Guest Blogger: Dobie Maxwell

Dobie Maxwell is one of the most accomplished stand-up comedians working in America today. I highly recommend his stand up act. He was also one of the co-hosts of the "Morning Loop Guys" on WLUP in 2003/2004. He's previously contributed three columns exclusively for this blog. (Dobie 1 & Dobie 2 & Dobie 3)

Today he makes it four...


… And Justice For Al

By Dobie Maxwell

My grandfather’s name was Avrum but everyone called him Al. Everyone except me. I called him Gramps. I was raised by my grandparents and Gramps told me later he vowed to spend the time with me that he didn’t spend with my father. I was his second chance to be a good parent and he taught me lessons whether I wanted to learn them or not. I didn’t want to learn them at the time but now I find myself thinking back on them often. One of his big pet peeves was stupidity. It was Gramps who first told me ‘The masses are asses’.

I thought Gramps made it up but he didn’t. Alexander Hamilton said it. He’s the guy on the ten dollar bill. He also never was president. I know that because I’d watch Gramps bet people $10 they couldn’t tell him the name of the president pictured on a $10 bill. He did it only to people he thought were stupid and needed to be taught a lesson. He delighted in it whenever disaster struck someone or something he thought deserved it. I get it now.

Growing up in the ‘70s I was fascinated with Evel Knievel and his motorcycle jumping stunts. He was billed as a ‘dare-devil’ but Gramps called him a ‘dare-dummy’ and hoped he killed himself every time he would jump his motorcycle over a load of buses. I never understood how he could wish that on anyone. When I asked him why he said "Because he’s an idiot and he’s asking for it. I hope he gets it. Then he‘ll teach everyone else with a brain what NOT to do and life will be better for everyone else. He’s a human example."

Gramps equated it to telling someone not to touch the stove because it was hot and then they do it anyway. I know because it was me who did it. He laughed uproariously when I did it and said "See? I told you. What part of HOT did you not understand?" I get it now.

I couldn’t help but think of Gramps a few weeks ago when I watched on TV how the airplane of New York Yankees pitcher Corey Lidle crashed into a building in Manhattan.. There is nothing funny about a plane crash…when it happens to innocent people. When it happens to a millionaire athlete who wasn’t experienced as a pilot but put everyone else at risk just because he felt like sight seeing and thought he was bullet proof I find a deep dark part of myself becoming Gramps in the way I think and saying "See? I told you. What part of hot did you not get Corey?" He put the entire WORLD on terror alert because he had to get in a crop duster and storm troop through New York City like the Red Baron. He jeopardized everything and lost his life, his career and left a young wife and daughter. That’s not at all humorous but he was either too stupid or too cocky to realize how much he put at risk all for a plane ride. He is a human example and part of me laughed when I heard about it.

I know that’s cruel but at least I’m brave enough to admit it. We all have a humor dark side, it’s just different in all of us how black the darkness gets. How much pain is funny? If someone should trip and fall in front of us is it funny? According to Gramps only if the person is a moron, imbecile, halfwit or dolt. He thought lack of intelligence deserved a bit of punishment to serve as an example to everyone else. As I get older I’m having a harder time arguing his logic. Why should we call a NASCAR crash a ‘tragedy’? They all drive at over 200 miles an hour. On purpose. Every week. Shouldn’t we expect it to happen?

Look at the problems we have with car accidents in the real world. The speed limit on the freeways is different in different places but it’s never over 75. That’s dangerous as it is but now let’s triple that speed and put a bunch of rednecks behind the wheel on top of that and nobody expects there to be a crash? It’s a ‘tragedy’? No, it’s an ‘inevitability’.

The Crocodile Hunter was another prime example. By all accounts he was a gentle and nice man. He was a good father to his kids and a kind soul. I’m sorry when the world has to lose one of those because there are far too few of them but on the other hand here is an idiot who time after time for years would provoke dangerous animals. On television yet. What did he expect was going to happen? Mother nature must have had enough and sent the old stingray to stop the clock. How many times did he tickle the testicles of a tarantula to tempt the fates? I always saw him flicking his finger in the face of a ferret or wiggling his watch at a wildebeest and I knew it was just a matter of time until he was pet food.

I don’t have to watch the news long for a story that would have made Gramps cheer up. Just the other day I saw one about a gang banger who died trying to spray graffiti 90 feet up on a billboard. He slipped and fell to his death halfway through his defacing of public property. Would he have climbed 90 feet without a net or any safety ropes to get a job as a painter? NO. Instead he decided to make a human example of himself. I find that funny.

I don’t want to mislead you about Gramps. He had a heart and so do I. I am also not at all trying to say that I don’t do stupid things once in a while. Maybe someday I’ll be one of those masses Alexander Hamilton was talking about and I’ll make an example of myself too. If I do, you have my permission to laugh at me as well. If I’m as dumb as the people you just read about then I deserve it too. I’ll leave earth with levity and justice for Al.



MR LUCKY, DOBIE MAXWELL, ON STAGE IN SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

Half Empty: Million Dollar Holiday Gifts

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.





Million Dollar Holiday Gifts

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern



This holiday season we are really in the giving mood. In fact, we’re prepared to give away millions of dollars.

It’s better to teach someone to fish than to give them actual fish, right? That’s why your good buddies Rick and Dave are handing out six of our business ideas from our “Million Dollar File,” absolutely free.

That’s right. The following ideas are all potential goldmines. They only need a fisherman to cast out the line. With a little gumption, a little spit and polish, and a little start-up capital, these businesses could each be worth a mint.

1. Uri-Geller Auto Body Shops
The man can bend spoons with his mind. It’s a total waste of his talent. Think of what he could do for Chevys and Lincoln Town Cars (with no overhead costs!) He wouldn’t return our phone calls, but that doesn’t mean he won’t return yours. Good luck, and please wish him our best.

2. Players Association Fantasy Camps
At the existing fantasy camps featuring players from the 60s and 70s, participants play baseball with the old stars. At this fantasy camp featuring more recently retired players, participants will be taught how to hold out, how to demand your own personal trainer, how to inject your buttocks, and how to manage your financial portfolio. It’s much more realistic than those other “fantasy” camps.

3. Topless Tapas
We’ve had closed-minded potential-investors claim that nobody would go to a Topless Tapas restaurant because only couples go to Tapas joints, and only groups of guys go to Topless joints. They didn’t see the potential of bringing couples and groups of guys together. This is a unity business, one that will allow us to live in harmony. You get it, right? Good. Now open one up. We want to bring our wives.

4. The Dead-Head Job Hunting Guide
We starting writing this book in 1995 (when Jerry Garcia died) as a service to all those poor souls who could no longer follow the Grateful Dead around the country. We figured they would have to get jobs, and wouldn’t have the necessary skills. Our handy guide gave them important interviewing tips like “wear shoes,” and even provided a glossary to explain the real definitions of terms like “business trip.” For some reason we never finished the book, but the deadheads still don’t have jobs. If only someone else took the ball and ran with it…

5. The Deaf Comedy Jam
The HBO people weren’t receptive to our pitch a few years ago, but the new executives working there now will probably see the wisdom of a comedy concert for the deaf—a totally untapped comedy market. A simple word of caution, however. Don’t try to stage it without HBO. They threatened to sue us for copyright infringement if we staged our own, claiming…are you ready for this… “people might confuse it with the Def Comedy Jam.” Right. Talk about paranoid.

6. The Sound of Music Gift Shoppe
OK, let’s start at the very beginning—a very good place to start. We’ve each been to Salzburg and were blown away that there wasn’t a single Sound of Music Gift Shoppe in the town the movie was filmed. What Sound-of-Music-fanatic wouldn’t want to bring home some “raindrops on roses” or “whiskers on kittens” or “brown paper packages tied up in strings” as souvenirs? Yes, Austria is a long, long way to run, but the hills are alive there…with the sound of euros.


There you have it. Millions of dollars you didn’t have five minutes ago. Enjoy your new found wealth.

All we ask is that you think of us when your butler brings you a pina colada at your Bahamian winter home.

Happy Holidays.


If you missed any previous Half Empty columns, click here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Public Tantrum Tips

By Rick Kaempfer





I call it the “Parenting Book Black Hole.”

Even though there are literally thousands of parenting books on the market offering tips on the best and most productive ways to discipline a child, as far as I’m concerned, none of them have the answer when it comes to the most humiliating parental moment: the public tantrum.

I’m not talking about the everyday whining for candy that every parent has to deal with at the checkout counter.

No, I’m talking about the Super Bowl of tantrums: the uncontrollable screaming, kicking, and punching by the demon-seed exorcism-candidate you brought to the store with you. The kid whose eyes look at you through the tears to say: “What are you gonna do about it in front of all these people?”

Kids are smart. They know that strangers don’t look at a rampaging kid and think – “Wow, that’s a bad kid.” They think – “Wow, that kid has bad parents.”

So…as your child convulses and squeals, you go through your options in your mind.

1) You can ignore the tantrum and let the kid stew in his own humiliation. That’s what some of the parenting books recommend. Unfortunately, the parenting books aren’t written with demon-seed exorcism-candidates in mind.

2) You can threaten serious consequences in a hiss-like voice with a smile on your face. Unfortunately, this takes years to perfect, and he knows you won’t do anything in front of strangers anyway.

3) You can try reasoning with him. Of course, you’re arguing from a position of weakness, and kids can smell weakness. That’s why you’re in this position in the first place.

4) You can give in. You know this is wrong on so many levels, but hell, the damn toy only costs six dollars and that’s a small price to pay for an end to your humiliation. Although, if you do that, you’ll face the exact same response next time.

None of those options will work, will they? And those are the only possible options, right?

Wrong.

I have three new options for the pragmatic parent. These simple approaches will allow you to leave the store without getting reported to DCFS, and without succumbing to the demon-seed. They aren’t going to win you any Parent-of-the-Year awards, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

1) Elicit onlooker sympathy
If you can’t force yourself to deny the child is yours, say this in a loud enough voice to be heard by all onlookers: “I’m sorry your mother left us too, honey, but I’m doing the best I can to raise you and your brothers by myself. If I buy you that toy, we can’t eat dinner tonight. You can play with your lump of coal when we get home.”

2) Pretend you’re on TV
Wave to a rack of clothing. Talk into your sleeve. Say this: “Are you rolling, Bob? Good. He’s rolling, kid. Now keep that up, and remember not to look at the hidden cameras unless you hear the director yell ‘Cut!’ Got it? Great. Keep screaming. You’re a natural.”

3) Appeal to onlooker patriotism
Don’t underestimate the power of the flag. Say this: “You just go ahead and scream, Ali. I know you weren't allowed to scream like that in Iran, but here in the good ol’ U.S of A, we have freedom. Me and the missus are just pleased as punch to have you join our family.”

These options may seem a little distasteful, but they’re guaranteed to stop the peanut gallery from camping out and watching you flounder.

Without a disapproving crowd, your child’s tantrum loses steam, which allows you to regain command. That’s when you remind him how sorry he’s going to be for putting you through this ridiculous experience.

And when you get back into the nearly soundproof car, you can exercise your own lungs.

An eye for an eye. An ear for an ear.

It’s practically biblical.


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

Renewing My Vows

This week five years ago, Bridget and I renewed our wedding vows live on the air. I described it in this short section of my book..."The Radio Producer's Handbook." The photos are a bonus for the blog readers.



The John Landecker show did a week of live broadcasts from the Dominican Republic. Every morning there were huge technical issues to overcome, but the shows were quite memorable. Rick Kaempfer and his wife renewed their vows live on the air (for their tenth anniversary). The ceremony was perfect for the radio. It was a surprise for Rick’s wife, but every element of it was pre-approved by Rick and John.






There were visual elements (the bride arrived on horseback, the groom arrived on burro) and audio elements (music, crowd reaction, and an audio play by play provided by John), plus it was all captured by the digital camera and instantaneously placed on the station’s Web site.







The live audience felt like they were involved in something special. The show ended with Rick and Bridget, each holding one of their young sons, slow dancing to their wedding song. There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience, and the listeners at home got to listen to the song, and see the pictures on the Web site—a truly multi-media experience.






























The only problem with this wonderful moment, of course, is that whatever I do now for our 15th anniversary (Thursday) will pale in comparison.

I'll probably just get her a card.

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 has guest blogged here three times before (Shawn Wood 3, Shawn Wood 2, Shawn Wood 1), and they were all so well received, I asked him to do it one more time.


The following piece is his column from the October issue of "Chicago Lawyer." He's graciously allowing me to reprint it here.




DAZED AND CONFUSED IN COOK COUNTY CIRCUIT COURT

By Shawn Wood


The plaintiff's name is Robert Plants.

Despite the name similarity, he was never the lead singer of Led Zeppelin.

But he is hoping a Cook County jury shows him a Whole Lotta Love.

Mr. Plants recently filed a slip and fall case in the Circuit Court of Cook County. But this ain't your grandpa’s slip and fall case.

This was no slip on in icy parking lot or the broken jar of Ragu in Aisle 10 of your local Super Mercado.

Mr. Plants slipped and fell... in a porn shop. More specifically, he claims he fell at the back exit of the Adult Fantasy bookstore. He complains, among other things, that the stairs were not properly lit.

I'm no expert on structural design, but I do have a sense for why the back exit of this type of establishment might not be brightly illuminated. In fact, I'm chancing a guess that's why most patrons would be ducking out that back exit in the first place.

I do like picturing the smile on the face of the lawyer engaged to defend this case.

Imagine you're part of the beleaguered breed of defense lawyers who handle slip and fall cases (or as the marketing folks would prefer, “premises liability” cases) on a regular basis. While your colleagues are knee-deep in large dollar med mal cases, your dance card is filled with claims brought by folks who have trouble walking and chewing gum.

Then this case comes along. Too many affirmative defenses flood your brain. Contributory negligence from walking while distracted. Assumption of the risk of using that back exit. Unclean hands. Who wouldn’t want to give that closing argument?

By contrast, any plaintiff’s lawyer in this type of case would face a tough sell. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client was minding his own business, innocently shopping for porn, when ‘BAM,’ he fell on a poorly lit stairwell at the back exit of an adult bookstore. If we don’t send a strong message to this defendant, what’s next? Strip clubs, brothels, all with improper lighting. We all might as well hang up our trenchcoats right now. Nowhere is safe.”

All kidding aside, I suppose if litigation addresses an injury or safety issue -- wherever it may happen—that’s never a bad thing.

And if it leads to remedial measures to the back stairway of the Adult Fantasies bookstore, all the better.

Maybe they’ll eveb rename the newly improved establishment. I’d suggest calling it, “Stairway to Heaven.”

Half Empty: Thinking of the less fortunate this holiday season

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.







Thinking of the Less Fortunate this Holiday Season

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern





It’s seems like every columnist on the planet feels compelled to write a piece on helping the less fortunate this time of year. Since we don’t want to be labeled as insensitive and uncaring, here’s our obligatory sappy holiday column on helping mankind.

With all the worthwhile charities out there, it wasn’t easy picking the one we were going to support. Cancer, diabetes, heart disease, neglected children and abused women are all worthy of our attention. Nevertheless, we decided to go in a different direction than the traditional causes. The disease we chose is rarely talked about. There are no Walkathons or celebrity spokespersons to raise money for the unfortunate afflicted. It’s time for us to step up.

We are talking about those poor souls that suffer from ATMDS (ATM Deficiency Syndrome). It’s very sad to watch these simple people trying to navigate the complex protocols that today’s ATM’s demand, especially when you’re waiting patiently behind them. If you haven't witnessed this heartbreaking malady, here a few things to consider.

1) There are two types of ATM machines: "Insert & Suck" and "Swipe." Sadly, sufferers of ATMDS have problems with both types. For the “insert and suck” machines, ATMDS sufferers panic if they can't find the slot. It's even worse with "Swipe" machines. ATMDS sufferers become paralyzed with fear at the mere sight of one.

(Hint to Sufferers: For the "insert and suck" machines, the slot is usually right around the big sign that says INSERT CARD HERE. Some machines will even have a little picture that looks remarkably like your card. Those nice signs will also tell you which way the card should be facing. If you come across a “swipe” machine, just get in your car and find an “insert and suck” machine. You will never ever ever ever ever ever master the quick in and out motion required.)

2) ATMDS sufferers simply cannot remember PIN numbers.

(Hint to sufferers: Tattoo your PIN number right on your freakin arm. Please. In fact, we will pay for the tattoo. If you don’t want the tattoo thing, or you want to choose your number, please pick a number that you have a snowball's chance in hell of remembering...like say, your hourly wage.)

3) ATMDS sufferers have great difficulty planning ahead.

(Hint to sufferers: If you’re going to make a deposit, fill out the little envelope and endorse the checks BEFORE YOU GO TO THE MACHINE. Also, assume that the little pen at the bank is either going to be stolen or out of ink. And no, we don’t have a pen you can borrow. You see, we filled out all the appropriate paper work before we even went to the machine. Crazy huh?)

4) ATMDS sufferers are overwhelmed by the interactive options.

(Hint to Sufferers: There are usually only two language options…English and Spanish. If you only speak Polish or Klingon you’re out of luck. Hide your Euros and Darseks under your mattresses for our sake, OK?)

5) ATMDS sufferers have overactive finger smudge glands, creating horribly smudged finger-mosaics all over the screen.

(Hint to Sufferers: Use the key pad. If you don’t, we will personally lift your prints using techniques from CSI, and plant those grubby little piggy’s on a murder weapon.)

6) ATMDS sufferers cannot remember to take their card after use.

(Hint to Sufferers: On second thought, don’t tattoo your pin number on your arm, just write it on your card. We’ll make sure you get it back.)

There is something about the holidays that brings out the best in most of us. If you suffer from ATMDS, or know someone who does, please send us a check or money order. Until an actual charity is founded for these pour souls, we'll keep that money in an interest-bearing account.

Plus, we'll make you a promise. If you’re standing behind us at the ATM while we’re depositing your generous contributions, we won't make you wait.



If you missed any previous Half Empty columns, click here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Election Day

By Rick Kaempfer






When you’re a little kid, there’s really nobody in the world more impressive than the President of the United States. It doesn’t matter what your parent’s political affiliations are, the President is in charge of this whole country. If you aren’t impressed by that, you aren’t easily impressed. I guess my oldest son Tommy isn’t easily impressed.

I’ll let you judge for yourself if he is a fan of the current President. When I took him into the voting booth with me (as part of his Cub Scout requirement) in November of 2004, he was aghast when he thought I had voted for him. He screamed it—“Dad, I think you accidentally voted for George Bush!”

I smiled weakly at the old people voting alongside me in my staunchly Republican district. Tommy wouldn’t let it go. “Dad, you better ask for another ballot.”

I said “Don’t worry, Tommy.”

I’m not going to tell you if Tommy saw it correctly or not, because that’s why we have secret ballots. My Dad hammered that into my head every election day. I would ask him who he voted for, and he would say; “None of your business.” (All part of the touchy-feely German love we shared at my house). In this case, though, I think he was right. Don’t insist on your son believing in certain politics, let him find his own way in the world. If your party of choice can’t convince him, they don’t deserve his vote.

I’ve tried to follow the same model with my kids. As a humor writer, I’m admittedly always going to be poking more fun at people in power than those not in power, but other than the occasional joke—I try very hard not to get into “I’m right, you’re wrong” politics with my kids. There is no reason to make this into one of those “if you don’t believe what I believe, you can’t live under my roof” kind of homes. I learned my lesson about the effectiveness of that strategy when my rabid Cubs-love inadvertently turned my baby brother into a White Sox fan.

Which brings me to my middle son, Johnny. Johnny is a traditional kid. He respects authority. He loves the President. In fact, he thinks the President is just about the most impressive person in the world. I’ve actually seen him clap when Bush appeared on television. It’s kind of cute.

The morning after the last presidential election, the first thing Johnny asked me was: “Who won, Dad?”

I said; “George Bush”

He clapped, then raised his hands in the air triumphantly, screaming “Yeah!”

Tommy hung his head. He asked: “Was it legitimate this time?”

I said: “Looks like it.”

Johnny clapped again and said; “I can’t wait until I’m an eagle scout.”

Tommy and I looked at each with confused expressions. “Why is that Johnny?” I asked.

“Because then I can write a letter to the President!”

Someone along the way had obviously told Johnny that writing a letter to the President was among the perks of being an Eagle. When I mentioned to him that he didn’t have to wait until becoming an Eagle, he was so excited he went downstairs and wrote it immediately. Keep in mind that he was in 1st grade at the time, and was just beginning to learn how to write. This is what he wrote:

“Dear Mr. President: My name is Johnny. I’m 6 ½ years old. I have 2 brothers. Their names are Tommy and Sean. I like your job a lot. I’m only a Tiger Cub Scout. Well, that’s not all, Mr. President. I hope you have a nice day today. You’re my fav! From Johnny Kaempfer”

I love that letter.

I got the address to the White House and made him address the letter himself, figuring there was a better chance of getting a response if the envelope was clearly addressed by a little kid. For the next few weeks, every day after school Johnny would ask me if the President had written him back yet. I could see the disappointment in his eyes when I told him he hadn’t. I told him that the President receives millions of letters, and he can’t possibly answer all of them.

A few months later a big manila envelope arrived with the return address: THE WHITE HOUSE. I must admit, I was shocked. Johnny set his own personal vertical jump record (about three inches—Kaempfers can’t jump) when I showed it to him.

“Oh boy!”

I helped him open it. It was picture of George and Laura Bush, and a letter addressed to Johnny. Here’s a scanned copy of the letter...













I know, I know. It's way too hard to read at this size. Here is what the letter says:

“Dear Johnny,

Thank you for writing. I always enjoy hearing from young Americans. During this important time in our history, you can help America by setting high goals, working hard in school, and helping others in your community. Our country needs your idealism, hope, and energy.

I also encourage you to strive to learn something new every day. You can read more about issues that interest you, current events, and the history of our country by visiting your library or by logging onto the White House websites, www.whitehousekids.gov and www.whitehouse.gov. By understanding the events of today and learning more about our past, you can become a responsible citizen and help make the world a better place.

Mrs. Bush and I send our best wishes for your future success.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush”

Johnny will savor that letter for the rest of his life. Tommy wasn't impressed in the slightest.

As you can see, my two oldest children have slightly different political points of view. I agree with one of them more than the other, but is there a reason to pick sides? It’s not like it’s important. This isn’t like the Cubs-White Sox issue. One side isn’t always right, and the other side isn’t always wrong.

The only certainty is that both of them are wrong sometimes. To think otherwise kills your sense of humor. Look at what it’s done to Dennis Miller and Al Franken. Those guys used to be funny.

Raising a Democrat (Tommy), a Republican (Johnny), and an Independent (Sean) is just fine with me, because they'll realize there is more than one perspective in the world.

Raising a humorless kid?

I don't think I could ever forgive myself.


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

Happy Birthday Mom

Mom's birthday is this week. That young 20-year-old bride is becoming a senior citizen later this week. I thought it was a good excuse to bring back the only column I've ever written about her.








“Why don’t you ever write about your mom?”

I’ve probably gotten that question a dozen times since I started this blog five months ago. The answer is a little complicated, but let me see if I can explain. First and foremost, Mom wouldn’t appreciate it. She doesn’t like the spotlight. I’ve known this for twenty three years.

In fact, I can remember the exact moment I found out. It was April 1, 1983—somewhere between 6 and 10 a.m. I was on the air on WPGU in Champaign-Urbana, doing the morning show with a girl named Karen. We thought it would be hilarious if I called my mom. I was twenty years old at the time. The call went like this...

Rick: Hi Mom.
Mom: Richard!
Rick: How are things at home?
Mom: Ach, fine.
Rick: Mom, I’m afraid I’ve got some news for you.
Mom: What is it?
Rick: I got married.
Mom: What????
Rick: And she’s on the line. Say hi Karen.
Karen: Hi, Mrs. Kaempfer.
Mom: Hi.
Rick: And we’re expecting.
(Long Silence)
Rick: You still there?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
Rick: Are you OK?
(Even longer silence)
Rick: Mom?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
(Even longer silence)
Mom: You better talk to your father.
Rick: Mom, before you give him the phone, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.
Mom: Oh no.
Rick: April Fools.
Mom: What?
Rick: April Fools. I’m not really getting married. Karen’s not my wife...she’s not even my girlfriend...and we’re not expecting. We’re on the air right now.
Mom: RICHARD, IF I HAD A KNIFE I VOULD STAB YOU!

She really said that.

After that, for some reason, she didn’t want to come on the air with me anymore. She never came on the Steve and Garry show during the nearly five years I produced the show, despite repeated requests from Steve. And she was adamant about it. He pushed especially hard on the day the Berlin Wall came down, but Mom wouldn’t talk to him. My sister eventually did, but she refused his request to get a piece of the wall for him. My mom’s mom (Oma) eventually did talk to him too, but she told him off and hung up on him when he told a Nazi joke.

What can I say? The women in my family are tough. I’ve learned not to mess with them.

I hosted my own show on the Loop in the early ‘90s, and Mom wouldn’t come on. I produced the John Landecker show for ten years, where my German heritage was a regular bit--and Mom wouldn’t come on the show.

When I say she doesn’t like the spotlight, I know what I’m talking about.

Still wondering why I haven’t written about her on the blog?

Mom and I aren’t huggy/kissy/”I love you” close. That’s not the German way. But we are about as close as Germans can be.

I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. When I look at my mom I see a woman who has overcome an enormous amount of adversity—moving to a new country as a teenager, not speaking the language, being forced to work in an abusive old folks home, widowed in her forties, alone for nearly twenty years—and I marvel at her strength.

To be honest with you, I don’t think I could have accomplished a thing in life without my mom. She may not understand me, but she has always been there to back me up, to pick me up off the floor, to push me toward my next destination. When I needed help, there was nobody in the world more reliable. She gave me the one quality that has done more for me than any other—inner strength.

Without Mom, I never would have had the toughness to make it in the cutthroat radio business. Without Mom, I never would have been able to write my book, or my novel, or my blog. Without Mom, I never would have been able to stay at home to raise my kids. I ask for her help and advice literally every day.

She is always there for me. Always helping me in whatever way she can. Always rock-solid. More dependable than any other person on the planet. She’s got my back.

To me, that’s real love.

Mom and I don’t need to say the words...even on her birthday. When I see her, I’ll give her the present she told me to give her, I’ll wish her Happy Birthday, and I’ll show her that I love her in the same way I always do.

I’ve got her back too.

And she knows it.

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue. ("Wish Club" is coming in 2007 from Three Rivers Press, a division of Crown Publishing Group.)

Kim is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. Check out some of her other great columns if you get a chance: (City Mom)



















Parking

By Kim Strickland


I pull into the lot at the Midtown Tennis Club and almost swoon. Parking. Lots of it.

“Kyle, I predict you’re going to like learning tennis here.” This is, of course, unfair of me to say. You see, I already love it here—and we hadn’t even been inside. I eye the expanse of asphalt with a dreamy look in my eyes, row after beautiful row of brightly painted, yellow-gold stripes. The wide-open, empty spaces. I inhale a deep breath through my nose. Aaah.

Parking, or lack thereof, is part of life for city moms. It’s a subject I presume most suburban parents never have to consider, but it’s something I find myself considering every day, for just about every single child-based activity.

“A picnic at Sunshine Park? Sure! Sounds like fun!” Where will I park?

“A birthday party at the Goodman Theater? We’ll be there!” How will I retrieve my children without getting towed?

“A play date at 900 North Michigan? Huh? Me too? Ummm… Oh, there’s an extra space in your garage?” Whew.

Parking is the reason I wanted to buy our house. It has a driveway. After the showing my husband looked up from where we stood on the sidewalk and envisioned 110-years of Victorian charm crumbling around him. I looked down the long expanse of driveway that led to the alley and said, We have to take it!

You just want it for the driveway, he said.

And the problem there is, exactly what?

My husband takes the El to work. He doesn’t understand.

But my kids do. They even help me with the chant to the Parking Goddess.

You’ve never heard of the Parking Goddess? Sacrilege! I’ll bet you never get Hollywood parking, either. I know it sounds crazy, but prayers, chants and personal sacrifices to the Parking Goddess are all part of a city moms life. If you’ve never circled Lincoln Park thirty times while your Trotters To Go Chicken Salad warmed to salmonella temperature in the trunk and your kids started panicking as they watched the sun set on their picnic at Sunshine Park, then maybe you can’t understand.

I know I’m not alone in believing in the Parking Goddess; I’ve seen other moms in action—sure, different chants, different juju, but it’s all essentially same. We even debate the efficacy of our different rituals, but we all believe in her. Oh yes, we believe.

And you can’t forget, when you get that great space, to give thanks. The Parking Goddess is munificent, certainly—but merciless when thanks is forgotten. I had a stretch where I had to park blocks away from my destination and it lasted for several weeks, all because I forgot to give thanks for the space right outside the veterinarian’s that time I had to lug my nineteen-pound cat inside for shots. The next time the Parking Goddess finally saw fit to grant me a good space, I sacrificed a Volvo.

Every after-school activity and play date is given a lead-time based on time to destination—and time to park. The academy where the boys take Karate lessons is about a five-minute drive from where we live, but we leave 20-minutes prior.

Then there was the summer morning my son Ethan smirked when I said, “Hurry up! We’ll be late for the beach!” He figured it was just more of my dry humor. It was. I was kidding—just, sadly, not really kidding enough. You see, the parking lot at the Lake tends to fill up by 11:00 am.

And I thought my quarter hoarding days were over when we moved out of our apartment and into our first house, with a washer and dryer in the basement. Nope. Now I need quarters for the parking meters. At least in my neighborhood, a quarter buys you an hour. As you head south and east from here, that same quarter buys you less and less. A few times I’ve run out and found myself holding out two dimes and a nickel to complete strangers, Can you spare a quarter? Citiphiles get it. They reach into pockets and purses to help me out. Those of you from out of town, or who just moved in from Elmhurst, give me a wide berth—apparently having been warned about aggressive street people begging for change, even those with Prada bags.

I suppose public transportation would be the way to go, better for the environment too, but I try to imagine getting my kids to Karate on the #11 Lincoln. We’d have to leave the night before.

So instead of being environmentally conscious, I’m parking conscious instead: completely incapable of driving down any side street without thinking, “Ooh, there’s a good space.”

Today I tell Kyle, “Hurry up, we’ll be late for the parking lot—I mean your tennis lesson.”

I want to arrive early, so I can sit there and swoon.

Half Empty: Political Advertising Overload

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.



POLITICAL ADVERTISING OVERLOAD

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern



It may be different in your state, but here in Illinois the negative political ads are on the air every second of every day, and it’s really starting to affect the citizens.


Overheard in traffic

Woman: You can get in the next lane. It’s moving.

Man: I’m staying the course.

Woman: But this lane is at a standstill.

Man: I will not cut and run.

Woman: But see that orange flashing light up there…this lane closes in five hundred feet. We need to change course.

Man: What kind of a message would that send to the troops repaving this highway?

Woman: How about we will not run you over?

Man: You’ll never understand.



Overheard in a couple’s master bathroom

Man: Honey, can you hand me the toothpaste?

Woman: Ray Miller is always looking for a handout.

Man: What? I just want to brush my teeth.

Woman: Ray Miller. Wrong for America. Wrong for my toothpaste.




Overheard in a child’s bedroom

Son: Mom, can I play on my Gameboy?

Mom: Have you finished your math homework?

Son: My opponent, Mrs. Nosenfunk, thinks that the only way to solve a problem, is to study it forever. The American people want action, not constant study.

Mom: Try this action…do your homework.



Overheard in the family room

Daughter: Dad, can you flip it to MTV?

Dad: The baseball game is on.

Daughter: Aren’t you tired of the same old empty promises? They don’t have a plan for victory.

Dad: Um…

Daughter: This year when you hold the remote, hold it accountable. It’s time for a change.

Dad: I’m not giving you the remote.



Overheard in an office

Worker: Boss, are you surfing the internet? I thought the Employee Manual said that…

Boss: I issued a signing statement.

Worker: A what?

Boss: A signing statement. That means I don’t have to follow the rules, only you do.

Worker: But that’s not fair.

Boss: War isn’t fair. I’m the Commander-in-Chief, and as long as we’re at war with ACME Corp., I have to have all the tools I need to win.

Worker: But you’re reading The Onion.

Boss: Until further notice you will be detained in your cubicle.



It’s like this everywhere now. Please, please, let this election cycle end. We can’t stand it for another moment.

We’re Half Empty and we approved this message.





If you'd like to read any previous Half Empty columns, click here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Also, thanks to the Beachwood Reporter for printing this article too: Political Ad Creep

Suburban Man: The Grouch who hated Halloween

By Rick Kaempfer

Every Boo down in Boo-ville, liked Halloween a lot…
Except the undecorated Grouch, He most certainly did not!
The Grouch hated Halloween! Hated the whole season,
And if you asked him why, he had two dozen reasons,

All the Boo-girls & Boo-boys, that he knew all too well,
Would dress in their costumes, and ring his doorbell,
And demand some free candy, and say trick or treat,
Their hearts still racing, from the house up the street,

The house with the gravestones and ghouls everywhere,
With hanging corpses, and witches, and goblins that scare,
With orange lights in the bushes, orange lights on the wall,
A severed head on the doorstep, with a dangling eyeball,
With mechanical bats and mechanical ghosts,
Controlled by remote, by the maniacal host,
Who hands out so much candy, he rots every tooth,
Giving gumballs, and gummys, and full-size Baby Ruths,

Then the Boo-boys and Boo-girls come visit the Grouch,
Naked house so boring, bowl of skittles on the couch,
“And it’s fun-size,” mutters Joe Boo, “Talk about cheap,”
So the Grouch says “You’re Welcome,” and feels like a creep,

"When did this happen?" says the Grouch when they leave,
"There must be a memo, that I didn't receive,
Was an edict issued, to Boo-friends and to Boo-foes,
Every house must perform, a Halloween Broadway show?"

Well, unlike the neighbors with displays oh-so-grand,
The Grouch didn’t have hours of time on his hands,
So he lets the kids grumble, lets them think he is mean,
And starts dreading the hours til the next Halloween.

By the way, I'm not a total Halloween grouch. This is taken from the brochure for the City of Chicago's Halloween event. It's hard to see their faces, but the kids in this picture (three boys) are near and dear to my heart.



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

UPBEAT CHICAGO MAGAZINE ARTICLE: Et tu, Michael?

As the NBA season begins, the Bulls are projected to return to prominence. That hasn't happened since the days of Michael Jordan. I wrote the following piece for a magazine called "Upbeat Chicago" in 1993. The (first) retirement of Michael Jordan shocked the city of Chicago, but my reaction was probably a little different than most.





Et tu, Michael?

By Rick Kaempfer





Michael Jordan's shocking retirement announcement really nailed me. I now want to be a food critic. See if you can follow my train of thought on this.

Every boy on every playground in America wanted to be Michael Jordan. It was everybody's standard dream.

"What are you going to be when you grow up?"
I'm going to be a professional athlete.

Pick your sport: baseball, football, basketball, hockey, soccer. We just want to be the best in the world. We want to suck in the praise as we hit that last second shot to win the game. We spend the bulk of our childhood pretending to be that person. If the truth be told, we also spend our adulthood wishing we were that person. Why do you think we get so emotionally involved in sporting events? We are living our lives vicariously through them.

Which, of course, brings us to our current dilemma. If Michael Jordan doesn't even like being Michael Jordan, maybe we've been wasting our time idolizing the wrong profession. This realization sent me on a quest.

Let's face it, nobody is one hundred percent happy with their job. The bottom line is they don't call it work for nothing. The cold hard truth is that even Michael Jordan didn't love his work, and all he did was play basketball for a living. Apparently the price of fame is the drawback.

So, our new dream job cannot be one that makes us famous. OK, eliminate rock star, movie star, and politician from our list of candidates.

What's left? After a long night of soul searching I decided that what I really want to do is find a job that allows me to sit on my couch, drink beer, eat snacks, and watch sporting events. Ooooh, what about sportswriter? Now that has some appeal. I tried to think of the downside, then it hit me....sportswriters have to talk to athletes. That would really bring me down. Those poor pro athletes are miserable.

OK, so we have to stay away from sports. What about just watching TV? Yeah, that's it! I want to be a TV critic. What could possibly be the downside? Then it hit me....a TV critic has to watch all of the shows on TV. He or she even has to watch those bad Sunday night made-for-television tearjerkers. Scratch that job. If I had to watch one more movie about wife beating I'd be as unhappy as poor Michael Jordan.

OK, so we have to stay away from TV. Sitting on the couch without watching TV wouldn't be nearly as much fun...so scratch that as a possible career. What about just drinking beer? As appealing as it sounds, it probably isn't very healthy. So what does that leave? Eating.

There actually is a way to do that for a living...become a food critic. That scary looking guy on Channel 7 does it, doesn't he? That's his job. He goes to restaurants, gets all of his food for free, gets to try whatever kind of food he wants, gets his butt kissed by the owner of the restaurant, and gets to try just about everything on the menu.

What about the downside? There is no downside. What if the restaurant is bad? So what? You're still eating for free. What do you spend most of your disposable income on? That's right...food. That would no longer be a problem. Wow, my heart is racing just thinking about the possibilities. Think about it. Have you ever heard a food critic complain about his job? Isn't that guy on Channel 7 always smiling like he has the best job in the world? That's because he does.

"So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
I want to be a food critic.

Don't be surprised if kids across America are now sitting in front of their bowl of Spaghetti-O's saying: "Mom, I think the noodles are simply divine, the sauce is out of this world, but the atmosphere is lacking a little 'je ne sais que.'"

Guest Blogger: Scott Redman

Scott Redman is a partner at Crowley, Barrett, and Karaba, Ltd., Attorneys at Law. Before embarking on his legal career, he was also the general manager of WPGU radio in 1985, my last year in Champaign-Urbana. He lives in Chicago with his wife Cindi and his daughter Lauren.





"Deal or No Deal"

By Scott Redman





As many of you may know, Deal or No Deal came to Chicago for an open casting call. I am sure that the idea of possibly winning $1 Million (or more) crossed many people's minds and then fluttered away like so many other crazy ideas.

Well, not so for my mother-in-law, Pat, who went to Navy Pier last weekend to "try out" for Deal or No Deal. My father-in-law, Earl, went along for the ride. They left their house in Rolling Meadows at about 5:30AM and when they arrived at Navy Pier, they found themselves about one zillionth in line.

After about 7 hours of inching their way to the front of the line, they both decided to try out. They had to fill out a questionnaire and then each had a very short, maybe 2 minute, interview with an assistant producer. They played up the fact that they were going to be great grandparents (that's another story) and rode touring motorcycles in a local club. That apparently piqued the interviewer's interest as it was "something different."

That was Saturday. On Sunday, Earl got a call from the production staff inviting him to a "call back" on Tuesday. Earl, who was just along for support, got through to the next round - Pat was left in the dust.

Earl was instructed to arrive at the Congress Hotel at a specified time on Tuesday evening with 4 to 6 "supporters," dressed as if they were going to be on the show. Based on availability, Earl selected his wife (Pat), Cindi (my wife, his daughter), his son Jeff, my 7 year old daughter Lauren (a big fan of the show), me and his friend Harry (a pilot for American). Pat inserted my mom, Barb, into the group as well.

When we got the hotel we were provided with a two page instruction sheet. As it turns out, not only is Earl auditioning for the show, but so are we - as his supporters (we would later find out that there have been plenty of great contestants that have not been picked for the show because their supporters were too lame). This information sheet encouraged all of us to be very enthusiastic, but not to act. It also gave us advice such as "Answer questions in complete sentences" and so on.

The fact sheet also explained that Earl would go for a one on one interview with a producer. We would then be called into the room and would play a simulated round of Deal or No Deal. We were to act as if it was the real thing and give it all we had. That was more than I bargained for as I am not good at faking excitement (certainly not as good as my wife is).

Most importantly, the fact sheet explained that if Earl was selected for the show he and his supporters would be flown in for the show. Interestingly, it is the producers that pick the supporters from those that came with him to the interview, not Earl, and there was no mention of who was paying for lodging.

So while we waited in the bullpen, the staff took a number of digital pictures of Earl holding up a sign with his name and applicant number - very similar to a mug shot. They then gathered all of us and took a group picture. As we waited in the holding area, there were many other groups waiting for their interview. It was interesting to note the stereotypical (or at least what I perceived as stereotypical game show contestants).

There was the "Howdy Pard" cowboy guy and his hootin' and hoolerin' gang. There was the large black man and his "junk in the trunk" team. The "Yo, how you doing" Italian guy (with his cool sunglasses hanging from the back of his shirt collar) and his tightly-panted female accomplice were there. And then there was the tall blonde MILF (who had previously been on Wheel of Fortune (wonder why!)) with her tall brunette sister-in-law MILF (in all fairness, my wife is a MILF too). There were a fair number of kids in tow as there seems to be a lot of kids on the show as supporters - I guess we were not the only ones to think of that angle.

After a while in the bullpen, Earl's name was called. The producers had 5 meeting rooms set up and we were assigned to room B. We had to wait in the hall while the group ahead of us finished. We could hear them yelling and screaming as if they were on the show. The pressure started to build. Then Earl was called into the room. His interview went fine- as far as we know - and now it was our turn to play the game.

In the room there was a video camera and an easel with a dry-erase board. The amounts $0.01, $10.00, $750.00, $100,000.00 and $1,000,000.00 were drawn on the board and five paper "briefcases" (numbers 1, 7, 13, 18, and 25) were sitting on the board's easer ledge. The producer acted as the show's host, introduced Earl and asked him to introduce each of us. Earl was clearly nervous as he forgot both his daughter's name and forgot to even introduce Barb. Then he was asked to pick his case and we encouraged him to pick #7 as that is Lauren's age.

Earl then picked the "Black Cat" (#13). The dollar amount was written on the back and the producer showed it to the camera first, and then to us. $1,000,000.00!. Much to my surprise I had an honest reaction. No acting. I dropped to the ground in anguish. I had already forgotten that this was not for real. Earl then picked #1 which had $0.01. We screamed and jumped up and down like idiots. High fives for everybody.

The "banker" then offered $32,000.00. Like all the fools before us on TV, we gave the contestant our opinion. No Deal!! Earl's next pick was #25 and it had something other than the $100,000.00 - I was so excited I cannot even remember what it was - just that it was not $100,000.00. The game was then over and Earl was given an opportunity to switch his case with the last remaining case. We implored him not to. He kept #7 and it is a good thing because it had the $100,000! We jumped and screamed and hugged each other. Earl's interview was over.

It was very interesting to say the least. I have always wondered what it took to get picked to be on a game show. It clearly takes an interesting story, a bunch of unbridled enthusiasm, and it probably doesn't hurt to be a MILF (or have one in your group!).

Don't bother to ask me for Earl's number because you want to borrow some of his soon to be gotten winnings. We were told that we should forget that we ever interviewed for Deal or No Deal as they may call us in 2 weeks, 2 years, or never. We were admonished to not call them. Typical Hollywood "don't call us - we'll call you."

I bet you $50 the blonde MILF gets a call next week.


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

Half Empty: Halloween Costume Ideas

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.





Halloween Costume Ideas

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern



If you’re anything like us, every year you get invited to Halloween parties, and every year you back out because you can’t be bothered to come up with a costume.

That’s why we’ve come up with a list of costumes (for grown-ups) that are topical, timely, and easy to slap together. You can get more elaborate if you want, but let’s face it…you really don’t want to go to the effort.


1. Dick Cheney’s Hunting Buddy
For this costume, you merely need to pull your shirt all the way up over your head so it appears that your head has been shot off, and then wear a hunting vest and carry a shotgun.
Sample party comment: “Don’t worry, I won’t be shooting my mouth off tonight.”

2. Mark David Karr
Everyone’s favorite fake murderer will be a big hit this year. All you need is a pair of pants pulled all the way up to your chest, a tucked in polo shirt, and a glassy look in your eyes.
Sample party comment: “Shouldn’t we wake up the kids?”

3. Red State
Dress yourself from head to toe in red paint, wear a Dale Earnhart T-shirt and carry a bible.
Sample party comment: Pass the pork rinds. Hey--you're not one of them homos are you?

4. Blue State
Dress yourself from head to toe in blue paint, wear a PBS shirt, and hand out Planned Parenthood brochures.
Sample party comment: Excuse me, hostess? I couldn't help but notice that this party isn't ethnically diverse.


5. Ann Coulter
A long blonde wig, a short black skirt, and a gigantic chip on your shoulder is all that’s needed to pull off this costume.
Sample party comment: “The only reason we’re eating salsa is because the damn liberals let all the Mexicans into the country.”

6. Prince Harry
This is your chance to wear that Nazi uniform your grandfather brought back from the big war. You’re not dressed as a Nazi, you’re dressed as Prince Harry dressed as a Nazi.
Sample party comment: “Easy on the vodka. I don’t want to get blitz-krieged tonight.”

7. Mark Foley
Die your hair gray, and wear an expensive suit with a “No Child’s Behind Left” button on your lapel.
Sample party comment: “I don’t use a bookmark. I just bend over the page.”


8. Robert Novak
Wear a three piece suit from the eighties, comb your hair over your bald head, and scowl.
Sample party comment: “I’m going to the bathroom. Anyone else need to leak?”


9. Dusty Baker
Wear your Cubs jersey, put a toothpick in your mouth, and hold your Cubs hat upside down asking for donations.
Sample party comment: “Will work for appetizers.”



10. Jim Hendry
Put a pillow under your shirt, doughnut crumbs on your face and a folded up Tribune in your back pocket.
Sample party comment:"I brought a cheese tray. It cost $5000."

11. Ozzie Guillen
Wear a White Sox cap, pretend like you've forgotten how to speak English, and never stop talking all night long.
Sample party comment: "No comprende, Senorita. Cervesa?"

12. Nancy Pelosi
Wear a women’s business suit, use a full can of hair spray, and don’t blink the entire night.
Sample party comment: “There aren’t any chips in this bowl. We were told the chips would be there.”


13. Rush Limbaugh
Wear a sports jacket over a golf shirt, and put the biggest fattest cigar you can find in your mouth. Carry a microphone and a Viagra prescription bottle.
Sample party comment: “Are you trying to get a rise out of me?”


14. President Bush's War Strategy
Wear a "NO EXIT" sign around your neck and never leave.
Sample party comment: "Nice try, but turning out the lights is not going to work. I'm not going anywhere."

15. Angelina Jolie
Puff up your lips, wear a lot of lip gloss and carry around about a dozen baby dolls.
Sample party comment: "I don't care if that's your husband, he's leaving with me."



Got any others? Send them in, and we’ll post them before the big weekend in the Reader Response section of Friday’s “This Week News & Views.”

Suburban Man: Older Parents, Younger Children

By Rick Kaempfer



I see the trend wherever I go these days: older and older parents with younger and younger children.

My generation was a little slow out of the child-raising blocks. While we were in our twenties, it was the furthest thing from our minds. We had places to go, people to meet, and careers to pursue. Most of us didn’t seriously think about starting families until we got into our 30s, and many of us waited until after 40.

We’re paying the price for it now.

I get a particular kick out of this phenomenon whenever I go to the park or playground with my youngest son (age 4). The kids are running, jumping, sliding, and squealing, while the parents are huffing, puffing, chasing, and screaming. A typical 2—6 year old child has more energy than an entire village of 40-somethings. A one hour visit to the park for a child merely ensures a good night’s sleep. A one hour visit to the park for an adult may require hospitalization.

I’m not making fun of you 40-something parents, believe me. I’m one of you. I feel your pain…literally. It’s usually in my back, but sometimes I feel a little tightness in my hamstrings and pectorals. Sure, we could take drastic measures and consider something like getting into shape, but who has the time? If these kids aren’t getting us into shape, a whole year with Richard Simmons isn’t going to help.

That’s why I’ve developed a series of energy-saving activities that will allow you to make it through a day without first aid treatment, while still providing your children with delightful fun and exercise. Feel free to replicate these in your own home. There’s no charge.

*Hide
You’ve probably played more than a few games of hide and seek in your time, but have you ever tried playing “Hide”? In this game, you volunteer to do the hiding, and your rambunctious little one has to “Seek.” There are at least a few places in your home where your child won’t look, and let’s face it…they aren’t that great at seeking. Take a magazine with you, don’t make a sound, and relax. I’ve been known to get fifteen-to-twenty minutes of resting time with this technique, and my kids love it. They think I have magical powers.

*Teeter
You’ve probably gone on the teeter-totter in the park with your kids, but have you ever used the device as it was intended to be used? Put the little one on one side, sit down on the other….and then don’t move. Your child will remain teetering in the air, unable to escape, for as long as you need to rest. Listen to them squeal with delight as they stare danger in the face and survive.

*Time trials
A stop watch costs a few bucks, but it’s worth every penny. When the kid’s energy level is making him or her bounce off the walls, it’s time to head outside and do time trials. Fix yourself a nice cool (or hot) drink, grab a chair, pick a starting line and you’re all set. The key to this game is insisting on a circular path. I always make the boys run around the house. The house always remains the same size, and they can chart the improvement in their times.
(Note: If you don’t want to buy a stopwatch, you can always count the seconds out loud. This makes them run even faster—and tends to tire them out.)

*Big Helper
After chasing Junior around the house all day, household chores become even more chore-like. But wait! You’ll never have to fetch another thing as long as your “Big Helper” is in the house. Phrasing the request correctly is essential. I recommend the following: “Do you think you’re a big enough boy to go fetch the garbage can upstairs?” That usually works. If it doesn’t, don’t forget the stopwatch. “I bet you can’t get the garbage can upstairs and bring it down here in thirty seconds. Ready? Go!”

I know a lot of you are also older parents, and I’d love to hear some of your tricks of the trade. Click on the “E-Mail Me” link, and send in your suggestions. I’ll share them with the whole class.


If you’ve missed any previous episodes of “Suburban Man”, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

The birth of Tommy Kaempfer

I wrote the following piece when I returned home from the hospital after the birth of my oldest son Tommy, eleven years ago this week (October 19, 1995).

The phone rang at the office. It was the very pregnant Bridget on the line. “I’m not sure, but I think my water might have broken.”

Like any rational adult, I went into a sitcom panic. “What do you mean, you think your water might have broken? Isn’t that usually accompanied by a huge swoosh of water?”

After we both calmed down (although now that I mention it, Bridget was pretty calm) we decided to swing by the doctor’s office and have him check. It was his day off and he conducted the examination over the phone with another doctor. The fluid was checked under a microscope.

Bingo.

Like any rational adult, I called everyone I knew and said “We’re going to have a baby!”

Of course, reality set in when we got to the hospital. The woman in the room next to Bridget’s was in her second day of labor. Later in the night we heard a woman screaming in such excruciating pain that we thought it was a baby crying. I knew right then and there that my beautiful wife would be numbing the pain with drugs. The more, the merrier.

I’m pretty sure that my mother set some kind of speed record from Mt. Prospect to Chicago in the middle of the afternoon. Bridget called her sometime around 1PM, and she was in the waiting room by 2PM. Apparently we weren’t the only ones anticipating the birth of this child....Oma wanted to be there when her first grandchild was born. As it turned out, she wasn’t.

After sitting there for eight hours with very little progress I sent her home. That’s when all hell broke loose. Bridget had to be induced, and almost immediately she started feeling intense pain. My memory banks have catalogued this beautiful moment between the anesthesiologist and my wife. It went something like this....

Dr: So, you think you need something for the pain?
Br: Yes, yes, yes....oooooh.
Dr: OK, we’re going to have to ask the father to leave the room for a moment.
Br: Groan. Groan. Groan. Groan. Groan.

(Rick leaves the room, returns 1/2 hour later)

Br: Oh, thank you doctor, thank you. I just wanted to really, really, really, really thank you.


We both knew we were in the home stretch then. Well, at least I knew. I’m not sure if Bridget even knew where she was for the next few hours. Thank God. It was so great to see the transformation from the really unhappy Bridget to the really happy Bridget.

It was now 2AM. Time to start pushing. They called Dr. Sabbagha. He checked out the goods and decided that we still had some time, so Bridget kept on pushing while the doc took a little nap. Molly the nurse helped us push. She held one of Bridget’s legs and I held the other and we coached her through each push. About every third push Bridget’s leg slammed me right in the family jewels.

Then I saw it....

At first I wasn’t sure what it was, Molly had to fill me in. It was the baby’s head. The hair threw me off. I didn’t expect to see hair, I was expecting to see a perfectly shaped bald (Michael Jordan-esque) head. But there was no mistaking it...the time was near.

Molly went to get Dr. Sabbagha, and told us we could keep pushing if we wanted. BIG MISTAKE. With her first solo try, Bridget grunted hard, and poof - there was the head...all the way out. I’m not sure what I said, but I think it went something like this....

“STOP. STOP. STOP. Holy Bleep.”

Molly came back in, saw the head and said...”Oh my God, we better get Dr. Sabbagha.”

He barely had time to get his gloves on before the event. Just a few moments later, at 4:06 a.m. we had a bouncing baby boy.

We didn’t even know the name of the baby when I called Mom up around 4:45AM. We hadn’t allowed ourselves to really put a lot of thought into a boy’s name, it just didn’t seem possible that we would have a boy. Bridget's entire family at the time consisted of nothing but girls.

Naming a child is one of the most awesome responsibilities a person ever faces. Our momentous decision was made something like this....

Rick: We need to come up with a name.
Bridget: It’s a boy. I can’t believe it’s a boy.
Rick: I guess the name Grace Anne won’t work now.
Bridget: Well, what do you think?
Rick: Let's name him after our fathers.
Bridget: I'm not naming him Eckhard or Stanley.
Rick: Fine, then let’s name him after our Dad’s middle names. Peter Thomas or Thomas Peter?
Bridget: I don’t know, I’m getting stitched up right now.
Rick: OK. Thomas Peter.
Bridget: Fine.

Most of our friends and relatives heard about Tommy on the radio. As a matter of fact, in one of the earliest broadcasting debuts in history, Tommy was on the air when he was 2 hours old.

The following is a transcript of that telephone conversation that morning. The participants are John Landecker (center), sidekick Vicki Truax (the only female in the group picture), and proud papa Rick.

John: Oldies 104.3 WJMK, It's 12 minutes after 6:00 with John Records Landecker and Vicki Truax. The hotline...the private line...is ringing. Hello.

Rick: Hello.

John: Well?

Rick: I'm a papa.

(Loud cheering and whooping in the studio)

Vicki: A girl or a boy?

Rick: A boy.

Vicki: I KNEW IT!!! What's his name?

Rick: Thomas Peter.

Vicki: What time?

Rick: 4:06 a.m.

John: Wow. How's everybody doing?

Rick: Everyone is fine.

Vicki: Bridget is fine too? Is she exhausted?

Rick: Yup, she's holding Thomas right now.

John & Vicki: Awwwww.

Rick: 7 pounds, 3 ounces.

John & Vicki: Awwwww.

Rick: And I recorded the entire thing on Digital audio tape.

Vicki: You're kidding? She didn't make you turn it off?

Rick: No. I had it put in a nice place where it didn't get in anyone's way.

John: We've got Thomas' birth on tape.

Rick: Yup. And we got his first bath on tape too, and his first cry.

John: Something tells me we better get more tape. OK, here's his first eyelid opening. Better get that on tape. We're going through his first toll...let's get that on tape. Hey Rick, don't you just want to...

John, Vicki & Rick: Hug and kiss them all the time?

(That was something Vicki said so often about her daughter it was a running joke on the show)

Rick: He is so damn cute.

John & Vicki: Awwwwww.

Rick: Wait a second...is he crying? Hold on.

Sound: A tiny baby cry can be heard.

John: Is that him?

Rick: Yup. His on-air debut.

John: Wow!

Rick: He's got some lungs on him.

John: That kid sounds like he's two years old.

Rick: Yeah, he's got good pipes.

John: Does he want to come in and do a few record talkovers?

Vicki: How long is he?

Rick: 21 inches.

John: So what was it like?

Rick: It was so cool. It was just like the movie "Alien." The baby kind of popped out and looked around. Then he jumped up and sucked my eyes out...

John & Vicki: (Laughing)

John: Then Siguorney Weaver came in with some sort of a mechanical device. It was unbelievable.

Vicki: You guys. Is he all wrinkly. Does he have hair?

Rick: Yeah, he does have hair. That was the first thing we saw. I asked the nurse...ewww...what is that? That's his hair. Oh.

John: Did you get it on tape?

Rick: Of course. Uh, oh. I have to go. We need to take Bridget up to the recovery room.

Vicki: You're still in the delivery room?

Rick: Yeah.

Vicki: That's dedication.

John: How many calls have you made so far?

Rick: This is my second call. I called my mom first.

John: Wow. Well take care of everyone.

Rick: Thanks.

John & Vicki: Bye.

John: There they go. Dad Rick, Mom Bridget and now Thomas Kaempfer.

Vicki: I kind of liked the other name Rick was talking about before.

John: I don't think Bridget was ever going to agree to Ringo.

Half Empty: Jail Musings

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.




"JAIL MUSINGS"

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern




First things first: neither of us is planning on going to jail.

Ever.

Have you heard the phrase “he’s not built for prison?” That phrase applies to us. We have no desire to join the other fellas in the old cell block dancing to the Jailhouse Rock. It’s one of the great motivating factors keeping us from breaking the law.

On the other hand, we must admit we’ve thought about what life would be like behind bars. We’ve seen enough prison movies and television shows, and read enough stories about what can and often does happen in jail. Plus, with politicians getting indicted left and right this year, it's top of mind. And because we are sick and twisted, our brains have been unable to stop ourselves from considering the following circumstances.


1. The last second call from the governor
What if the phone rang just before the execution, but it wasn’t exactly what the prisoner was expecting?

(Sfx: Phone ringing)

Warden: Hello. Yes, he’s here. Just a moment. It’s for you, Mad Dog.

Prisoner: Hello?

Caller: Is this Mad Dog?

Prisoner: Yes.

Caller: Please hold for the Governor.

Prisoner: (excitedly) Are you serious?

Caller: (muffled laughter) Yeah. Hang on. (muffled laughter)

(Sfx: Click.)

Prisoner: Hello? Hello? Hello?

Warden: Let’s go, Mad Dog. It’s time.

Prisoner: NOOOOOOOOOOO!

2. The conjugal visit
What if the prisoner has waited years for his one conjugal visit, but his wife hasn’t changed at all since she last saw him?

Prisoner: Hi honey.

Wife: Hi Mad dog.

Prisoner: You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.

Wife: Listen, Mad dog, my head is throbbing. Can we do this another time?

Prisoner: What do you mean?

Wife: I’m just tired, and the kids have been a bear lately, and this just isn’t a good time for me.

Prisoner: I won’t get another chance for ten years!

Wife: I’ll come back then, I promise. Can we just cuddle?

3. Tired prison jokes
What if prisoners had to deal with the same sort of daily jokes (Working hard or hardly working?) as office workers?

Prisoner #1: Hey there Mad dog, got a few minutes?

Mad Dog: Very funny, Killer.

Prisoner #1: Sorry. Hey man, that’s an awesome outfit. Where did you get it?

Mad Dog: Very funny, Killer.

Prisoner #1: Sorry to bug ya, dude, but can you get me a rum and coke?

Mad Dog: Where would I get that?

Prisoner #1: Oh sorry. I just saw you tending bars, and I thought…

Mad Dog: Get out.

4. Prison Gang Fraternity Rush
What if they held a traditional fraternity rush to join prison gangs?

White Aryan: Have you ever thought about joining the Aryans?

Prisoner: I’m just kind of meeting all the guys right now, trying to get a feel for the different gangs.

White Aryan: Look, I don’t want to do the hard sell on you, because we only want guys who think for themselves, but I won’t lie--we probably have the best tattoo guy in here.

Prisoner: Really?

White Aryan: We also have the best volleyball team. And our guys can make knives out of dirt.

Prisoner: Really?

White Aryan: You better believe it. We're the best gang in the block.

Prisoner: Is there a membership fee?

White Aryan: One lousy pack of smokes. The crips are charging two packs and they suck at volleyball.

5. Jail House press conference
What if they set up an interview room for execution press conferences?

Reporter #1: Mad dog, can you tell us about your mindset?

Mad Dog: I’m going to give it 110% like I always do. Mad Dog has got to be true to Mad Dog. Yes, the lady in front.

Reporter #2: Mad dog? How do you think it’s going to go in there?

Mad Dog: I’m just going to take it one injection at a time. Yes, you in the back.

Reporter #3: Do you feel any remorse?

Mad Dog: Listen, you can’t dwell on past performance. Just put it behind you, and work on tomorrow.

Reporter #3: But there is no tomorrow.

Mad Dog: No further questions.

Yes, we realize that thinking about jail is weird...but it could always be worse.

Consider these seventeen different convictions, indictments, and/or guilty pleas chronicled here: Political Docket. We may be thinking about prison, but these guys (16 Republican lawmakers, appointees, or lobbyists and 1 Democrat) will be going there. This site doesn't even chronicle our fine local Illinois politicians...which will make the national bunch look like amateurs by the time Pat Fitzgerald gets through with them.

Think of us and listen for the sports cliches when they hold their jailhouse press conferences.

And remember to bring your clothes-pin to the polling booth this year. The smell is worse than usual.



If you missed any previous Half Empty columns, click here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Why do I write?

Note: This past weekend I MCed the 50th Anniversary banquet for the Green White soccer club. My Dad was one of the founders of that club, and I've been thinking about him quite a bit lately. I also attended my 25th High School Reunion, and the number one question people asked me was "Why did you become a writer?" This piece I wrote in April has been on my mind all weekend. I hope you'll indulge my re-running it today.



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.