Suburban Man: Road Trip

By Rick Kaempfer







When you know you’re going to be driving for twenty four hours with three children under ten years old, you take precautions. We brought along everything we could think of to keep them occupied. Among the things packed into the minivan:

*A VCR with ten movies
*Three handheld video games
*Three sets of headphones so Dad doesn’t have to hear anything
*A cooler full of drinks and food
*A backpack full of toys, books, and games for each boy
*My sister

We had three boys and three adults. We had entertainment and food. We left at 3:00 in the morning so that they could sleep for the first three hours. Everything went like clockwork, right?

Um, not exactly.

But just to give you an idea of how low my expectations were, even though we had one #2 emergency at the worst possible time, and one carsickness barfing in the middle of nowhere, I still consider this trip a complete success.



Let’s start with the success stories.



1. Headphones

I strongly recommend them. The boys watched two Pokemon movies (which normally would have made my skin crawl), but I didn’t have to hear a thing except for an occasional Johnny laugh accompanied by a euphoric “OH MEOWTH! YOU CRACK ME UP!”

2. Word Games

We played word games through most of Indiana on the way home. The biggest hit was the game in which you have to start the next word by the last letter of the preceding word. I was very impressed by Tommy and Johnny’s vocabulary. In fact, Tommy knocked me out of the game by giving me something like fifty consecutive words ending in “K.” A fourth grader shouldn’t be able to outwit his father.




Other things didn’t go quite as well...


1. The 3:00 in the morning departure time

This sounded like such a good idea, but two things didn’t go as planned. One: the boys were so excited about vacation they didn’t go to sleep. Sean’s eyes were wide open the whole time. Two: Even though I got up at this time every day for ten years, I hadn’t done it in almost three years. By 9:00 A.M. I was the only one who wanted to sleep. Bridget had to drive a few hours while I took a nap.

2. All of our toys/games/activities/books can cause carsickness

Somewhere in the middle of rural Georgia, I looked in the rearview mirror at Johnny and he was unbelievably pale. “Do you feel OK?” I asked. “No,” he told me. Bridget sprinted into the backseat with a plastic baggie—but she was moments too late for the first gush. The rest of his breakfast, however, was thankfully captured. We pulled off at the next exit and added thirty minutes to our trip by cleaning off the seat and his pants, and finding something else for him to wear.

Interesting sidenote: Even in rural Georgia, the convenience stores are run by people who sound like Apu in The Simpsons.

3. Even potty-trained 3 year olds won’t “go” at public bathrooms

We had to stop for gas in rural Indiana and all three boys were ordered to take care of business at the gas station. The two older boys did as they were told, but the youngster took one look at the bathroom and declared that he didn’t need to. “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked. “I’m sure, Dad,” he said. I knew we only had about three hours to go before we made it home, so I decided to avoid a confrontation. I gambled.

I lost the gamble. We had just started driving on the soon-to-be torn up Dan Ryan Expressway, when Sean’s stomach pains made him start crying out.

“I have to poop!” he said.

We were still an hour away from home. His painful cries let us know there was no way he could make it all the way home, so I pulled off the highway in a very scary neighborhood looking for a safe place for him to unblock the blockage. The only appropriate place near the exit was a Walgreen’s Pharmacy.

Bridget went inside with Sean, and they were in there for quite awhile. I was starting to get worried that something had happened to them, and had just made the decision to go in to investigate, when the two of them came back out. Bridget’s annoyed expression told me the whole story. Sean had refused to go in the public bathroom again.

“He promises he can make it home,” she said through gritted teeth.

”No he can’t,” I said.

“I know,” she said. She held up a pull-up diaper. “What do you think?”

It was our only choice. For the next thirty minutes we tried to tune out the grunting, groaning, whining, moaning child determined to prove he could make it home. When his natural cheerfulness suddenly returned, we knew the problem had passed.

Twenty minutes later we were home.

And it could have been much, much worse.



If you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

Why do I write?

By Rick Kaempfer


















Rick's Dad: Eckhard Kaempfer (1935-1989)




Losing a parent has a tendency to change your outlook on life. I know it happened to me. When my father died seventeen years ago, I was 25. That’s a pretty young age to become fatalistic, but I’ve chosen to look on the bright side of being fatalistic. For one thing, I no longer take things for granted because I know that my time on this earth is limited.

I know this is going to sound bad, but I wish my father had been a little more fatalistic. Of course, it’s totally unfair to say that about a man who walked into a hospital emergency room one day at the age of 54, and never came out again. His mindset was understandable. Both of his parents were still alive when he died. He had no reason to ever think about death. And even if he had, all three of his children were already adults (25, 24, and 19), and he had done a pretty good job of raising relatively normal functional members of society. Why would he bother thinking about what life would be like without him?

I know I’m being greedy here. I realize that. He gave me all he could give...and then some. But now that I’m a father myself, I find myself wanting something I never wanted before. His advice. I always considered Dad to be a source of wisdom, even when I strongly fought against it. He was a reasonable man, a thinker, someone who gave quite a bit of thought to his words before they came out. He wasn’t always right, but he was never rash or emotional. In short, he was the perfect kind of person to ask for advice.

And I never did.

And now that I’m a father myself, I have a million questions.

That’s probably one of the reasons I have so overcompensated with my own boys. I’ve tried to use my father as a model—his steady temperament and his guiding hand, while trying to give them what he couldn’t give me. It’s one of the reasons I’ve decided to stay home and raise them. I’m part of virtually every phase of their lives, and I’m constantly giving them unsolicited advice about every subject under the sun just in case they ever need it someday.

Unfortunately, I don’t quite have the fountain of wisdom my father had. He had knowledge that came from a difficult childhood of emigration and language barriers and hardship that I couldn’t even imagine. You learn things when you experience difficulty—and he must have learned so much. Most of those lessons learned, however, died with him. I didn’t have the foresight to ask about them, and he didn’t have the foresight to commit them to paper.

So I write.

That way, what I know will not go away when I go away. Even if my boys choose to ignore it for most of their lives, I’m fairly confident there will come a time when curiosity will get the best of them, and they will seek out wisdom from their father. When that time comes, there’s a possibility I won’t be around to deliver it in person.

The son spends his life trying to distance himself from his father, trying to make his own way in the world, trying to become a man. There’s nothing wrong with that—it’s part of growing up. I certainly don’t take it personally when my boys ignore my advice and insist on making the same mistakes I made. Some kids just learn better that way. I know I did. But there will come a day when they need me. And I just can’t bear to think that I won’t be there when they do.

So I write.

When they do seek me out, even if I’m not around, my words will still be here, to bring me back to life. They won’t have to wonder what was going through my mind when I was in their shoes--because they can read it. And if they end up having boys just like themselves—and my experience tells me they just might—they can see how and why I did what I did.

Why do I write? I know that part of the audience for every word I write includes three grown men I’ve never met. Three men who may one day want to ask Dad for advice. I only have my time, my love, and my words. I give those with all of my heart.

That’s why I write.

Guest Blogger: Peter Kaempfer

The Kaempfer Family (minus deceased Dad). That's Peter on the right--the baby of the family. The two women in the picture are my sister Cindy and my mother Hildegard. Peter lives in the Detroit area with his wife Julie and their two sons Andrew and Bryan (my Godson). I resisted the urge, by the way, to post an embarrassing picture of Peter. At some point, big brothers need to stop tormenting little brothers. I also resisted the urge to point out that my mom still calls him "Butzie"...oh crap. Sorry, Peter.

I asked Peter to guest blog on this traditional tax day because he is a CPA...and he doesn't know anything about taxes. But I'll let him explain further...


Just Because I'm a CPA, doesn't mean I know taxes


It usually goes something like this…

“Hi. Nice to meet you. So what do you do for a living?” Innocent enough question.

“I am an accountant.” Oops! Why did I admit it so quickly?

“Oh, you must be really busy this time of year with taxes and all.”

Rolling my eyes, “Well, actually I have been very busy at work, but I don’t have anything to do with taxes.”

Then the dance begins, trying to explain what I do in my corporate accounting job. I have had to do this countless times in the past 14 years. Don’t worry – I won’t try to explain it here. Some people get it, most people don’t, others just get bored to tears (and rightfully so.) There are some family members and really good friends of mine that still don’t understand that I have nothing to do with taxes, that I have a hard time preparing my own tax return every year (and TurboTax makes it pretty easy.) In fact, I actually end up doing some of their returns for them just so I don’t have to go through the dance.

All they know is that I am a CPA, so they assume I am a tax accountant. I guess that’s really not too bad of an assumption. Why should anyone be able to distinguish among the various specialties and disciplines in accounting unless they are an accountant? This stuff just isn’t common knowledge - it’s not like accounting gets a very glamorous portrayal in movies or on TV. Face it, unless you are a cop, lawyer, doctor, politician or bad lounge singer, chances are you won’t be seeing too many shows featuring your profession, let alone accounting.

I’m OK with that. Accounting really isn’t that fascinating. It just happens to be something that I can do fairly well and it happens to pay the bills just fine. Yes, I am an accountant; a CPA. I admit it. More accurately, though accounting is what I do for a living.

I don’t get excited about tax deductions. I never played Dungeons & Dragons. I wasn’t part of the Audio-Visual club in high school. I don’t wear glasses (all the time.) I don’t even watch Star Trek re-runs. I like to think I’m a pretty regular guy who just happens to have a dull job.

So next time you meet an accountant, don’t ask him about taxes. Try asking about his family, what he thinks of the White Sox’ chances of repeating as World Champions (had to get that in there Rick), his thoughts on who will fill the void as boss of the Soprano family until Tony recovers. You might be surprised to find he actually has a life outside of work.

On the other hand, you could end up being stuck talking to one of the accounting majority, the really geeky, boring guy that you just can’t get rid of.

Good luck out there and best of luck with your taxes.




If you missed any of our previous guest bloggers, click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: The Radio Producer's Handbook (an excerpt)

About this time of year college students are starting to get internships lined up for the summer. I've probably had close to a hundred interns during my radio career and maybe a handful of them (5 or 6) took the job seriously. Of those, all of them eventually got jobs in the highly competive radio business. The rest did not.

This excerpt from my book (co-written with John Swanson) "The Radio Producer's Handbook" is my best explanation for what to do if you manage to get an internship. It sounds like I'm joking here. I'm not at all.

The Unwritten Intern Commandments: Dealing with the Host

We both began our major market radio careers as interns. We didn’t know these rules when we walked through the door. However, we didn’t break them. There are a couple of reasons for this. First of all, it’s really not that hard to follow these rules. There is nothing unseemly about them. Secondly, we naturally treated the hosts with respect because we naturally respected them, and we treated the hosts as stars because we really thought of them stars. If you do the same thing, you won’t have any problems.

The unwritten Intern Commandments are as follows:
*Thou shalt not “sass” a host, even jokingly, even if the host is jokingly “sassing” you.
*Thou shalt not speak to a celebrity guest, unless spoken to.
*Thou shalt never repeat a story you hear the host or celebrity tell “off the air.”
*Thou shalt not make any references at any times to the host’s physical imperfections.
*Thou shalt not bug the host to pay for something just because he “makes a lot of money.”
*Thou shalt never bug the host to put you on the air.
*Thou shalt not bring your friends in to see the show.
*Thou shalt not eat the free food before the host gets a crack at it.

We’ve seen some very smart interns fall victim to the unwritten intern commandments. We’ve seen interns accidentally break them even after having been warned repeatedly. It happens most often after an intern begins to feel a little comfortable. He starts joking with the host, who initially appears to be enjoying it. The intern forgets that he is not the host’s peer, and begins joking with him like he would joke with his buddies. The host doesn’t take kindly to being ribbed by someone who hasn’t “paid his dues.” That’s usually when the hammer falls.

Here is a tip to make sure you never accidentally break the unwritten intern commandments. Imagine the host as Tony Soprano or any Joe Pesci character. You are allowed to get comfortable with him, but anything you say or do can still get you whacked without warning if you don’t show the proper respect. It really isn’t that hard to do.

The Unwritten Intern Commandments: Dealing with Everyone Else

Now that we’ve gotten the etiquette of treating a star out of the way, let’s address the etiquette in dealing with everyone else at the radio station. If you have any common sense at all you’ll follow these rules naturally. Nevertheless, it doesn’t hurt to spell them out. These are rules any intern in any business should follow. Let’s not forget that radio is a business too. And if you don’t treat this internship the same way you would treat a job, no one will ever consider hiring you for a real job.

The other unwritten Intern Commandments are as follows…

*Thou shalt not complain about gofer tasks.
*Thou shalt not complain about (lack of) pay.
*Thou shalt not show up late or completely blow off work.
*Thou shalt not complain about the hours.
*Thou shalt not ignore basic human hygiene.
*Thou shalt not work on a personal project without permission.

Every paid employee at the radio station will expect you to live by those rules. You have to always keep in mind why you are doing this. Yes, you’d rather be doing something more rewarding than getting someone coffee at 4:30am for zero dollars, but think of the big picture. You can’t complain about the pay, or the hours, or the gofer tasks because you knew what you were getting into when you took the internship.

If you didn’t, let us spell it out. You are at the bottom of the totem poll. The bottom. There’s no one underneath you. Just do what you’re asked to do and do it with a smile. Even if you get frustrated occasionally, you’re going to have a great time more often than not. Radio is fun. It’s not like people will try to torture you or take advantage of you. Most people at most radio stations are very nice. And if you go in with a positive attitude, those people will notice. When the time comes, they will do whatever they can to help you get a paying job.

I know this sounds a little harsh, but that's my best and most honest advice. In a future post I'll share some true interns stories that you won't believe. How do I know this? My editor didn't believe them either and asked me to take them out of the book, which I did.

The Radio Producer's Handbook, by the way, is still available at Barnes & Noble and Amazon, and also through my publisher Allworth Press. There are several easy links to get directly to the book on the right hand side near the top of the blog.


If you missed a previous "From the Archives", click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: V-S Day

By Rick Kaempfer






Last fall I went to the florist with my three year old son Sean. I’ve always wanted some tulips in my flower garden, so I let Sean pick out a half-dozen colors, and we went to the register to pay.

“Be careful with these,” the woman at the register said.

“Why?

“Squirrels love them,” she said. “You can’t even leave the slightest tulip bulb residue in your garden because they’ll dig up the whole garden until they find the bulbs.”

I eyed her suspiciously. It sounded a bit extreme. “What do you mean by tulip bulb residue?” I asked.

A tulip bulb looks a little bit like an onion, complete with a paper-like peeling. She pulled off a tiny piece of the peeling, and crumbled it into even tinier pieces, then held out a microscopic piece of that crumble at the end of her finger.

“C’mon!” I said.

“I’m serious,” she said.

That advice just sounded so ridiculous, I didn’t give it a second thought. Sean and I went home, and after giving great thought to the color scheme, we inserted the bulbs into freshly dug holes and covered them with dirt. We went inside and sat by the front window trying to imagine how great those tulips were going to look. I couldn’t wait until spring. It would be a moment that Sean and I could enjoy together, a beautiful merging of nature and nurture, two men and their flower garden; a Norman Rockwell painting.

My bliss was disturbed only moments later by a little rat with a cute fluffy tail. Disregarding my feelings entirely, he hopped right into the garden and started digging. I pounded on the window. He didn’t scare easily, but I finally got him away. When Fluffy was safely gone, I went outside to see what had attracted him to the garden in the first place. Sure enough, just like the florist had warned me, a tiny tulip bulb peeling rested at the edge of the garden like a flashing neon welcome sign.

I had to get to Fluffy before he put the word out. All witnesses had to be eliminated. I saw him in the nearby bush and charged at him like a wild boar. I was screaming at the top of my lungs like a Yoko Ono record, trying to be so menacing and intimidating that he would let squirrels know far and wide that this garden was strictly off-limits. Only a crazed fool would dare try to eat one of those delectable bulbs. Not with Yoko the charging boar ready to attack at any given moment.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite pull it off. Fluffy just stared at me for a few moments before calmly running about ten feet away. I didn’t stop charging until he ran another twenty feet or so. He wasn’t scared of me (or Yoko) in the slightest. He ran onto my neighbor’s driveway and held his ground.

I realized that this technique wouldn’t suffice. I had to take further action. If I couldn’t kill the squirrel or scare it away, I had to make my yard so unpleasant that he wouldn’t come back. I researched on the internet about the best ways to do this, and the first suggestion sounded like genius to me. Squirrels mark their territory like many other animals. If they smell the...um...markings of another, they will stay away. I could do that. I could produce markings. I did it successfully in the backyard to keep the skunks away a few years earlier.

But this time marking my territory was a little more difficult. Did I mention this garden is in my front yard? The direct approach was out of the question. (I didn’t feel like going to jail.) So I re-created a typical doctor’s office visit and “produced” a sample into a plastic cup. I then went outside and nonchalantly spread the sample around the garden.

About ten minutes later the squirrel returned. This time, instead of hopping right into the garden, he walked back and forth a few times. He seemed genuinely repulsed. Sean and I were elated and started celebrating, but Fluffy killed the self congratulatory celebration mid-high-five when he hopped right back into the garden and starting digging again. I had to run outside and do the wild boar-Yoko routine until he ran away, but I knew I was just buying myself a few minutes.

Now down one perfectly good plastic cup, I went back on the internet. The same website gave me another idea. It said to sprinkle red cayenne pepper all over the bulbs. The squirrels will still dig them up, but they won’t eat them. It was worth a try. Sean really enjoyed the digging up process, and I even let him sprinkle the red pepper on the bulbs. We went back to our station at the front window and watched. It only took a few minutes for the relentless Fluffy to return to his prey. This time Sean and I let him dig. Fluffy got the bulb out of the ground and started carrying it away to his lair, when he suddenly dropped it on the sidewalk in front of my house, and ran away. Apparently the undamaged bulb was not to his liking.

For the next few days, we went through the same process. Squirrel digs up bulb, squirrel drops bulb, Rick and Sean re-bury bulb. One morning there were a dozen bulbs on the driveway. But we never faltered, never gave up. Each time we calmly reburied the pepper-laced tulip bulbs. We knew we could outlast him. We were more resilient than Fluffy. Our life expectancy was more than 20 times his life expectancy. We were bigger, stronger, and smarter. He was just a squirrel and we have opposable thumbs. He was no match for us.

But here’s the thing about tulips. Your gratification is delayed for months. It wasn’t until last week when I saw the green sprouts emerge from the ground that I realized we had officially won the battle.

“Victory!” I screamed. I looked around for the sneezing squirrel. “Take that Fluffy! In your little face!”

Next time I’ll listen to the florist.



If you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

55%

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern







It is said so often that it’s now considered a cliché: “I gave it 110%.”

We’re not here to argue the mathematical impossibility of that statement. We accept the fact that some people are so driven, so hard-working, and so intense, that to describe their full effort as merely 100% seems insufficient. And we tip our caps to them.


The Rest of Us

“If you don’t like your job, you don’t strike! You just go in there every day and do it really half-assed. That’s the American way!”
--Homer Simpson




Unfortunately, for those of you who like to do things a little ...ahem... half-hearted, that raises the bar for you too. It’s no longer good enough to simply give it 50% effort. You’re now expected to give it 55% just to remain half-assed. We know what you’re thinking. Where are you going to get that extra 5%?

This is where your good buddies Rick and Dave come in. We’ve done a careful analysis of some every day tasks in life, and have managed to identify a few tasks that can very easily be done with one-third effort, one-quarter effort, and one-fifth effort. By decreasing your effort on these tasks, you'll have just enough energy to increase your effort on the important tasks in your life. Who knows? You could even creep up past the 60%-overall-effort mark.

Don’t worry about having too much effort on your hands. It’s just a matter of time before someone takes it up to 120% effort. When they do, you’ll be able to wear your half-ass like a comfortable old shoe.



33% Effort Required



“A pint of sweat, saves a gallon of blood.”
--George S. Patton, General (1885-1945)




What General Patton said may be true, but remember this: The blood banks give you a free snack for the blood you donate, and nobody gives you anything for your sweat. You might as well keep that precious moisture in your body. You’re going to need it, because let’s face it, the refrigerator is all the way on the other side of the room, and that beverage won’t come to you by itself.

So where can you cut back? Since you’re already giving it the full 50% at work (because they are paying you do to so), the first place to look for opportunities is at home. While your family does expect you to do certain things for them, they don’t expect you to do them well. After all, these people are your blood. Right, General Patton?

Here are a couple of examples in which the good ol’ 33% effort is more than enough.

*Giving Backrubs To Your Wife – Now, we’re not saying don’t give your wife a back massage. We’re just saying don’t get particularly good at it. Two reasons: 1) The better you are, the longer she’s going to want you to do it and quite frankly, it hurts. 2) If you get really good at it, she’s going to tell all her friends and that’s going to tick off your buddies. Go through the motions and make sure you can still see the TV.

*Reading to Toddlers—They can’t read, and there’s very little chance they will care or notice if you skip paragraphs or entire pages. They’re looking at the pictures. Point out the different things in the pictures. “Look, honey, the pig. Can you say ‘pig’? Good. Can you say ‘The End’? Good. Sleep tight, sweetheart.” We know you just read her a Duck on a Bike and went from the pig to the goat and totally blew off the chicken, mouse and cow and it made no sense, but remember this: It’s about poultry riding two-wheelers. How much sense could it ever make?



25% Effort Required






“If you cut every corner,
It is really not so bad.
Everybody does it,
Even Mom and Dad.
If nobody sees,
Then nobody gets mad.
It’s the American Way!”
--Mary Poppins (on the Simpsons)


While it’s important to start cutting corners wherever you can, you have to give it some thought and plan ahead. With a little forethought, your every day tasks can be done with little to no effort. It’s a crucial component for eventually reaching that magical 55% threshold.


*Selecting Fruit –We’ve all seen the way people pluck, smell, rattle, shake and listen to kiwi before they buy it. There is absolutely no proof that any of this helps. Here’s a tip, if you see any tire tracks or hypodermic needles in the fruit don’t buy it.


*Grilled Cheese Sandwiches – You could get out the frying pan, butter both sides of the bread, and make it the old fashioned way. Or, you could put two pieces of bread in the toaster, then put a piece of cheese between the toasted bread, and microwave it for twenty seconds. Your choice—it tastes pretty much the same.


*Shoveling Snow – There is no need to clean the entire sidewalk. When was the last time the Vienna Boys choir walked in front of your house? Oh and by the way, have you ever heard of the sun?


*Washing the Car – You’ll hear all sorts of doomsayers tell you that allowing the winter salt to remain on your car will cause it to rust. This is true. Ten years from now, when the car is worth squat, it will begin to rust. This may cost you a hundred bucks or so...ten years from now. Your time is worth much more than that. If the good Lord wanted you to wash the car, he wouldn’t have invented nature’s car wash: Rain.


*Balancing Your Check Book – In the history of the world there have been exactly three people who have found bank errors. Those three people got a total credit of $1.26. Have you gotten an overdraft notice? No? Then what’s the problem?


*Laundry – Wash everything in warm. Dry everything on medium. End of story.


20% Effort Required


“Why push when you go through a revolving door? Somebody else will show up sooner or later.”
--Milton Berle






There are some tasks that even the “110% effort people” don’t do with full gusto. (Those that do, quite frankly, should be put away before they harm someone.) Here are tasks that require no more than 20% effort. You owe it to yourself and your rest.


*Flossing – Most dentists feel you should count about ten up and down strokes on each tooth. Do the math. Most people have 28 teeth, that’s 280 strokes! Talk about overkill. Just get the big hunks of the Heath Bar in front and you’re fine. Our buddy Nick agrees and he’s a dentist. He also wanted us to mention that he takes all major medical and is open 6 days a week.


*Selecting Greeting Cards for Men – Just take the first card you see. He won’t care. Honestly, he doesn’t read them. If you don’t believe me, watch his eyes while he is “reading” your card. They don’t move. All of us have practiced that dopey smile and head nod.


*Making the Bed – Unless you live in a studio apartment, there’s an invention that can help you overcome the need to make your bed. It’s called a bedroom door. Close it. Let’s face it, you won’t be entertaining guests in the bedroom (if you do, we want to party with you), and you don’t care if your bed is made or not. Door closed: Case closed.



Doing the Math

Society is changing, and you have to change with it.

If you follow our simple suggestions, your effort reservoir will begin to fill up. A quarter effort here, a third effort here, a fifth effort there, and before you know it, you’ll be up past 55%--the new half-assed water mark.

No need to thank us for helping you get there. It’s not worth the effort.

Suburban Man: Your Kids Say The Darnest Things

By Rick Kaempfer





Four weeks ago I wrote a column about some of the ‘darndest things’ my kids have said to me over the years.

In response to that column, you sent me nearly a hundred examples from your own children. Some of these stories are really great, and thank you so much for sharing them with me. Today I want to share those stories with everyone else.

To encourage more participation in future editions, and to honor your request for anonymity, I’m not including anyone’s names (“Not even an initial!” as one person demanded). I think you’ll see why when you read them. I call this...

YOUR KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS

*”I heard my oldest son tell his little sister when he didn’t think I could hear him: ‘Never tell Mom that her diet isn’t working.”

*”My son told me that puppies still have bad breath even after they eat tic-tacs.’ He paused and then said ‘Even after they eat a lot of tic tacs.”

*”My eight year old son announced to the whole church one weekend that the Lord has twelve oppossums.”

*”My son was complaining that his brother hit him. I asked him where he got hit, and he pointed to his stomach and said ‘He got me right in the C-section.”

*”I was at a rehearsal for an improv show and I brought my infant daughter with me. In one scene one of my cast-mates gave a loud raspberry to another. My daughter looked up from the side of the stage, and loudly raspberried back....And scene.”

*”My daughter said to me: ‘Daddy, I know why they call them genitals...because you have to be gentle with them.”

*”My six year old daughter pointed to her chest and said ‘Daddy, when are these going to get bigger?”

*”My four year old daughter refers to the unfortunate arson of our church as ‘Someone fired it up’. When my mom died and was cremated, she said ‘Grandmom’s fired up and now she’s in a pretty box.”

*”My four year old son said this to me during a play date with a new friend: ‘I officially don’t feel comfortable around Anthony.”

*”When I was getting angry at my youngest daughter, my oldest daughter (8 yr. old) put her hand on my shoulder and said ‘Mom, I think you have anger management issues.”

*”We bought our oldest son an anatomy book to answer some questions when my wife got pregnant. One night at dinner he asked ‘Mom, how’s your vaginal canal?”

*”My daughter was explaining the ways of the world to her little sister. She said, ‘If Dad ever says ‘Do I look stupid?’ Don’t answer him.”

*”My daughter was showing off her knowledge of marine life to my father-in-law at the Aquarium. She pointed to the octypus and said, “Look, he’s got eight testicles.”

*”I teach third grade, and one day one of the boys raised his hand and asked ‘What do the Filipino tubes do?”

*”One day my daughter and son were playing house in the other room, but I could still hear them. My daughter said her to brother: “Never let Mom comb your hair when she’s mad at Dad.”

*”I took my daughter to the Daddy Daughter Dinner Dance, and when we got out of my 1995 Altima she said; ‘Dad, let’s pretend this is a really nice car.’”

*Calling home from Catholic School one day, my daughter said, “Mom, I know this is a bad word and I shouldn’t say it, but I really feel like sh*t!”

*"I was hugging my three year old daughter like I do all the time, and she held up her hand said; 'Back off, Dad. I need space."


Those are all good ones, and thanks so much for sending them in. Keep sending ‘em. I plan on bringing this back as a semi-regular feature. Just click on the word “comments” below, or e-mail them to me at your leisure. I read every e-mail.




If you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

Guest Blogger: Myrtle Nasengruber

Myrle Nasengruber is 103 years old. She lives in a nursing home on the North Side of Chicago. This is a picture taken of her in 1908.







But They Promised!
By Myrtle Nasengruber



“I’ll take you next time, honey”

I was five years old when my father said that to me in 1908. The Cubs were playing Ty Cobb and the Detroit Tigers in the World Series. My father had tickets to Game 6 at West Side Park, but the Cubs won game 5 in Detroit, winning the series. I was so upset I didn't get to see it that I cried. My father was sure they would win it again soon, and he promised me we would be there for their next championship.

“Do you promise Daddy?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” he said. “Next time they win it all, I’ll make sure that you and I will be there on the outfield grass of West Side Park cheering our boys.”

“What if they don’t win it again, Daddy?” I asked.

“Nonsense,” he said, “with Three Fingers Brown and that keen double play combination, by golly, they’ll win it again as sure as Teddy Roosevelt is President. Why, I’d bet my nicest spittoon that they’ll win it all again next year, sweetheart.”

He took me on the horse-drawn streetcar to the drug store to buy a piece of rock candy. After we got out of the streetcar, and while I was avoiding the ‘water’ being tossed out the second story windows from chamber pots, he asked me to recite his favorite poem for him one more time. I did it gladly.

“These are the saddest of possible words,
Tinker to Evers to Chance,
Trio of Bear Cubs fleeter than birds,
Tinker to Evers to Chance,
Thoughtlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double,
Words that are weighty with nothing but trouble,
Tinker to Evers to Chance.”

“That’s my girl,” he said. “Now cover your ankles or they’ll think you’re a working girl from the levee.”

The next year the Cubs finished in third place, and I started working sixteen hour days at the factory. They went back to World Series in 1910, the year the Model T rolled off the assembly line in Detroit, but they lost this time. I’m sure Ronald Reagan’s father told him all about it when he was born in nearby Dixon the following year. He was a Cubs fan too.

They didn’t build Wrigley Field, then known as Weegham Park, until eight years after they won it all. I was thirteen at the time. I’ll never forget it—that was also the year our neighborhood got indoor plumbing and Buffalo Bill Cody died. The Cubs made it the World Series again (and lost to Babe Ruth’s Boston Red Sox) in 1918. I heard Daddy use some real bad words that time. Two years later women got the right to vote, and I voted for the Cubs to win the damn (a word I heard Daddy say) series like my Daddy promised they would.

Daddy passed away the year the first talkie movie came out. (I couldn’t believe it—it was only twenty one years after the Cubs won it all—and look at this progress society was making. They were talking on the moving pictures!) The last thing he said to me was...”Myrtle, honey, I promise I’ll put in a word with God to get you that World Series victory.”

By then I was married to a nice Italian boy who worked in the “trucking business.” He and his boss Alphonse used to do a lot of work at night, trucking his “product,” but he also had some connections with the Cubs. My Frankie’s boss got us tickets through his pal Hack Wilson, and we watched them lose in ’29.

We watched them lose again in ’32, when Babe Ruth called his shot. As far as I’m concerned that fatso was no gentleman. Not like my Frankie, who got me tickets to see them lose again in the ’35, ’38, and ’45 series, even though he couldn’t go with me because he was sent up the river thanks to his terrible defense lawyer Clarence Darrow.

When I went to visit my Frankie in prison later that year, he told me that he would grant me any wish in the world when he got out. I said; “Frankie, honey, just take me to see the Cubs win it all. That’s all I want.”

He smiled and said “Myrtle, baby, you’re swell—and if that’s what you want, then it’s a promise, baby.”

Frankie died in prison the next year. He didn’t keep his promise. Neither did my dad.

Scientists have managed to split the atom. Astronauts have managed to walk on the moon. The Cubs have managed to stay out of the World Series.

My kids were born, lived full fruitful lives, and died without ever seeing the Cubs win the World Series. My grandchildren are in their fifties, and they haven’t seen the Cubs make it to the World Series. My grandson Billy had tickets for the World Series in 2003, and even though I was one hundred years old at the time, I said I would go. Steve Bartman decided I wouldn't.

Last year, after the Cubs were eliminated from the playoff hunt again, the attendant at the nursing home said; “Oh well, Myrtle, looks like ‘Wait til next year.”

I kicked the bastard in the groin.

I have one thing to say to the Chicago Cubs: If you don’t win it this year, I’m going to roll my wheelchair down there and bust some heads.

And that’s a promise I intend to keep.



*Myrtle Nasengruber doesn’t actually exist, but the anger she expresses in this “April Fools” guest blog is very real. She has been created by the author to point out how long 98 years really is. It’s a long damn time. Enough, already.

Suburban Man: Sick of Sick

By Rick Kaempfer






When a child gets sick, he or she wants Mom. It’s a genetic, biological fact.

This is even true in my house, despite the fact that I’m the one home with the boys. There are probably a dozen reasons why, but I think the most obvious reason is the caring/nurturing gene that most women possess, and most men do not.

Count me among those who do not have it...especially when it comes to illness. I probably have it less than most. I was brought up in a German household, and if I wasn’t coughing up blood or projectile vomiting, I wasn’t considered sick. I still hold myself to the same standard. If I have a fever or a cough or a cold, I simply pretend that I’m not sick, and go at full speed (granted—for me that’s still pretty slow) until I qualify as sick under my ridiculous code.

While this kind of self abuse isn’t healthy (in so many ways), at least I’m only doing it to myself. When my family gets sick, it’s completely different. The boys still need to be coddled and nurtured and cared for, and telling them to suck it up and rub some dirt in it isn’t the best approach. And though I’ve gotten much better at playing nursemaid, I’m still not their mom.

That’s why Bridget and I have an agreement. When the boys get sick, Bridget takes over. She still goes to work, but she's in command from a remote location, telling me what to do and when to do it. I follow orders without questioning her, and when she comes home, I'm usually told to go away. You can see the relief in the eyes of her boys as soon as she walks in the door. They start to feel better immediately under her care. When they're sick, they need their mom.

But what happens when Mom is sick too?

Unfortunately, I know the answer to this all too well. I’ve been living it for two months now. This horrible cycle started in mid-January when Bridget developed a terrible cough. She was nearly incapacitated by it, and missed almost a week of work. While she was at home, I did my best to help take care of her, but I’ll admit it, I basically let her work it out for herself while I feverishly tried to make sure the boys didn’t get it.

Boys are Petri dishes for disease. I think it’s safe to say that they don’t exactly consider hygiene a top priority, but during that week, I had the boys washing their hands about fifty times a day. I was also using disinfectant wipes on any and everything that is used by all of us (doorknobs, faucets, etc.). When they touched a glass that I had seen Bridget touch, I actually made them take showers.

I think you can see where this is going. I was completely and utterly unsuccessful.

First Johnny got it. Johnny is the toughest one to care for because he’s a big faker, and I never know when he’s really sick or when he’s faking. I always assume he’s faking. The few times I’ve buckled in the past, he made a remarkable recovery after Tommy left for school.

This time he didn’t. He was really sick. I took him to the doctor to make sure he didn't have strep throat, and he didn't, but he still wasn't recovering. One night his hacking cough was so bad that we took him to the emergency room. The doctors there also told us not to worry about it. Something nasty was going around.

Was it ever. Tommy got it next. Then Sean. Then Bridget again.

The entire month of February was one big sickie-fest. This time Bridget decided to be proactive, and went to the doctor to get an antibiotic. Wouldn’t you know it, the doctor tried a different antibiotic than usual, and Bridget had an allergic reaction. After two days of not being able to control her fever, she broke out with a rash from head to toe. This time she had to be taken to the emergency room. It took a full week to recover from that one, but she finally regained her health just as March began.

Then something amazing happened. The first week of March was glorious. The weather got nice, and everything was looking up. Everyone recovered. No hacking cough. No gigantic pile of Kleenexes left in every corner of the house. No frantic scrubbing and disinfecting of every doorknob and faucet. We even managed to have a birthday party for Johnny with most of the family present, and nobody was sick.

But Tommy was not himself at the party. He sort of went into a corner and wouldn’t interact with his cousins or his aunts and uncles. I thought it was just another case of “Videogame-itis,” (the childhood disease that shuts down all brain matter when a child plays with his Gameboy DS a little too much), and I scolded him for his anti-social behavior. However, when I put him to bed that night, I felt his forehead.

Oh no. Sure enough, he had a fever.

The next morning, Sean started sniffling. The next day Bridget started hacking. The day after that Johnny’s cough was back. Now all of them are sick, and the most unqualified nursemaid in America is caring for them once again. Badly.

So why haven’t I gotten sick despite the disease floating in the air all around me for the past two months? The same reason my mom never seemed to get sick when I was a kid. I can’t. My family needs me. Even though my level of care is woeful, at least I’m there for them.

But mark my words, as soon as they recover again, it will be my turn. I may even expand my definition of sick to include things beyond the usual coughing up blood and projectile vomiting. Or I may just rub some dirt in it and pretend like everything’s fine.

Old habits die hard.



If you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

Guest Blogger: Brendan Sullivan

Brendan Sullivan is a Corporate Creativity Coach. He helps organizational teams and leaders to create more dynamic solutions, more productive collaboration, more effective leadership and a healthier work environment where talented people can thrive. He has a checkered past which includes acting, producing radio, selling advertising and writing stuff. And of course he has a website, http://www.creativitycoach.net.





Contemplations on Growing Up “Southside Irish”
By Brendan Sullivan

When your name is Brendan Patrick Sullivan, a certain level of Irish American wisdom and experience may be assumed. As an adult, I have been asked all sorts of things that you of other ancestry may not have: Do you support the IRA? Have you read “Angela’s Ashes”? Is the Guinness in a can as good as on tap? What are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day? Would you guest-write my blog with your thoughts on being Irish? I don’t think I look particularly Irish, I don’t have a brogue and I don’t belong to any Irish or Irish American organizations. So all I can assume is that my name conjures up these questions.

Such was not the case when I was a child. I grew up on the Southwest side of Chicago, in the 1960s. I was named after my father, and was the oldest of six children. And I never realized how “Irish” I was because everyone in our neighborhood, it seemed, was just as “Irish.” We lived down the street from the Flynns and the O’Connors and the Walshes and the McDonoughs. And everyone had about six kids. No one ever spotted me as being particularly Irish because everyone was. So no one ever said “Gosh, that’s a really Irish name.” What other kind of name was there?

And of course we all went to the Catholic school and church. Oh sure, there were a few outsiders, whom we referred to as the Publics. And we weren’t sure what the Publics did. They had little churches with various names that sounded alike. We had huge Gothic churches that were packed to the rafters every Sunday. The Publics went to a different school and didn’t wear uniforms to school. They had spring break and winter break. We had Easter break and Christmas vacation. And I never really got to know any of them that well. They were all going to roast in hell, anyway.

So my world was all Irish. And all Catholic. In fact, you didn’t live in a neighborhood, you lived in a parish (St. Cajetan, Christ the King, St. John Fisher, St. Barnabas, St. Christina, etc.) And yeah, there were a lot of pubs. I went to a Catholic all-boys high school where they would suspend you if you were caught drinking. But the school gave you a personalized porcelain beer stein when you graduated, and our senior prom favor was an etched brandy snifter. Hmmm?

There is something very insulating, and very provincial about the Southwest side. So that when I moved to the North side after college, I may as well have gone over to the Dark side. How could I? Lord knows there’s nothing north of 35th street. And I now live in a neighborhood with Applebaums and Espositos and Jacksons and Lis and Pashas and the gay couple down the street too.

But I return every year with my wife and four very Irish kids to sit with their multitudinous cousins and watch the parade, using my sister’s house two blocks off the route as our home base. And we eat corned beef sandwiches and wear green and you stand on the parade route with hundreds of thousands of others with equally Irish surnames, watching the endless stream of marching bands and firemen and policemen and veterans and clans and politicians and community groups and Knights of Columbus and there’s a feeling that you are a member of a very large green cult.

Oh, I’m still Southside Irish. I still believe that the White Sox are far superior to that team down the street. My parents and all of my brothers and sisters all live on the south side, or in the southwest suburbs. And there’s an Irish flag flying in front of our house this week. But it’s the only one on the block.

Suburban Man: Unhandy Man

By Rick Kaempfer




I used to feel guilty about my skills as a handyman. I don’t have any. I’m more of a “Wow your hands are really soft, do you use Palmolive?” kind of guy. If it’s broken, I can’t fix it. That’s not just being defeatist, that’s forty-plus years of experience saving me lots of heartache and humiliation. And I used to feel very guilty about it.

After all, I’m a man, a son, a husband, and a father. For years I felt the shameful sting of being unhandy. My widowed mother would give me that “Where did I go wrong?” look when she asked for my help with something in her house. My wife would give me that “I didn’t read the fine print when I married this guy” look every time something broke in our house. My three sons said “How can I ever be handy when you’re my father?” with their eyes. Each and every look from them was a dagger.

The shame I felt wasn’t confined to my family’s opinion of me—it was a society-wide shame. When we would go to neighborhood parties, the men would inevitably congregate near the grill, and I would pray the conversation never turned to home improvement projects. If it did, I knew better than to contribute anything at all to the conversation. I was certain that handy men could smell un-handiness on other men the way dogs smell fear. Any word, any exchanged eye-contact, would expose me. I had a key word or phrase in my back pocket just in case (say “intake manifold” or “drill chuck”), but I only uttered these in uncomfortable silence emergencies.

But that was the old me. I no longer feel guilty, and I no longer feel shame. I had an epiphany while a workman was fixing something in my handy friend’s house the other day: Nobody in the world is handy.

You read that correctly.

“Hey wait a minute!” you handy guys say, “I built the addition to my house myself with pinecones and a sandblaster.”

Fine. I’ll grant you, that’s quite impressive. But be honest with me; you’ve had to call a workman at least once or twice over the years, maybe even to “fix” something you already fixed, haven’t you? Did that person utter the following phrase?

“Whoever worked on this before didn’t know what the heck he was doing.”

That’s what I thought. Don’t feel bad. They say that to everyone, even other handy guys. Maybe you’ve even said it yourself when some unhandy friend asked you to help them out. It’s inevitable. It’s as much a part of the home improvement process as the building supplies themselves (note: I won’t attempt to identify what those are). Before the last nail is hammered, someone will utter the words:

“Whoever worked on this before didn’t know what the heck he was doing.”

It’s not an exaggeration to say I’ve heard it every single time anyone has done any work in my house. The first ten or fifteen years I heard it, I bought it. I figured I was simply living in bad homes with bad plumbing, appliances, electric, drywall, insulation, siding, windows, bricks, and concrete. Talk about bad luck. It wasn’t until I heard the same phrase being used at a handy friend’s house that I finally experienced an epiphany.

A gigantic weight has been lifted from my shoulders now that I know the secret. There are men all over the neighborhood working on their own homes who aren’t handy—they are at best “sort of handy.” And there are men all over the world making a living as “handymen” who will one day be called “someone who didn’t know what the heck he was doing” by the next handyman who comes by.

I’m no longer upset I can’t do it myself. From now on, when my wife or mother or sons give me that look, I’ll just walk away guilt free. When the guys at the neighborhood party start talking, I won’t be ashamed or avoid the conversation. I’ll just admit the truth unapologetically.

“I use the yellow pages, fellas, because I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.”

There I said it.

Now where did I put my Palmolive? My baby soft hands are feeling a little dry.



This article was written as a Suburban Man, but it also appears in the current issue of "Shore" magazine. See it in the magazine here.... http://www.visitshoremagazine.com/feat_unhandy.php


If you want to check out any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com


By the way, this post is my 100th post on Rick's Blog. Thank you for all of your support and feedback.

LAKE MAGAZINE ARTICLE: The Blue Bionicle

This article came out two years ago in Lake Magazine, but because today is Johnny Kaempfer's 8th birthday, and he's the star of this story, I'm re-posting it today. Happy Birthday, Johnny!








The Blue Bionicle
By Rick Kaempfer

From the "Best of 2004" issue


I remember the moment like it was yesterday. At the time I was working as a morning radio show producer in Chicago, but I was also running my own advertising agency and writing a novel and a non-fiction book. That particular Saturday morning I was sitting at the computer terminal in my basement putting the finishing touches on one of my books, when my middle son Johnny jumped on my lap. He was four years old.

Johnny is the kind of kid who regularly treats his father like monkey bars, so I continued with my writing undeterred, peaking around his bobbing head to see my manuscript on the computer screen. He began his usual rundown of his magical powers. On that particular day he was “Rainbow Dragon” and he was able to breathe fire on things to make the world a more colorful place. I nodded a few times and gave him a few of my usual “that’s nice Johnny” comments, when he grabbed both sides of my face. He stared into my eyes from just a few inches away.

“You never listen to me, Dad,” he said.

He was absolutely right. That was the day we officially instituted our new Saturday policy. Saturday became “Play with Dad Day,” and nothing in the world was allowed to supercede it. My oldest son Tommy was six at the time, and the following year my third son Sean was born. During those two years “Play with Dad Day” was sacrosanct. One simple day of undivided attention a week brought the four men of the house closer together.

Last fall my radio gig ended and my family faced a decision. Would I once again work those incredibly long and inconvenient hours, or would we shake things up a little bit? We opted for the latter. My wife went back to work full-time, and I stayed home. I was determined to make “Dad” my full-time job. It was easily the most rewarding, important, and difficult one of my five jobs, and it seemed like a no-brainer. At the time I didn’t understand why my wife was returning to work with such a big grin on her face.

My New Job

I thought I was just going to be full-time Dad. I didn’t realize that my new duties included keeping the house in order (another full-time job), and turning in my good cop badge for the dreaded bad cop badge. It also included giving up my traditional “Play with Dad Day” so that it could be transformed into “Play with Mom Day.” In short, I was no longer going to be the fun one.

I spent the first few months of our new arrangement struggling with my new assignment. I was in the same house as my boys, but it didn’t feel like I was spending quality time with them. Again, my son Johnny came to the rescue. He was sitting at the kitchen table playing with his Bionicle robots when he began the usual question and answer session. I was barely paying attention because I was making dinner at the time.

“Dad, what’s your favorite robot?” he asked.

“The blue one,” I said half-heartedly as I always did.

“Dad, we need to chat,” Johnny said.

It was such a strange comment from my son that it snapped me out of my usual half-hearted multi-tasking. The noodles didn’t need to be watched for another five minutes, his little brother Sean was happily sipping his milk, his big brother Tommy was working on his homework, and there wasn’t a reason in the world why I couldn’t sit down with Johnny and chat for a few moments. I’m glad that I didn’t come up with an excuse.

“What do you want to chat about?” I asked, pulling up a chair.

“Why do you like the blue one so much?” he asked.

“Because blue is my favorite color,” I said.

“But the blue one is Tommy,” he explained. As he said it, I saw the pain in his face for the first time. “The red one is me.”

Learning a New Language

I realized my brain had stopped listening to my boys as soon as they began talking about things I didn’t understand, and that I had been answering a loaded question incorrectly for months. My inattention had caused me to inadvertently hurt Johnny’s feelings, and I’m certain it had done the same thing to his older brother Tommy. That night I began to make a concerted effort to educate myself in the things that interested them.

And it wasn’t easy. When we got into a discussion of Bionicles and Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh, they almost lost me. It was like trying to learn three new languages. Each of the Bionicles and Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh characters has a different name and nearly all of them are unpronounceable. If I wasn’t determined to learn about them, and let’s face it—it was making my brain hurt, I wouldn’t have made another important discovery. When I pointed to the blue Bionicle Robot in Johnny’s “Bionicle Book,” I was excited to finally intelligently contribute to the conversation.

“That’s Tommy,” I said.

“Hey!” Tommy protested.

Johnny, the emotionally injured middle son, snickered as his older brother got upset with me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Tommy.

“I am NOT the blue one,” Tommy protested.

“But Johnny said that you were,” I explained.

That’s when the punching began. I had seen this seemingly incomprehensible fighting between my two oldest sons many times. In the past I hadn’t bothered to understand the basis of the argument because it seemed so frivolous. I don’t know what made me do it, but instead of stepping in to break up the fight, I read the description of the “Gali-Nuva” Blue Bionicle. The translation to this perpetual fight was right there in blue and white.

The blue Bionicle was a girl.

The Circle of Fatherhood

I hadn’t realized it until that night, but I was making the same mistake that I always blamed my own father for making. My dad was a German immigrant, and my interests (baseball, comedy and the Beatles) were about as foreign to him as the Bionicles were to me. He tried to get me interested in his favorite things like soccer and polka instead of trying to understand what I liked. I really don’t blame him now that I see how much harder it is to learn new things when you get older. But after months of studying, I’m nearly fluent in Bionicle. I’m still in remedial Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh, but I’m making progress.

I’ve even discovered ways to merge my interests with my boys’ interests in some cases. For instance, Johnny loves cowboys and I love television, so I introduced him to the Lone Ranger, and now we watch it together. Tommy loves astronomy and I love comedy. So, I showed him the comedic potential of my favorite planet “Uranus.” Granted, his teacher wasn’t too thrilled with our shared interests when he brought up “Uranus” at school, but I’m sure she understands that it was for the greater good.

Living in the moment

Every time I ask veteran parents about their most cherished parental memories, they always fondly recall the days before they lost their children to adolescence. I may end up losing my boys too, but I’m trying my best to savor every moment before that happens. And I’m praying I still have the energy in my tired old bones to make the same effort for my youngest son Sean when he starts talking to me about things that I don’t understand.

At the very least my boys won’t grow up saying “My Dad was never around” or “My Dad didn’t take the time to care about what interested me.” My home will never be profiled in “Town and Country” magazine, and I still have to be the bad cop when things go awry, but I’m a little more comfortable with my new assignment these days. Until they get sick of me, every day will be “Play with Dad Day,” and together we’ll eagerly await the nightly return of the good cop, the Blue Bionicle; their mom.





Coming up next week: New SHORE MAGAZINE ARTICLE--"By the Dawn's Early Light"

Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood

Shawn Wood is a commercial litigator and partner with the national law firm Seyfarth Shaw LLP. Shawn is also a monthly columnist for Chicago Lawyer magazine and a recipient of its Annual Writing Award. Most recently, he was honored by the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin as one of its "40 under 40 Attorneys To Watch" in 2005.

He's also a very funny writer. He was kind enough to contribute the following analysis of "Lawyers in the movies" for the blog...



The Legality Awards
by Shawn Wood


Portrayals of lawyers as everyday heroes in the movies is what draws many in every generation to the legal profession.

And when it comes to seasoned, battle-tested warriors, from Gregory Peck’s champion for the unjustly accused in To Kill a Mockingbird, to Glenn Close’s determined, big-firm litigator in Jagged Edge, to Paul Newman’s boozy, solo practitioner in The Verdict, our celluloid legal heroes are often memorable, compelling, and well-drawn.

So every March, between the Oscars and March Madness, I offer my annual Fake Legal Oscars column, focusing on silver screen portrayals of what was once called The Noble Profession. So cue music and yank Joan Rivers off the red carpet. Here goes...

Best Opening Statement

No one followed the “keep it simple, stupid” rule better than Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny. Nine words on behalf of the defense: “Everything that guy just said is bullsh--. Thank you.”

Gotta love the “thank you” at the end. You never want to be impolite.

Best Judge

Most movies portray judges as scowling, one-dimensional stiffs without ever showing us the person behind the stern demeanor and black robe.

So the Fake Legal Oscar for Best Judge goes to the late Ted Knight for giving us the most unforgettable jurist who ever lit up the big screen: Judge Smails in Caddyshack ("Don't just stand there, Spaulding, get some glue!")

If there was any justice in this world, there would have been a sequel featuring Judge Smails on the bench handling his motion call ("well, counsel.... we're waiting") or mentoring young lawyers at bar functions ("the world needs ditch diggers, too").

Best Portrayal Of The Unauthorized Practice Of Law

How pessimistic has the world become when the most heroic portrayal of a member of the legal profession in recent film history was by Julia Roberts playing indomitable non-lawyer (expressly anti-lawyer) Erin Brockovich?

On a brighter note, this movie would also win in the category: “Best Supporting Undergarment In A Law-Related Film.”

Most Boring Trial

People hate watching lawyer movies with lawyers. We can’t resist pointing out any parts that are legally flawed. Like if you rent the steamy legal thriller Body Heat with a date, don't kill the mood by belaboring the film's misapplication of The Rule Against Perpetuities (unless you're dating a first-year law student, in which case, this type of banter might be a turn-on).

I think the reason movies get it wrong sometimes is not because the producers couldn't afford a legal consultant, but because "keeping it real" can end up being, well, boring. Case in point, the award here goes to The Rainmaker. Building a courtroom drama on an insurance coverage trial is like going to Taste of Chicago and stuffing yourself at the Burger King booth. It’s just a wasted opportunity.

Best Witness Examination

This one goes to Woody Allen for his inimitable examination of himself as a treason defendant in Bananas, replete with objections. ("I object your honor. This trial is a travesty. It's a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham. I move for a mistrial.")

Worst Theme Song

No contest. Rod Stewart’s “Love Touch” from Legal Eagles.

The inane lyrics make “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” sound like “Stairway to Heaven.”

The Honorable Dr. Gonzo
“What Were The Casting People Smoking?” Award

The nominees for most miscast actor portraying a young lawyer could be endless, from eighties brat-packer Judd Nelson in From the Hip to Risky Business call girl Rebecca De Mournay in Guilty as Sin.

The award here, though, must go to Keanu Reeves in The Devil’s Advocate.

I’ll buy that Keanu made the leap from the surfer dude he played in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (and about ten other movies) to action flicks like Speed and The Matrix after spending some time in the gym. But Keanu “whoa” Reeves as a killer litigator with a southern accent and national reputation for having never lost a jury trial?

What’s next, Stifler from American Pie in a remake of And Justice For All?

Best Intentionally Comedic Portrayal

Assuming Keanu’s Matlock turn wasn’t intended to be funny, the winner in this category will surely go to Phil Morris when his recurring Seinfeld character Jackie Chiles gets his own feature film. (“It’s lewd, lascivious, salacious, ... outrageous!”)

Until then, in a Cinderella victory over Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar and Michael Richards in Trial and Error, I’m giving Bill Murray’s criminally ignored performance in Wild Things the nod in this category.

You probably didn’t see this movie, and if you did, you might remember more about Denise Richards than Bill Murray. Either way, hats off to whoever recognized Murray’s “range” was not limited to playing ambitious assistant greenskeepers or irreverent military heroes. His performance as the neck-brace-wearing, storefront shyster in Wild Things is a welcome surprise in this otherwise uneven piece of pulp fiction.

Most Commendable Attempt To Make
A Transactional Practice Seem Film-Worthy

The drama of trial practice unavoidably makes for better theater than, say, a well-considered plan for corporate debt restructuring (although the latter often pays better).

Consequently, there’s always been a cruel irony in the fact that transactional lawyers often put together film deals, and yet Hollywood has given us precious few on-screen transactional lawyers whose practice was remotely interesting.

Sure, Robert Duvall is great as non-litigator Tom Hagen in The Godfather movies, but as we all remember, he had a special practice, he handled one client. Tom Hanks played a transactional lawyer in Philadelphia, but the movie quickly shifts to Denzel Washington's courtroom thundering against Hanks' former firm.

So the final award here, on sheer style points, goes to James Spader as Charlie Sheen's easily corruptible partner-in-crime in Wall Street. This is hardly one shining moment for the portrayal of any type of lawyer on film, but Spader's descent from jittery rookie to corner-office criminal ("what's in it for moi?") is inspired, instructive, and best of all, interesting.

And Finally, Best Portrayal Of “What It’s Really Like”

My winner here, barely edging out a stellar Paul Newman (circa. 1959) in The Young Philadelphians, is Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.

Not convinced? Still hung up on the Nuremberg defense problem? Still focusing on the painfully trite banter between Cruise and Demi Moore during softball batting practice? All fair criticisms, but Premiere magazine lists the climactic “You Can’t Handle The Truth” examination of Jack Nicholson’s Colonel Nathan Jessep as one of the 100 best movie moments ever, and who could argue?

The Premiere article also makes the mistake of describing Cruise’s Lt. Kaffee as a “young hot shot lawyer,” and this misses the whole point.

Lt. Kaffee wasn’t a hot shot. He was young, inexperienced, and most importantly, known for not trying cases. The movie showed a young lawyer coming to grips with these realities. It showed mundane strategy sessions (“we’ll get the witness to admit it!”). It showed the challenge of controlling a hostile witness (“what do you want to talk about now, my favorite color?”). It showed the struggle between trusting one’s own instincts and the doubts brought on by inexperience. And then best of all, there was the glass of water.

As the voices inside his head are saying “abort mission,” and before he takes a chance and comes out a winner, Cruise walks over to counsel table and pours himself a glass of water. As he raises the glass to his mouth with a nervous, shaking hand, the scene manages to capture the simultaneous fears, doubts and joys of “what it’s really like” to be an assiduous new member of The Noble Profession.

And if Cruise had put down the glass, looked into the camera like Seinfeld’s Jackie Chiles, and said “delectable, delightful ...delicious,” this might have been the best movie ever made. I guess we’ll need to wait for the sequel.

That wraps up this year's awards. Now get back to work, March Madness is only weeks away.




If you missed any previous guest bloggers, click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: The Birth of Johnny Kaempfer

The date was March 12, 1998.









The headline on the Chicago Sun Times front page: “Cicero deal halts Rally by Klan”
The headline on the Chicago Tribune front page: “Clinton plans to join Ulster peace talks”
The headline on the Daily Herald front page: “Clinton refuses to say whether he will testify to grand jury”
The headline on the New York Times front page: “The World of Paula Jones”

But the biggest story was happening in Mt. Prospect, and only one reporter was on hand to break the story....Me. I called into the John Landecker show that morning to report the news flash. The cast of characters included John Landecker, sidekick Catherine Johns, and newsman Richard Cantu.

The following is a transcript of that important phone call.



John: Oldies 104.3, John Records Landecker, it’s 8:27, and joining us on the phone from the maternity ward is the producer of the program, Rick the German Boy Kaempfer. Good morning, Rick.

Rick: Good morning.

John: Rick, tell us what’s going on.

Rick: Well as long as we’re plugging our kids (John had just plugged his daughter’s play), I’ve got a new one to plug.

John: Aaaawwwwright!

Rick: Last night around eleven thirty Bridget’s water broke and we didn’t even have time to make it to the hospital downtown, so we went to the one out here.

Catherine: Oh, is that right?

Rick: And we have a new baby boy!

(Cheering and clapping in the studio)

Richard: Whoo Hooo! Congratulations. Two knucklehead boys!

Rick: And it’s a big one too.

Catherine: How big?

Rick: 8 pounds, 6 ounces.

Catherine: That is pretty big. How’s Bridget doing?

Rick: She’s doing real well. I’m at home now. I came home to check on Tommy...

John: Wait a doggone minute! You went home to check on your other child before you called the show? Where are your priorities?

Rick: Sorry, forgive me. I’m hopelessly out of whack.

John: OK, 8 pounds. How long was it?

Rick: 21 inches...if you know what I’m saying.

Catherine: We know what you’re saying.

John: No, how long was the baby?

Rick: Oh, the baby?

Richard: Once more into the gutter.

John: So what time was this kid born?

Rick: Two o’clock in the morning. They kicked me out of the hospital at 4:00, because Bridget has to share a room, and I came home and got a little sleep, and Tommy just woke me up, so I’m calling you right away.

John: So you’ve called all your family I hope.

Rick: Bridget called them.

John: But she had the baby.

Rick: Yeah, she had the baby in about two hours. It wasn’t that bad, although that’s easy for me to say. She was fine, what a trooper.

Catherine: And she wanted to chat, right?

Rick: Exactly.

Catherine: Now I want to know something. Does this child have a name?

Rick: Oh yes he does. His name is John Richard Kaempfer.

John: Wow.

Richard: You honor us, Sir.

John: Was he named after anyone?

Rick: Well, my favorite Beatle is John.

John: John Lennon.

Rick: And of course, my favorite DJ....

John: Really?

Rick: Yup. John Brandmeier.

(Everyone laughs)

John: OK, you got me.

(Call waiting clicks)

Rick: And actually John is also a name in Bridget’s family. Her grandfather was named John. And so is her brother.

(Call waiting clicks again)

John: I see you got baby waiting there.

Rick: Yeah, I think I may be popular today.

John: Well, we’ll let you go. Congratulations on the big news! So you’ll be back to work tomorrow, right?

Rick: Uh...well...

Catherine: John!

John: Just kidding, just kidding.

Rick: See you later.

John: There he goes. Proud papa.

(Click)

John: Oh wait! Darnit! I forgot to ask him if he taped it.

Richard: Are you kidding? Of course he did.

John: Because if there was ever a disc jockey who knows how to exploit a child, it’s....

2 year old Tommy Kaempfer singing the jingle: John Records Landecker, Oldies 104.3.





Of course, I did tape it, by the way. It aired the next day. Friday the 13th.


By the time Johnny was three he was doing movie reviews and jokes on the radio. He also accompanied the show to the Dominican Republic for a live broadcast.










I kept a diary about the boys when they were babies. This is what I wrote about Johnny's birth...


3/12/98

The baby was already a week late, but it seemed like a month late. Bridget and I had been expecting the arrival two weeks before the due date (3/5) because her doctor said that he thought the baby was going to be early. The wait had become unbearable. We finally gave in and decided to schedule the inducement for Friday. This freaked me out because it was Friday the 13th. It would have been one thing to just have the baby on the 13th. I felt like it was tempting fate to actually schedule the birth to occur on the 13th. As it turned out, it didn’t happen.

It was Wednesday night, and we were all packed up. I wrote the outline of the show for Thursday knowing that it would be the last show before I took a leave of absence. I knew that I didn’t have to worry about getting a good night’s sleep, so at around 11:30PM I was in the basement listening to the Beatles “Rubber Soul” CD, when Bridget came bounding down the stairs.

“WE HAVE TO GO. MY WATER BROKE”.

This time I was much more relaxed than I was with Tommy. I didn’t go into a sitcom panic right away. Instead, I calmly called Cindy (my sister) on the phone. She was the ordained person to watch Tommy while we headed to the hospital. Her phone rang twice and the answering machine picked up. Uh oh. I called again. Same thing. I realized that everyone’s guard was down because we had scheduled the inducement. Nobody is on alert! Now I went into my sitcom panic.

I couldn’t call my Mom because she had a bad cold, and therefore couldn’t watch Tommy. We had to drive all the way into Chicago, and we were losing valuable time looking for someone. On a lark, I called Gerty (my aunt). Martina (my cousin) just happened to be home and I asked her to come over as soon as she could. Meanwhile, Bridget was starting to have contractions at a very rapid interval. We called her doctor, and he said not to worry--there is plenty of time to still come downtown. However, as we waited for Martina to show up, Bridget’s contractions intensified and came at even closer intervals. We called her doctor again, and he said to go the nearest hospital first and have them check if it was OK to make it all the way downtown. (I was envisioning a tollbooth birth)

Cindy and Martina showed up around the same time, and we headed over to Northwest Community Hospital. By now Bridget was screaming in pain. A sailor would have blushed at the words coming out of the dainty mouth of my little woman. Martina and Cindy looked on in horror. (Martina later said that was the closest she ever wanted to get to labor).

When we got to the hospital, we had to fill out some forms. We weren’t pre-registered, you see. After about ten seconds of Bridget’s screaming, they took her in the emergency room and had me continue to fill out the forms. Bridget looked at the nurse and asked if she could get some drugs for the pain. The nurse couldn’t look her in the eye and said the doctor would have to answer that question. We knew the answer. When I got back to the emergency room, the doctors said it was time for Bridget to start pushing. Whoa. I guess we’re not going downtown tonight after all.

The labor itself was quick. Two hours after the first contractions started, we had a brand new bouncing baby boy. Once again, we didn’t have a name picked out. We had the name “Grace Anne” chosen for the girl’s name, but we had about five names on the boy’s list. Since I had chosen Tommy, I let Bridget pick this name. Of course, after squonking out a baby, you really aren’t in the mood to make any major decisions.

I helped the process along. Soon, we had it down to two choices….James and John. Bridget liked the name James better, but she wanted to call him “Jamie”. I couldn’t stand that for a boy, but I agreed to call him “James” or “Jim”. Neither one satisfied her, so went back to the name John. We had the same trouble with the middle name. We liked the name “Stuart” as the middle name for James, but nothing seemed to sound right with John. We almost went back to James, until she came up with the middle name Richard.

That was it. Our second born child was born on March 12th at 2:00 on the nose. He was 21 inches long, weighed 8 pounds and 6 ounces and was named…JOHN RICHARD KAEMPFER.

We were both exhausted because it was so early in the morning, and I went home because Bridget had to share a room. I got home around 4AM, woke up at 7:30 with Tommy, and called the radio show at 8:30. (We have that phone call on tape). I called all of my relatives, Bridget called all of hers, and just about everyone else heard it on the radio. At about 9:30, Martina woke up. She was the last one to officially hear the news, because she slept through all of the excitement on the couch in our living room.


If you missed any previous "From the Archives," click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: They Say the Darndest Things

By Rick Kaempfer




Everybody knows about the sacrifices involved in raising children. For a few decades you have to be willing to put yourself on the back burner. Spending time or money on yourselves isn’t really a viable option anymore.

That may not sound like a great financial deal, but I don’t know if anyone has ever done a cost-analysis on this before. For instance, what did you spend on entertainment before you had children? Did you go to several movies a week? Did you go out to dinner several times a week? Did you go out to bars several times a week? Go to the theatre to see a play? Start adding it all up. You spent a fortune.

You don’t do any of that anymore, but you still get a truckload of entertainment...free of charge. One person who recognized this phenomenon was Art Linkletter. In the 50s and 60s his television show “Kids Say the Darndest Things” helped make him a very wealthy man. I’m sure all of the parents who read this have at least a dozen examples of things their kids have said or done that entertain them to this day. (Send some examples to me and I’ll include them all in a future ‘Suburban Man’)

My kids are no exception. I now present a dozen of these in no particular order for your amusement. I grant you that some of these weren’t entertaining to me at the time (and I think you’ll be able to figure out which ones I’m referring to), but they will probably be entertaining to you. Some aren’t laugh out loud funny, but remember that you don’t always pay money to see comedies. Sometimes you see a drama or a movie that makes you think.

*Every time Sean hits his head he says “Tweet, tweet, tweet.” I finally asked him what he meant by that, and he told me that there were little birdies flying around his head.



*While grocery shopping with 3-year old Johnny in the soft-drink aisle, his face lit up when he saw the all the cans. He screamed: “Dad, look, BEER!”


*When Tommy was 5, I asked him: “If you could have three wishes, what would they be?” He said the following with very little hesitation: “I would wish for more nature like trees, grass and plants. I would wish for a double chocolate chip ice cream cone. And I would wish to someday discover a color that has never before been seen by the human eye.”


*When I dropped Sean off at my Mom’s the other day, he proudly said to her: “My mom says that you have a lot of crap in your basement.”


*Johnny has a bit of an anger management problem, but he’s very careful not to use bad words even when he’s enraged. Instead, he makes up his own swear words. A typical outburst goes a little like this: “YOU GO GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE AND GO TO JAIL YOU ALLERTICOTT!” When he’s really mad, he drops the B-word. If he ever calls you a “Biggie,” you are on his list forever.

*After coming out of a soccer game in which he let the ball pass him by a dozen times, Tommy came up to me and asked: “Dad, why is Elvis so popular in Hawaii?”

*Last summer we were in my Mom’s backyard, and my Mom’s neighbor was standing on her driveway. Sean sprinted across the lawn because he had to talk to her right away. When he got there, he realized he had nothing to say, and he stood there in silence for about ten seconds before blurting out: “Love your nails.”

*Last summer Johnny came up to me with a heartfelt confession. “Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I really do love the Cardinals more than the Cubs. I’m sorry.” I said, “That’s fine, Johnny, but why do you love them?” He answered, “Because I think they are the prettiest birds in our backyard.”

*This is an actual conversation with Tommy after Easter Mass a few years ago.
Tommy: “Dad, who is Jesus talking to on the Cross when he says ‘Why have you forsaken me, Father?’”
Me: “He’s talking to God.”
Tommy: “So there are two Gods?”
Me: “No, there is only one. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit are all one God.”
Tommy: “Then who is he talking to? Himself?”
Me: “Go ask your mother.”

*Typical Sean question at breakfast--After asking “Why” for the thirtieth time in a five minute period, he pauses and says: “Why do I ask Why all the time?”

*Typical Johnny question at breakfast: “Dad, can a panther eat a boy?”

*Typical Tommy question at breakfast: “Dad, are the words ‘downtrodden’ and ‘melancholy’ interchangeable?”

See what I mean? Those are just a dozen examples off the top of my head. Every day brings a new little moment of free entertainment. Granted, when I start paying for those college tuitions I won’t consider it free any more, but until that time, I’m going on record as saying I’m getting at least as much for my entertainment dollar as I did when I went out all the time.

That, my friends, is my best rationalization. Feel free to use it yourself. It will help you get through another serving of macaroni and cheese.




If you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com