget any previous accusations without pursuing legal action at this time. On the other hand, a payment in the three-figure range would provide a soothing balm to his pain and suffering.

Respectfully,
Shirley Cheatum
Dewey, Cheatum & Howe, Attorneys at Law

From the Writing Archives--Nancy

 This week I begin my last week in my 50s. In celebration of that, I'm dipping into the archives every day this week to feature something I've written in the past. This particular piece is from my book Father Knows Nothing, Today would have been Nancy's birthday...

It was just an ordinary summer day in 1973.

The old neighborhood was filled with kids. There were a dozen or more kids on my street about the same age as me, give or take a few years, and we played together outside for hours and hours at a time. The games of choice were Spud, Kick the Can, 500, Capture the Flag, and of course, baseball.

On this particular day I was watching some of the older kids play baseball at the park across the street from my house. They weren’t letting me play because I wasn’t good enough, but I didn’t mind. My best friend Stu was allowed to play, and I was lending my support by rooting for him, and chasing foul balls.

“Hey Ricky!” I heard from across the street. I recognized the voice of Stu’s sister Nancy, but I didn’t see her anywhere. “Up here,” she said. “In the tree.”

The tree in the front yard of her house was our favorite climbing tree. The lowest branch was low enough to allow even little kids access. Some of the neighborhood kids could climb nearly all the way to the top, but I was afraid to go that high. It was a pretty tall tree. And Nancy was up higher in that tree than I had ever seen.

“You can see the water tower from up here,” she said.

Now she had my attention. This was a small town with absolutely nothing exciting, but we did have a water tower downtown a few miles away. It seemed impossible to be able to see something of that magnitude from the bucolic confines of our little side street. So I wandered over to take a look.

When I stood at the base of the tree and looked straight up, it seemed like Nancy was a thousand feet in the sky. There was no way I was going that high.

“C’mon,” she said. “You’ve got to see this.”

She was right. I had to see it. So I started climbing, and this tree was made for climbing. The branches were smooth. They were staggered perfectly. They were sturdy. There really was nothing preventing me from continuing my climb except my fear.

I made it past the mid-point of the tree (my new all-time record) and saw something for the first time in my life: the roof of the school across the street. I could see a couple of dodge balls that had been kicked up there–an incredible find. But I still couldn’t imagine that I would make it as high as Nancy.

She was urging me on as I hit the 3/4 mark, but I still couldn’t see the water tower. I saw something else, however. Our Ford LTD was making it’s way down the boulevard on it’s way home from the train station. Inside that car was my dad’s car pool–my dad, our next door neighbor Mr. Reiss, and our backyard neighbor Mr. Walsh. It was my mom’s turn to pick them up.

I knew that car meant the end of my climb because dinner started moments after dad walked in the front door, so I put my fear aside and kept climbing. I made it just beneath Nancy as our car pulled into the driveway, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There it was; its gold glimmering paint shining from a few miles away. A giant “1917″ was painted on its side, the year our town was founded.

“Can you see it?” Nancy asked.

“I can see it,” I replied.

We could hear the car doors open beneath us, and I couldn’t contain my excitement.

“Dad,” I called. “I can see the water tower from here.”

“Get down from there,” my mom called. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“Look at that,” Mr. Reiss said. “Ricky’s really all the way up there.”

He didn’t sound concerned and neither did my dad, who just told me to come down for dinner.

I never made it up that tree again. A few months later my little brother fell out of it, and one of the neighbors broke her arm saving him from getting hurt. After that, Mr. Page (Nancy & Stu’s dad) enforced a no-climb zone.

We moved out of the neighborhood the next year–all the way to Germany.

The Pages moved away in the mid-80s. By then Nancy was married, and Stu was in the Air Force. Many of the other neighbors eventually moved too, but one constant had always been Mr. Reiss. That era ended a few weeks ago, when he passed away. He had been the last living member of the carpool.

When I attended Mr. Reiss’ funeral, I couldn’t help it, I flashed back to that summer of 1973. I pictured him getting out of that Ford LTD, and looking up at the only tree climbing accomplishment of my life.

Sadly, it wasn’t a long journey back to 1973 for me, because I was already there, ever since Stu called me a few days earlier to tell me that his sister Nancy had also died. She died of ALS the same week as Mr. Reiss. Nancy would have been 50 this summer (2011), 38 summers after she reached the top of the tree.

The neighborhood hasn’t physically changed much; the same houses on the same street in front of the same park. Even the tree is still standing, and if you’re crazy enough to climb it, you can still see the water tower, which was recently repainted.

But you can’t see what I can see.

I can see Nancy. I can see Mr. Reiss. I can see Dad.

And I can see a perfect summer day in 1973.

From the Writing Archives--Respect the Useless

 This article I wrote for Shore Magazine goes back 15 years, to this day in 2007. It was the early days of smart phones, but I correctly predicted my eventual demise as a conversationalist. It appeared on the last page of the magazine as my regular column "A Fine Mess"...

I’ve always prided myself in my encyclopedic knowledge of useless information. It was acquired through years of grueling research—watching hours upon hours of mindless television, listening to hours upon hours of unsubstantial radio, and reading an untold number of articles and books filled to the brim with completely meaningless facts.

Sure, I could have mastered accounting methods, or become an expert in the law, or better yet, studied medicine. All of those would have earned me a better living, and made me a more productive member of society.

But the knowledge I acquired over a lifetime of wasting time did lead to a moderately lucrative career. I was an invaluable member of several high profile radio shows in Chicago, largely on the basis of my useless knowledge. There was no need to look up what year Foreigner’s first album came out when you could just ask Rick. If you were having a discussion and suddenly needed to know the name of the actress who played Mrs. Roper in Three’s Company, I was your man. Who was the last president to sport a mustache? Let’s get Rick in here to answer the question.

I didn’t just parlay that useless knowledge into a career. I turned it into a social life.

There used to be nothing more valuable at a cocktail party than somebody who could engage in entertaining small talk while avoiding substantial topics like politics, religion or science. My wife and I were invited to many cocktail parties, and I usually ended up holding court, having in-depth discussions about important subjects like “guys named Mick”. If someone suggested we play a trivia game, the other guests would fight over who got me on their team.

People really began to count on me. I got regular phone calls from family members and friends who were on the road. Sometimes they would hold up the phone to the radio and ask “Who does this song?” or they’d start the call with a sentence like: “Settle an argument for us.”

Of course, those were golden days of entertainment, in the pre-smart phone era, the days when I could find a way to make use of the useless. All of that has changed drastically over the last five years.

What good is it to have Rick on staff coming up with trivia questions, when the answer to even the most useless question is right at everyone’s fingertips? Do you even care that I didn’t have to look up the name of the actor who played Mel Cooley on The Dick Van Dyke Show (Richard Deacon), or that I knew he also played Lumpy Rutherford’s dad on Leave it to Beaver?

Of course you don’t. You want to know why?

Because we know who that man is behind the curtain now, that’s why!

(It’s actor Frank Morgan, who also played the fortune teller, the doorman at the Emerald City, the guard at the Wizard’s castle, and the coachman in the 1939 version of “The Wizard of Oz”.)

If someone needs to find out Billy Williams’ 1970 batting average, they can just ask their phone. If they want to know which artist is singing a particular song, they merely need to hold their phone in the air to get a written answer…directly on their phone. Who needs to talk to the guy who can effortlessly tick off a list of seventeen bogus balding “cures” when a simple Google search will net you fifty?

I know technology cannot be stopped, but how ‘bout a little consideration for the useless? Aren’t we people too? If you take away our employment opportunities (I’m just waiting for the “write a funny article app”), how can we feed our families? If you take away our “court-holding” abilities, what are we good for at a cocktail party except for drinking all your booze?  And if you take away our free booze, you might as well take away our souls.

I’m positively parched over here.

I sure hope you enjoy your stupid little phones.

From the Writing Archives--William Shatner

 

I only met William Shatner once, but I figured this would be a good day to tell that story. It's his birthday. I originally wrote this piece back in 2006.

My one and only William Shatner encounter occured in the late '80s.

At the time I was working for Steve & Garry at WLUP-AM, as well as doing an overnight disc jockey shift on WLUP-FM. One of the perks for my seven day work week was the occasional “personal appearance.”

I was under no illusions that people were clamoring for a Rick Kaempfer appearance. The entire concept was laughable. During the Steve & Garry years I was best known for being “the idiot” who didn’t get Steve & Garry what they wanted fast enough. The extent of my personality during my FM air shifts involved new and interesting ways to introduce Led Zeppelin. I knew the score. When I was sent out to a personal appearance by the radio station, it only meant that they were contracted to provide a radio personality for an event, and everyone else on the staff had said no.

They didn’t say “no” for no reason.

Any “non-star” who has ever done one of these appearances knows what I’m talking about. It’s not exactly a rip-roaring good time. It’s a couple of hours of schmoozing the client, saying hello to maybe a dozen people, and watching the clock.

Luckily I didn’t bring my dignity with me the day I was sent out to the Chicago Auto Show for a personal appearance. It would have just gotten in the way every time I had to answer the question: “Who are you?”

The only thing that saved this day from being a complete loss was that William Shatner was scheduled to make an appearance on the same day. Shatner’s setup was no more than fifty feet away from mine.

I had a tiny 5’ X 7’ booth. He had a roped off area in front of an elevated stage.

I had a metal folding chair. He had a fully stocked trailer attended to by three Teamsters.

I had an 8 ½ by 11 paper sign that said: “Meet Loop DJ.” He had a large poster with his picture under the headline: “MEET WILLIAM SHATNER!”

On the other hand, almost nobody was there to see him either. About fifteen minutes before his appearance was set to begin, there were maybe a half-dozen people in this gigantic roped-off area. Since nobody was there to see me, and nobody was there to see him, I left my post by the “Meet Loop DJ” sign, and got in line. I figured, “What the heck? I’ll never get another opportunity like this.”

Minutes turned into an hour, and still, there was no sign of William Shatner.

By then the throng had grown to maybe twenty people. When he finally poked his head out of the trailer and made his way up to the stage, the crowd let out frenzied cheers at the sight of him. He nodded politely and walked up to the microphone.

“Thanks for coming out today. I’m looking forward to talking to each and every one of you. Unfortunately, I won’t be signing any autographs, but I will shake your hand, press the flesh, and say hello.”

Since I was seventh in line, I heard what he said to all six people in line ahead of me.

“Hi, I’m Bill. Nice to meet you.”

That was it. Within seconds it was my turn. That’s when I smelled him. He reeked of wine.

“Hi, I’m Bill. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said.

He shook everyone’s hand in maybe five minutes. With that, boom, he was gone—back into the trailer.

I had never really been to a celebrity personal appearance before so I didn’t know what to expect, but never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be that lame. On the other hand, I looked around at the rest of the people in the audience and they didn’t seem that upset. I heard one husband and wife talking on their way out.

“What did you think of his piece?” the husband asked.

“I like the fluffy TJ Hooker one better,” the wife said.

I went back to my “Meet Loop DJ” sign, and watched that trailer for twenty minutes from my metal folding chair.

Nobody came, and nobody left.

Unless there was some sort of an escape hatch beneath the trailer, William Shatner was spending several hours on Sunday afternoon hanging out with some Teamsters in a trailer in the middle of an almost empty Chicago Auto Show.

I eventually picked up my “Meet Loop DJ” sign, folded up my metal folding chair, and left. Shatner was still there.

My pay for that afternoon was an electric can opener and two tennis rackets.

Don’t let anyone tell you that showbiz isn’t glamorous.

From the Writing Archives

 

My Minutia Men podcast co-host (and Eckhartz Press co-publisher) Dave Stern and I wrote a humor column together for three years in the late 00s. 

Today, on Valentine's Day, I thought I'd pull out this one for the married-for-many-years celebrants. It's called "Ten Ways to Make Your Wife Laugh"

The following is the natural comedic arc of a relationship between a man and a woman. 

1. She falls in love with you because you make her laugh. 

2. She marries you. 

3. She begins to roll her eyes. 

4. She begs you not to tell a joke again. 

5. She intentionally ruins your punch lines at cocktail parties. 

6. She says "When will you grow up?" 

Ah, love. Don’t feel bad if the above seven step process describes you perfectly. It happens to every man after a few years of marriage. When a wife gets to know her husband a little better, he becomes less and less funny. If you talked to Jerry Seinfeld’s wife she would say the same thing. 

It's really not her fault. You tell the same jokes. By the third year of your marriage she's heard every single one of them. Plus, now she's hearing those jokes from the guy who leaves his dirty socks on the floor even though he's constantly being asked to "pick up those disgusting socks." It's inevitable. No one is to blame. It's the way God planned it. 

So what can a man (who was chosen as a husband primarily because of his ability to amuse) do to keep his wife laughing? Between the two of us we have sixty years of marital experience. 

Unfortunately, here is the comprehensive list of things a husband (of more than a few years) can say to his wife to make her laugh. 

1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 

10. 

So is that it? Your wife is never going to laugh again? Sure she will. She just won't laugh at anything you say. But you know what will make her laugh? The one guaranteed thing that makes all women laugh every single time they see it?

  

Show her a picture of a guy getting in the knutchkies.

Show her a video.

It's one of those things--all women think a man's groin pain is funny.

That's free of charge.

You're welcome.