Classic card of the week

Michael Chang, Sports Illustrated for Kids

It’s pretty safe to say I was the only kid on the block with a Michael Chang tennis card, which, obviously, gave me quite the confidence boost as I biked around the neighborhood in search of worthy adversaries and also my soul mate. “Whatchu know about Michael Chang?” was a common phrase I could be heard condescendingly tossing in the direction of an unsuspecting sucka, while the surrounding kids laughed at this person’s lack of Michael Chang knowledge and memorabilia. It’s also pretty safe to say I am now one of the few people in the world that owns a perforated Michael Chang tennis card, and that’s not to brag. Well, kind of. Sorry, haters.

Chang me.



In 1989, Michael became the youngest man ever to win the French Open and also the first American man to win it since 1955. He was just 17 years 3 months old!

First of all, exclamation point! Second of all, seriously, that is ridonk. A 17-year-old winning a Grand Slam event is absurd. And what the hell, America? You can’t win in France for 34 years until my boy Chang over here has to be like, “I am 17, but screw it—I’m bringing this trophy back to America, bee-otches.” That is embarrassing. But not as embarrassing as being France. I mean, how many times do we have to bail France out of war and mundane tennis competitions? I realize this happened 23 years ago, but eat it, France. Get a clue, Johnny Depp.

Truth be told, 17 for a tennis player is pretty much his or her prime. If you haven’t at least won a tennis tournament by the time you’re 7 it’s basically time to head back to the drawing board and consider a new career. That’s not to take anything away from Michael Chang though—I’m just saying his most notable achievement wasn’t really all that impressive or important.

Michael, who likes to go on fishing trips while on the tennis tour,

I am going to go out on a limb and say that Michael Chang was the youngest man to ever catch a striped bass while awaiting his turn to participate in a professional tennis event.

Michael’s dad came to the U.S. from Taiwan.

“Arrest him!” – Sheriff Joe Arpaio

Where and what is Taiwan?

Hmmm, excellent question, Sports Illustrated for Kids. I am unsure, since, although I subscribe to your magazine, I process information at a pre-school level. But let me use context to try and figure this out.

Taiwan is … on my shoulder and is … a parrot! No, no …

Taiwan is … in a toolbox and is … a screwdriver! No, that can’t be right.

Taiwan is … riding on a glacier and is … a polar bear! No, wait, I’m pretty sure a polar bear is just a polar bear. I give up. It looks like I will have to turn this card over …

Answer: It is an island located off the southeast coast of mainland China that is officially known as the (Nationalist) Republic of China.

Nice try, Sports Illustrated for Kids. You can’t patronize me with simpleton questions while also trying to bombard me with Communist propaganda. I SEE THROUGH YOU!

Did you know?
I did not stoop to the level of using the term Changsanity, for which I should be praised.

Tanger Outlets to fulfill hopes, dreams of more clothes

Note: This column appears in the 3/8 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/9 issue of the Peoria Times.

When I was a kid, and before I actually ever went to one, an “outlet” was an entity of mysterious retail dreams. For the longest time, I was under the impression—because, I think, one of my idiot friends told me this—that the outlet was a place to find not only merchandise unavailable at its regular store counterpart, but also for considerably less money. The outlet, you see, eliminated the middleman. No more insane markups; these would be direct-from-the-manufacturer purchases. This was like a real-life infomercial, and I was never prouder to live in this land called America than when I spoke of the outlet store.

Finally, by my senior year in high school, I was presented the chance to go with some friends to “the outlets” somewhere in north Jersey. I think the town itself was called “The Outlets” because that’s the only thing people went there for. The streets were paved with jeans and the mayor was Tommy Hilfiger, some claimed. As if some dream had come true, I would actually be going to the fabled Nike outlet. I think I brought $25, and I had planned on coming home with three pairs of sneakers and some shirts.

Those certain disappointments in life that result from, as retrospect later proves, child-like naïveté become embedded in our souls, and this was one of those times. There was nothing for me to buy at the outlets for $25, and this was in 1996, when $25 was worth like $75. I bought a Cinnabon at the food court and lost the change when it fell out of my pocket on the car ride home. The outlets, by my estimation, were ten times more expensive than any store I had been to in my life. Also, my entire time there was spent being trampled by people who could, apparently, afford to purchase the merchandise, or were tying to steal it.

I was reminded of my childhood outlet experience when it was revealed recently that the Tanger Outlet Center will be built next to Westgate City Center. Regardless of my own personal aversion to outlets, this is, I think, good news. The outlets will reportedly bring with them up to 900 retail jobs, and many feel as though this will provide an economic boost to Westgate itself.

The reason Westgate needs an economic boost is because not many people were going to its retail stores—evidenced by, ya’ know, Westgate’s foreclosure—but now more stores will be nearby, so … yeah. According to various economists whom I have not actually spoken to, the economy is down not because people don’t have money, but because people don’t have enough places to spend the money they don’t have. Surely, many locals have said, “Westgate is alright, I guess. But call me when they build something next to Westgate that is like Westgate but with more stores. Then I’ll go.”

The Tanger Outlets will undoubtedly relieve the immense local pressure for more apparel. It probably won’t help the struggling Centerline District, or the Coyotes, or the locally unemployed who are overqualified to fold shirts, but still. It will help. Because that is what people are saying.

Although it may not help me, personally. I am 33-years old and still cannot afford to shop at outlets. I shop at Kohl’s. On the rare occasion I find myself at an outlet store, I go immediately to the clearance section, where I might purchase a t-shirt so that I can say I participated in the process. God bless America.

Classic card of the week

Willie Randolph, 1980 Topps

Willie Randolph never got enough credit. I mean, from me he did. But not from you guys. You guys are jerks.

It wasn’t Willie’s fault he had to share the limelight with the Greatest Baseball Player in the History of the Universe, or Mr. May, or Rickey being Rickey (man, how did those teams suck so bad? Oh yeah, pitching). All Willie did was go out there everyday and play second base and … boy, how awesome was Donnie, amiright? I miss him so much.

Even when he was managing he didn’t get enough respect. When the stupid Mets collapsed in 2007, everyone was like, “Blame Willie! What’s up with Willie? He’s just sitting there! Willie should do something! Willie!” and I was like, “Hold up, morons! The Mets are stupid! It’s not Willie’s fault the Mets are stupid!” This is a sentiment that was later proven correct, thus redeeming Willie, even though he had already been fired a long time ago. Now Willie is the third base coach for the freakin’ Orioles, and it’s like, LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO WILLIE! I don’t think anyone on the Orioles has even reached third base in six years.

For instance, in 1980 Willie Randolph posted a .427 OBP, (not coincidentally) led the league in walks with 119, stole 30, and had a 133 OPS+. That’s a sabermetric dream right there for a second baseman, but nobody really cared because by ’84 Donnie was like, “Screw this, I’m gonna post three consecutive seasons of 156 OPS+ or greater.” And there was Willie, getting on base. I mean, how do you think Mattingly drove in 145 in ’85? It wasn’t because Willie wasn’t getting on base, ya’ know. Geez, Donnie was the best.

But, if other people proved unwilling to give Willie Randolph the recognition and respect he deserved, at least he could take pride in his heritage.





Yeah, so apparently, Willie Randolph scored a lot of runs and also is white. We’ve covered this before, but I think I will mention it again and again until everyone who was misrepresented receives reparations from Topps.

1974, postgame ceremony on field, Thetford Mines

Emcee: And finally, after such a great season, I’d be remiss if I didn’t recognize our fantastic second baseman, Willie Randolph, a white person, who set an Eastern League record with a 103 runs scored! Willie, come up here and get your home plate!

Willie Randolph: Dude, I am black. And what the hell am I supposed to do with this plate? It’s looks like someone just wrote “103” on it with magic marker like five seconds ago. Can I get a plaque or something?

Emcee: Ha, ha, good stuff. Another round of applause, everyone, for Randy Willdolph, the pride of Quebec!

Did you know?
The Mets are stupid.

Arizona's linsanities

Today, Channel 12 here in AZ, in an attempt to capitalize on the linsanity craze that peaked like three weeks ago, ran a segment called, “Arizona’s Top Five ‘Linsanity’ Moments.” Indeed, it would be mega-interesting and newsworthy to unveil the Valley’s top five occasions that were most similar to when an Asian-American basketball player began playing basketball really well in New York. There was no way this wasn’t going to be completely dumb, but it somehow managed to exceed expectations.

No. 5 was when Jordin Sparks of Glendale won American Idol. I wasn’t here yet when that happened, but it was actually the number one reason my wife and I decided to move to Arizona. Watching the pure linsanity of someone from an American state win an American talent show, we just had to get to that state and see what all the fuss was about by living there permanently. When we arrived, it was impossible to escape the Jordin Sparks madness. Jordin Sparks this, Jordin Sparks that, hey, is that Jordin Sparks? Nope, just a different person. Oh well. May I pay for my stay at the Jordin Sparks Hotel with Jordin Sparks bucks? Yes? Awesome! It was almost as if she were a point guard on a basketball team, giving us all an assist in the game of life. Since then, she has capitalized on her extreme local fame by singing the National Anthem at every major Arizona sporting event, which is more than I can say for Jeremy what’s-his-name ... does he even still play basketball?

I don’t remember No.’s 4-2, but I do remember they were totally dumb. One of the things was very old-timey Arizona—remember when ol’ Chester Duckingham invented the horse? That was like linsanity!—which struck me as particularly dumb as it relates to Jeremy Lin. Arizona doesn’t really care for its minorities right now; to equate something in the past with an Asian-American could get your arrested for blasphemy by Sheriff Joe.

No. 1—the number one thing that has ever happened in Arizona that is most like linsanity—was when Stephanie Meyer of Scottsdale wrote Twilight. I want to repeat here that, according to Channel 12, the most linsanity thing that has ever happened in Arizona was when someone wrote a book. Considering I did not even know Stephanie Meyer was from Scottsdale until I saw this very segment, I would say this is exactly like linsanity, only if no one in New York realized it was happening.

Then they posted the linsanity moments that did not make the top five because, you know, it’s impossible to name only five linsanity Arizona moments when there are probably like, zero. Again, I don’t remember them all, but one of them was when the 2008 Arizona Cardinals went to the Super Bowl. That is probably the best example of linsanity, if only because it involved sports, and that was absolutely nothing like linsanity. Another one was “Jeff Hornacek.” Just that: Jeff Hornacek. The anchor then explained that Jeff Hornacek was a college walk-on before the Suns drafted him in the second round in 1986. I trust everyone recalls the “Jeffin' awesome” craze of the late 80s here in Phoenix. It was all about girls, cocaine, and basketball player Jeff Hornacek. Jeffin' awesome was like if Tim Tebow and Jeremy Lin had a baby who shot three-pointers and who set the world on fire with his extreme whiteness.

Not only was this entire thing pointless, it was inaccurate. And it had to be, because linsanity is a very time, city and player-specific thing that has happened, and is not relative to anything else, sports or otherwise. I also want to reiterate that I saw this on the news. The fact that this segment happened at all is, ironically, the most linsane thing of all.

UPDATE: Last night I randomly remembered another linsanity "honorable mention": Jimmy Eat World. The rock band. Because they are from Mesa. Remember when they played The Ed Sullivan Show and everyone was going nuts? That was Jimmy Eat World from Mesa, right? I think it was. If they retitled "Top Five Arizona 'Linsanity' Moments" to "Things That Have Happened/Entities That Formed in Arizona That Are Nothing Like 'Linsanity,'" then this would have been accurate, although it would have remained pointless. This was on the news.

Blame it on the lack of rain

Note: This column appears in the 3/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/2 issue of the Peoria Times.

There are many hot-button local issues as we head into this election season, for example, the Coyotes, the proposed casino, and like, taxes and stuff. Many prospective candidates are like, “I promise this,” and “So and so, whatever” … I don’t know—I haven’t really been paying attention. But my ears will perk up when I finally hear someone address the real issue at hand, the elephant in this room we call Arizona: Who will promise to end this drought?

I’m not sure if anyone has noticed this, but it has not rained in, I think, three years. In fact, the state of Arizona, U. S. of A., has been in a general state of droughtitude (new word) since 1999. Nineteen-ninety-nine! It hasn’t been adequately hydrated here since Sugar Ray was acceptable. (Pop culture joke; Boom, roasted, Sugar Ray. Somebody had to do it)

Not that it would have made a difference because my family loves it here, but this is yet another thing everyone somehow forgot to mention with regards to Valley life. It’s great! Perfect weather, open spaces, great cost of living … Oh, also there are a trillion scorpions and there is literally no moisture in the atmosphere. This information would have been helpful. In what way I am unsure. But it would have been.

This drought is a serious matter. Many pop artists like Phil Collins have wished for rain to hide the tears that have resulted from lost love—I have always wondered why so many singers opt to cry outdoors—but we need rain for more practical reasons, like fewer dead cows. Indeed, the drought’s effect on the soil has caused livestock to perish en masse. The general dry conditions have also made the state more susceptible to wildfires. But the most damaging area of this persistent drought has arguably been: my nose.

I cannot breath anymore, for one thing. Also, my nostrils are in a constant state of bleeding. I make valiant attempts to curtail the bleeding, to the point where my nostrils become two scab tunnels and I am breathing only out of my mouth, but then I will be forced to blow my nose, the scab dams will break, and I am back to square one. I realize this is disgusting, and accounts for consecutive columns that highlight flaws in my personal hygienic maintenance, but I don’t know what to tell you—if you can’t take the dry talk, get out of the extremely dry kitchen.

And it’s not just me. Our friends visited from L.A. last weekend, and my buddy Rashad went through about three cases of water just to stay alive. Every morning he sounded as though he were one cough away from turning into a pillar of dust and blowing away.

I personally down at least two gallons of water daily. My wife has also forced me to utilize various lotions to keep my skin hydrated. They are lined up on my bathroom sink in alphabetical order of applied body part. There is unscented lotion for my feet, and scented lotion for other limbs and appendages, and if I mistakenly use the scented lotion on my feet, there is hell to pay because I have wasted the scent.

This is madness, I say! Who will step up and promise to break this vicious cycle of having no hydrologic cycle? I am not above a rain dance at this point. I welcome one, in fact, and will actively participate. I like to dance anyway. I am running for mayor on a platform of less droughtitude. I will end this myself.

Also, no more taxes! (I am not running for mayor.)

Classic card of the week

Andy Van Slyke, 1994 Upper Deck

Here is a baseball card in which someone has taken a picture of Andy Van Slyke taking a picture of Andy Van Slyke while other people are taking different pictures of Andy Van Slyke taking pictures. If someone were to take a picture of me taking a picture of this Andy Van Slyke card in which he is taking pictures, the flash from the camera would open an alternate realty where every person is a camera with legs and social status is based solely on your camera’s quality, i.e. the rich and powerful are professional Canon XLG-3000s or whatever, and the disenfranchised are literally disposable. Anyway, baseball!

Speaking of baseball, something tells me that baseball player Andy Van Slyke has interests other than playing baseball. Taking pictures, perhaps? It doesn’t say so anywhere on this card, but I am going to go out on a limb and say that, yes, one of Andy Van Slyke’s favorite hobbies is taking pictures. Here is another question though, having to do with baseball: Does baseball player Andy Van Slyke love America?



Awesome. There is no wordy tidbit on this card, but if I were handed this card and then commissioned to write a tidbit for it, and thus get paid $1 million—hypothetical freelancing pays extraordinarily well—here is what it would read:

"When he’s not taking pictures of stuff with his picture camera, baseball player Andy Van Slyke, who weighed in at 195 lbs at the time of this card, can often be found standing reverently for our country’s National Anthem. Also, he hit seven triples in 1991."

One of my favorite things in the world is when baseball cards teach me about baseball, and I think we’ve all learned a lot today. Nevertheless, let’s find out more:

During the 1991 Gulf War, when the MLB decreed all players would wear both the Canadian and U.S. flags on their batting helmets as a patriotic gesture, Van Slyke scraped the Maple Leaf off his helmet because, in his words "Canada is a pacifist, socialist country."

Earlier in this post I had joked about how much Andy Van Slyke loves America, but as it turns out, he also really does not like Canada, based on Canada’s inability to inflict war on other nations and its penchant for assisting the less fortunate (which runs in direct conflict to the aforementioned idealistic camera-based society). I don’t want to get into politics here, but regarding the 1991 Gulf War: thanks for nothing, Canada! It’s about time somebody said it, besides Andy Van Slyke, of course. I’m not sure a more grandiose and brave political statement was ever made than that time a baseball player scratched off a picture of a leaf on his baseball helmet.

Once Van Slyke became a full-time outfielder, he showed off one of the most accurate and powerful throwing arms in the majors. So much so that the "Slyke Zone" was established at Three Rivers.

I like how the Slyke Zone was inevitably established due to Van Slyke’s arm, ipso facto, as if the fans had no other choice.

Andy Van Slyke guns runner down at second base.

Pirates fan: Well, I never thought I’d see the day. But we have an obligation here. Gonna have to establish the Slyke Zone.

Other Pirates fan: I’ll get my markers. And some sausage. You want some sausage?

Pirates fan: Yes.

Having retired from baseball, Van Slyke has begun pursuing a career as an author … In July 2010, he published "The Curse: Cubs Win! Cubs Win! Or Do They?"

I haven’t read the book, but—no, no they do not.

Did you know?
When he's not playing baseball, Andy Van Slyke enjoys taking pictures of stuff.

The pillowcase(s) of yellow dreams

Note: This column appears in the 2/23 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/24 issue of the Peoria Times.

There are certain items my wife will always purchase regardless of how many of that item we own and our lack of necessity for that item. For example, food storage containers. The technology of air-tightness gets more dramatic by the day, and if a new food storage container item is introduced that promises to retain even more freshness than its predecessor, my wife will purchase 20 of them, which is fine. The only problem is that she refuses to get rid of the outdated containers, arguing, “You never know when we’re going to need them,” like, as a feasible example, on the off chance we mistakenly cook for 85 people one night instead of three.

But one item that I simply cannot fault her for consistently purchasing is bed sheets. Whenever (every weekend) I find myself in a department store, and have separated from my wife so that I can wander around aimlessly in search of clothes I will eventually return or a couch to sit on, our reunion will always be marked by her approaching while pushing a cart containing many, many sets of bed sheets. Before I can even process what is happening, she will say, “Don’t even say anything. They were on sale. And we need them.” I will then say something like, “But they’re still (whatever the price is), and you literally just bought bed sheets last weekend!” She’ll then sport a look that says, “Don’t push me or I’ll say it,” and of course I’ll persist, so then, in a restrained whisper-yell: “I wouldn’t have to buy them if you weren’t so disgusting!” I will then walk away shamefully.

It is true; I ruin bed sheets. Well, not so much bed sheets as pillowcases, and apparently back-up pillowcases are not a thing people can buy (note to self: business idea: backup pillow cases for disgusting husbands). I don’t know what it is, but my head exudes like, a yellow substance when I sleep.

I think all humans do this. It’s called science. Have you ever seen an old pillow? It’s all yellow and nasty. Well, I do this, too, but like I do all things … to the extreme. An old, 15-year old filthy pillow that one could find in a dumpster is what my pillow looks like after one night’s sleep.

I don’t know what it is. I don’t drool. I don’t sweat. I just exude yellowness, I guess. I never realized how dramatic it was until set against the pristine, color-retentiveness of a soul mate’s pillowcase. Just the other day my wife was frustratingly forcing me to change the bed sheets -- a pleasant flower print variety -- yet again. The flowers on her pillowcase were the same deep and bright purples as when we had removed them from the packaging. My pillowcase had completely faded to a drab yellow. I think the flowers had actually wilted. Apparently, I am so disgusting that I can change spring to winter just by going to sleep.

I would love to hear if other male human beings experience such things. If so, please let me know! You can do so anonymously, as I imagine normal men would opt to keep this private rather than write entire columns about it with their name and face attached. Also, if you are a scientist and can explain what is happening, that would be much obliged.

While you’re at it, let me know if you ever agreed to sleep on purple flower-print sheets, because I feel as though I should be embarrassed by that as well. Thank you.

Classic card of the week

Howard Johnson, 1989 Donruss Diamond Kings

I’ve been on a Diamond Kings kick lately, and well, I will not apologize. I mean, LOOK AT THOSE SQUIGGLIES!



That is art. There are so many dots and squigglies and stripes of contrasting colors it’s making me dizzy. Dizzy with AWESOMENESS. This card look like a boardwalk caricaturist collaborated with the 3rd place finisher of a firefighters-sponsored youth art contest.

But in this homage to art, let us not forget about words.



Had it not been for Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark, Howard Johnson would have had an easy path to the Most Valuable Player Award.

That is great. Had it not been for other baseball players who were better at playing baseball than Howard Johnson, Howard Johnson would have totally been the best baseball player. Get out of the way, Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark—Howard Johnson is trying to win the MVP over here! Showoffs.

Also, what the hell is this card talking about? In 1989, Johnson finished fifth in the NL MVP vote. A more accurate and hilarious lede for this card would therefore have been, “Had it not been for Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark and Pedro Guerrero and Ryne Sandberg, Howard Johnson would have had an easy path to the Most Valuable Player Award.” Unless:

MVP voter Joe Morgan: Big news everyone. Mitchell and Clark are ineligible! Turns out there’s a rather outdated MLB rule that states (puts on old person spectacles), “Teammates who play west of the Mississippi are ineligible to receive postseason awards if one of them is kinda fat and the other one is pretty much bald.”

MVP voter Woody Paige: Makes sense.

Morgan: In parentheses it says, “This rule is totally just to see if anyone is paying attention.”

MVP voter Mike Lupica: Well, this is unfortunate, but we have to play by the rules. We simply cannot be rogue voters who use subjective means and misguided principles to properly distribute trophies to baseball players!

MVP voter George King: Hear, hear!

Morgan: So I guess this one goes to Guerrero. I didn’t see him play much this year, but—

MVP voter Verducci: Didn’t you play in St. Louis, Joe?

Paige: Guerrero?! Pfft. Don’t get me wrong, solid player, good guy. I once ate steak at a table near him, so we’re pretty much brothers. Not in the ethnic sense. But still. Anyway, it’s one thing when Pedro Guererro is finishing third. But MVP? I can’t live in that world. Not feeling it. I say we start over.

Verducci: Start over? If we start over and achieve different results, that HAS to imply bias, does it not?

King: Let’s take Sandberg out, too. The Cubs had an MVP two years ago. It’s only fair.

Morgan: Then it’s settled. Herman Johnson is the NL MVP!

Verducci: Howard.

Morgan: Herman Howard is the MVP! Sorry, I haven’t seen him play much this year.

Over the last three years, “HoJo”

And so and so forth. I want to interject here to say that, when I was playing Little League ball, the higher-ups one year nabbed Howard Johnson to speak and sign autographs at the year-end party. After his speech—self-deprecating joke, baseball, you can do it, blah, blah, believe in yourself or something, blah, fundamentals, blah, the Ten Commandments, blah, blah, thank you—the floor was opened up to questions. And some idiot kid from another table got up, awkwardly held the microphone too close to his face and asked, “Why do they call you ‘HoJo?’” Really? You’ve been nervously waiting around the whole time to ask that stupid question. I was embarrassed for our whole Little League organization, and I distinctly remember nodding my head in shame and thinking, “You’ve embarrassed us in front of Howard Johnson!” I so wanted HoJo to fire back, “Well, funny story—it’s the first two letters of my first and last name. Sit down. NEXT QUESTION. LET’S RAISE THE LEVEL OF DISCOURSE HERE, M’KAY?” But he didn’t.

I got his autograph though. Then I lost it.

Did you know?
I once finished third in the East Brunswick Firefighters Fourth Grade Art Contest. I think I drew a dog sliding down a fire pole.