When I was a radio disc jockey and producer, I spoke to listeners on the telephone every day. Many of the calls were song requests, and many of those requests came from people misquoting a song title or misunderstanding the lyrics. Some of them were pretty hilarious.

I kept track of them because I was going to compile them into a book. Unfortunately, somebody beat me to it. (Gavin Edwards wrote “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.”)

I hadn’t looked at that list for a long time, but this week I pulled it out again because I had to add a new one to the Beatles list, courtesy of my son Johnny.

Here are a few of my favorites already on the list…

*Someone once asked for the Beatles song–”All my luggage, I will send to you.” (Actual words–”All my loving”)

*Another time a teenage girl asked for the Beatles song about Britney Spears. I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I asked her sing it. She sang the last sentence of the song “Sgt. Pepper.”
“So let me introduce to you, the only and only Britney Spears, and someone’s gonna hold her by the ha-ha-hand.” (Actual words–”And let me introduce to you, the one and only Billy Shears, and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”)

*My old boss John Landecker was once inspired to do a bit about the song “Lucy in the sky with Diamonds” because a listener thought one of the lines was: “The girl with colitis goes by.” (Actual words–”The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”)

*A middle aged woman once requested the song: “She’s got a tick in her eye.” (Actual words–”She’s got a ticket to ride.”)

And now Johnny joins the list with his interpretation of the lyrics from “Lady Madonna.” I heard him sing this while listening to his iPod the other day and made him repeat it to make sure I understood him correctly. This is what he thought the words were…

“Lady Madonna, chewing at your feet, wonder how she managed to eat, eat, eat.” (Actual words–”Lady Madonna, children at your feet, wonder how you manage to make ends meet.”)

So close.

Do you have any to add to the list before I put it away again?

In the blink of an eye, I aged ten years.

It happened on Thursday around 3:30. My oldest boy Tommy (14) was walking my youngest boy Sean (7) home from school, which he does every single day.

There was only one difference on Thursday. I had to run to the store for something, so I drove up beside them to let them know. We were literally fifty feet away from our home. I rolled down the window…

“Tommy, I have to run to the store. Get Sean started on his homework, please. I’ll be back in ten minutes tops.”

“OK Dad,” he said.

“Dad, wait!” Sean said. “I need to tell you something important.”

He climbed into the passenger seat and reached over to give me a hug. That was the important thing he needed to tell me.

“Hurry up and catch up to your brother,” I said.

Tommy had crossed the street and was waiting on the front step of our house for Sean. Sean closed the car door, and started to run. The split second after he closed the door, a school bus turned the corner onto my street. It seemed to come out of nowhere.

I could see the bus driver’s face, and she was looking in the rear view mirror at some unruly kids. I couldn’t see Sean, because he had already run around the back of the mini-van at full speed (his only speed).

In the blink of an eye I could see what was about to happen and there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it: Sean was about to run right in front of a moving bus, and the bus driver wasn’t going to see him.

I felt fear unlike any I’ve ever experienced, and screamed at the top of my lungs…

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Stoooooooooooooooooooppppppppppp!”

It was no use. I was inside the car with the windows closed. The sound of the bus drowned out my screams. Sean couldn’t hear me. The bus driver couldn’t hear me.

Sean ran into the street, the bus didn’t slow down–the driver didn’t even see him–but Sean somehow stopped on a dime no more than two steps away from the bus. He was so close to it, his hair moved from the breeze as it drove by him.

That’s a vision that will stay in my brain for the rest of my life.

Sean shook it off within a few minutes.

I’m still shaking three days later.

In the blink of an eye I almost lost my boy.

The first rule of fight club is supposed to be that nobody talks about fight club. Johnny broke that rule as soon as he came home from school.

“Dad, I have to go over to the park after I finish my homework. I’ve got a fight.”

“A what?”

“A fight. You know, a fist fight. One of the other sixth graders challenged me to a fight.”

“For what reason?” I asked.

“One of his buddies was saying he was such a weakling that he couldn’t even beat me up,” Johnny explained. (Johnny is the smallest kid in his class.) “So, he came up and challenged me to a fight.”

“And you said yes?”

“I had to, Dad,” he said. “If I didn’t do it, I’d be called a wuss for the rest of my life.”

Ah, the age-old testosterone-fueled dilemma. Choice #1: Get pounded by a kid a foot taller than you for no reason at all. Choice #2: Avoid the needless physical pounding, and instead get pounded emotionally by the entire school. There really isn’t a choice #3–A totally unfair situation that made me want to go pound this kid myself.

I must admit, I never figured a way out of this dilemma when I was Johnny’s age, and in the thirty five years that have passed since then, the wisdom required to come up with a solution had still eluded me.

I went through all the various scenarios as Johnny finished his homework. If I called the boy’s mom and dad (who by the way, are perfectly reasonable people–his dad is a cop), Johnny would have been mocked by the kids at school for needing his dad to rescue him. If I let him go, he would have been pounded for no reason at all (although I suspected that Johnny would be a much tougher fight than this kid realized.) And if I convinced him not to go, he would have been subjected to totally unfair taunting and abuse, and that couldn’t happen either. I had no idea what to do.

Johnny finished his homework and put on his coat. “Gotta go, Dad.”

“At least let me drive you over there,” I said. “I promise I won’t let anyone see me.”

Johnny agreed.

I had decided that there was no way I was going to let this fight take place. I just didn’t have a clue how I was going to accomplish that without destroying Johnny’s reputation.

When we drove by the park, we saw the crowd forming. A dozen or so 6th grade spectators were there, hoping to see a “real” fight. There were only two kids missing in the crowd; Johnny, and the kid that challenged Johnny to the fight.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“I can’t believe it,” Johnny said. “He didn’t show up.”

Johnny was so happy he could barely contain himself. He knew he was going to get credit for fighting without actually having to fight. I brought up a point that he hadn’t considered.

“You know these guys are going to keep putting pressure on this kid until he actually does show up, don’t you?” I pointed out. “The only reason he challenged you in the first place was because he was taunted into it. Do you think there will be less taunting now that he didn’t show up?”

“Oh no,” he said.

So, Johnny thought about it, and came up with a pretty good solution, and he handled it completely by himself. He let everyone know that even though he had shown up for the fight, he had no intention of actually fighting the kid, so it didn’t even matter that the other kid didn’t show up. Here were his three reasons, which I watched him count off on his fingers from afar.

#1: I’m not willing to get suspended or expelled.
#2: I’m not willing to get put in jail.
#3: I’m never going to fight anyone for no reason at all. That’s just stupid.

To my shock and surprise, the other kids considered that to be a totally reasonable response. He had gained their respect for having the courage to show up and say that–especially knowing that the other kid hadn’t shown up at all. The next day at school, the no-show kid even thanked Johnny. He was being razzed a bit for not showing up, but because Johnny made it clear there would never be a fight, the pressure was off.

I don’t know if that solution will work for anyone else confronted with a similar age-old testosterone-fueled dilemma, but I’m mighty proud of Johnny for making it work for him.

I would recognize that guilty look anywhere.

“What’s going on in here?” I asked Sean. My seven year old was sitting silently on the chair pretending like nothing was going on.

“Nothing,” he said.

He subtly tried to cover the television remote with a nearby blanket.

“Were you watching TV?” I asked.

“No,” he lied.

“It’s OK,” I said. “You can tell me the truth. Were you watching TV?”

He lowered his eyes and nodded.

“That’s not a big deal,” I said. “You can watch TV if you’re all ready to go.”

He was dressed. He had eaten breakfast. He had brushed his teeth. His backpack was leaning against the front door, ready to go. I didn’t see what the problem was.

“I don’t want to,” he said. Again, that guilty expression on his face was unmistakable.

“What were you watching?” I asked.

“NOTHING!” he screamed.

I reached for the remote.

“NO, DAD! DON’T!” he screamed.

“Were you watching one of the pay movie channels or something?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, then what’s the big deal?” I asked.

I clicked the remote and he squealed in protest. “NO, DAD, NO!”

As soon as I saw the image on the screen I understood. He fell to his knees at my feet, his hands clasped together in praying position.

“Please don’t tell Tommy & Johnny,” he said. “Pleeeeeeeeease. Please don’t tell them.”

“You know,” I said, desperately trying to keep a straight face, “there’s nothing wrong with watching Dora.”

“But Dora’s for girls,” he said from his knees, his hands still clasped together.

“That’s not true,” I said. “Your brothers watched Dora occasionally when they were younger.”

His eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

Sean got up, and began to run out of the room. I called after him before he could turn the corner.

“And if I hear you making fun of them for that,” I said, “I’ll tell them you were watching it too.”

He stopped in tracks. He turned around and looked at me. Sure enough, that evil grin was right where I thought it would be.

“Darn,” he said.

Watch it, kid. I know you better than you know yourself.

I literally hear this phrase every single day from one of my boys: “Oh, sorry Dad. I forgot.”

I know all kids forget, but I’ve been told by their teachers that the Kaempfer boys have a hyper-developed forgetful streak. It’s so legendary that one of Johnny’s teachers actually complimented me via e-mail one time when Johnny remembered something.

And Johnny’s doing better than Tommy did at the same age.

Where are the books you need to do your homework? “I forgot.”
Why didn’t the teacher get the permission slip back? “I forgot.”
Why didn’t you turn in your homework? “I forgot.”

We’ve tried everything to help them remember. We encouraged them write things down, hoping that would reinforce their memories. They would either forget to write it, or forget where they wrote it, or forget to refer to it.

We attached Post It notes to their backpacks and books with simple messages like: “VIOLA” (Johnny forgets it at school every week) or “HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT” or “PERMISSION SLIP” or “JACKET” or “LUNCH BOX.” That worked once or twice, but never consistently.

The other day it got to the point that I couldn’t take it anymore. When Tommy forgot his homework assignment AGAIN, I had to leave the room before I said something I would regret. My mom happened to be there at the time, and let’s just say, I didn’t find her response to be too helpful. She was doing all she could to stop herself from laughing out loud.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“This isn’t funny,” I pointed out. “This has become a serious problem.”

“No kidding,” she said.

She was biting her lip to avoid laughing right in my face.

I didn’t get the joke until later that night. I went to a concert with a few buddies of mine. We all met at a restaurant near the venue so that we could have dinner together before the show. After dinner, my buddy asked, “Do you want your concert ticket now or should I give it to you at the theater?”

“Just give it to me there,” I said jokingly. “I don’t want to lose it.”

The other three guys got in their cars and drove to the show (a few minutes away). I was parked on a different level, so I told them I would meet them there.

I looked on level 3–I was pretty sure I had parked there. No car. Hmmm, maybe it’s on level 4. Nope. Level 5? No. Level 6? No. I must have just missed it on level 3. I went back to level 3 and started over. I pressed the little remote key button hoping to hear the horn. Nothing. Same thing on levels 4, 5, and 6.

Oh no. I looked at my watch. Nearly twenty minutes had elapsed and I still hadn’t found my car.

My cellphone rang. It was my friend.

“Where are you? The concert starts in five minutes.”

“Um…I can’t find my car.”

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe it was towed,” I suggested.

“Out of a parking garage?” he said. “They never tow cars out of free parking lots. Why would they do that?”

“Good point.”

“Well hurry up, nimrod. I’m standing out in front of the theater with your ticket.”

I took a deep breath and did what I always tell my kids to do when they can’t find things: Retrace your steps. So I took the elevator back to the ground floor and walked through the entrance of the parking garage as if I was in my car, and walked up the ramp I had driven up earlier, hoping it would spark my memory.

Sure enough. There it was. I called my friend to tell him I was on my way.

“Where was your car?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” I said, not willing to fully admit how stupid I really was.

“C’mon,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. “You owe me this. I’m missing the beginning of the show right now. Where was it?”

“About ten spaces away from where you were parked on level 2,” I admitted.

He laughed out loud. “How could that happen?”

“I forgot,” I said.

As soon as I heard myself saying the words, I realized that I had said those same words at least a thousand times before. And I also realized why my mom was laughing so hard about Tommy’s forgetfulness.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

I’ve been told that the experience of raising girls is a slightly different experience than raising boys. I never doubted that because Bridget and I have something like a thousand nieces (all wonderful girls), and we’ve seen the subtle and not so subtle differences over the years. Girls tend to be more verbal, more polite, and I think it’s safe to say, more complicated.

Recently, however, we got a glimpse of another huuuuuuuuuuge difference.

We went to a dinner party; five or six couples and their kids. Our boys were the only boys there. The rest of the kids were all girls, ranging in age from say 6 to 14.

After dinner, the boys went off by themselves and played video games somewhere. The girls, on the other hand, gathered in a room and started “working on something.”

Meanwhile the parents gathered in the living room and had nice grown up dinner party chat. In the midst of a discussion about some current event-type issue like health care, someone turned off the lights. A little girl with a Mr. Microphone announced her arrival.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your places. The show is about to begin.”

I laughed, but when I looked around at the other parents, I noticed they weren’t laughing. They were adjusting their chairs for the show. Bridget gave me “the look.” I knew what the look meant. I was doing something wrong. I just didn’t know what.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The show,” Bridget said. Her tone of voice let me know that I was an idiot for not understanding, but in my defense, she has five sisters and knew what was about to happen. I have one sister, and she never did anything like this.

The music began, and the MC reclaimed control. “Is everyone in place?” she asked.

“Yes!” the parents exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Where are Tommy, Johnny, and Sean?” the MC asked.

One of the other girls dragged them out, and told them to take a seat. The boys looked at me for an explanation, but I could offer nothing more than a shrug. All the while the thumping music of some boy band (I was later told it was the Jonas Brothers) was playing at a fairly loud volume.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC began, “may I present…the Princess Patrol!”

Three little girls, about the age of Sean (he’s 7), came out in their princess outfits and began doing a semi-synchronized dance to a Jonas Brothers song. It was actually pretty good. When the song ended, we all clapped.

“The Princess Patrol,” the MC said. The clapping got louder, and they came back out to take their bows.

I looked at my boys, and couldn’t help but laugh again. You should have seen their facial expressions. It was like they were staring at some exotic animal just flown in from a previously deserted island. This was totally foreign to them. Bridget heard me laughing and gave me another look.

Right. Got it. No laughing.

The show went on for another twenty minutes or so. I kept waiting for one of the parents to say something like, “OK, girls. That was great, thanks for the show. What do you say we take a little break and maybe do the rest of the show later.” But no-one said that. We were all in this thing for the long haul.

I must admit, the quality of the dancing was surprisingly good. The music was a little “fingernails on the chalkboard”-ish, but the girls were really enjoying themselves. You could see the joy on their faces. When they all came out after the grand finale to take their individual bows, they received thunderous ovations.

After the ovations died down, I turned to the boys and said: “OK fellas, your turn.”

Now it was Tommy, Johnny and Sean’s turn to give me “the look.” Sean was their spokesperson. “We’re not girls, Dad,” he said.

Nope, you sure aren’t. If I ever had any doubts before, I don’t anymore.

All three of my boys have iPods and listen to them as often as they can. Each iPod has a totally different kind of playlist.

Tommy likes 70s pop, but he also loves electronica like Kraftwerk, Orbital, and his own compositions (he’s probably written a few dozen songs on garage band, and they’re actually quite good).

Johnny’s more of a traditional classic rock kid–he likes the Beatles, the Who, and for some strange reason, Bryan Adams.

Sean, meanwhile, listens to whatever his big brothers loaded into his iPod. It’s an incredibly strange mix of Tommy’s favorites and Johnny’s favorites. The other day after he turned off his iPod, he asked me a question.

“Dad, how old are the Beach Boys?”

“Probably around 70,” I answered.

“Whoa. That’s older than Oma (his grandmother)!”

“I know.”

“Why do they call themselves ‘Beach Boys?’”

It’s a good question. 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.

“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?

Sean is right. The Beach Boys need a new name. But they aren’t alone. That’s why I’m offering the following new band names free of charge for the bands listed below.

The Replacements—The Hip Replacements
The Rolling Stones—The Gall Stones
Sly and the Famly Stone—Sly and the Kidney Stone
The Four Tops—The Quadruple Bypass
The OJays—The Ben Gays
ABBA—AARP
Country Joe & The Fish—Old Country Buffet & the All-You-Can-Eat Fish Fry

These “old dudes” in these “rebranded” bands will be considered young for their age if they take my advice. It’s never too late to fix a lack of foresight.

Not every band is as smart as The Electric Prunes, The Grateful Dead, Gerry & the Pacemakers, The Kinks, or Limp Bizkit. They knew they would have to live with their names for a long time and planned ahead.

I knew this day was coming. I asked for this back in 1975 or so when I started refusing to get my haircut. My father and I had horrible fights about it. He thought I looked like a freak. I thought I looked totally cool.

He was right. The pictures don’t lie. (And no, I’m not going to post one)

My oldest son Tommy is now 14 and he has begun resisting haircuts too. He has a big floppy mane –totally unkempt and wild. It looks a little Beatles-esque (not the suit wearing adorable mop-tops…the slightly older version), and a little Welcome Back Kotter. In short, it looks just like the haircut I sported in the 1970s.

Of course, he’s not alone.

At church I noticed a half-dozen other teenage boys who also had the same haircuts. When did this happen? I thought that bushy, shaggy, ‘I can’t see you because I have hair in my eyes’ look has been very dead for a very long time. And for good reason, I might add.

I wanted to pull those kids aside and warn them of their future embarrassment. “Kids, look,” I wanted to say, “this may be in style right now, but trust me, one day it will humiliate you.” I know what I’m talking about here. I’ve walked in their shoes. In 1978 or so, my hair accounted for something like 50% of my body weight.

On the other hand, this return to the 70s has alleviated my guilt in another area. I no longer feel bad about the twisted knowledge of pop culture I’ve inadvertently been teaching my children. When I left the Oldies radio station, I took all of my CDs back home with me. This had an unintended consequence: my oldest son discovered them.

Tommy particularly loves my seven-CD boxed set of “The Greatest Hits of the 70s.” These CDs don’t have the cool songs from the 70s that have become classic rock favorites. Instead, they feature the pop hits that were played into the ground by Top 40 radio: embarrassing hit songs that are even inexplicable to people who lived through the 1970s. (Think “Seasons in the Sun”, “Billy Don’t Be a Hero”, “The Night Chicago Died”, etc.)

How has this twisted my son? Let me give you three examples of actual conversations that should never be taking place in the 21st century. For those of you too young to remember these songs, I’ll explain them at the end of this post.

1. We were in stop and go traffic on the highway. Tommy pointed out the window. There must have been fifteen trucks back-to-back-to-back. Tommy said; “Dad, it looks like we got us a convoy.”*

2. I took the two older boys with me to the grocery store. We were waiting in line at the deli counter, when Tommy noticed the Muzak being piped into the store. He said; “Dad, it’s Mike Post.” I said, “I think it’s just Muzak.” He responded confidently; “No, that’s definitely the original ‘Theme from the Rockford Files.”

3. Tommy and I were listening to the radio on our way to his piano lesson. As we pulled into the parking lot, Tommy begged me to let him stay in the car. I asked him what was wrong, and he said: “Nothing’s wrong, I just want to hear the rest of ‘Theme from Shaft.’” When I jokingly said “That Shaft is one bad mother,” he said “Shut your mouth.”**

He has now loaded all seven “Greatest Hits of the 70s” CDs onto iTunes. He even double-checks iTunes after I listen to it, to make sure that I haven’t deleted any of his songs. He actually noticed when “Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson was deleted. That’s where I had to draw the line. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I never promised you (I wouldn’t delete) Rose Garden.”***

I know most of these songs don’t exactly stand the test of time, but I must admit I do get a kick out of watching his passion for this music. I even asked for a list of his favorites, and he effortlessly ticked them off for me: “Dancing in the Moonlight” by King Harvest, “Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You” by Sugarloaf, “Saturday Night” by the Bay City Rollers, “Love Rollercoaster” by the Ohio Players, and “Evil Woman” by ELO. You must admit, that’s not exactly a typical play-list.

I used to feel guilty for distorting his knowledge of popular culture in this way, but I decided to stop fighting it. If that hair style is back, maybe those songs will actually become popular again. But I’ll tell you right now, if he asks me to buy him some “earth shoes,” I’ll have no choice but get him professional help.

That’s going too far.

*”Convoy” by C.W. McCall was actually a #1 hit in 1976. It’s a trucker song. If you need someone to operate your CB Radio, Tommy’s your man. “Breaker Breaker, this here’s the rubber duck.”

**Those are the lyrics from “Theme from Shaft.” I’m not swearing, and Tommy’s not being rude.

***”Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson is the worst song ever recorded. The fact that it became a huge hit in 1971 is a black eye for this country; an embarrassment from which we still haven’t recovered. She was finally arrested in 2005 (although not for this–she shoplifted a Harry Potter DVD).

My youngest boy turns 7 years old today. He’s spending the weekend camping with his mom…his first camping trip as a Cub Scout.

Like his brothers, Sean was born on the radio. Read all about that here.

My middle son Johnny’s best friend recently moved to Poland, and I’ve been having flashbacks about my own childhood ever since.

His friend was born in America to Polish parents, but when the economy got bad, his parents decided they had a better chance of making ends meet back in their homeland. So, they moved back to Poland, even though all of their kids (all five) had never been there.

The exact same thing happened to me and my siblings in the 1970s. Except we didn’t move to Poland; we moved to Germany.

And it happened just as suddenly. My Dad came home from work one day and said: “We’re moving to Germany.” Within a few weeks we were gone.

I had the same type of upbringing as Johnny’s friend. We spoke German in our home. We lived in a Chicago neighborhood that was entirely German. We socialized with Germans, attended sporting events (soccer games) with Germans, and went to stores owned and operated by Germans.

It wasn’t until we moved out to the suburbs that we began to integrate into American society. Moving to the suburbs meant moving out of our comfortable German bubble and into America proper.

How German were we? My mother actually sent me to the first day of kindergarten dressed in lederhosen because she had no idea how strange that looked to the other kids. I had to learn English in school. I played a sport, soccer, that the other kids in the neighborhood didn’t even know existed.

As my mother puts it now: “the school nurse was calling us every day.” The bigger kids picked on me physically. They made fun of my name, my heritage, my sport, and our accents (Hogan’s Heroes wasn’t exactly helpful either). I felt like a freak. And I was a white kid. I can only imagine what it would have been like for an Asian kid, or an Indian kid, or an African kid.

I can point to the precise moment my life changed forever. The neighbor boy Stu rang our doorbell, and said: “Hi, I’m Stu, and I’m going to be your best friend.” Stu took me under his wing, showed me what it was like to be a normal American boy, and helped transform a dangerously shy German boy into just another kid in the neighborhood. By the time second grade started, it was effortless. I felt I belonged.

Then in fifth grade, it all fell apart again when my Dad told us we were moving back to Germany. I was absolutely crushed.

Johnny’s friend is exactly the same age I was. I could see the panic in his eyes when he told us he was moving to Poland. He had worked so hard to integrate, and now he was going to be a fish out of water…again. I knew exactly how he felt.

But before he left America, I told him something to give him hope. When I moved in the 70s, the only realistic way to stay in touch was via letters. Letters that often took weeks to arrive. Despite this barrier, I remained friends with my buddy Stu in America because we actually took time to write. In fact, when my family moved back to America (in the early 80s), we picked up right where we left off, and Stu remains one of my best friends to this day.

In this internet age, with e-mail, social networking, cellphones, texting, and skype, it’s easier than ever to stay in touch. So far (it’s been a few months) they’re doing a great job.

But I must admit, as badly as I feel for my own son (the loss of his best friend), I can’t stop thinking about that boy in Poland. His whole world has turned upside down.

I told Johnny that his job is to make sure his world here remains familiar enough that when he returns, it will be like he never left.

Everybody needs a Stu.