Half Empty: Middle Age Band Names

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.






By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern




When the NFL announced that Prince was going to be the halftime entertainment for this year's Super Bowl, it made us wonder: Won't he ever graduate to a more age-appropriate rock-and-roll-elder name like "Duke" or "Baron" or "King?"

It's time. He's 50 next year.

Of course, Prince is just the tip of the misnamed older rocker iceberg. What about the rockers that are ten, twenty, and thirty years older than him? Unfortunately for those guys, there isn't a historical precedence to guide them. Previous generations didn't have to deal with this problem. A generation ago, when a 60 or 70 or 80 year old man was rocking, it was in a chair. Now, it’s on a stage with an electric guitar.

Should old guys still be allowed to play rock and roll? Of course. However, they really need to think about how it looks, and how it sounds. It’s all about image and expectations.

The Beach Boys are a perfect example.

You must admit you judge the Beach Boys more harshly simply because of the word “boys” in their name. “Boys” should not be pushing 70. If they revised their name slightly, to say the Seaside Shuffleboarders, the expectations would be completely different.

When they perform as the Beach Boys, they're likely to hear: “Whoa, those dudes are old.”

When they perform as The Seaside Shuffleboarders, they're likely to hear: “Whoa, those old dudes can still rock. Rock on, old dudes!”

See how much better that is?

Bands like the Beach Boys are doomed if they don’t rename themselves.

Other bands are luckier. Bands like The Electric Prunes, The Grateful Dead, Gerry & the Pacemakers, The Kinks, and Limp Bizkit knew they would have to live with their names for a long time and planned ahead.

As a public service to the Baby Boomer rock and roll community, we’ve taken the liberty of revising the band names for others that weren’t as prescient…

.38 Special—Blue Plate Special
ABBA—AARP
Air Supply—Oxygen Tent
Alice Cooper—Cialis Co-pay
The Animals—The Angioplasties
Bad Company—Why Don’t You Ever Visit?
Bread—Bran
Captain & Tenille—Captain & Senile
Country Joe & The Fish—Old Country Buffet & the All-You-Can-Eat Fish Fry
Creedence Clearwater Revival—Creedence Clearwater Florida
The Culture Club—The Hair Club
Def Leppard—Deaf Leonard
Neil Diamond—Neil Diaper
Foreigner—We Hate Foreigners
The Four Lads—The Four O’Clock Dinner
The Four Seasons—The Sun Always Shines in Boca
The Four Tops—The Quadruple Bypass
Genesis—Apocalypse
The Guess Who—Guess Who Had a Stroke
INXS— IN-tensive Care
Iron Butterfly—Iron Lung
Journey—Cruise
KC & the Sunshine Band—KC & The Sunshine State
Gladys Knight and Pips—Gladys Knight and Poops
Night Ranger—Rogainger
The OJays—The Ben Gays
The Osmonds—The Ointments
Procol Harem—Bifocal Harem
The Replacements—The Hip Replacements
The Rolling Stones—The Gall Stones
Sly and the Famly Stone—Sly and the Kidney Stone
Squeeze—Wheeze
Styx—Cane
Supertramp—Supercramp
Three Dog Night—Three Piss Night
The Ventures—The Dentures
Wham—Scram
The Who—Who’s Left?

No charge, fellas. You can thank us by continuing to rock in a more age-appropriate fashion.

I’m sure all of the fine readers of Half Empty can help out some more. Click on the “E-mail Me” link on the right, and send along your new names for bands in need.

The livelihood of an entire generation of musicians is at stake.



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

Suburban Man: Pinewood Derby

By Rick Kaempfer




When our first boy Tommy was born, we were still in the delivery room when a vision flashed through my mind.

I was picturing my father, the engineer, painstakingly designing, weighing, and painting my Cub Scout Pinewood Derby car. Whenever I came near the car during his two week construction project, I was told not to touch it. He wouldn’t even let me look at it. As I looked down at my own little boy, I was overwhelmed with emotion.

The emotion was pity.

“This kid is screwed for the Pinewood Derby,” I said to Bridget.

She thought I was kidding, but in the days leading up to Tommy’s first Pinewood Derby seven years later, Bridget began to understand the gravity of my delivery room prediction.

While the other Cub Scout fathers were talking about aerodynamics, design, and preliminary sketches, I was staring at a block of wood and sweating. While the other Cub Scout fathers were talking about chisels, routers, and coping saws, I was coping with a nervous breakdown.

My family doesn’t even allow me to carve the Thanksgiving turkey, but I was supposed to carve a car out of a block of wood? Are you kidding me? I can barely construct a paragraph. I can barely make a sandwich. I couldn’t fix a Chicago parking ticket if my last name was Daley.

To me, the most tragic part of the story was that the man who deserved community derision for his lack of traditional fathering skills (me) wasn’t going to be the victim. No sir. When that chunk of wood didn’t leave the starting gates, they weren’t going to call out my name to retrieve the car. They were going to call out Tommy’s.

I could picture that moment as clear as day when they handed me the Pinewood Derby box.

Bridget sensed I was a little stressed out about this whole thing. I don’t know if it was the sight of me curled up in a little ball that tipped her off, or whether it was my constant murmuring “I’m so sorry, Tommy. I’m so sorry, Tommy,” but she was like a guardian angel when she said the words that would change my parenting life forever.

“Could you use a little help?” she asked.

Could Joan of Arc have used a hose?

That’s when my own personal Joan of Arc took over. She got out the wood-thingy tools. She called her friends’ husbands and got tips for how to install the weights. She included Tommy in the process so he wouldn’t turn out like his own father. And when the two of them were done, they had created a totally satisfactory car.

She even brought along tools to Pinewood Derby night to make last second alterations if necessary. A few of the fathers commented to me about how good the car looked.

“I can’t take credit for it,” I said. “Bridget and Tommy made it.”

That was met with howls of laughter because they thought I was kidding. When they found out I wasn’t, it was met with slack-jawed disgust.

I didn’t care about their derision. I was just happy that Tommy’s car didn’t embarrass him. That horrible moment I feared never occurred.

Since that day, we’ve been to four Pinewood Derbies, and we’re going to another one this weekend. Last year my second son Johnny even won a prize for best design.

I still haven’t learned how to make one of those cars, but I have learned one thing beyond a reasonable doubt: I have the best wife in the world.



To read any of my other Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

Celebrity Snippets: Gennifer Flowers

Once a week long-time radio producer and author Rick Kaempfer shares his favorite brushes with "greatness" in a feature he calls “Celebrity Snippets.”





Gennifer Flowers celebrated her 57th birthday in obscurity last week. Her notoriety forever faded after Monica Lewinsky’s “special internship” officially became public knowledge in 1998. In the years before Monica, however, Gennifer was a well known name in America. She had publicly claimed to be Bill Clinton’s mistress, and even had answering machine messages to prove it. Her claims were such a big story during the 1992 campaign that it caused Bill and Hillary to consent to their famous side-by-side 60 Minutes interview.




By Rick Kaempfer

During the 1996 campaign, Gennifer was out on the interview circuit again. She had a book called “Passion & Betrayal” in which she chronicled the details of her affair with Bill. After leafing through the book, I knew we had to have her on the John Landecker show. She agreed to come into the studio one morning, and I’ll never forget it.

The first thing I noticed about her was how short she was. She claims to be 5’2”, but if she is, my wife is five or six inches taller than she claims to be (5’3”). Gennifer is a tiny, tiny woman.

She arrived moments before the interview, so I didn't have a lot of time to talk to her, but she was very pleasant and professional in the green room.

When she got into the studio, however, she and John hit it off immediately. He didn’t start the interview by warming her up with softball questions, he leapt right in. Some of his questions even shocked me, but to her credit, she not only answered them, she answered them flirtatiously.

My lasting visual of that day is the image of John pulling her to his microphone to ask some of the most personal questions. He lowered his voice and nearly whispered. It was as if he was saying to her, “hey, this is just between the two of us—no-one else will never know.”

When she answered John’s question about the size of Bill’s “political caucus,” it made several of the local gossip columns in the newspapers the next day.

I happen to have an audio clip of that interview. We used a small portion of it to introduce our most popular Bill Clinton song on the last Landecker & The Legends CD: “20th Century Hits & Bits.” The song is about Monica, but Gennifer will always be our favorite presidential mistress.

AUDIO: Gennifer & Landecker/"He's the President"


Stories like this one (and many, many more) are available via Allworth Press--in my How-To-Guide for producing radio shows (co-written with fellow radio producer John Swanson)

Click on this link to order your copy: The Radio Producer's Handbook

Half Empty: Middle Aged Road Trip

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.




By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern & Dane Placko




Let us set the stage.

Rick had to go to Memphis for a media conference. He knew that Dave badly needed to get out of town (he has three little girls including twin one-year-olds), and they both knew that fellow college buddy Dane would be game for coming along. So…after getting approval from mildly disapproving spouses…the plans were made for an old fashioned boy’s road trip.

Of course, it wasn’t technically a road trip in the old-fashioned sense of the word. The idea of driving, for instance, was abandoned pretty quickly when Dave and Dane pointed out to the clueless Rick that Memphis was not “about four hours” away from Chicago.

Other than that, it was exactly like a traditional hard-core partying road trip…

*In the airport, Dane had all of his hair products confiscated by security. Dane, a news reporter, had no idea that these were no longer allowed in carry-on bags. The airport security man was kind enough to pose for this picture with Dane’s confiscated items.


*In the airport, Dave bought three bagels. When the total came to $8.10, Dave asked if they offered a financing plan.


*Our first meal in Memphis (lunch) was memorable. When the waitress brought Dave’s lunch, she slammed it on the table and snapped—“YOUR PLATE BURNED MY HAND!”


*Dane and Dave were eager to go to Mississippi, just a few minutes away from Memphis, although they had very different reasons.
=Dane wanted to cross Mississippi off his state list. He now has been to every state but Alaska, Hawaii, Vermont, Texas, New Mexico and Oregon. Rick and Dave were just as impressed as you are.
=Dave, the same man that calls his mother every day and uses the parking brakes every single time he parks the car just like they taught him in Driver’s Ed, is actually a maniacal gambler, and knew that Mississippi has casinos.


*Rick and Dane walked around the casino looking at gamblers. Not one smile in the entire casino. Dave was one of the “happy” gamblers, sitting at the $5 blackjack table. Only the smallest bladder on the planet (or possibly an enlarged prostate) prevented him from remaining there to this day.


*While Rick attended his conference the following day, Dane & Dave went to Sun Studios and took the very cool tour there. That's Dane on the left standing in the exact spot Elvis recorded “That’s Alright Mama.” That's Dave on the right, proudly singing about getting the AAA discount even though his card had expired.


*At the media conference, Rick grabbed some lunch at Quiznos. To give you an idea what kind of a crowd attended this conference, the three people in front of Rick…
=complained about the absence of romaine lettuce on the sandwiches.
=lectured the teenager behind the counter that the “roast chicken” sandwich should be called the “tortured chicken sandwich”
AND last but not least…
=demanded to know why “vitamin water” was not available as a fountain drink.
Rick ordered the Italian with everything. The teenager behind the counter smiled.


*Rick got home from the conference just in time to break up the fight between Dane and Dave. Dane wanted to go to the Cotton Museum. Dave said he would rather be poked in the eyes by Liza Minnelli.


*That night we explored Beale Street, the party center of Memphis. After an incredible BBQ dinner, we settled in at a blues bar. After one of Dave’s three trips to the bathroom, he claimed to have spotted Dennis Quaid. Rick and Dane would have been much more impressed by Randy Quaid.


*Next stop: Pat O’Briens. The Memphis version of the famous New Orleans nightspot is almost an exact duplicate of the original. A rock and roll cover band was playing Van Halen in the courtyard. Rick and Dave wandered out to listen. Dane yelled “This is too loud!” and went to the dueling piano bar to listen to the Billy Joel medley instead.


*After a night of drinking, we stopped in for a late night burger. After we ordered the burgers, Dane noticed they weren’t being made on a grill. They were being boiled in a vat of animal fat. Mmmm.


*The night came to end when Dave’s “throbbing headache” had to be relieved with a medication cocktail that included Tylenol and Ambien.



*The following morning, the three middle aged travelers went to Graceland, where we suddenly didn’t feel so old.





*Dave got a little cocky at Graceland. He tried to get the student discount with his University of Illinois student ID card from 1985. “1985 Dave” had a full head of hair. “2007 Dave” has a gray goatee, and a shiny polished dome. The cashier didn’t go for it. This is her reaction when we tried to take her picture.



*Rick was grumbling that there weren’t any new Graceland snow domes since his last visit, so he bought an Elvis/Nixon magnet instead. This is the geek by Elvis’ grave.



*Lunch at Corky’s was the best meal of the trip…an unbelievable BBQ pork meal. Dave went to the bathroom there twice. Dane told Dave that he would make a provision in his will donating his bladder to Dave.




*After lunch, Rick and Dave took a nap. Dane went to the Cotton Museum by himself. If you ever meet him, ask to see the video. He videotaped the experience on his cell-phone, but we couldn't figure out how to upload it here.




*Not wanting to go out drinking again, the boys settled on an excursion to Arkansas for their last night. It wasn’t until they arrived at the dog track that Dane & Rick realized why Dave was so excited about this…it was attached to a casino.



*If you ever feel like you are at the lowest point in your life, remember this: You haven’t hit rock bottom until you spend a Saturday night at a dog track in Arkansas.


*Although...the bar was serving 20 ounce Michelob beers for 50 cents a piece. Rick had three dollars in his pocket and a song in his heart.





*Dane picked the winners of the first two dog races. After that, not so much. This is Dane tearing up his betting slips.




*Dave got in a poker game, and was one $250 pot away from losing everything. When he didn’t lose the hand, he got out, and didn’t return. Although, he did stop at the video poker machines on his way back from his second bathroom trip.



*The night ended when Rick got heartburn. He bought Pepto Bismol in the hotel gift shop…at the nicer hotel next door.




*The next morning when we checked out of the hotel, Dave asked the clerk to name the most famous person who ever stayed at their hotel. She said: “The tall guy from the TV show ‘Martin’ had his family reunion here.” Top that.


*The next day the middle aged travelers arrived at the airport two and a half hours before their flight so they could watch the Bears-Seahawks playoff game.



*With fifty seconds left in the tied game, the airline announced… “Chicago fans, this is your last call for boarding. We’re going to give away your tickets if you don’t board right now.” An audible groan went up in the airport bar. We walked down the tunnel toward the airplane not knowing if the game went to overtime or not. Dave, Dane and Rick tried to convince everyone to draw straws to see who would fake a heart attack in the tunnel to delay the flight.


*The flight attendant was British. She announced the football game result this way: “I’m not sure what this means, but the team from Chicago…I’m told they are known as the Bears…scored… is it called a field goal? Yes. In any case, they won the American football contest.” We cheered, but we suddenly all felt stupid for caring.


So, was our middle aged road trip fun? I know it might not sound like it, but we had a great time. Will we do it again? Probably.

Next time, though, Dave is getting a catheter.

Suburban Man: Rules are Rules, right?

Those of you who know me, know that I have a real problem with people who arbitrarily enforce rules against the laws of common sense. If you've been with me when a nearly empty restaurant or nightclub refuses to seat me because of an unforgivable sin (like wearing gym shoes), you've seen my hex dance; a "speaking-in-tongues"-like performance wishing business doom on a "service-industry" location turning away business for no reason.

That might be why an old friend of mine, Walter Stadler, recently sent me a copy of this letter. Unlike me, Walter is a respected member of the community--an oncologist. Like me, Walter is German. The lesson here is clear: never mess with a German man's beer.

The Yardhouse Restaurant
Glen Town Center
1880 Tower Drive
Glenview, IL 60025

I would like to thank you for your rigorous and selfless application of minimum drinking age laws. We visited your establishment for a family dinner on 12/29/06 around 5:30pm and when we ordered a beer the waitress dutifully asked for identification. Since I am more than twice the legal drinking age I was somewhat surprised, but flattered. Since I was chivalrously driving and taking my wife and family out, she did not have any identification on hand, and believe you me she looks at least 5 years younger than her actual age of 39!

Not to be deterred, we bullishly requested to speak to the manager, who also refused to serve my wife due to the lack of identification. Our 8 and 10 year old girls were with us and in order for my wife to be under 21 she would have had to bear our oldest at the age of 11, but have you seen how early girls mature these days! Besides, underage drinkers will go to all kinds of lengths to get a beer, and how could your poor manager know that these were really our daughters and we didn’t just pick them up on the street.

This got us to thinking that the whole beer drinking thing is just over rated. So we got up and left. Unfortunately, other establishments in town have not yet begun to apply the laws so mindlessly and we really have difficulty with self-control. We thus ended up eating and having a beer somewhere else.

As a resident of the Glen I am sure that all my middle-age neighbors are running from restaurant to restaurant and from bar to bar without identification, eating and drinking to their heart’s content. This has got to stop! Although this might affect your business, we would all be happy to pay higher taxes for the loftier goal of controlling this abhorrent behavior.

As a physician I am all too aware of the ravages of alcohol and I am thrilled that you apply the laws so unthinkingly. With modern make-up, plastic surgery, and the conniving deception induced by the evil desire for alcohol one can never be too careful! Perhaps we can even get rid of waitresses, bartenders, managers, and restaurants and simply require an electronic ID to be inserted into a secure “beer kiosk.” (Preferably with an airport style security line to prevent sharing of ID’s. Even better would be an implanted identity chip, but you know how much people hate shots!).

In honor of your selflessness, we will no longer visit your establishment. I can only hope that other restaurants and bars begin to take the same robotic approach to the minimum drinking age laws. You are a pillar of the community. (Now, what to do about my wine cellar?).

Sincerely,


Walter Stadler

Not quite a hex dance, but probably more effective and less embarrassing to his loved ones. Nicely done, Walter. Suburban Man approves.


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

Celebrity Snippets: Ellen DeGeneres

Once a week long-time radio producer and author Rick Kaempfer shares his favorite brushes with greatness in a feature he calls “Celebrity Snippets.”





Ellen DeGeneres turns 49 this week. She has hosted The Emmy's twice, and her very popular TV-talk show “Ellen” is on the air every weekday on NBC.



In 1989, I was working as the producer of the Steve Dahl & Garry Meier show on WLUP AM, but I was also helping out another show at the same station: The Kevin Matthews Show. For the most part, my help was only needed at his live stage shows.

Kevin hosted a series of what he called “Comedy Jams” in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. He recruited comedians from around the country to appear at these shows, and one of them was Ellen DeGeneres.

At the time, Ellen was an up and coming comedian with a quirky sense of humor. Her stand up act was polished, but she wasn’t nationally known.

I was working backstage when I had my one and only encounter with her. She was in her dressing room minding her own business, when a co-worker of mine (I won’t embarrass him by publicly revealing his name) knocked on her door. This co-worker had earlier told me: “There’s something about Ellen that really turns me on.”

He saw me watching him knock, and winked to let me know he was going to be turning on the charm. Ellen was 31 at the time. My co-worker was around 25.

I knew he had no chance, but I didn’t know he really had no chance.

Ellen was very polite and allowed him to enter her dressing room, but she stood in the doorway in a way that wouldn’t allow the door to be closed. That was too bad for my co-worker, because I heard the entire awkward conversation.

He asked her what she was doing after the show, and wondered if she wanted to “party.”

Ellen told him that she never went out after shows--she preferred to go back to her room and chill out. I was expecting my co-worker to ask if he could come back to the hotel with her, but even Romeo realized he was striking out. He sheepishly told her to “break a leg,” and then left her dressing room.

He was embarrassed when he saw that I had heard the entire conversation, so as he walked by me, he said: “I bet she’s a lesbian.”

"Sure, pal," I joked. "If she’s not into you, then she’s gotta be a lesbian."

When Ellen "came out" on her television show in 1997, I was probably laughing harder than anyone else in the country.

She really is a lesbian.

Although between you and me, I’m betting that even if she wasn’t, she still would have given my co-worker the exact same brush off.



Stories like this one (and many, many more) are available via Allworth Press--in my How-To-Guide for producing radio shows (co-written with fellow radio producer John Swanson)

Click on this link to order your copy: The Radio Producer's Handbook

Half Empty: Medical Small Talk

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.



MEDICAL SMALL TALK

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern



When Rick mentioned an awkward small talk conversation he had with his urologist during his vasectomy procedure (Steve & Garry notebook), he was a little surprised at the reaction it received.

Apparently, this sort of thing happens to just about everyone. It may occur during vasectomies, but it happens at other equally embarrassing moments.

This column is for our friends in the medical profession. We know you do this sort of work every day so it’s no big deal to you. It’s only natural to lose sight of the fact that there are times when small talk is not appropriate.

We’re writing this as a gentle reminder.

A loyal reader (who begged us not to use his name) sent this to us. It’s his recollection (he called it a transcript) of a recent visit to the doctor’s office. He was there for a routine prostate exam.

At the doctor’s office

Doc: (while putting a rubber glove on his hand) Is your kid still taking piano lessons?

Patient: Yes, he really seems to like it.

Doc: (while putting lube on two fingers) Piano is almost the perfect musical instrument for kids. Once they get the basics of piano, they can move on to almost any other musical instrument after that. Please drop your pants and face the wall.

Patient: (while dropping pants and facing the wall) Yeah, I wish I stuck with my piano lessons when….

Doc: Can you spread your legs a little bit…

Patient: Sure….HELLO…when I was a kid.

Doc: (while checking prostate) My wife and I don’t have any kids but I’m a big believer in the piano.

Patient: Yeah….(grunt)…me too.

Doc: (while moving fingers around and squeezing prostate) Did you know that kids who naturally pick up the piano are usually pretty good at math, and kids that are pretty good at math are usually pretty good at piano?

Patient: Yeah….um….I….heard….(grunt)…that.

Doc: (while removing fingers) It’s really a mathematical process.

Patient: (exhaling) I guess so.

Doc: (while taking off his glove and tossing it in the garbage can) Are your kids good at math?

Patient: Yes…they…

Doc: You can pull your pants back up.

Patient: Oh, thanks. Yeah, they are pretty good at math. So…how did it turn out?

Doc: My wife and I both still play the piano.

Patient: (pointing at the garbage can) No, I mean…

Doc: Oh? It’s fine. No problems. You’re just getting older. Nothing to worry about.

Got any other examples of awkward small talk conversations during really embarrassing moments? We’d love to hear them. We promise not to reveal your name. Just click on the “E-mail me” link, and send in a transcript (as close as you can remember it) of your conversation.


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

Half Empty: Answering E-mail spam

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.





ANSWERING E-MAIL SPAM

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern





You are probably inundated with as much e-mail spam as we are, but you either just delete it, ignore it, or report it as spam to your internet provider.

We used to do that. Now we answer them.

Dave gets a particular delight in responding to alleged African businessmen scammers. (20/20 did a story about them a few weeks ago).

To one scammer who claimed Dave would be receiving $18.5 million for foreign investment, Dave responded with a joke. Instead of ignoring Dave, the scammer responded back. Here are the e-mails that followed in order…(I redacted his last name, but I left all of the grammar and spelling mistakes)

Scammer response:

“Dear Stern,
I got your mail and before I say anything, I would like to correct the impression you already have. I am not joking with my proposal to you, I mean real and genuine transaction and that is why I contacted you for assistance. I appreciate your response.

I am entrusting you with confidence based on trust that you will not let me down. all machineries has been perfected, ok, to ensure a risk-free transaction. Arrangement has been ascertained to safely transfer the fund to your nominated account. I am counting upon you and having the interest of both families at heart for our upbringings. My late father's struggle before demised has been to commercialize investment abroad with a trusted capable foreigner. I hope this opportunity must not be jeopardized because of my career, future of my family lays in your hands.

Truth, honesty and sincerity must be our watch word. all related documents will be sent to you after our discussions and for further details of arrangements. I look forward to speaking with you today. Also, forward your contact phone/fax numbers the name and address of your bank where we can transfer the US$18.5Million to, the account, name/beneficiary, the account number etc.

As soon as I receive the above information, I would apply on
your behalf to the bank where this fund is for the fund to be moved to your account using the above requested information and depending on the level of co-operation we are able to get from you, this transaction will take a maximum of 10 days to be concluded.

Best regards.
Mr.Godwin”

Dave, of course, answered him.

“I will be arriving on the 22nd November on flight 9002 from Frankfurt. I will be staying the 22, 23, 24 and 25 at the Protea Hotel, Victoria Island.

I will be free the evening of the 23rd, all of the 24th and morning of the 25th. Mr. Brusky and my lawyer are already in country and will be meeting with you as well.

Please let me know which day is best for you.

Best Regards.
David Stern”

Godwin responded:

“ATTN: DAVID

YOUR MAIL HAS BEEN RECEIVED, YOU SAID YOUR LAWYER WILL MEET WITH ME. WHERE AND IN WHICH COUNTRY?

GET BACK TO ME URGENT FOR ME TO UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU MEAN.
THANKS AND GOD BLESS

MR GODWIN”

Dave responded:

“Just give us the certified cashiers check when we see you this week. We will cut you a commission check the same day.”

Godwin responded:

“Attention David
When every documents is obtain and forward to bank, you will demand for cashier check, as a matter of fact, if you really want to do this business with me kindly let me, because this is not a childs play, let me know your position.
Looking forward to hear from you.
Thanks for your co-opration
Mr Godwin”

Dave responded:

“We will meet with you on Monday the 27th at 6:00 PM at our hotel, Protea Hotel, Victoria Island. Let me know what we need to bring.”

Godwin responded:

“Attention David

I have told you that, this is not a childs play, if you want to handle this business with me kindly send your telephone number to me for oral discussion, first before anything could be done.
Thanks
Godwin”

Dave responded:

“First off, the phrase is "child's play" not "a child's play". Little Red Riding Hood is "a child's play". Your insinuation of my apathy toward your business proposition is "child's play". Got it?

Second, I should be given the respect I deserve for extending my trip 4 extra days to accommodate a face to face business meeting with you. Sadly, the tone you are using is far from indicative of such respect.

Since I am in a giving mood due to our Thanksgiving holiday I can be reached at 234 1 461 0236 x 310.

David Brusky (United States Foreign Affairs Bureau),Johnny Cochrane (my lawyer) and myself will be dining at the Baywatch Restaurant 35, Ojo Olobun Close, Victoria Island, Lagos, This Friday and Saturday evening. Come on by and we'll talk about your proposal. I hear the veal is excellent.”

Godwin responded:

“Attention David
Sorry for the delay, I went for a meeting in london and will be back 2weeks time, i do not know if you will be around till i come back from the trip.
You can reach on my telephone 44-703-190-XXXX Or 44-707-190-XXXX
Thanks for your co-opration
Mr Godwin”

Dave responded:

“Greetings Godwin,

We have arrived in London! We are staying at the
Stafford Hotel
6 Waterloo Place
London SW1Y 4AN United Kingdom

+44 (0)20 7629 7688

We are registered under the name URA DUMBASS. Let's meet this evening at our hotel bar. I will assume 8:00 PM will be OK. If I don't hear from you I'll assume you'll be there.”

And that’s the last Dave heard from Godwin.

No need to thank Dave. His thanks comes from knowing that while Godwin was running around trying to figure out what was going on, he was unable to scam other Americans out of their bank account information.

It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.



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

Suburban Man: Ode to a handshake

By Rick Kaempfer




As I get older, I’m getting less and less comfortable in social situations. It’s not the small talk that gets to me, it’s the greetings.

Germans have one standard greeting that works in all situations. It’s called a handshake. It’s nothing fancy. I extend my right hand, you extend your right hand, we clasp them together, and done. Greeting complete. It’s short, it’s firm, and it never deviates.

In the German community this traditional greeting is acceptable between strangers, acquaintances, friends, distant relatives, close relatives, and even handless people (a stump shake is perfectly normal.)

Outside the German community, there are all sorts of different handshakes going around that I can’t fathom. If your handshake involves chest tapping, finger snapping, or fist thumping, I don’t get it.

My old Ebony & Ivory co-host Stan Lawrence tried to teach me the cool handshake for years. Each time I tried it, I was thinking to myself… “a traditional handshake would be so much better.”

When I see a hand being extended in a non-traditional way, I panic. “Is this going to involve a snap, a tap, or a thump? Why isn’t this person extending his hand in a normal way? Countdown to humiliation…5, 4, 3, 2, 1.”

But that’s just one of the things that makes me panic at greeting time. Another greeting sure to bring out my discomfort is the hug. I’ve gotten past hugging family members. I hug my kids a thousand times a day. I hug my sisters-in-law and their kids without feeling weird. But I still don’t hug my mother, my sister or my brother…and I’m guessing, as fellow Germans, they appreciate that.

If you come to hug me, and you’re not a child or a family member on my wife’s side of the family, don’t look in my eyes. You may misinterpret the sheer horror in my eyes as dislike. It’s not that I don’t like you…it’s just that there is a better way of doing this that doesn’t involve quite so much uncomfortable body touching.*

This is the proper greeting at all times: You extend a hand, I extend a hand, we clasp our hands together firmly, and release.

And dear God, by all means, never kiss me. If I see your lips heading toward my face, my whole world starts moving in slow motion, and this is what is going through my mind.

“Oh no, here it comes. What is she (or God forbid—he) thinking? How did my unfriendly body language fail to head this off? If I extend my hand now, it’s rude. If I extend my cheek now, it’s lame. If I kiss back, it’s…well, that’s not going to happen. There is nothing I can do to stop it. Better brace yourself, weirdo. Here it is. Find the strength for the fake smile…dear God its in there somewhere…dig, dig, dig. Bring out the fake smile before it’s too late.”

Exhale.

Is there any chance the traditional handshake will come back in style?

I don’t have the proper training for this.


*I'd love to hear how they translate the HBO show Entourage in German. One thing you will never hear a German say: "Let's hug it out, bitch."

Suburban Man: A letter from the Kaempfer family

Rick's note: I've gotten quite a few e-mails about my family's Christmas letter this year, asking if I was ever going to post it on the blog. I really hadn't even thought of doing so, but I suppose it does make a fitting Suburban Man. Here it is...






Merry Christmas from the Kaempfers

It’s been a fun year for the Kaempfers. We’ve done it all.


*In March the whole family drove down to Atlanta to visit Rick’s Uncle Manny & Aunt Jill. On the ride home Johnny got sick, and Sean had a #2 emergency.

*In June Bridget and Sean flew to Oregon for Bridget’s family reunion. Before they even boarded the plane at O’Hare, Tommy broke his arm.

*In August the entire family spent a weekend at Ellen & Paul’s summer house in Michigan. The boys discovered the joy of tubing, a tolerance of dogs, and the thrill of pyromania.

*In November Bridget had an opportunity to travel on business to San Francisco (one of our favorite food towns). She got the stomach flu the first night.

*In April Sean stopped talking for a few moments and the family had a little bit of quiet time.

*In June Rick took the boys to the Shedd Aquarium, and they discovered together how little the aquatic world interested them.

*After Tommy broke his arm, the family got to visit the hospital, the orthopedic surgeon, the pediatrician, AND the rehabilitation center.

*In July Rick took Tommy and Johnny to the Cubs game, and they left in the fifth inning of a 9-1 loss.

*In September, Sean started pre-school. After Sean threw the digital camera on the ground that night, the family realized that if you concentrate really hard you can remember what somebody looked like at a momentous time. Pictures are overrated.

*Johnny’s 3rd grade teacher is an Army Reservist. Johnny’s approach to homework? Don’t ask, don’t tell.

*In October Bridget’s company was sold. Her fourteen hour work days during the transition helped her appreciate the American work ethic.

*In December, the Kaempfer family is looking forward to an exciting 2007.

- Rick’s first novel “$everance” comes out in April. It’s available for pre-order now at http://www.encpress.com/SEV.html. If you have a book club and would like him to appear, he would happy to do so. Just give him a call or e-mail him: amishrick@yahoo.com.
- Bridget’s free time will be filled with Cub Scouts & Pokémon.
- Tommy will have another piano recital this year, and he (cough) “can’t wait.”
- Johnny has new cleats, so he’ll be playing soccer again this year whether he wants to or not.
- Sean is planning on providing a running commentary of every second of every day for everyone within earshot.

*If you want to follow along with the Kaempfer family travails this year, check out Rick’s daily blog at http://rickkaempfer.blogspot.com. He shares waaaaay too much personal information.



For those of you who are returning gifts this week, check out (My First Time). Suburban Man returned a gift for the very first time last year, and this column recounts that experience.

Remember, if you missed any previous Suburban Man columns, you can read all of them here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Video Game Labels

By Rick Kaempfer





Santa and I are not speaking right now. I know he looks like a jolly old fat man, but I’m telling you—this guy is weak and destructive. I can’t pretend to get into his mind to find out exactly what he was thinking when he gave my two oldest boys Nintendo DS Gameboys for Christmas, but I’m betting he finally buckled after years of whining and nagging. He probably looked at the boys’ friends and saw that all of them had Gameboys, and thought to himself; “What the heck. How bad can it be?”

Real Bad.

Someone tell Santa that these games no longer belong to my sons; they now belong to dear old Dad. Dad didn’t confiscate these machines so he could play video games himself. Dad confiscated these machines because they turn normal children into monsters.

I wish I was exaggerating.

Let me describe the process in a little more detail, and you can judge for yourself. The child turns on the Gameboy. A sing-songy music begins, lulling the child and everyone around him into a false sense of security. However, as soon as the adult leaves the room, the child is sucked into the machine by an atomic vacuum. His brain waves are altered by the beasts within the machine, and by the time he is permitted to jump back into society, he has learned to breathe fire.

When the adult returns to the room to tell the child to turn off the machine, the monster emerges. The signs are obvious. The dead glowing eyes. The scaly green skin. The screeching fingernails-on-the-chalkboard voice. But most of all, the fire shooting out of the mouth. That’s hard to miss.

You may find this hard to believe, but at first I wasn’t too worried about this, because after only a few hours, the monster would disappear and the child would return. That made me think that this beast could be managed or tamed. I thought that if I closely monitored their usage I could control it.

I now know the beast only exists to eat my young. Any amount of time at all, from five minutes to an hour, will allow the monster to completely rewire the brains of my boys. When it’s time to turn off the Nintendo Gameboy DS, the fire will emerge, and there isn’t a darn thing that can be done to stop or control it. I can wear protective gear, and it won’t help. The heat of this beastly fire is enough to melt lead.

So, the Gameboys are mine. I still allow the boys to play with them in cases of supreme or impossible achievement (like being nice to their little brother for a whole day), but that’s only because this sort of unattainable behavior must be rewarded in some way. On these rare days, I know I’ll have to pay the price. The skin grafts over 70% of my body are still not fully healed, and I suspect they never will be.

That’s why I’ve started my quest to get warning labels placed on all hand-held videogames. I appreciate that the current rating system is a start (Rated “T”, or “M,” etc.) but that’s only for the games themselves. What about the machine that houses the beast? Why doesn’t that have a warning label for parents and children?

I’m open to suggestions about the exact wording, but I’m partial to the following...

“WARNING: The Surgeon General has determined that turning this machine on or off will release the hounds of hell upon you. DO NOT turn on this machine unless you are willing and able to bathe in a bubbling cauldron of acid and fire.”

There, I feel better.

Now somebody get me some moisturizing cream for my burns. I see that one of the boys has cleaned up his room without being asked.

Half Empty: Christmas Letter Greatest Hits (Part 5)

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.





CHRISTMAS LETTER GREATEST HITS (Part 5)

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern


Tis the season for Christmas form letters from long-lost friends and family members. We've been big fans of these since childhood, and we've actually acquired quite a collection over the past decade or two. (Send us yours by clicking on the "E-mail me" link on the right.)

Most letters are a little boring and maybe a little too inside for mass consumption, but others are Christmas letters for the ages. We're going to feature a few of those between now and Christmas this year.

We think this one may be the very first Christmas letter, but we're still working on having that verified.

Hello family and friends!

We hope your winter solstice is going well this year.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been more than thirty years since our boy was born in that manger in Bethlehem. It’s a good thing we invested that frankincense, gold and myrrh wisely, because we haven’t had a moment’s peace since the neighbors started blabbing about the savior living in our house. Luckily, our investments allowed us to buy state-of-the art security camels last spring. Ever since then, those parasitic painters from the Roman tabloids stay a respectable spitting distance away.

As for the boy, he’s doing fairly well, but I’m a little concerned about his friends. He spends a lot of time with unsavory types, and every time he comes home for a visit he brings a houseful of his unwashed friends with him. Last time I said “Jesus! If you think I’ve got enough food to feed these dirty…” and before I finished my sentence there was food on the table. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he does things like that.

As you can imagine, it’s a little frustrating being a mother of a boy with such potential. Joseph and I keep waiting for him to settle down and marry a nice Jewish girl, but it’s always “Just one more miracle, Mom,” or “Just one more sermon on the mount, Mom.” I keep telling him that the orthodontia school won’t hold that space for him forever, but he’s at that difficult age now. He doesn’t listen to his mother anymore.

He doesn’t listen to Joseph either. I know Joe’s only his stepfather, but I can see the look in his eyes when Jesus refuses to help out Joe’s carpentry business. It has to be difficult dealing with general contractors when you know your stepson could set you up for life. I keep telling him, “Now Joseph, let’s be thankful we had one ‘free gold’ night. Most people don’t even get that.”

Well that’s it from Nazareth this year.

I’d love to hear from all of you too. What does the Messiah’s mother have to do to get a letter? (I heard all about your letters to the Corinthians, Paul…I know you can do it.) Would it kill you to include a letter with your birthday cards to Jesus? It would be a nice tradition.

Love to all.

Mary

Suburban Man: The Fish Police

By Rick Kaempfer




I’ve always believed that every child should have a pet. It teaches responsibility, the circle of life, and gives the children something they can love unconditionally. Unfortunately, my kids are deathly allergic to animals that have hair or fur. That ruled out the traditional array of dogs, cats, hamsters, guinea pigs, mice, rats, ferrets, or farm animals, and left us with only two reasonable choices; reptiles or fish. Since my wife is part of the decision making process, it left us with only one choice. We got the fish. It was our Christmas present to our two oldest boys, who were 4 and 1 ½ at the time.

From the moment I stepped into the fish store I knew that I was getting into something much more intense than I ever imagined. It was like a college entrance exam. First I had to bring the fish guy water samples to make sure that our tank had the proper PH balance. The first three times I didn’t pass the test and he wouldn’t allow me to purchase the fish. I finally passed his rigorous testing on the fourth try, but when I said I wanted to put some decorative plastic plants in the tank with the fish, he gave me a whole new list of instructions before I would be allowed to bring home the fish.

Each time I went into the store, I held my breath that the fish guy would allow me to spend $2 in his store to buy a few fish. It was two days before Christmas when I was finally, and grudgingly deemed “fish worthy.” But before he handed me the baggies filled with fish and water, he looked me in the eye and gave me a stern look.

“Are you going to take care of these fish?” he asked.

“Yeah sure,” I said, praying I wasn’t saying anything to disturb the fish police.

“How do you put them in the tank?” he quizzed.

“I put the whole baggy in the tank, let them adjust to the water, and…..” I was choking under pressure. I couldn’t remember exactly what to do. The fish guy walked out from behind the checkout counter, toward the back of the store, in the direction of the former fish tank home of my fish. He was apologetic, but uncompromising.

“Look, I’m sorry, but you aren’t ready…”

“Wait!” I said. “You get a little bit of water out of your tank, mix it with the water in these baggies, and slowly let them get used to the water.”

“And then how do you put them in the tank?” he asked. He was now holding them over their old tanks, ready to put them back into the water. He looked like he was cursing himself for letting his guard down around such an obviously un-fish-worthy person like me. What was he thinking trusting me with $2 of fish?

“You grab them out with the net?” I answered hopefully.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked. He was shaking his head doubtfully. It looked like he was memorizing my face for the sketch artist and mentally designing a “DO NOT SELL FISH TO THIS MAN” flier to distribute to all the fish stores in the Midwest.

“Yes,” I answered, this time more confidently.

“Would you willing to bet these fish on that?” he asked.

“I would never bet on the lives of fish,” I said. “They are precious to me.”

That’s when I broke him. I even thought I saw an Elvis lip snarl—not really a smile, but as close to one as the fish guy ever got. He motioned for me to follow him back up to the register, hopped back around to the other side of the counter, and began to ring up the $2 sale.

“Thank you, sir,” I said as respectfully as possible. “I love fish so much. I just had to spread the joy of fish to my kids.”

That stopped his fingers on the cash register in mid purchase. His right eyebrow cocked suspiciously. “Kids?”

“Um…”

“How old are your kids?” he asked.

“Well they’re grown up now,” I lied.

“How old are you?” he asked, doing the math in his head.

“They’re kids from my wife’s first marriage,” I said, continuing to lie. “28 and 26. Good kids, really. Marine biologists.”

That last lie was a little over the top, but it finally sealed the deal. I was permitted to leave with three little baggies, filled with three little fish, worth less than three little dollars. But the fish guy had gotten into my head. On the ride home I was nervous that the fish police were following me. I was sure they were going to set up some sort of a sting to catch me in the act of endangering the lives of these fish. When I finally arrived home with my precious new family members in my hand, I carried them into the house as if the baggies were filled with nitroglycerine.

My wife tried to hug me when I walked through the door. “Step back!” I urged. “These baggies are filled with fish.”

My dealings with the fish guy had totally altered my plan to unveil the fish on Christmas morning. That would have required a tarp of some kind to cover the tank; something that I’m sure that would have set off the fish guy’s fish alarms. I knew one thing for certain. These fish were fragile creatures that could die at the drop of a hat. I had no choice but to carefully introduce them to their new aquarium and then immediately show the boys their new pets while they were still alive.

I was rehearsing my fish care speech when Tommy (age 4) and Johnny (age 1 1/2) entered the room. Both of their eyes lit up. Tommy smushed his face against the glass, and marveled at the bright colors of the rocks on the aquarium floor. Johnny, on the other hand, reached his hand into the tank and tried to catch the terrified fish as they set 20-gallon-tank speed records to avoid him. He cackled with glee as his splashing left hand produced a giant puddle on the hardwood floor. It happened so fast I was unable to stop him.

“NO!” I screamed.

Johnny didn’t stop splashing. He was having too much fun.

“You’re going to kill the fish!” I said.

Tommy was horrified. “Johnny,” he said, grabbing his brother’s hand out of the tank. “You’re killing the fish.”

It stopped the potential fish-icide just in time. I took a deep breath, but I knew that I was never going to stop him every time. Johnny was an unstoppable force. I couldn’t be there every second; the next time or the time after that. I figured the fish police were going to start their surveillance very soon, and it was only a matter of time before I was hauled off to fish court. At first I tried to avoid the inevitable, but any little let down was taken advantage of by Johnny.

The fish police probably still show the surveillance video of the time Johnny put all fifty of his metal Hot Wheel cars into the tank. They probably had fish paramedics standing by ready to knock down our door the time Johnny used my dirty coffee cup to scoop one of the fish out of the tank. I’m sure their records show that we rarely clean the tank and that we once went on a two week vacation and forgot to have someone come in to feed them. But they can’t press charges against us. We have a perfect alibi.

Those damn fish are still alive. And they’re five years old now.

I think they must be made out of the same material they use for the black boxes in airplane cockpits. I’m pretty sure that if my house burned down, those fish would still be alive, swimming in the water from the fireman’s hose. If Johnny and his little brother Sean (now age 2) didn’t kill them with their various different fish taunting schemes by now, they can’t be killed. They are superhero fish.

I feel a little bit more relaxed these days, but every now and then when I go out to get the newspaper in the morning, I think I see a van from the fish store at the corner. And while I’ve never had the courage to step foot into the fish store again, I’m sure a poster of my face is still hanging behind the cash register, with the snarling headline “THIS MAN IS CRUEL TO FISH.”

I haven’t seen the fish guy now in five years, but if I did, there is something I’d want to say to him: You really should charge a little more than $2 for three fish.

What is the price of immortality?



This article was written as a Suburban Man, but also appeared in Lake Magazine.

Half Empty: Christmas Letter Greatest Hits (Part 4)

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.





CHRISTMAS LETTER GREATEST HITS (Part 4)

By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern


Tis the season for Christmas form letters from long-lost friends and family members. We've been big fans of these since childhood, and we've actually acquired quite a collection over the past decade or two. (Send us yours by clicking on the "E-mail me" link on the right.)

Most letters are a little boring and maybe a little too inside for mass consumption, but others are Christmas letters for the ages. We're going to feature a few of those between now and Christmas this year. This classic comes from Christmas 1964.

Dear Friends and Family,

Remember in February when my husband took me on that cheap cruise to celebrate our 30th anniversary?

Remember how I complained that I don’t like boats and was afraid that the weather might get rough?

Remember how all of you said that it’ll be fine and just suck it up for the short time?

Well I got five words for you: THREE HOUR TOUR MY ASS!

You’ve probably noticed that Thurston and I haven’t been around the club much this year. That’s because the ship took ground on the shore of some uncharted desert isle. We’ve been stranded here ever since.

Just sit back and I’ll tell you the tale of how we spent 1964 with the five most annoying people on earth.

First there’s this imbecile named Gilligan. He likes to be called a mighty sailin’ man, but it’s unbelievable how clumsy he is. He breaks something really important every week. The amount of time we spend propping up this moron’s deflated ego is ridiculous. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and he’ll be hit by a coconut in the coconut.

Then there’s this overweight gentleman that piloted us right into an island. He weighs in the neighborhood of 300 pounds, and somehow hasn’t lost an ounce despite living on a deserted island. He must be eating 600 oranges a day.

Would you believe Ginger Grant is on our island? Oh, you've never heard of her either? We’ve been here ten months and this "movie star" has already produced 5 variety shows. She keeps saying how lucky it was that I brought nine trunks of clothing. She uses my finest dresses as costumes. Can you imagine? This is probably the best she's ever looked in her dismal career.

There’s also another gentleman we call the professor. The others consider him a “genius" because he can make radios out of bamboo and formulas to cure every disease. He can’t figure out how to get us off this island, however.

Finally, there’s this very sweet girl named Mary Ann. She’s so nice that she’s driving me positively batty. She’s always trying to make the best of things despite our lack of electricity and servants. I hate her guts.

We’ll that’s about it on my end. If you get this letter please keep the bottle that it came in. You know how cheap Thurston can be. Oh and by the way, if you see Sherwood Schwartz kick him in the family jewels for me, OK?

Love and Kisses,

Lovey

Next week: The very first Christmas letter.



If you've missed any of our previous columns, click here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: The Santa Threat

By Rick Kaempfer




You may not know the name Haven Gillespie, but if you’re a parent, he has given you the gift that keeps on giving. Since 1934, American parents have quoted this wise Kentucky philosopher on a regular basis; especially during the months between September and December. J. Fred Coots may have written the music that makes Gillespie’s words more memorable, but it’s the words themselves that have resonated with parents.


Haven Gillespie wrote the lyrics for “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”



While it’s certain that parents used the Santa threat well before Gillespie wrote the lyrics for that song, he gave the threat credibility. I think that’s the secret to the song’s longevity—a reason why it has become a standard; a beloved holiday song. The music may be warm and comforting, but the lyrics are a none-too-subtle threat.


You better watch out,
You better not cry,
You better not pout,
I’m telling you why,
Santa Claus is coming to town



If you’re a parent that hasn’t quoted that song at one time or another, then you’re a saint. The temptation is simply too strong. When the little darlings are acting up, crying, or whining, and it’s during those glorious months between September and December, a simple humming of this song will often stop them in their tracks. It’s the Santa threat.

Sure, Santa brings presents, but he’s a little scary.

You better watch out!

Sure, Santa brings presents, but he hates whiners.

You better not cry
You better not pout

Parents may have told their kids this before 1934, but when the words are in a song, they have gravitas. Keep in mind this song was written during the Great Depression when children already knew they weren’t going to get much. The 1934 Santa had a much smaller bag, and he wasn’t going to bother putting toys in that bag for whiners or complainers. That must have been pretty obvious to kids in 1934, but I’m still glad Gillespie put it in the song. It’s not obvious to my kids. As a matter of fact, between January and September, I tell them not to whine, cry, and pout all the time—and it’s like I’m saying ‘blah, blah, blah.’ But during the autumn months, I simply sing Gillespie’s wonderful lyrics. It gives my words power and meaning, because…

Santa Claus is coming to town.

While the first verse is great for handling simple whining and crying problems, the second verse of the song is positively visionary. This is the verse that lets my kids know that the entire matter is out of my hands. I’d love to help them out, but I’m not the one keeping the list; Santa is. Take it up with the bald fat man at the North Pole. He’s the one that controls the presents, and he’s not around, so you’re wasting your breath begging me. What is the kindly old man doing right now?

He’s making a list,
He’s checking it twice.




I have probably said those words a thousand times in my ten years of parenthood. My oldest son Tommy nods knowingly when I sing it. Don’t question Santa. The man is a stickler for detail. Dad forgets things all the time, but he’s not keeping a list. That Santa character is the real deal. I once heard Tommy explaining to his little brother that Santa has people everywhere—a network of spies that rivals the KGB. You may run, but you can’t hide. Don’t believe me? Listen to the words…

He’s going to find out who’s naughty and nice.

I know I’m speaking for most parents in this country when I say: Thank you Haven Gillespie. Thank you for the crying, thank you for the pouting, thank you for the list, and thank you for making him check it twice, and thank you for not mincing words. It’s the “N” word, kids. It’s naughty. Case closed. You probably just made the list, and Santa isn’t the kind of guy who fools around. He’s a stalker.

He sees you when you’re sleeping,

That’s probably the scariest line in the song. I like to sing it in a sinister voice.

He knows when you’re awake.

I’m betting that not many parents use that line, but I have two boys who share a room. I’ve opened the door on school nights more than a few times to sing that line. It silences the boys instantly—like magic. I love that line, but not as much as I love the refrain. It’s what gives the song a happy ending—a course of action.

He knows if you’ve been bad or good,
So be good for goodness sake.

Now that’s just the Santa threat in the most direct terms possible, but it comes with a positive message, even if it’s said through a forced smile. When a child is pouting, or whining, or wailing, or fighting, or doing anything at all other than what Mom and Dad want them to do, the solution is right there.

Be good for goodness sake.

Got it? Good. Now go to your room.

Most kids don’t even know the rest of the song. The next few verses are full of boys and girls having a jubilee, and kiddie cars and curly head dolls…but kids have a very hard time remembering those verses. The message of the first two verses and the refrain are still ringing in their darling little ears.

And for that, we should all thank Haven Gillespie.

If he hadn’t passed away in 1975, we would be calling him right now to commission another song. By ten in the morning on December 25th, if you try the Santa threat again, even if you sing the most powerful holiday song of all time, you will probably get a reaction something like this:

“Santa’s already been here. Look at all these presents! He loves me!”

I know I speak for most parents when I say it’s time for a new song to cover the time from December 25th to September 1st. That’s a long time to parent without such a powerful threat. Consider this a plea to the Haven Gillespie of the 21st century. I don’t want to be greedy, but if the words could say something about video games being taken away forever, that would be great.


Note: This article also appeared in SHORE magazine's 2005 Holiday issue


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

WJMK Photo Album (1993-2003)

South Side St. Patrick's Day Parade 1997. John Landecker, Rick, baby Tommy Kaempfer, Bridget Kaempfer, and Andi Kuhn.







Rick in the WJMK studios, around 4:00 a.m. I didn't sleep for a decade.











The John Landecker morning show, circa 2000. From Left to Right: Rick, John Landecker, Leslie Keiling, Richard Cantu, Vince Argento.








The John Landecker show on our first day together, 1993. From left to right: Richard Cantu, Lonnie Martin, John Landecker, Rick, Vicki Truax.

















Live broadcast: the Dominican Republic, November 2001. Men dressed as women getting a kick out of the uncomfortable German guy.









The Dancing Itos at Lambs Farm: Rick and Vince, circa 1996.