So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

DJ Mixmaster Peanut Butter Person is in the hizz-ouse

2012-01-26T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hey, so first of all, I eat Reese’s Puffs cereal for breakfast. I am a full-grown adult male. I prefer Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch, but sometimes that cereal is like $4.95, and I have principles. Both cereals, however, are part of a complete breakfast, in that you must eat a bowl of kale and three gallons of organic prune juice just to break even on the nutrient scale.

The other morning I was standing by myself in the kitchen eating a delicious bowl of Reese’s Puffs when the back of the box caught my eye. MIXMASTER, huh? I own turntables AND I love Reese’s Puffs (although I admittedly do not own any Reese’s Puffs records like the one featured here, which makes me wonder why I even have turntables in the first place), so this seemed like something I should look further into.

First, I need a name.

DJ NAME MIXER
TWO WAYS TO CREATE YOUR OWN DJ NAME

Three ways if you include, “Use your imagination to think of a name on your own.”

1. Take the street you grew up on and the name of your first pet,

It was always my understanding that this was one of several formulas to decide your porn name. Maybe I was mistaken. Nevertheless, as the saying goes, whether you’re in porn or a breakfast cereal DJ, the point is: you need a good name. My name is “DJ Northfield Oreo,” which is the worst name that has ever existed.

then change the “I’s” to Y’s.”

My name is DJ Northfyeld Oreo. I am uncertain as to the point of this. If it’s to add more street cred to a breakfast cereal DJ name, then may I remind you, box, that we are talking about a breakfast cereal DJ name. By the way, I have never understood how misspelling things apparently makes them hipper. I’m not sure how I escaped my hip-hop-filled childhood safe from the assumption that “z” is the plural for everything.

2. Take the name of your favorite movie or Superhero villain, then add the first letter of your middle name.

My alternate name is DJ Tthe Godfather Part II. I don’t know which one I dislike better. I guess I’ll go with DJ Northfyeld Oreo for now, but we’ll see where that takes me. If it takes me anywhere other than the pinnacle of breakfast cereal DJing fame, then I will change it and distance myself from the original name like how Katy Perry used to be a Christian singer.

Now that you have your DJ name, you’re ready to create your own Reese’s Puffs rap!

I thought DJs DJed. Nevertheless, I accept the challenge!

As you can see, if you are even still reading this, the back of the box provides alternate phrases that can simply be plugged into your Reese’s Puffs rap. This is sort of like signing to a major label and relinquishing almost all creative control. But really, who has time to think of his own Reese’s Puffs rap from scratch? I mean, I’m standing up while eating cereal, so I obviously don’t.

That said, I, DJ Northfyeld Oreo, will now choose wisely from the provided phrases and set forth my very own Reese’s Puffs rap (the pure irony of Oreo paying homage to Reese’s is not lost on me, by the way). For hilarity’s sake, I will insert sporadic BEEPs into the provided slots to imply terrible curse words in this ode to peanut butter and chocolate cereal:

That peanut butter chocolate I will address (get ready)
Is the hookup that I BEEP that I will obsess (makes no sense)
Reese’s Puffs, Reese’s Puffs, in your bowl, in your bowl! (My goodness, is that the chorus?)

Recognize the taste that I craver (not a verb)
Reese’s Puffs Reese’s Puffs (I forget: what cereal is this song about?)
Wow peanut butter chocolate raver (the last person you want to run into at the club is a peanut chocolate raver, trust me)

So crucial to my totally radical vernacular (it physically pained me to write that ... but it was worth it)
That peanut butter BEEP is oh so spectacular (nasty)
Reese’s Puffs Reese’s Puffs! (the Reese's Puffs chant is the "Let me clear my throat" of repetitive, breakfast-based chorus)

My Reese’s Puffs are a miracle (this miracle was packaged in Ohio)
Each peanut butter orb is a miracle (at the risk of redundancy, allow me to reiterate how miraculous theses peanut butter orbs are; loaves and fishes < peanut butter orbs)
Reese’s Puffs, Reese’s Puffs, in your bowl, in your bowl! (crowd right now is going crazier than at the end of “8 Mile.”

So yeah, pretty much just killed it. I think I speak for the hip-hop community at large when I say, indeed, hip-hop just died. In my cereal. For realz.

*By the way, per below, "Reese's" was an existing tag, which surprised me at first, but then didn't.

On playing host to great hosts and also kids

2012-01-24T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 1/26 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/27 issue of the Peoria Times.

My wife and I don’t often host parties. It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s just … we’re not exactly the laid-back type of hosts who can graciously serve food and entertain while also fielding questions like, “Where is your plunger?” without freaking out.

It’s not so much that we obsess over cleanliness, although that does play a small role in our anxiety, especially when kids are involved. Whenever kids who are not ours are in our house, my mouth says things like, “Hey, kids, let’s play, ha, ha, fun times!” but my brain is thinking, “Don’t touch that, put that down, get off of there, what time do you go to bed anyway, it’s almost six!”

More so than that, however, is a fear that people will not have fun due to some flaw in our ability to host. I think it all stems from an instance back east when we had a bunch of people over to watch a playoff football game, and literally more than half the people there fell asleep. Par-tay! Granted, we had the fireplace going and a very comfortable couch, but geez. Fell asleep! We vowed that night to either never have people over again or be so darn entertaining that someone (me) would leave in handcuffs before a guest dozed off.

Adding to our self-consciousness is the fact that our family and close friends are extraordinary hosts. My in-laws have approximately 80 people in their home for holiday dinners, and they have to cook for people who can’t eat gluten, won’t eat fish, or refuse to eat meat, and they don’t judge even though they are Italian and it’s a mortal sin to not eat anything and everything all the time. The pile of resulting dirty dishes can make lesser hosts cringe, but my mother-in-law has the dishwasher filled in 10 minutes flat. I swear, she can squeeze every dish she owns into one cycle. One time I tried to help her out and I got a bowl and three forks in there and then shamefully cried, “I can’t fit anymore!” at which point she pushed me out the way and demanded I go eat more.

We cannot, however, play guest all the time, so, as a direct result of the guilt of reciprocation amongst loved ones, we decided to host a party last weekend for visiting family and a few friends. Because we lack the spontaneity to invite people over on a whim, we started planning this in October, which inadvertently added an unnecessary amount of hype. Everyone was like, “Can’t wait for the party!” and I was like, “Definitely! But don’t worry if you can’t make it!”

I set up a ball pit outside for the kids that I hoped would be destroyed because I did not want to store it in the garage anymore. And let me just say, the kids did not disappoint. There was a near-serious ball pit-related injury that required me to dismantle it an hour into the party, and when I went outside to do just that, I was barraged with an onslaught of ball pit balls to my head and back.

For the adults I had purchased cigars to be enjoyed by the fire pit. They were not enjoyed, and were described by one friend as tasting like “dog turds.”

Other than these slight hiccups, everything went well, mostly because my in-laws and my wife’s cousin did all the cooking. No one fell asleep, except the kids, which was awesome. My wife and I stayed up until the early morning cleaning up, and then shared a coffee by the dwindling fire, where we agreed that everything went fairly well and, who knows—maybe we’ll do this again in five years or so.

Classic card of the week

2012-01-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

Patrick Ewing, 1998 NBA Hoops

Today we continue our exploration of 1998 NBA Hoops basketball cards and the manner in which they personally address the player featured on the card with down-to-earth street talk. With this Patrick Ewing card, however, we are treated to a special literary device called, “wordplay.”

Ew the man.

A common phrase throughout the mid-to-late 90s was, “You the man!” This would be directed at a particular individual who was serving his community well. This was a shortened version of the more exhaustive acknowledgement, “Hey, male—you are the best of all the men in present company, myself included! We are embarrassments to our respective families in light of your performance! Keep up the good work!” Here, NBA Hoops treats the cardholder to a clever case of wordplay when they utilize the first syllable of Ewing’s last name to say, “Ew the man.” Of course, this only works in literary form, as to verbally express the phrase would illicit head turns from average men who were neither "the man" nor basketball player Patrick Ewing. This would have worked, however, as a great sign to hold up at Madison Square Garden, were the sign-holder comfortable enough, morally speaking, to plagiarize NBA Hoops’ creative concept.

Heart of a lion.

And here I am, thinking Patrick Ewing had the heart of a human being. Of all the things to say about Patrick Ewing, that he had/has the heart of a lion is curious. He was eight-feet tall, it took him seventeen years to jog down the court and he was dripping in a pool of sweat in the layup line before the even game started. That doesn’t scream lion-hearted to me. That’s more like a giraffe heart. You know who has the heart of a lion? David Eckstein. Also, Lion-O.*

‘Nuf respect,

This is NBA Hoops acknowledging Ewing’s Jamaican roots: “Hey, Ew! ‘Nuff respect, mon!” as they pound their chest twice, then kiss their fingers and point them in his direction, the ultimate show of (‘nuf) respect. One can also read this as, “You have received enough respect. That will be all, thank you,” which is less complimentary, but probably more accurate.

SIDEBAR: When I was a senior in high school I went to a Knicks game at MSG with a bunch of buddies. One of our friends decided to wear his varsity lacrosse jacket from our all-boys Catholic high school in NJ, which was completely embarrassing for the rest of us. After the game, we were on the escalator headed down towards street level when my friend and I noticed that, riding right behind us was rapper Fat Joe. This was trilling for me at the time, and I managed to get his autograph on my ticket stub, which has since been valued at zero mics by Source magazine. Less exciting was our mutual friend, in his varsity lacrosse jacket and with no idea who Fat Joe was—the nerve!—asking Fat Joe for his autograph. It was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me. The only thing that would have been worse is if our friend had said, “’Nuff respect” to Fat Joe as we parted ways. This story has nothing to do with Patrick Ewing, other than that he was probably playing that night, unless he was resting his lion heart. I wasn't paying much attention because we spent most of the game making fun of our friend for wearing his varsity lacrosse jacket. Thank you. END SIDEBAR.

one of the NBA’s 50 greatest players ever, Hoya National Champ and arguably one of the greatest shooting centers EVER.

The term “arguably” seems to cancel out the emphatic CAPS LOCK of “EVER.” And do we really need to argue that someone is “one of” the best at something? Just say it! Patrick Ewing’s is da man and his heart is made of lion heart parts and he is da greatest shooting center EVER, yo! For reals! Name a better shooting center, homeslice. And don’t be talking ‘bout no Mikan round here. Don’t front!

Patrick. We Believe.

I honestly don’t know why this is written as such as opposed to, “Patrick, we believe,” nor am I familiar with the implied surplus of Patrick Ewing non-believers at the time. Nevertheless, rest easy, Ew—NBA Hoops basketball cards has your back.

But you best to watch your front – GZA

Did you know?
The NBA named its 50 greatest players before the NBA was over.

*That is the biggest picture of Lion-O that exists on the Internet. You're welcome.

Tough Mudder status: complete

2012-01-17T15:08:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 1/19 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/20 issue of the Peoria Times.

We had to hop over a 12-foot wall just to make it to the starting corral for the Tough Mudder event in Mesa last weekend. Once we landed safely, we were informed by the event’s emcee—after a rather inspirational speech—to be careful, as many of the runners who had already departed had suffered injuries like dislocated knees and broken collarbones. Oh, and also a heart attack. Someone had suffered a heart attack. And with that, we were off.

The second obstacle was the Chernobyl Jacuzzi, which has, for your records, been renamed the “Arctic Enema,” which does not do the obstacle justice, as I would happily endure a dozen arctic enemas before doing this again once. It is a dumpster filled with ice water and separated by a board in the middle. You walk in, unspeakably freezing water up to your chest, and to make it to the other side, you must submerge yourself in the water and go under the board. Once we—myself, my buddy Pete, my father-in-law, and brother-in-law Anthony—made it out alive, we shook ourselves off, looked at each other, and silently acknowledged that we would finish this. (We also verbally acknowledged this by screaming, “ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!” and beating our chests like cavemen.)

From there we crawled through mud, jumped bales of hay, climbed mountains of mud, ate mud, crawled through tubes filled with mud, climbed over walls, jumped over gorges, unsuccessfully traversed balance beams and fell into florescent green ice water, and all the types of things you do on a Saturday for no other reason than to test your body’s limits and form an impenetrable bond with a select few who are the only people in the world who can understand what you went through.

We looked at the map of the course online beforehand, each of us singling out in our minds which obstacles we would skip. But your entire mindset changes once you’re in it. You get to an obstacle and you do it because it’s there. There’s no time or reason to rationalize what could go wrong, and before you know it, you’re jumping from a wooden plank 15-feet in the air into freezing water, just sort of hoping it’s deep enough. (Note: it was.)

Case in point was the final obstacle, Shock Therapy, which is a series of live wires dangling over muddy water. We had heard reports on this ranging from “it’s not so bad” to “someone has suffered a heart attack,” and I can tell you now that it’s closer to the latter. Anthony bravely attempted to walk through—most choose to crawl through the mud—and the first shock dropped him like he’d been picked off by a sniper. We sort of promised my mother-in-law that my father-in-law wouldn’t do this one, but you can guess how that went. He looked like a fish getting tasered in there. I got hit three times, but the one in the shoulder was so bad it sent reverberations to Pete, who was crawling next to me. You can’t really say you’re “friends” with someone until they’ve absorbed some of your electrical shock while crawling through mud.

And that’s the most amazing thing about the Tough Mudder: you literally cannot complete it alone. It requires the help and support—not emotional, though that helps; like their hands and arms and stuff—of others, whether teammates or complete strangers who immediately cease to be strangers. It is the most extreme physical exercise, but it is mostly an exercise in humanity.

The feeling of satisfaction I imagined upon finishing was instead an extreme physical shivering that made me think my jaw was going to lock shut. I couldn’t even hold my free beer, which is the boldest declaration of difficulty for this event that I can offer.

We completed all 12.5 miles, all 29 obstacles. The average age of the Tough Mudder participant was probably like 29. My father-in-law is 60-something. This was Pete’s fourth. Anthony was a beast. I am a web editor for a weekly newspaper who cannot locate the main water valve in my house, and I felt like a freakin' tribal warrior out there. My happiness that it’s over is only surpassed by my pride that we did it. Together.

I think I am going to keep the Mohawk.

Team "Here Comes the Stuff" pre-mud.

Kansas hip-hop

2012-01-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

In the quest to discover new and exciting things to post to this blog in addition to the cards and weekly columns, esteemed reader and writer Don D. submitted his choice of “hip-hop-ifying classic rock songs.” Many times around these here parts we have interpreted hip-hop songs into the standard Caucasian vernacular, and that has been ... fun? Well, it has been for me. But Don’s idea got me intrigued as well. I have to admit I was skeptical at first, but I gave it a shot, and I remain skeptical.

There’s been discussion of, if this concept is well received and thus moves proudly into the future, posting simply the hip-hop version and having you, the reader, determine its classic rock origins in the comments for a prize of: cyber congratulations. So, please provide your feedback on that, if you will. For this week, however, there will be no reveal.

Also, a personal note: I truly dislike including curse words into this blog. Call me prudish, whatever, but like David Cross said on his comedy album filled with curse words, it’s lazy. And also offensive to many people. For this endeavor, however, it seemed near impossible not to, for humor’s sake, and so I allowed myself some creative license, although the words are blocked out with impossible-to-decipher symbols. My apologies.

And so, without further ado, the hip-hop version of Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” …

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch

Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say

Tryin’ to rise above all the chaos, see
Feels like I’m trippin’ on some LSD
Get so high, man, too high sometimes I think
Am I blind? Oh sh*t, that's just a blink
Insane in the brain they say, like Cyprus Hill
Had a dream, voice said, “It’s time to chill”

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch

Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say

Wear glasses so folks think I’m Lupe
Summertime, be swimming with a toupee
I say “knowledge of self;” what’s that sh*t even mean?
Swerving drunk up in this limousine
Or should I say a submarine
Winds of fortune got me trippin’, na’ mean?

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch

Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you

So get on, son, and don’t forget
Those French chicks we met up in Quebec
That was dope, though left you worse for wear
Say ‘sup to Pac when you get there

Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more

Get on witcha self, son
Goin’ lounge when that sh*t’s done
Get a pillow or some sh*t
Stop crying like a b*tch

Training tip for Tough Mudder: hope everyone else trains less

2012-01-10T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 1/12 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/13 issue of the Peoria Times.

Many people who discover I am participating in a 10-12 mile mud run with obstacles—they discover this because I tell them instantly upon seeing them—ask me, “How do you train for such a thing?”

That was a question I asked myself after signing up. Initially, I had considered setting up a few giant, flaming hoops throughout our development that I could jump through during my weekend training. But alas, it is “no burn” season in our part of the Valley (pfft), and besides, my earlier attempts to douse hula-hoops in gasoline and set them ablaze did not produce the desired result.

My buddy and Tough Mudder teammate Pete sent me a few training videos a while back that I did not really watch because, well, I have a difficult time being led in a workout by an accompanying video. I mean, I’m trying to envision myself as Rocky here, downing raw eggs and running up an absurd amount of steps. In fact, all of the training knowledge I’ll ever need comes from Rocky montages, and I don’t recall him ever getting ready for the big fight by stretching his quads to a Jane Fonda VHS tape.

So I’ve been training pretty much how I always trained for the half-marathon: by running aimlessly throughout the neighborhood and mixing in some weight workouts. I’m trying to keep it simple, lest I burn myself out or burn myself literally. Also, I realized early on that, since the team must finish together, the four of us are bound by the least prepared among us. And, as previously mentioned, I’m not sure when/if my father-in-law started training, so … yeah.

In truth, I’m not worried in the least about my father-in-law’s stamina—the prospect of proving he is still 45-years old will provide enough adrenaline for at least six miles and eight obstacles. From there, he should make it through sheer Italianism. With him, I’m more concerned about the “staying together” part, as he has a long and storied history of abandoning us at the starting line. Most recently, at the Pat Tillman run in Tempe, right before we were set to go, he said to me, “Do you want to the set the pace, or do you want me to? I don’t care, either way.” Before I could answer, he was gone.

My team arrives this week, and Saturday will decide, I guess, how tough we really are. The Tough Mudder event donates much of its proceeds to the Wounded Warrior Project, and as I’ve come to learn, many of our country’s wounded vets participate in the event. I plan on being in shape, yes, but I also plan on being inspired by the amazing stories around me, and the camaraderie of my ragtag team.

I also plan on having fun. Pete texted me last week to inform me that one of the obstacles for our Phoenix event is called the Bump and Grind, in which “participants crawl over crushed gravel while listening to R. Kelly’s R&B hit.” And that, actually, is something I’ve been able to incorporate into my training. The people driving by look at me weird, but I think it’ll pay off.

I also plan on getting a Mohawk, which many people do at Tough Mudder’s allocated “Mohawk stations.” I haven’t told my boss yet, and I probably won’t until after the fact. I hope he doesn’t read this paper.

Classic card of the week

2012-01-05T12:00:00.000-08:00

Danny Manning, 1993 Upper Deck "Collector's Choice"

I’ve been a bit heavy of late with the artist renderings, I know. What can I say; I have a soft spot in my heart for the detail with which talented artists portray professional basketball players. It’s like flowers. Flowers are great and all in real life, with the way you can look at them and smell them and all that crap. But a painting of a flower is something you can look at and say, “Wow! That looks just like a flower!” Unless it’s one of those paintings that’s supposed to be a flower but looks like a mess, and you need someone who is good at interpreting art to explain it to you but you are not listening because you are bored. Man, art is the best.

And this particular card is not abstract at all, no sireee. That’s Danny Manning right there—two of him, actually—drawn by Alan Studt. I have to admit, the details are pretty cool, most notably the sweat beads on Manning’s forehead and the ripples in his Clippers jersey. The ripples represent waves of franchise ineptitude, or, they are just ripples. I don’t know. Ripples, ripples, ripples. That word has lost all meaning. Where was I? Oh yeah, my favorite part is this:

I love the idea of a diverse collection of Caucasian, die-hard Clippers fans attending home games en masse, holding up signs that read, “SLAM.” Are they urging players like Manning on: Hey you, basketball player—slam-dunk the basketball! Or are they simply acknowledging the game: I enjoyed that slam dunk that just happened! The signs are missing an exclamation point, so that may indicate the latter. Either way, it just goes to show how pumped people get at Clippers games. I mean, it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, if you’re wearing a vest or have opted not to, if you just got to the game from work or if you weren’t working that day or whatever, if you have facial characteristics or have faded into a background blobface a la Double Dribble … you can go to a Clippers game and cheer on Danny Manning and not be judged. I mean, hey, the guy in the Kangol forgot his SLAM sign, as did the woman (?) near him. No biggie. There are other ways to cheer. For example, looking the other way or robot clapping.

This all reminds me of my mild fascination with people who make signs for sporting events. It’s quite the cultural phenomenon. Whenever we—my wife and I share this fascination—spot a sign at a sporting event, we always think, “Wow, someone really took the time to make that.” She even has a story of a time many years ago when her dad took the family to a U.S. men's soccer game at the Meadowlands, and the family gathered round a piece of poster board and some glue and glitter beforehand and made a sign. She doesn’t recall what it read—she only recalls her embarrassment—but you can bet your arse there was plenty of red, white, and blue on that baby! I also like to believe my father-in-law wrote, “Beat those Commie bastards!” in marker at the bottom, even though they were playing Switzerland.

I wonder if there’s ever been an occasion where a professional athlete was motivated by a crowd sign. Like, say Danny Manning just received word before the game that his great aunt had passed away, and he was bummed, and he didn’t really feel like slam-dunking the ball even if given the opportunity. But then he looks into the crowd and he’s like, “You know what? These people came here for some SLAMs, and gosh darnit, it’s my job to give them some!” and then he steals the ball and runs downcourt and does a 360-degree windmill tomahawk slam-dunk that breaks the backboard and then no one can fix it and the game is postponed and everyone has to go home. That would be awesome.

Nowadays though, fans pretty much make signs out of the self-interest of appearing on television, which is, in my opinion, a disgrace to signs, even ones with penises drawn on them when no one was looking. Especially when they take great liberties with the “first letter of network will spell out a phrase in support of my team/cause” thing, like:

C an’t
B eat
Fal C ons!

And the Falcons are losing by 26. A simple “TOUCHDOWN” sign would have displayed support for the sport in general and would not have succumbed to the tribalism of picking a side, and the embarrassment that often brings. People are idiots sometimes.

Did you know?
Many years ago I attended a Giants-Seahawks game that ended 9-6 with only field goals, and my sign reading “TOUCHDOWN” stood out like a sore thumb. The next week my sign read “POINTS,” but no one was there because the Giants were on the road.

Obstacle-filled event to determine my manliness

2012-01-03T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 1/5 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/6 issue of the Peoria Times

As many of you have become aware throughout the years, I’m not much of a man. Many of the things that define manhood, like knowing how to use a circular saw, I am unable to do. There are two main things I do that attempt to offset this reality: 1) have facial hair, which is easy, and 2) run, which can be challenging. The latter is not totally manly and is often open to women as well, but it does take some stamina and mental fortitude, and so I will allow it, as should you. I should also mention that doing so once left me in an ambulance, and served as the least manly moment of my entire life. Still though.

In fact, the past three years I have participated in the Phoenix Rock and Roll ½ Marathon. (They host a full marathon, too, but c’mon—that’s ridiculous.) But earlier this year I was thinking, “Is there anything manlier than running aimlessly on a flat, paved surface for a couple hours?” It was then, as if by some Divine manly intervention, my friend Pete from back east called to inform me that the Tough Mudder event was coming to the Valley.

What is the Tough Mudder? I’m glad you asked. It is “a hardcore 10-12 mile obstacle course designed by British Special Forces to test your all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie.” It is also, according to Tough Mudder, “probably the toughest event on the planet.”

So that is what I am doing in lieu of the half marathon, Jan. 14. Finally, I will find out if I possess mental grit, and if so, all bets are off.

With regards to the camaraderie aspect, Pete is coming out to participate with me, and we also recruited my father-in-law and brother-in-law. That is our team. Pete, a former Infantryman in the U.S. Army and Tough Mudder veteran, is a customs agent at Newark Airport, which is technically a war zone. My father-in-law is a real estate broker who asked me a few days ago—the event is next weekend—how he should be training; my brother-in-law recently suffered a paintball-related knee injury and, in an unrelated matter, is required by a doctor to perform a series of back-stretching exercises every morning; and I, as previously mentioned, once ended a five mile race with zero obstacles on a stretcher wearing an oxygen mask. This should be interesting. We have already had t-shirts made, so there is no going back.

The obstacles vary for each event, but one of the more infamous ones is called The Chernobyl Jacuzzi, described as “participants climb into and out of one of three lined dumpsters containing icy water and colored dye.” Another one is called Ball Shrinker, which I will not describe. There are also obstacles in which participants run through live electric wires and flaming bales of hay. The obstacles, on the slim chance someone does not prefer to get electrocuted, are optional, but there are plenty to choose from, and choosing none, I have heard, does not diminish the difficulty of the course itself.

In fact, the event was supposed to be in Wittmann, but has since moved to Mesa after the original venue did not comply with the introduction of nine new obstacles. I am legitimately scared about all of this, but fear is an integral part of becoming a man, and I am 33 so I should probably get on that.

In the coming weeks, I will keep you abreast of my training and the event itself. If you are interested in learning more or participating yourself, visit toughmudder.com. If you are participating, meet me at the Ball Shrinker. (These are the things men say to each other.)

Reader appreciation feedback survey comment thingee day!

2011-12-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

This week, we here at So, Do You Like … Stuff? are not posting any real content—assuming anything we ever post is real OR content—because we don’t feel like it. But, I’d like to take this opportunity, and thus the risk that it will go completely ignored, to solicit feedback.

First though, a sincere and heartfelt "thank you" to every single person who visits this blog by intent or accident, or who has purchased the book by intent or accident, or who enjoys what is written here on any level. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now ...

We—and by “we” I mean I—are wondering if the classic cards should proceed as usual throughout the immediate future. Since I’ve been writing for the fabulous (as recognized by Google!) The Baseball Card Blog, and doing card writeups for them, I’ve been wondering if the cards here have worn out their welcome or become stale. Some of the followers of this blog are obviously card enthusiasts, and I certainly don’t want to alienate them, but the issue is two-fold: 1) lack of response has left me curious as to the enjoyment the posts are intended to inspire, and 2) I am actually running out of cards to post.

So … do you want the cards to continue, or would you prefer to simply head over to The BBC Blog for that and have me begin posting something different each week in addition to the column? If the former, I need some new cards in which athletes are looking very silly and fat and dumb and/or which contain writeups that make no sense and are grammatically incorrect. (Just writing that sentence has left me with the feeling I should be writing about more important things. Aaaaaand …. that feeling has passed. Whew!) If you own such things, and are willing to share, holla atcha boy (me) at mikekenny.stuff@gmail.com.

If the latter, cool, but I still need advice. Any funny/dumb theme we can explore on a weekly basis? The estimable Jason Silverio once suggested “Smell of the Week,” which I thought was a fantastic idea, but … I ran out of smells after like two weeks. Does anybody know a lot of and/or exude a lot of smells? Or somehow have a different idea?

I just figured, what better time than the New Year to consider expanding upon the pointlessness this blog has become not famous for! Please feel free to leave a comment in the comment section, which is reserved for comments by commentors.

Also, Happy New Year!

Sincerely,

Mike

Classic card of the week

2011-12-22T12:00:00.000-08:00

Dominique Wilkens & Kevin Willis, 1991 Skybox "GQ"

We have been fashion-heavy here of late, and that is okay by me. Here we have another installment of GQ’s “NBA All-Star Style Team,” because, sure, anyone can spin 360-degrees in the air and dunk a basketball, but not everyone can do that and also manage to dress well with all the money they make dunking basketballs.

Today we present Dominique Wilkens and Kevin Willis. I’m not sure where exactly this shot was taken, but let’s assume they just de-boarded a very formal evening hayride. But what everyone really wants to know is, “Who are you wearing?”

“Two guys who’ve got the jump on style.

Hey, basketball players jump a lot, so this terminology works well!

Wilkens sports

Hey, basketball is a sport, so this terminology works well!

his own suit, while Willis wears clothes from his own company.”

Willis: Get a load of this guy. Where’d you get that suit, the Salvation Army?

Wilkens: Pfft. Stop trippin’. This is MY suit. Nobody dresses Dominique Wilkens except Dominique Wilkens. Believe that! And I got this baby in Italy. It’s Italian. And look at you! Looking like Jeffrey the butler …

Willis: Oh please. This isn’t just my suit—it’s from MY company: “Kevin Willis’ Clothes, Co.”

Wilkens: First of all, you don’t call it a “company.” It’s a line. Everybody knows that.

Willis: Pfft.

Wilkens: PFFT!

Willis: (Looking around …) I’m sorry, where’s YOUR (air quotes) “line?” I don’t see it. I only see a sucka with a flattop who paid way too much for a suit that doesn’t even fit leaning against a car that ain't his like he knows something but he doesn’t know JACK.

Wilkens: First of all, get your big forehead out of my face. Thank you. Second, I want to know—who’s walking into JC Penney and saying, “Excuse me, can you please point me in the direction of Kevin Willis’ suit collection? You know, the power forward for the Atlanta Hawks basketball team?” Please, get real. What you shoulda done is come out with a line of headbands for people looking to cover up their humongous foreheads.

Willis: Well, for one thing, my collection isn’t available at JC Penney, Sir Worthington the Fifth. I mean really. My collection is available at stores where real men shop who want to look their best whether they're in the board room or out with a lady or something.

Wilkens: Is that your motto? “Kevin Willis Clothes: Available at stores for real men who want to look their best whether they're in the board room or out with a lady or something.” That’s con-CISE!

Willis: I don’t know. Maybe! Haven’t settled on a motto yet. But I know one thing—it’ll be better than your motto: “I bought this in Italy. It’s Italian.” Re-DUN-dant!

Wilkens: Pfft.

Willis: PFFT!

Did you know?
Formal hayrides are coming back in 2012, and you heard it here first.

Soundtrack to Christmas on shuffle, not repeat

2011-12-20T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 12/22 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/23 issue of the Peoria Times. Also: SAP ALERT!

Before I could drive to school and received the keys to the ol’ Dodge Spirit—provided I dropped her off and picked her up from work—my mom often had to pick me up from high school basketball practice.

I attended an all-boys Catholic high school that was about 35 minutes from our house, even though we lived in a reputable school district and I could have attended the local high school, which was literally within walking distance, for free.

Most of those seemingly long rides home in the dark in which I was filled with teenage angst have blended together into an indecipherable blur. Except for the ones in December.

On those rides home during the Christmas season, my mom had playing, on a constant loop, Stevie Wonder’s Christmas album. The album is from 1967, right before the zenith of his creative prime, and it existed largely under the radar until recently, as a few songs have been featured in major films. Every note of that album reminds me of those rides home, the warmth of the car—she always left it running in the parking lot; the Spirit of that particular Dodge was mostly exhaust fumes—in contrast to the cold outside, the lights of the passing houses, the often reassuring conversation, and the simple comfort of being on our way home.

It’s on my iPod as opposed to a cassette player, but I still have the album, and nobody can convince me of its equal. Every time I listen to it, and I have listened to it a zillion times, it takes me back. It is and always has been more than the album itself, although it is fantastic musically; it represents for me everything wonderful about growing up. It’s part of the soul of my childhood.

I do believe that we all reach a point where Christmas becomes a desperate exercise to recapture the past, the quality of each passing holiday defined by how well it indulged our nostalgia. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it may blind us to the fact that we are playing a crucial role in developing lifelong Christmas memories for those around us.

I barely remember any Christmas gift I received as a kid—minus the He-Man Castle Grayskull, which was, obviously, a watershed moment—regardless of how many mall-fights my parents may have initiated in our honor. What remains embedded is the soundtrack to those occasions of my mom just being a mom, and driving her son home from basketball practice; my dad bringing the tree in the house and the smell of pine filling each room; my sisters and I waiting anxiously at the top of the steps on Christmas morning ... and then me threatening them with physical harm should they touch my Castle GraySkull.

This past Monday afternoon, my daughter and I went holiday shopping and then had a pizza date. She probably won’t remember it, because she is two, but that doesn’t mean I can’t influence her subconscious. I don’t have to tell you what was playing in the car.

Merry Christmas.

Someday at Christmas, we will have a better car.

Classic card of the week

2011-12-15T12:00:00.000-08:00

Michael Jordan, 1990 NBA HOOPS/Inside Stuff

Here is an exciting basketball card featuring Michael Jordan standing around in front of a camera. This card is part of NBA HOOPS cards collaboration with NBA Inside Stuff, which was a television show that aired on Saturday mornings after Saved by the Bell and Hang Time, a realistic show about a co-ed high school basketball team that played its games in a gym the size of a utility closet. The basketball court from Hang Time made the basketball court from The Fresh Prince look like a football field. I watched too much television as a child.

As amazing as this sounds now, with the exception of daily highlights on CNN Sports or ESPN, Inside Stuff was essentially the sole link between the NBA and its young fans. Mostly it consisted of host Ahmad Rashad conducting “interviews” through which he asked softball questions and laughed hysterically at the players’ responses. But there were some in-depth features. I remember one episode in which the show followed Shawn Bradley to a restaurant, as he explained how he needed to gain weight, and we then watched him eat an entire turkey club even after he was already full. Riveting.

But Ahmad Rashad was at his best when it came to Jordan, with whom he was downright smitten. And really, who can blame him? I think the most difficult question Rashad ever asked Jordan was, “What does it feel like to fly?” It seemed like Jordan was featured every week, and relative to his dominance of the league which the show “covered,” I had no problem with that.

Want a sneak preview of Michael Jordan’s new home video?

That this question isn’t immediately followed by, “Then visit, www.youtube.com/Jordan_home_vid,” is a harsh reminder that this is 1990 we’re dealing with here. This—this piece of cardboard—IS the sneak preview. Also, before we read on, I highly doubt this is a “home video,” unless Jordan does actually have a graffiti-filled asphalt court with an absurdly dirty backboard in his home. Besides, knowing now what we’ve come to learn about Michael Jordan, I’d rather not see a leaked home video of gambling-related domestic arguments.

NBA HOOPS takes you behind the scenes.

You showed me a picture from literally behind the camera as this video was being shot, so yeah, I guess you have. I look forward to obtaining the VHS copy of this video, and then using this card for additional reference in case I become confused at any point during the viewing.

“Michael Jordan’s Playground” is not a typical sports video; it goes beyond interviews, film clips and features. It’s Michael in his first appearance as an actor!

Oh, so it’s going to be one of those videos that is … horrible. I take back my sarcasm re: the importance of this sneak preview.

The story revolves around a kid who gets cut from his high school basketball team and begins to give up on himself. Michael Jordan appears in a vision

!!!

to encourage the boy to keep on trying.

For someone who watched “Come Fly With Me” approximately 8,457 times, I myself am amazed I have never seen this. But I imagine the pivotal scene plays out at follows:

Boy in bed, tossing and turning, can’t sleep due to anxiety of giving up on his dreams. Suddenly, above his bed appears a cloudy vision of Michael Jordan dressed in street clothes and holding a basketball.

Jordan: Wake up, Billy. It’s me, Michael Jordan.

Billy: (rubbing eyes) Whoa, Michael Jordan?! Are you dead?

Jordan: What?! Pfft. No, I’m not dead, dumbass. I’m just appearing as a vision because it’d be super weird if I physically walked into a young boy’s bedroom who I don’t even know while he was sleeping in order to console him.

Billy: Oh.

Jordan: Anyway, Billy, listen—I understand you were cut from the team and you’re thinking of giving up. But let me tell you a story. I once knew a kid who was also cut from his high school basketball team, but he didn’t give up, and worked hard every day, and eventually he set the league on fire and dunked on the heads of all the haters who ever doubted him and—dang, I’ma rain blows on Detroit this year, I swear …

Billy: …

Jordan: It was me, Billy. Damn, do I have to spell it out for you? The boy was me. Anyway, (squinting to read cue cards) keep working hard and … don’t give up, and uh, one day you’ll be in the NBA or a scientist or something.

Billy: Thanks, Mr. Jordan!

Jordan: Oh, and meet me on the playground tomorrow. I’ll be there in my physical form and I’ll let you beat me off the dribble ONCE so you can impress your friends. But after that I will dominate you and I will shred any lasting hope you have ever had of playing bask—I’m sorry. Just meet me there, okay?

“Playground” also features an MTV-style music video starring Air Jordan.

First, I can only imagine how awesomely awful the accompanying music video is to “Michael Jordan’s Playground.” Second, I thoroughly enjoy the gratuitous MTV name drop so as to appeal to the kids. Third, that wouldn’t have helped someone like me, who wasn’t allowed to watch MTV. Fourth, because I watched it anyway, I imagine the MTV-style music video that went with this film featured Air Jordan, pointy bras, Alicia Silverstone, MC Skat Cat, and several spandex-clad dancers.

Seriously though, if anyone has this video, please call me.

Lost in stores that smell really good

2011-12-13T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 12/15 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/16 issue of the Peoria Times

I do almost all of my holiday shopping online. There are, however, rare instances whereby unnecessary shipping costs or in-store-only coupons force me against my will to venture out in public and shop in human form.

These instances always involve shopping for my wife because—let’s be honest—she’s the only person I have to shop for. These instances also usually involve me having to enter the unfamiliar and intimidating realm of the female-centric store.

My knowledge of what my wife actually wants from these stores is typically limited to, “I know she shops here, I think.” As a result, upon entering the store I immediately seek out an employee from the all-female staff, which is not difficult as they usually spot me first thanks to the glazed look of bewilderment on my face and also because I am blocking traffic.

I always preface these conversations by specifying that I am shopping for my wife. I honestly don’t know if I do this as some sort of subconscious, machismo defense-mechanism, like, “Don’t you think for a second I’m shopping for myself!” If so, that is dumb, and I imagine each female employee has thought to herself upon hearing this, “Oh really? You, with your t-shirt that reads ‘Fantasy football legend,’ are not here to buy strawberry-scented foot lotion for yourself? What a surprise.”

The next question is, “Well, what does your wife like?” This one always gets me. I mean, I know what my wife likes, but it’s usually better if she tells me first. So I will say something like, “She likes television a lot. She has dark brown hair. She’s a woman. Does that help?”

This past weekend I ventured yet again into foreign land, into what is my least favorite female-centric store. I have been in there several times before with my wife and have always dreaded it. There is nothing I can do while she looks around. There is nothing I can even look at without thinking, “If someone saw me looking at this, they would think I am a weird person or not a man.” I literally have to stand in the middle of the store staring at the exit until she’s ready to go.

But at least this time I knew what I had to get. My wife, who had astutely spotted a coupon from a different female-centric store that we received in the mail and that I had set aside to use, told me not to go there, as there was nothing she wanted from that store. Instead, she specifically told me what she wanted from this other store and even gave me a coupon and her rewards card so she could earn enough points for free bath lotion or whatever. Sure, this part of her Christmas gift wouldn’t be a surprise, but it also wouldn’t disappoint.

Of course, just because I knew what to get didn’t mean I knew where it was. Also, I had forgotten the coupon my wife had given me at home and left her rewards card in the car. If my whereabouts had left me uncertain, my idiocy was a deft reminder that, yes, I am a man! My desperate pleas for mercy at the register earned me all the necessary discounts and rewards. Also, in my wanderings I was reminded that this store carries a face wash I use. More rewards!

Yeah, I use a particular face wash. My wife found it for me years ago after she realized I was using bar soap on my face, which is apparently not good for your face since, as she pointed out, you also use it on your butt and armpits. She’s the best. She has dark brown hair.

Classic card of the week

2011-12-08T12:00:00.000-08:00

Karl Malone, 1991 Fleer

If I ever get the chance to be depicted in cartoon form for a series of cards featuring obscure bloggers, remind me to call whoever did this one here. I don’t believe Karl Malone has ever looked better … a full, lush head of hair, trim waistline, the sheer glow of invincible youth. If I were Malone, this card would have been blown up into a humongous portrait that sits above my bed, or my fireplace, or the fireplace in my bedroom, and the frame would have feathered tassels to match the horse saddles that rest on my floor because again, I am Karl Malone.

Granted, I remain slightly confused by the basketball crashing through the glass sky. It seems like Malone lives in some Truman Show-type universe, and a comet basketball from a distant cloud has just revealed that Malone only exists in his own self-centered world, outside of which is only outer space, so I guess Malone’s world isn’t that much different than the real world, except for the glass sky and randomly emerging comet basketballs. Anyway, I think I speak for everyone when I express my sincere hope that all of the oxygen doesn’t get sucked out of Malone’s world as a result of this accident. He doesn’t seem overly concerned though, so let’s move on.

Karl Malone is pure thunder wrapped in flesh.

This is the greatest lede in the history of the backs of sports cards. It reads like a passage from the Book of Genesis, when God, dissatisfied with Adam’s lack of dominance in the paint, grabbed a handful of pure thunder—the pure stuff, not the synthetic kind—wrapped it in flesh, and said, “Go forth, and play basketball! Thou shalt be called, ‘The Mailman.’”

Karl Malone has simply had his way with the NBA,

That sounds inappropriate Also, does the NBA you speak of not include Magic Johnson, Isaiah Thomas, or Michael Jordan?

using his 6’9”, 256-pound, chiseled frame to thrash and crash his way through confused, helpless defenses for six seasons running.

This part reads like an overly dramaticized infomercial that is selling protection against the dominance of Karl Malone. Has THIS ever happened to you? (Cut to black and white footage of Malone knocking over awkward, skinny high school kids like bowling pins.) That’s why YOU need the Thunder Flesh Protection Bubble!

I mean, why are the defenses confused?

“I want more for this organization, more for these fans than we’ve given them. My wish is to win the whole thing.” When you watch No. 32 perform, you know it’s just a matter of time.

Still waiting. Why do I get the feeling that Phil Jackson came across this card in the early 90s and held on to it just so he could read it to Michael Jordan before the ’97 and ’98 NBA Finals? I can’t prove it, but that definitely happened.

Did you know?
If you buy the Thunder Flesh Protection Bubble right now, we'll throw in this Thunder Flesh Protection Bubble cleaner, that you absolutely need anyway if you're going to own this thing because it gets really dirty, FREE!

Training days in a small world

2011-12-06T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 12/8 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/9 issue of the Peoria Times

We are currently in full throttle potty-training mode.

Not for ourselves—let me clarify—for our daughter.

I have to admit that this is one instance where foster parenting truly afforded me valuable experience. The first occasion of me, by myself, having to enter the bathroom with our first foster daughter, who we also potty-trained, was one of the most frightful occasions of my life. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, where to stand—should I crouch?—and most importantly, how to enact the wiping process. Somehow, someway, by only the grace of God, I got through it. By the time that little girl returned home, after months of being able to notice the subtle behaviors that required an all-out rush to the bathroom by which I carried her like a football as she insisted she didn’t have to go, I’ll be darned if she wasn’t potty-trained. I’ll be darned.

It wasn’t easy though, and as we approached that special time for our own daughter I became anxious. Our daughter, you see, is like her mother in many ways, but one trait they share in droves is stubbornness. She will fight us to the end on the smallest thing, so I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to this Battle Royale. Because the thing is, kids are frustrating and utterly confounding in many ways, but never more so than when it comes to their incessant opting to go to the bathroom in their clothes rather than in an actual bathroom.

We still have a long way to go, but the early results are shockingly positive. A rewards system and positive reinforcement have seemingly worked well. Our experience, too, has paid off, although I still haven’t settled on the correct father-daughter terminology, so my reminder to “Wipe … down there,” feels like it needs work.

My wife, however, recently decided to take this thing to the next level. She is frequently getting new ideas from the families she works with, and last week she came home with something more than an idea. It’s a small device that you place in a young child’s pull-up that plays a song—in this case, “It’s a Small World After All”—when the pull-up gets wet. When you hear the song playing, you rush to the bathroom.

I don’t really understand this thing on a multitude of levels. For starters, I don’t see how “It’s a Small World” really connects to the urine theme at hand. Second, when you hear the song, isn’t it too late? Third, being rewarded for urinating in your pants with a joy-filled song seems like it would obviously backfire. Fourth, what happens when something surpassing urine is involved? Does it kill the battery? Fifth, who is washing this thing?

At least one of my concerns manifested itself the very first time we tried it, when our daughter happily exclaimed as we rushed in vain to the potty, “I play a song, Daddy!”

I thought we were doing fine, so I am against the introduction of this device. But it doesn’t matter. My wife, like her daughter, will fight to the end for the smallest thing. In this case, the smallest, urine-soaked thing that plays music.

Classic card of the week

2011-12-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

David Robinson, 1992 Skybox

Remember college? Wasting away the days sleeping, fully clothed, in a comically small bed for your size … Oh, no! I almost overslept for my voluntary Aeronautics study session in the quad! Ha, ha … those were the days. David Robinson reminds me a lot of myself at that age, the only difference being that he is taking a brief, well-deserved rest from being awesome at basketball and serving our country, while I was most likely passed out at some off-campus apartment I had wandered into at four in the morning, and had also probably urinated myself.

I do hope that David Robinson is posing for this shot, and if he is, add “being awesome at pretending to sleep” to his long list of talents and personal accomplishments. But if he is actually sleeping, then Skybox is a weirdo stalker.

David Robinson: (Turns over, opens eyes, rubs them, startled) What the—?

Skybox: Shhhhhh! Go back to sleep, David! It’s just me, Skybox.

Robinson: What are you doing in here? (Furiously picks up emergency phone.) How did you get clearance?

Skybox: Just documenting your college life, David. No worries … pretend I’m not here. (Whispers … ) Rock-a-bye, Davey, on the Navy ship, when the bow breaks, he’ll win the championship …

Robinson: (Puts down phone, goes back to sleep.)

When Robinson entered the Naval Academy, he was 6-foot-7, an inch over the height restriction.

Me, from an honorable Navy family: Well, Dad, I got bad news. I’m 6-foot-7 now! Looks like I won’t be able to join the Navy after all. Man, and I was really looking forward to waking up absurdly early every day and doing hard labor and depriving myself of what you and grandpa call luxuries but I call essentials. Oh well. I think I AM actually gonna continue playing bass in the band. Anyway, I’ll be in my room if you need me. Whoa, that was close! Almost hit my head on the door frame. Ha, ha! (Whistling as I walk up the stairs …)

The Academy makes exceptions for up to 5 percent of the incoming students as long as they are not taller than 6-foot-8.

I’m sure the U.S. Navy knows what it’s doing, but I don’t understand this. If I’m another country, and I’m glancing across the sea at a boat full of 5-foot-11 schmos from West Hempstead, I’m like, “Pfft.” But if I’m looking across at a squadron of 6-foot-8 David Robinsons, I’m like, “Howdy, Americans! Just passing through! No problems here! Thank you!” (My country speaks English.)

By his senior year, he was 7-foot-1, a circumstance that banned him from duty

Duty. Heh.

on ships, planes or submarines.

I remember how Robinson gained a reputation for being soft, or too nice a guy, in the NBA. I highly doubt that was true. Regardless, David Robinson was in the Navy. The Navy! And not only that—he had every conceivable excuse to not be in the Navy, but was like, “Screw it, I am serving my country no matter what.” I mean, could you imagine Shaq (one of Robinson’s critics) in the Navy? It would be a reality show like that time Tommy Lee went to college. His hat would be on crooked, he’d be trying to convince the other guys to stay up past curfew, and the captain would tell him he’s too tall for the submarine, and then the camera would cut to Shaq eating a foot-long, and he’d be like, “But he didn’t say I couldn’t eat one!”

Soft? Please. Oh, and David Robinson was built like a super-hero. And he kind of was.

So then I said, "We're gonna need a bigger submarine!"

Did you know?
Did I say that part about urinating myself out loud? I hope not.

It’s never too early to celebrate Christmas

2011-11-29T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 12/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/2 issue of the Peoria Times

Christmas is my favorite holiday. I know, weird, right? I’ve always been different, I guess.

I’ve been looking forward to this particular Christmas season more so than any since I was a kid. That’s because of our daughter, who is at an age now where she is starting to get it. Granted, she is convinced she is going trick-or-treating on Christmas morning, so I’m not saying she’s a genius, I just mean she’s at the point where she understands that Christmas is something to be excited about.

Sure, a part of me is living vicariously through her. Last year when Santa got her a miniature baseball set, I immediately redirected her to her other toys so I could play with it, and became legitimately upset when it told me I had hit a “single” after I crushed the ball so hard the entire thing fell over. I’m sorry, but if that’s not a home run, I don’t know what is. More so than that though, and corny as it may sound, watching her eyes light up for everything related to Christmas is a better gift than anything I can even imagine, with the possible exception of a larger, more accurate baseball set.

I also feel like Christmas is come and gone before we even know it, and so I have always been a proponent of starting early. I mean, it all leads up to the day, of course, but it’s really a season, and should be celebrated as such.

However—and this brings me to my point—what in the heck happened this year? Are you kidding me with how early Christmas started!? Absurd. ABSURD.

The commercials, the advertisements, the terrible Lifetime movies, the neighborhood lights, the music … it all started immediately after Halloween this year. I was sitting at the Kia dealership in Peoria getting my oil changed Nov. 5 and they were playing Christmas music. It’s the music that really gets me. Every year I look forward to hearing Christmas music and getting myself in the holiday spirit, and after 20 minutes of hearing the same three songs I’m ready to drive my car into an embankment. If you’re starting with the music on Nov. 5, I am never going to make it. I am never going to make it.

Word on the street is businesses started early this year to jumpstart the economy. Now, I’m not naïve to the commercialization of the birth of Christ, and I really don’t want to get on my soapbox here, but if you’re marketing this religious holiday super early for the sole specific purpose of making sales, you—capitalist society—have truly missed the point.

This has been under my skin since Nov. 1, but I didn’t want to comment because I felt if I complained then about Christmas starting too early, I would actually be contributing to what I was railing against. But here it is: Christmas starts after Thanksgiving dinner, and traditionally after a family viewing of "A Very Gaga Thanksgiving." No sooner. This is non-negotiable. I am not opposed to legislation specifying this.

Because it won’t be just this year with the economy excuse. You can’t go back; you’ll only keep stretching the limits to the point we’re roasting our chestnuts at Labor Day barbeques. No wonder our daughter thinks she’s trick-or-treating on Christmas morning. At this point, she might as well be.

So everybody stop it. Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am off to watch Fa La La La Lifetime movies.

Classic card of the week

2011-11-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

Kennan McCardell, 1999 Topps Gold Label

Here we have a sample from Topps’ super-exclusive “Gold Label” collection. Presentation of a Topps Gold Label card at any participating outlet can earn you up to 3-percent off already marked clearance items and VIP access to the fitting room. I doubt this comes across over the Interwebs, but this card is two inches thick and has enough gloss to … gloss a horse? I wasn’t really sure how to finish that sentence. It’s a lot of gloss.

So, according to this card, Keenan McCardell plays football. Let’s find out more about Keenan McCardell, football player:

McCardell conducts himself with style on and off the field.

This is best evidenced by McCardell’s brash-yet-stylish backwards hat that sits slightly askew. This hat is supposed to go this way, but I’m gonna wear it this way! = style. I mean, it’s not like he’s breaking new ground here—Griffey was the first athlete of note to wear his hat backwards during non-game activity, and it looked awesome, AND that hat was fitted. McCardell is wearing a hat with a Velcro strap, which, were he not playing for the team featured on it, we could safely assume came out of the bargain bin at Marshalls. What? Yeah, I said it. I watch Project Runway.

Also, we like to poke fun at the descriptions of various athletes as gritty or throwbacks or hustlers and what not around these here parts. Those terms don’t mean anything and are stupid. But I must say, a player who “conducts himself with style on and off the field” has to be considered the exact opposite of gritty, right? Say what you want about Eckstein, but that guy would play shortstop wearing nothing but a barrel with suspenders, and he wouldn’t hesitate to get that barrel dirty. Warrants mentioning.

An aspiring financial professional,

According to Wikipedia, McCardell is currently the wide receivers coach for the Washington Redskins, a job for which we can assume Redskins owner Dan Synder is paying him $12 million annually. Kudos to you, Kennan, for realizing your dream.

He was named to Mr. Blackwell’s 1998 list of Best Dressed Athletes in Sports.

“Athletes in Sports” is redundant, no? Anyway … I don’t know—I’m not saying Keenan McCardell was not/is not extremely stylish; I just have a hard time believing that Mr. Blackwell paid enough honest attention to sports, where people wear uniforms, to notice. I mean:

Ugh, what was she thinking? Madonna was a polka-dotted nightmare on the red carpet for the opening of “Evita.” Cry for her, Argentina … you too, America! That tragedy of a dress was worse than anything either country has faced since World War II. Was Argentina in that one? Who knows. The point is, get some new Material, Girl! … Equally offensive was Michelle Pfeiffer at the London Benefit to Cure Infectious Disease. Honey, you’re not 28 anymore, and brown knee-high boots do NOT go with that color sequin belt, mkay? You look like the end result of a fight between a hooker and Paul Bunyan. The Baker Boys are fabulous, but they shouldn’t be styling you … On the bright side, wide receiver Keenan McCardell of the Jacksonville Jaguars looked stunning as he emerged from the locker room after a tough divisional loss to the Indianapolis Colts. Classic fit black suit with a lavender tie that pops? Mmm, mmm, mmm. It won’t be long until this wide receiver finds his tight end, or whatever happens in football.

Did you know?
I also watch "Fashion Police."

Did you know Part II?
The Redskins have wide receivers?

Lost in translation

2011-11-21T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: And edited version of this column appears in the 11/23 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/25 issue of the Peoria Times

I began taking Spanish classes in seventh grade. I had no idea what was happening.

This confusion continued throughout high school, where Spanish remained my most difficult obstacle to a well-balanced intelligence. I could understand and translate certain words, but I simply could not grasp tenses and the fact that words had genders. The library is a lady but a book is a man? I'm sorry, but that's not what the Bible says.

I remember those rare occasions when I felt I was kind of getting it, and the teacher, sensing my newfound confidence, would begin speaking at a normal pace, and my head would explode and I would run out of the classroom holding my ears. Were it not for -- I'm not proud to say this -- a particular high school Spanish teacher who was not very adept at monitoring the classroom during testing, I never would have graduated.

In fact, six years of study be darned, I bombed the Spanish portion of a test entering college and was forced to start from scratch. That I could say "Me llamo Miguel" earned me an A-plus in Spanish 101, but the next three semesters were a downward spiral of ineptitude that finally, mercifully culminated in the most joyful D-minus I ever received.

I have always preferred to use clichéd excuses for my failures at another language, like, "Some people get it and some don't; I don't, and it's not my fault!" and, "If I just spent like two weeks in Spain, they'd be asking ME "Donde esta la biblioteca?" But the truth is, I honestly wish I could speak Spanish, especially now, living in Arizona, which is closer to Spain.

I'm not one of those people who is offended by Spanish because this is America and bald eagles and what not. I'd rather be able to broaden my horizons and communicate more effectively. My attempts to do so, however, often fall flat.

Last weekend we installed new flooring in our living room. Rather, I should say we had new flooring installed, since I have never properly installed anything besides iPhone apps in my entire life. Instead, two fine gentlemen of Mexican descent did the installing, and I tried my best to make them feel at home.

When attempting to communicate with those who speak Spanish, I rarely use words like, "Si," and "Gracias," because I feel it only exposes my inability to grasp Spanish. Instead I use English slowly and loudly, as if I am talking to a two-year child of any nationality, with exaggerated hand movements: WOULD YOU (pointing) LIKE (rub heart) SOME COFFEE (awkward motion of bringing a mug to my lips; Ouch, this pretend coffee is hot!)?

Wanting to get further on their good side, I offered to play some music for them as they worked. Spanish music, perhaps? Of course! I went to the Spotify program on my laptop and searched "Spanish music," because that was as specific as I could be. A group called Mecana came up. Click! The music began playing and, even for someone unfamiliar with the genre, it sounded awful. I looked at the guys and shrugged, "Is this okay?" They gave me a sheepish and unconvincing thumbs up, which is Spanish for, "Not really, but please go away."

I was fairly certain I was playing for them the Spanish version of Celine Dion, especially after I later researched Wikipedia, which said, "Spanish music critics do not consider the band one of the most representative ensembles of the aforementioned cultural wave." Also, one of the members of Mecana is named Nacho, which seems offensive even to me, and I am Caucasian.

Making matters worse, Spotify links to Facebook, so in the feed for all two hundred of my supposed friends was the news that "Mike Kenny is listening to Mecano on Spotify." So this choice of music was embarrassing for everyone involved.

I could have simply asked them for a more specific recommendation, but I was paranoid that further attempted communication would make me look like more of an idiot. This situation is what eight years of Spanish study had earned me.

The next morning the men returned to finish the job, but this time my wife's cousin was with us, who speaks Italian, English, and Spanish. She took over, speaking to them fluently as I looked on in awed, jealous wonder. She discovered many things about their personal lives, including that, sure, they'd love a bagel! Then she was off to work, and I worried that the guys thought we had actually hired someone to come over and communicate with them for a few minutes.

Nevertheless, armed with that perceived street cred, I handed them their breakfast as they walked out the door, saying, "Here are los bagels!" They were very happy and impressed. They probably thought I was Spanish or something. I just may get this language yet.

Classic card of the week

2011-11-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

Jermaine O’Neal, 1998 NBA Hoops

If you’re like me, you’re not missing the NBA that much at all, but you are kind of missing the 1998 set of NBA Hoops basketball cards that feature down-to-earth street talk and other helpful tidbits about various NBA players.

That said, here:

Yeah, we’re feeling you.

Was there any question we were feeling Jermaine O’Neal? OF COURSE we’re feeling you, Jermaine. If we weren’t feeling you, we probably wouldn’t have created this basketball card featuring your image and statistics. Our feelingness of you is therefore implied. Nevertheless, I would be overjoyed if, during the 2012 Republican and Democratic National Conventions, each person who speaks on behalf of his party’s elected candidate begins his speech, “Yeah, we’re feeling you.”

Sidebar: Jermaine O’Neal’s hair is blonde on this card. Remember when stuff like that happened in the late 90s? Frosted tips for white guys and blonde hair for black dudes? If anything can finally bring our two races together, I think a collective acknowledgement that stuff like that never happened is a decent start.

Youngest player in the NBA, no doubt!

See, this is where NBA Hoops cards really separated itself from your run-of-the-mill sports card. Traditionally, cards would just list a fact. Like, “Molitor led league in runs scored in ’82 with 136.” BO-ring! But when you add the “no doubt” moniker + exclamation point, you’re speaking to the kids:

"Yeah, we’re feeling you. Led league with 136 plates in eight-to-the-tiz-oo, no doubt!"

See? More:

We’re not fooled though;

Many people with no background on him who first saw the 6’11” Jermaine O’Neal on an NBA court wearing an NBA uniform were like, “Who is that child running up and down the court and WHERE ARE HIS PARENTS??!!” But NBA Hoops cards was like, “Chill out, home-slices. Don’t be fooled by the rock that he got. He’s just Jermaine; Jermaine on the block.”

we know your game is straight up MAN sized.

I remember when my own game finally finished the pubescent cycle, and all of sudden my game’s voice had deepened and it had acquired old-awkward-man-at-the-park strength and I was grabbing rebounds and throwing outlet passes and calling timeouts because someone had lost his contact lens on the court.

If the random, uninformative words on the back of this card did not fulfill your appetite for Jermaine O’Neal, please visit his Wikipedia page, which is longer than “War and Peace” and features information like, “At that same time, O’Neal’s mother met a new man, Abraham Kennedy …”

It’s a good read, no doubt!

Did you know?
Ryan Seacrest once challenged the singer Sisqo to a blonde-off. Sisqo won.

Forever isn’t two cents away

2011-11-15T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 11/17 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/18 issue of the Peoria Times

I recently purchased stamps at the post office. This somehow caused a minor argument between my wife and I.

You see, I did not specify what type of stamps when I verbalized my order of “Stamps, please,” and thus I received “forever” stamps. A few years ago, when the post office was raising its rates every two weeks, I intentionally purchased several books of forever stamps at the market price, confident that in 2041, when envelope postage is a robust $2.90, we will be laughing all the way to the bank, retroactively profiting from what few envelopes we actually send out, as everything by then will be communicated telepathically. This is, of course, assuming we have not lost our forever stamps.

Anyway, the reason I had purchased stamps was because we were out of them and had a few items that required mailing, which is the most exciting sentence I have ever written. My wife, however, upon discovering the new stamps I had purchased were forever stamps, refused to use them in this, the year 2011, and instead demanded I add them to our present stash of forever stamps in the fireproof box that also includes our passports and a $50 Michael Jordan basketball card, which is my sole contribution to our retirement fund.

I disagreed, arguing that it didn’t matter they were forever stamps, as I could simply use them as regular stamps for now and if some impending rate hike were revealed, I could easily purchase additional forever stamps then. The cost of gas alone to go back to the post office was not worth the investment. Well, you can guess who emerged victorious from this battle of wills. I debated secretly mailing out items with the forever stamps anyway, but figured if she found out, which she undoubtedly would, it would cause a much larger argument about stamps, but really about trust, which I simply wasn’t ready for.

So I went back to the post office. Luckily, my previous order was not extensive, but this time I intended to not return to the post office for at least six years, so I bought an entire roll of stamps. I also decided I better get Christmas stamps then, too. I asked the postal employee if the holiday stamps were in, and he pointed to a display in the far corner of the room that I could not have seen with a telescope, and I worried if I went over there to browse, he would have called up the next person on line and I would be there for another 20 minutes. So I asked, “Do you have any religious holiday stamps?”

His response was, “Pfft. Depends what religion you are.” Frustrated with myself for saying holiday instead of “Christmas”—although I’m sure his response would have been the same—and frustrated with how political correctness has hijacked religious observance, I was tempted to tell him I was a Scientologist looking for stamps honoring evergreen trees. But I didn’t want to offend a government worker.

I spent almost $100 on stamps. Although I had hoped to avoid the post office for several years as a result, I am sure I’ll be back again when they raise their rates to purchase stamps that account for the difference. Even though we will be swimming in forever stamps, I highly doubt there will be a time when my wife will find it fiscally appropriate to use them, and so for us, their very description will ring true. We will have them … forever.

Classic card of the week

2011-11-10T12:03:00.000-08:00

Steve Sax, 1989 Diamond King

This is the second artist’s rendering of Steve Sax we have examined around these here parts. Which one is better? Difficult to say. Purely subjective. For me personally, the colorful lines randomly zig-zagging in the background really take this one to another level. Do those lines represent the unique yet aimless nature of our very existence? Prolly. Or, it could have just been like:

Donruss executive: Background’s too white on this Sax.

Diamond King artist: I could put some lines on there, all different colors, going this way and that. I’ll make it look like the background of an 80s grade school picture.

Donruss: This is the 80s. Why are you referencing this current era?

Diamond King artist: I don’t know. I’ll go get my ruler.

However those colorful zig-zaggy lines speak to you, they leave no doubt that Steve Sax was a baseball player.

But what kind of baseball player?

Steve Sax is one of the rare players who made the transition to playing for the New York Yankees without a hitch.

Indeed, the majority of players who were not originally drafted by the Yankees but instead brought to the organization from somewhere else experienced hitches. I think we all remember the time that crop of ’90 free agents and trade acquisitions all simultaneously began wearing their gloves on their feet and wore helicopter beanie hats instead of baseball hats. Quite embarrassing. I don’t know what it is about the bright lights of NYC—especially during the Sax years, when the Stadium was half-filled and there was zero postseason pressure—that made lesser men cave, but the evidence is undeniable. It sort of makes you wonder why the Yankees even bothered bringing in outsiders, and how they were able to compete amidst the complexities of so many hitches. This all begs the question—how did a guy like Sax do it?

He did it by playing well.

Bucky Dent, Mgr, 1990: C’mon in here, Jesse. Have a seat.

Jesse Barfield: Sure, what’s up skip?

Dent: Jesse, you’re pressing out there. I can see it. Ever play in New York before?

Barfield: Well, yeah, last year—

Dent: See that’s the thing. You can’t handle it. It’s obvious. Too many lights, too much media, too many accessible corner shops with cheap vegetables. You got a hitch in your thingamagig.

Barfield: I don’t know what that means.

Dent: Jesse, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to be more like Sax.

Barfield: How so? You want me to play second base and hit five home runs?

Dent: I want you to play well.

Barfield: I am playing well. I have a 127 OPS+ to Sax’s 80.

Dent: You’re talking gibberish. Just get out there and play well, okay? Like Sax.

Sax, a former Rookie of the Year with the Dodgers in 1982, was the most consistent player for the Yankees last season.

Steve Sax, 1989: 158 games played, .387 SLG / .751 OPS / 113 OPS +
Other guy, 1989: 158 games played, .477 SLG / .828 OPS / 133 OPS +

But go ahead, please continue:

If the Yankees can acquire more players with Sax’s skills and attitude, they’ll be on their way to winning again.

I’ve done the math, and I’ve determined that a team constructed entirely of Steve Saxes would hit 40 home runs and win 39 games, but lead the league in attitude. That would be much better than the five World Series titles they have won post-Sax. Because of all the hitches.

Did you know?
The Saxian philosophy of "playing well" has been adopted by several current Major League Baseball players.

Homecoming and coming home: an account of grievances

2011-11-08T17:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This column appears in the 11/10 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/11 issue of the Peoria Times

Punch me in the face if this column ever takes on a “kids these days!” or “when I was young, things were like this!’ tone. I never want to be the one making sweeping generational generalizations out of frustration and a false sense of nostalgia. I’m sure the 1720s witnessed its share of ungrateful, punk kids who lazily ditched the intricacies of word-of-mouth to play on their fancy newspapers all day.

That said, allow me to be specific about my angst. There are several groups of kids in our neighborhood who roam free of the restraints of parental supervision. Recently, united by their brute incivility, they have joined forces. Some of their accomplishments have included setting the local plant life ablaze—in order, I assume, to send a smoke signal to airborne local law enforcement to save the rest of us from their wrath—and washing the street of debris with their own urine. I wish I were joking.

The father of three of these children—the ringleaders—can often be seen working out shirtless in his garage, oblivious to the surrounding chaos, as if the in-street fisticuffs and free-flying curse words are par for the neighborhood course, or less important to address than the military press.

As a result, the remaining sane ones in the neighborhood have been forced to parent the various roaming children, if only to protect our own property and way of life. While one of my neighbors has taken an active role in becoming a feared yet respected father-figure disciplinarian, I myself have responded by trying to think of various ways by which to avoid destruction and also passively teach harsh, painful lessons. For example, an invisible electric fence for humans was a purchase I openly considered making. I also look forward to the day I can use the air horn I purchased to ward off coyotes while running to make children fall from the branches of the tree in our front yard.

We complained about such matters to each other as my wife and I waited in the car with our daughter in my in-law’s driveway last weekend. Next door a group of dressed-up high schoolers took pictures in the front yard, a preface to the night’s homecoming dance. My mouth was left agape by several of the outfits these young girls donned, and I half-jokingly demanded that my wife cover our daughter’s eyes.

By then, my mother-in-law had joined us in the car, and she laughingly warned us to just wait for the day when our daughter wants to dress like that. We, utterly confident in our ability to ward off such potentially requested attire with proper parenting, shunned the thought. From the driver’s seat, I assured my daughter that she’d never be the girl dressed like that, just as in my mind I assured myself she’d never be the neighborhood Denise the Menace, nor be influenced by kids like that.

Our daughter, who is 2, still intently staring at the glitz and glamour across the way, responded to my bold prediction thusly: “Wow, look … boys!’

I swear … kids these days.

Classic card of the week

2011-11-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

John Franco & Bobby Thigpen, 1990 Fleer

I want to point out that here it appears as though John Franco is smelling a nasty fart, and that Bobby Thigpen is trying to be sly about having dealt it. Franco’s “Who farted?” face pales in comparison with the greatest one, but still, I commend it. And Thigpen? You’re nasty. It smells like you ate a day-old egg and sulfur sandwich. Get a hold of yourself, man.

Enough with the fart observations though. I can do other things.

Relievers Bobby Thigpen and John Franco had one thing in common in 1990,

They were relievers? They were the TOP GAME SAVERS as you pointed out on the front of the card? They played baseball? They enjoyed “Cats?”

but it’s likely neither one was thrilled about it.

Hmmm, this is getting tricky now. Let’s see … they both had bouts of diarrhea? They enjoyed “Cats?” I am stumped.

Thigpen, the American League save leader, and Franco, tops in the National League, wound up on teams that finished second in their respective divisions.

Man, that is the dumbest lede on the back of a baseball card that I have read all morning. That they both pitched for second place teams should be a side-note on a card paying them homage for their skills at acquiring lots of a dumb statistic, not the introduction. Also, you can do a lot worse than second place. It’s all relative. In college, I once placed second in some drunken cross-dressing beauty pageant event whereby I dressed like Britney Spears and danced on stage by thrusting my groin in the direction of a crowd that included at least some faculty, and I was thrilled. So let’s not go making assumptions.

(By the way, unfortunately, that story is absolutely true. The guy who came in first place swept the talent portion of the event by gracefully roller-blading through the crowd while dressed like an ice skater. It was pretty amazing, actually. My subsequent efforts reeked of desperation.)

Thigpen helped the Chicago White Sox to the third-best record in baseball by notching a Major-League record 57 saves. Bobby shattered the previous mark of 46 established by Dave Righetti in 1986. In fact, Thigpen and Oakland’s Dennis Eckersley (48 saves) both broke the mark. Righetti placed fifth in the AL in 1990 with 36 saves.

Even for a dumb stat, 57 saves is a lot of saves. Way to go, Bobby! How about you, John?

… Franco captured the save title, 33-31, over Myers.

Thirty-three saves? Wow, that is … only 24 saves less than your co-champion over there. If saves could be converted into public shame, that is the roughly the difference between 1st and 2nd place in the aforementioned college beauty pageant. And now that I think about it, that may be less of “Who farted?” face on Franco than a “How did I get here?” face, with Thigpen being like, “Pfftt. Yeah, how did you get here, dude? Also, I farted.”

Thigpen’s mark would be broken by Francisco Rodriguez, who Franco’s Mets later deftly acquired, and who paid back the organization by assaulting his would-be-father-in-law at Citi Field. You see, it all comes full circle … ?

So today we covered farts, diarrhea, cross-dressing beauty pageants, and would-be-father-in-law physical assault. Next week we will cover other, different things. Who knows, maybe even baseball. Hope to see you here!

The man in the garlic tuxedo

2011-11-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 11/3 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/4 issue of the Peoria Times

We traveled back east recently for my brother-in-law’s wedding. A great time was had by all, although we did experience our fair share of minor stresses.

For starters, my father-in-law wasn’t feeling well. This was cause for concern, because it takes a major bout of sickness for him to even reveal he’s not feeling 100-percent. He could be battling the bird flu and he would still go spinning at the gym in the morning and then claim he had thrown up afterwards due to “bad water.”

As in all cases of sickness involving my father-in-law or his family and friends, the solution was simple—garlic. He boasts an entire menu of garlic-based, home-health-remedies. He once had me chew straight garlic cloves for a severe sore throat and also famously forced my wife to ingest a garlic-lemon-honey concoction to treat a scorpion sting. There is literally no ailment, in his mind, that could befall a human and not be adequately treated with garlic. For his own purposes he had developed something in liquid form, although the ratio of garlic to liquid was at least 10-to-1. He consumed a shot of this, it seemed, every 20 minutes.

Also, my brothers-in-law, including the groom, had rented tuxes that didn’t fit, and the new ones were slated to get in the day we were leaving for the upstate NY wedding weekend. By the time my father-in-law and I had time to go try on our tuxes, they needed to fit because we’d be leaving the next day.

The car ride to Men’s Wearhouse, though he had proudly warned us it would, reeked of garlic like nothing I could have imagined, and I could almost see the fumes penetrating out of my father-in-law’s pores from the back seat. I was praying the tuxes fit for the sake of both the wedding and the Men’s Wearhouse employees, who would have had their hands full with my healthy perturbed father-in-law, much less my sick, breathing-hot-garlic-fire father-in-law.

It was a battle before even entering the fitting room, as my father-in-law, by just looking at the bagged tuxedo shoes prepared for him, expressed his disdain for them and claimed he’d be wearing his own. The workers pleaded with him that he should take the shoes just to be safe. One helpful employee reminded him that most brides prefer everyone in the wedding party to look the same, to which my father-in-law responded, “What bride? Pfft. I’m the father of the groom.” He then kindly added, “I don’t like your shoes,” and that was that.

My tux fit okay, but when I walked out of the fitting room, my father-in-law was standing outside of his, rolling his eyes, with tuxedo pants that ended around his calves. The workers insisted it could be fixed with some minor tailoring. I imagined how pleasurable it must be to do on-the-spot tailoring for a skeptical, annoyed, Italian man protruding garlic fumes, but such was the predicament they had placed themselves in.

The tailoring sufficed—in retrospect, they were lucky he wasn’t feeling well, because if he were on his game, he would have made them tailor him a new Armani suit at no cost for his troubles. We all eventually managed to receive tuxedos that fit, and my father-in-law bravely forged through his sickness to the point where he was eventually dancing with a small plunger-like device on his head during the wedding reception. He danced in his own shoes.

After the festivities he reluctantly made it to the doctor, where he was prescribed some actual medicine. This was good, since he and my mother-in-law were traveling with us back to the Valley. One of their first stops upon getting here was Albertson’s for some fresh garlic. After all, among the litany of people my father-in-law doesn’t completely trust are tailors and doctors.

How long you had that problem?

2011-10-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

I fully realize this sounds like a sorry excuse to revisit another old, bad rap song. However, the truth here is lamer than fiction—the other night I dreamt I was in the Positive K video for “I Got a Man.” I had no role in the video other than to watch what was happening, and everything took place inexplicably near my work, in front of Bank of America—traditionally not a place for rappers to annoyingly seduce women. God only knows where this came from; it’s possible the song briefly played on my wife’s clock radio alarm (she has an iPad, by the way, which I’m sure could gently nudge her awake with pleasant ocean sounds, but she still opts for the frightening static blast of the F.M. station on her clock radio) before a quick hit of the snooze button. Regardless, the song has unfortunately been in my head since, so …

Aiyyo sweetie, you’re lookin’ kinda pretty

I wanted to sarcastically say that there might be a better way to approach a woman than to say “Aiyyo,” and then describe her as “kinda pretty,” but I honestly couldn’t think of one. Touché, Positive K. Touché.

What’s a girl like you, doin’ in this rough city?

“A girl like you” seems to imply that by her stature, demeanor, and manner in which she carries herself, this girl rises above the gruff predictability of inner-city life. In the video though, she is wearing a skin-tight, bright orange, full-body running suit ... and also carrying dumbbells, for what it’s worth.

I’m just here trying to hold my own ground

1) For anyone who has actually heard this song, her voice comes in as smoothly and delightfully as a squawking parrot unfolding an ironing board, and is enough to make a lesser man (like, say, Negative B) immediately cease his line of questioning and move on. 2) It is indeed much easier to hold one's own ground when one is carrying dumbbells.

Yeah, I think I like how that sound

Here, Positive K reacts as if this woman has responded, “I would like to take you back to my apartment and rip off your multi-colored Nike Air windbreaker and make sweet love to you,” and not the cliché of trying to hold her own ground. It’s almost as if Positive K is just hearing whatever he wants to hear.

What you say we gets to know each other better?

How many long-lasting and fruitful relationships have begun with these exact words, first uttered by Shakespeare himself via Romeo in the famous play, “’Sup Whichu, Boo?”

That sounds good but I don’t think that I can let ya

MIXED SIGNALS!

I don’t know, tell me is it so
Do you get a kick, out of tellin’ brothers no?

Ah, the ol’ misogynistic approach. It certainly can’t be Positive K's fault—he’s Positive K!—but rather this particular girl must get cheap thrills from rejecting various handsome and charismatic suitors. The paradox, of course, is had she simply agreed from the outset to “gets to know” Mr. K, she would eventually attain a much harsher label in subsequent rap songs by Too $hort. It's a no-win situation.

No it’s not that see you don’t understand
How should I put it,

You got a man? That almost rhymes.

I got a man,

Okay, cool. Understood. Sorry to bother you, miss! Have a pleasant afternoon, and enjoy your workout!

What’s your man got to do with me?

“Ummm, well, I’m not sure how to respond to that particular question, but it is indeed relevant that I do already boast a significant other, and as a woman intent on remaining monogamous, I theretofore officially rebuff your advances.” Let’s see if she goes with that response.

I told ya’

Or that. Let’s see how that steadfastness holds up.

I’m not trying to hear that see

It surely is true that Positive K only hears what he wants to hear. However, he is nothing if not persistent.

I’m not one of those girls that go rippin’ around

?. I am unfamiliar with that expression. According to Urban Dictionary, “rippin” has several slang definitions, so I suppose we can safely safe say that this girl does not “get down with the ladies” or “pull mad horizontal g’s on her Skidoo while roostin’ down a snow covered trail in western NY.” Man, I love the Internet.

I’m not a dog baby, so don’t play me like a clown

A) dog = clown, b) dog baby (puppy) = clown, or b) “I’m not a dog baby, so don’t play me like a dog” is redundant and doesn’t rhyme with “around.” Another word that doesn’t rhyme with “around” is “clown,” but I don’t want to get too involved here. It’s just a silly rap song, after all. Or, also: d) "I'm not an animal who chases women/mailmen, so don't treat me like a person who makes people laugh at the circus." Five points to Positive K for originality.

I’ll admit, I like how you kick it

MIXED SIGNALS! Also, really? You like being called “kinda pretty” and “baby” and being generally haggled into sexual relations? Man, I am starting to side with Positive K is this romantic tug-of-war.

Now you’re talkin’ baby, dats da ticket

You see, I mean … have fun telling Positive K to go away now. Sheesh.

Now don't get excited and chuck your own in

C'mon , baby. Get realz here. Who doesn't want to chuck their own in after being told he kicks it well? Of course, I am kidding. I have no idea what this means.

I already told ya, I got a man

I think I know what's coming.

What's your man got to do with me?

And so on and so forth. Personally, I believe this young woman should try, "I am spoken for," as an alternate response, if only to witness her counterpart's free-styling ability. Example:

"I'm spoken for"
"I'm not trying to hear that ~~see~~ yo for"

Now you can persist to play Don Juan all day
But ain't nothin gonna change
Yeah baby, sure you're right

The clever and subtle A, B, C, D, E, F, G, etc. rhyme scheme. Brilliant!

I'ma break it down and do whatever I gots to do

I sincerely hope "whatever" doesn't include rape. I'm just saying.

I'll tell you now, I got eyes for you.

"I Only Have Eyes ... For Your Booty," was Positive K's contemporary take on Sinatra, and reached No. 112 on the Billboard charts in '93. He was later sued for copyright infringement by R. Kelly, but only because R. Kelly was upset he didn't think of it first.

You got eyes, but they not for me
You better use them for what they for and that's to see

I don't want to get too technical here, but urging Mr. K to use his eyes to see -- good advice, don't get me wrong -- does not necessarily dissuade him from doing just that to see you, and need I remind you that you are wearing a bright orange skin-tight leotard. You have made no progress here in your endeavor.

You know what's the problem, ya not used to learnin

Ha! Boom, roasted! You uneducated broad! Why don't you try learnin something every now and then? Quick, what rhymes with "learnin?"

I'm Big Daddy Longstroke, and your man's Pee Wee Herman

A, ha! Few things make a woman melt more than the classic, "my penis is bigger than your man's, who I do not know, penis." Gets 'em every time, amiright, ladies? I should also mention that I have never heard of this fabled Big Daddy Longstroke, but using context I find it safe to assume that his children's television show was much better than Pee Wee Herman's.

Now seems about as good a time as any to end this thing. This song goes on forever and most of it involves Positive K not trying to hear dat.

I should probably stop drinking coffee before bed.

Is that Bank of America?
I told you, I got a bank.

Dog barks + owner shrugs = gavel slam?

2011-10-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 10/27 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/28 issue of the Peoria Times

We’ve finally reached that point of the year where we can turn off our air conditioners and go to sleep soundly with the windows open, the gentle cool breeze blowing in and comforting us as we dream of unicorns jumping over rainbows, or whatever it is that you dream about.

And then, if you’re like us, you can be violently awoken by your dog, who jumps up to start barking back at a neighborhood dog who has been left outside and began barking wildly, at something, like nothing, for some unknown reason.

This has always confounded me—say you have a dog, right? And you love your dog so much that you’re like, “You know what dog? You’re gonna stay outside like, forever. Summer heat? Coyotes? Bobcats? Scorpions? Deal with it. You’re a dog. You can handle it. I love you. But I must set you free.” That makes no sense, right? I mean, why even have a dog?

But hey, everyone’s different, I guess. I just would figure that the least a person can do, for both his dog and the betterment of the entire neighborhood, is bring the dog in at night. It’s bad enough to hear the howling sounds of the coyotes, and the accompanying mental imagery of them surrounding a poor, defenseless baby unicorn somewhere in the nearby desert. But the cacophony of barking induced by coyote-howling and much lesser sounds, like wind, from dogs left outside is just too much.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks this. Glendale City Council recently considered the issue of public noise, especially from dogs, and they also touched on the sensitive topic of public smells, for which I firmly believe there is not nearly enough legislation.

Judge Elizabeth Finn, based on how things proceed in Peoria, recommended that three unrelated nearby property owners must sign a complaint in order to achieve prosecution for an owner with an annoying dog. Glendale Mayor Elaine Scruggs was not a fan of such a definitive required number, stating that some homes in Glendale feature large acreage, so finding nearby property owners to concede would prove difficult. Now, I would argue that if you live on a large chunk of land, and you are hearing a dog bark at night or smelling a foul odor, it is probably your own dog and own odor. But whatever. The point is that city council is finally addressing barking dogs and random odors. Also “squawking birds.” Some people have problems with that, too, apparently.

My problem is that I am still unsure from which houses these dogs are barking in my own neighborhood. I therefore run the risk of approaching my neighbors to sign a complaint and discovering that they are actually one of the culprits.

“Hello, neighbor. Would you mind signing this complaint? Dude over there keeps his dog out at night and it drives me crazy.”

“I keep my dog outside at night.”

“Oh that’s cool. Did I say ‘dog?’ I meant, the dude over there smells bad. Just sign here.”

I already have zero or a negative relationship with the majority of my neighbors, so this should work out well. I miss the old days when things didn’t have to pass through city council, and if you had a problem with your neighbor you got a bunch of other neighbors to help drag that person into the street and publicly spank them with a humongous wooden spoon. It used to happen like that, right? Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era.

Classic card of the week

2011-10-20T13:00:00.000-07:00

Joe Girardi, 1994 Upper Deck

Hey, I have an idea. Get up.

Seriously. Get. Up. You’re embarrassing yourself, writhing away in the dirt like that. It’s your own fault. You thought you could run through the brick wall that it Joe mo’ freakin’ Girardi? Pfft. Hold on, let me flick this bug off my shoulder. There. That was more difficult for me than blocking the plate from you.

Get up.

How did you even get over there? I honestly don’t remember. I think I fell asleep there for a second. I remember yawning when I saw you rounding third with a full head—your head is huge, by the way—of steam, but I don’t really remember much after that. Was there contact? My uniform looks like it just came out of the wash. Man, I am bored.

Get up.

Did somebody shoot you from the stands and I didn’t see it? If so, apply pressure to the wound. If not,

Get up.

Do you see a white light? Move away from the light, man. That would cause a massive delay here, and I got a family to get home to. Speaking of families, you are embarrassing yours right now. And mine. And America. So please,

Get up.

No? Okay. Might as well tell you a little bit about myself. Grew up in Peoria, Illinois. Ever hear of it? Thought so. Played sports, obviously, excelled at them all, obviously. Just for poops and giggles—I don’t curse, that’s another thing about me … it’s so, predictable—went to Northwestern and got a degree in industrial engineering. I could pretty much design a skyscraper that’s also a rocket ship if I wanted to, but I prefer to teach harsh life lessons to pretty boys like you. What did you major in, not going to college? Prolly. Oh, and by the way, I was the first freshman ever to be elected president of my fraternity, Alpha Tau Omega, which is Latin for ... something. Sorry, don't speak Latin. Too busy being an industrial engineer who is awesome at baseball. Anyway, yeah, a freshman president. My hazing was that the seniors had to bow down before me and wash my baseball spikes with their saliva. It was tough, but I came out a better man, if that’s even possible. It’s not possible. I came out the same. Also, I was forged from steel.

Get up.

We’re friends now, right? Cool. Between you and I, I’m sick of this Colorado biz. My game-calling skills are unmatched, but infield flies here are three-run ding-dongs, ya’ know? I can’t do anything about that. I used my industrial engineering expertise to construct and then recommend to the front office a humidor for the baseballs, but no one was feeling me. I patented the idea anyway, just in case. Anyway, think I’m gonna head somewhere else, win a bunch of titles. What about you? Gonna lay there? Cool. Let me know how that works out.

Get up.

Definitely gonna manage eventually. When I do, tell the world how I inspired you on this day. It’ll make for a great story, a precursor of sorts. Media loves that sort of thing. Oh, hey, I almost forgot—you’re out. Figured that went without saying, but you seem a little dazed, so thought I’d let you know. Here comes the trainer. Do me a favor and dust off the plate before they put you on the stretcher. It was nice talking to you.

Did you know?
Joe Girardi was surprisingly unable to tell Alex Rodriguez to "get down," in the batting order, of the 2011 playoffs.

Classic card of the week

2011-10-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

Steve Hosey, 1993 Pinnacle

Here is a 1993 baseball card in which Pinnacle introduces a member of its forecasted “Team 2001.”

Why 2001 as opposed to a Conan-esque “in the year 2000?” Well, in 2000, Pinnacle figured, the instant future would be weird and messy. “Forget about baseball—how do I operate this flying robot dog?!” is what people would undoubtedly be saying very frequently. But by 2001? Everything would fall into place and make sense and be more established. Hence, that will be the perfect time for America to unleash its sole athletic team on the rest of the unsuspecting world. Wait, not world—universe. According to its schedule, Team 2001 faces the Jupiter Juggernauts on a neutral space field the second weekend of August. Best of luck, guys! Bring home the Galactidoid!

The Giants envision Steve as part of a super outfield in the not-too-distant future.

Da-da-da-da-daaaaaaaa! Introducing your SU-PER OUTFIEEEEELD! Picture it—2001. Giants versus Dodgers. Dodgers trot out their civilian outfield. Dudes jog out of the dugout, hang out in the grass for a little while, scratch their respective groins, chase after balls hit in the gap and stuff. Pfft. Embarrassing. Bottom half of the inning? BAM! Super outfield to the rescue! Steve Hosey, Barry Bonds, and some other guy—let’s call him, “Future McFutureson” (right field)—literally fly out of the dugout! They’re wearing capes that feature their faces. Also, the bottom of their spikes are on fire—rocket booster spikes! They fly around in a figure 8 to the delight and amazement of the once hostile crowd before slowly allowing their rocket booster spikes to drop them into position. Uh oh, first pitch, looks like an upper deck home run for the Dodgers … not so fast! Steve Hosey flies high into the sky and grabs the ball with his bare hand! PLAY OF THE CENTURY! Then, while still in midair, Hosey grabs, out of nowhere, a baseball bat, then throws the ball up to himself, and hits it into the stratosphere! That’s 38 trillion galact-o-runs for the Giants! Game over! Season over! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!

Phew. Man, I can’t wait for the future! Where was I?

Steve is big, fast, powerful, and agile.

Four tools. Other tool is a shrink ray gun, which Steve also has. Unsure why they didn’t mention that one. Kind of important.

Wikipedia, anything to add?

Hosey's half brother is Boston Celtics basketball player Paul Pierce.

Paul Pierce was unceremoniously left off of Team 2001 because he did not play baseball. Had he made it, Pierce and Hosey would have made headline news as the first half-brother superhero tandem in the brief history of cosmic baseball.

Did you know?
Future McFutureson once tore his ACL after falling down the dugout steps. It healed itself immediately, but he was still placed on the 15-day DL for “embarrassment,” as the future is much more sensitive to emotions.

The sporting life

2011-10-11T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 10/13 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/14 issue of the Peoria Times

Our daughter, who just turned 2, had her first soccer practice last Saturday.
You may be wondering, as I was—how does a 2-year old play soccer? Well, it’s complicated. For a young girl like our daughter, who is not that much bigger than the required soccer ball, there are obstacles, the least of which is the size ratio of foot-to-ball.

We had signed her up through the City of Peoria’s website for this Toddler Tots six-week soccer practice thingee. As parents, it was strangely exhilarating to say things like, “Sorry, can’t go. Our daughter has soccer practice.” The whole situation enabled me to excitedly forecast a future when I am escorting her to more advanced sporting events of which she is a participant, and I can actively complain about the coaching and/or officiating and openly lobby for her All-Stardom.

In that respect, we’re off to a rough start. The practice began with positive encouragement from the coach for all the kids to begin stretching by holding your arms out like this and twirling them around! Simple enough, it would seem. But something about these encouraging instructions caused our daughter to break down, wail loudly, and then cling to me, the parent chosen to assist her in this practice so that my wife could patrol the sidelines with the Flip video. Up until that very moment—literally the first moment of the whole thing—all the kids seemed happy and excited. But our daughter’s wailing set off the familiar domino effect, with other young ones following suit. Sorry, coach!

Not helping matters was the fact that it was like 105-degrees out and very humid. Only in Arizona can the first October morning of fall feel like the Peruvian rainforest. (By the way, is it me or have the last two summers been very humid? I was promised dry heat. What gives, God?) After five minutes her face was flush red and my wife was running over with a water bottle like our daughter was a boxer in the corner of the ring, while lamenting that one of us had neglected to put sun block on her. Sports!

The practice proceeded as such, with me holding her hand as we attempted to execute simple soccer drills. Many times she opted to fall to the ground in a heap of crying despair, leaving me in that compromised state of having to choose between tough-love parent or coddler. I straddled the line for a bit, but by the end I was simply holding her while dribbling the ball myself and knocking other kids out of the way so ~~I could~~ she could score.

She did have fleeting and encouraging moments—mostly, for some reason, when my wife briefly took over—of participation whereby she exhibited a skill level on par with any popular one-named Brazilian. I think she’ll do better as the weeks go on, and both the weather and immense pressure of living up to the glory and tradition of Toddler Tots soccer cool off.

My wife later described the practice to her mom, which prompted my mother-in-law to ask what color the uniforms are, as if this is a traveling team sponsored by Best Buy that challenges the best 2-year olds from in and out of state. The contrast of that question to the reality of the day was awesome.

Maybe she will wear a uniform one day. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. Right now, I am a soccer dad with the loudest kid on the team, and it feels pretty good.

Classic card of the week

2011-10-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

Tommy Lasorda, 1996 Upper Deck checklist

Of all the things I enjoy about this card—there are many—I most enjoy the contrast between the intended modernity of the card itself and the oldness of the man featured on it. This is like putting a GPS on a horse and buggy.

I don’t think any card better exemplifies why I so enjoy the managerial baseball card. I mean, just for fun—remove all context here. There is no such thing as baseball cards. Our society has not acknowledged the magnificence of the heroes of our national pastime being featured annually on tiny pieces of cardboard. But then, this emerges, and what we have is a crystal-clear card inexplicably featuring a 70-year old man in uniform. If we were to put this card in a time capsule that wasn’t opened until the year 4017, when baseball has morphed into “blorkball” and is played with lasers by robots—my concept of the future is quite juvenile—we would be totally embarrassed from heaven. What we were we thinking?! (Everything else in the time capsule would represent our era honorably.)

Of course, even within the context of baseball cards, this particular card makes no sense. We are still left with the nagging question, “What am I supposed to do with this?” For me, 15 years later, I have discovered that the purpose of this card is for me to post it on the Internet and question its purpose. But others haven’t been so fortunate, I imagine.

This card is part of Upper Deck’s "Managerial Salute." And I say it’s about darn time we salute the often elderly men who make hundreds of thousands, or millions, of dollars for socializing around star athletes and sitting on a bench for three hours a night and making gut-based decisions like, “Bring in the lefty,” and “That’s a strike, you nincompoop!” These men deserve more praise, especially the ones who are unceremoniously dismissed from their position, and forced to take the same position with a different team a few years later, or a slightly lesser position for slightly less money until they become manager again, or appear in the broadcast booth or on television and realize the dream job of every red-blooded male in America. I don’t want to take things too far, but I think every time a former or current manager of a baseball team at any level steps into a public arena, everyone should stop what they’re doing and salute. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Lasorda especially deserves a salute. In fact, I just don’t think he ever received the attention here that he did abroad. Sayeth Wikipedia:

Lasorda became a local celebrity in the Dominican Republic due to his many visits in search of young baseball talents in this land of many famous players in the major leagues, especially after becoming a devoted fan of the "chicharrones" (deep fried pork skins) commonly sold on the streets of the Villa Mella neighborhood of Santo Domingo.

“Here comes the old, fat white man who takes all of our athletes and eats all of our deep fried pork skins!” is what many of the locals would excitedly scream, in Spanish (if someone can translate that sentence for me into Spanish, I will post it on the blog immediately as its own post with no explanation; also, I studied Spanish for a total of eight educational years), as Lasorda stepped off of his golden helicopter and into the small villages of the Dominican Republic. Then, of course, they would salute.

Did you know?
When Word was executing its spell-check, one of its suggestions for “blorkball” was “blackballs.”

Movie company offends the right person

2011-10-04T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 10/6 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/7 issue of the Peoria Times

Last week I canceled our Netflix account.

I wanted to cancel it a while ago, but my wife was convinced it made sense to retain because: how else are we going to see any movies? She is right in that regard. Having not walked into a movie theater in ages, and overwhelmed by the bevy of DVR’d television shows we must watch, movies literally need to come to us in order for us to consider gracing them with our time and attention. (Occasionally we even read. Really!)

The reality of Netflix was, however, this: I would send a movie back, and then forget to update our queue, and so we’d get a movie we didn’t really want to see and only added to the queue to fill the queue, and thus the movie would sit on our kitchen table for weeks and weeks, burdening us with the reminder that we actually pay for this service. Then we’d finally watch it reluctantly, and my wife would say things like, “I can’t believe you picked this movie,” and “When does this end?!” and I would say, “You can pick one anytime, be my guest!” But she never would, and I would forget to update the queue again, and the cycle would refresh. (One time I ordered a faux documentary about a Dominican minor league baseball player that was 18 hours long and had subtitles. One thumb up!)

Making matters worse is the fact our DVD player stinks, and on the rare occasion we were mutually enjoying a documentary about the food processing industry, it would suddenly freeze, and then skip to another scene. “I don’t think that part was important,” I would say as my wife rolled her eyes.

I was finally let off the hook after Netflix made national news by raising its rates and causing a PR nightmare with the way they went about it. You see, here’s the thing about my wife—she’s very loyal, and she defended Netflix admirably. But if you cross her, that’s it. By raising their rates about 80 percent and doing so rather sneakily, Netflix is dead to her. I didn’t just get the green light to cancel; I had no choice. (Netflix does offer a streaming option, which would resolve the DVD player problem and price increase. But a) I’m trying to eliminate things, not learn how to do other things, and b) sayeth the wife: “They can stream their way to bankruptcy!”)

So we are now unburdened by that monthly charge that earned us, on average, 0.04 movies every 30 days. We are still left, however, with the problem of how to view movies, especially after we watch the Oscars and realize we have no idea what’s going on. I suppose I will have to use those Redbox thingees that I see all over the place. I am very much looking forward to standing in front of that big machine, feeling rushed and tense because someone is behind me, picking the wrong movie, and then watching it freeze on our DVD player.

Man, being entertained is difficult work. I suppose I could read a book, but sometimes they turn those things into movies. It makes sense to wait it out.

Okay, let's see here ... how do I search for dark mocumentaries about the finance industry?

America, heck yeah!

2011-09-30T08:07:00.000-07:00

Here is an actual phone call conversation that I had at work yesterday. It works better if, in your head, you speak the “Him” lines in a slow, laboring, Southwest-country drawl.

Me: This is Mike …

Him: Yeah, you the main writer over there?

Me: Are you looking for the editor?

Him: Huh?

Me: The editor. Are you looking to speak with the editor?

Him: I don’t (grumbles) … What’s his name?

Me: Her name is Carolyn.

Him: Well you tell him, I wanna know what “Hispanic” means.

Me: I’m sorry?

Him: I wanna know what “Hispanic” means.

Me: No, I heard you. I mean, what are you talking about? Are you being serious right now?

Him: Welp, ya'll guys did an article here (flipping through papers; I imagine he is licking his fingers as he does so) on some kind of “Hispanic” breakfast, and I wanna know what “Hispanic” means.

Me: Alright, I’m not really liking the tone of this conversation or where it’s going. But I’ll bite—do you honestly not know what the term Hispanic means?

Him: (grumbles) I wanna know what “Hispanic” means.

Me: “Hispanic” in a nationally-recognized term for those of Spanish descent, whether they originate from Spain, Mexico, Latin America, Cuba, or whatever.

Him: Welp, just what I figured. The Mexicans want to hide their nationality.

Me: Wow. Okay, that’ll be enough for today.

Him: Let me ask you this, let me ask you this—what’s YOUR nationality, huh? What are YOU?

Me: What does it matter? What are you, racist?

Him: No, I’m an American!

Me: Okay, thank you. Please never call here again.

I’m certainly not naïve enough to think racism doesn’t still exist, but I gotta say—it takes a special kind of crazy to call up a weekly newspaper to complain about a feature story that no person in his right mind could find offensive. I mean, Racist A calling to complain about something like, “Local Hispanic leader rallies against immigration law” is one thing. Racist B calling to complain about, “Local Hispanics eat breakfast, talk about stuff,” is quite another. Both complaints are totally wrong, but the latter is mind-boggling. In my head, I imagine this man scrounged up change from underneath a couch cushion that wasn’t his, but placed near the street for trash pickup, and then located the only pay phone within a 50-mile radius to call and voice his complaint, and when he returned to his dilapidated shack that contains 12 parakeets, he proudly informed his wife, who wears an eye patch, how he had boldly expressed his Americanism over dinner, which was a bowl of Coca Puffs.

Classic card of the week

2011-09-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

Benny Distefano, 1987 Topps

Benny Distefano—you are not going to believe this—is from Brooklyn. I know, crazy, right? Breathe that one in. I’ll give you a second.

(In the meantime, I have a theory about life that goes like this: Everyone is from Brooklyn. It’s a pretty self-explanatory theory, based on years of being married to an Italian from Brooklyn and, as a result, finding common ground with many, many others who are also from Brooklyn. It’s such a fail proof theory that there’s not even a question of whether or not someone’s from Brooklyn—only where in Brooklyn. Seriously, take anyone. Off the top of my head … Michael Jordan. From North Carolina, right? Nope—Brooklyn. How about … Mikhail Gorbachev? Brooklyn, originally. I could go on, but the point is that every single person who exists is from Brooklyn. It’s the great common denominator. Really, try it next time you meet someone. I think you’ll be surprised at the results.)

So far, we have discussed nothing about Benny Distefano’s baseball career. That’s alright though, because what I really want to know from the outset here is: what does Benny Distefano enjoy doing from a leisurely standpoint?

Benny’s leisure activities include dancing.

“My name is Benny Distefano. I am from Brooklyn. I like to dance.” That was the title and also the full content of a biographical essay Distefano wrote in second grade. It is also the phrase he speaks into the microphone each time before he dances at a public event, which is many times throughout the calendar year. And when that phrase is followed by the instantly recognizable bassline of Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” watch out—you’re in for a show.

I have to admit though—I have always had a problem with the use of “leisure.” To me, a leisure activity is not one that is merely separate from one’s full-time employ. It should imply a general sense of laid-backedness. I mean, dancing is hard freakin’ work. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the way I dance, which is violently erratic with inappropriate groin thrusts, but still. Distefano is listed here as a first baseman and outfielder. Even if his specialty is ballroom, I have to believe that’s less leisurely than his day job.

Let’s see how Benny’s BR Bullpen page describes him:

Benny Distefano was always the bridesmaid but never the bride.

I honestly don’t think I have ever witnessed a man described in this way. Definitely not in the context of a major league baseball player who simply never received adequate playing time. This does give me another movie idea, however: Two guys, both first baseman. Also, best friends. One guy is the starting first baseman and also getting married. Other guy is backup first baseman and not getting married, but is the bridesmaid, because it’s a reverse wedding. Also, the other guy is in love with the starting first baseman’s fiancé. And the starting first baseman is really in love with the best man, who is woman, obviously. Movie is called, “27 ~~Dresses~~ Outs.”

Anyway, what is Benny Distefano’s most significant achievement?

Significant Achievement
Benny Distefano is one of a very few players who tripled in their first major league at bat; moreover, he did it against someone who went to the same high school he did, Pete Falcone. He accomplished this feat on May 18th, 1984 when he subbed for an injured Amos Otis.

Indeed, Benny Distefano’s most significant achievement was the time he tripled in his first major league at-bat off a dude who went to the same high as he did, all because freakin’ Amos Otis was hurt. This was, amazingly, the second time that Amos Otis indirectly caused another person’s most significant personal achievement. In the late 1600s, Ferdinand Verbiest designed the first working steam-powered vehicle after his buddy, Amos Otis, fell off a horse.

Did you know?
Ferdinand Verbiest was from Brooklyn.

The fertile, magic garden of brilliance

2011-09-27T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 9/29 issue of The Glendale Star and the 9/30 issue of the Peoria Times

I have done a lot of dumb things around the house. I don’t like to brag, but it’s kind of my thing.

I’ve put stuff together backwards. I once wiped down our stainless steel refrigerator with a damp paper towel almost immediately after my wife told me not to do exactly that. I have placed items on the ledge of our upstairs hallway, thinking to myself, “I really shouldn’t put this here,” and then knocked it off the ledge later after forgetting it was there.

I have spilled water on our laptop computer. I’ve hung pictures on the wall that have fallen down in the middle of the night and scared us half to death. Last year, while putting up Christmas lights and assuring my wife I’d be careful, I carried our ladder out of the garage, but it got caught in the hanging garage door string and caused the unhinged garage door to slam down with the force of a hundred stampeding horses, right in front of my face.

One time I dropped a giant glass container of olive oil on our kitchen floor. In fact, I would say that I have been on our kitchen floor, hands and knees, painstakingly looking for tiny, indistinguishable shards of glass at least six times in the past four years.

This is not to say I am completely inept. I have accomplished many things in and around the house that have gone unheralded due to their proper completion and lack of incident. One thing of my doing that has actually been a huge success is our vegetable garden.

When we moved here, I had the brilliant idea to put a horseshoe pit in our backyard. I had played horseshoes approximately four times in my life at that point, so this was a no-brainer. Then I realized that any potential horseshoe game would pose a risk to the integrity of our home’s exterior, so I had an even brillianter idea—one-sided horseshoes. You throw the horseshoe, go and get it, come back, and then throw it again. Party time!

One-sided horseshoes proved to be an unpopular and infrequently played game of leisure. So, last year I decided to make that square block of dirt and sand a vegetable garden. My wife, because of the summer heat and it being my concept, didn’t think it would work.

Amazingly, it has. It’s kind of like a magic garden. I actually cannot stop things from growing in there. The basil I had planted turned into a basil tree, and I needed to get rid of it to make room for my fall plantings. So last week I decided to make pesto.

I never make pesto the right way, and my wife doesn’t really like it, but that’s never stopped me before. I was having difficulty getting the basil leaves to churn in the blender, however. So I took the top off the blender to stuff the leaves down with a wooden spoon, at which point my other hand accidentally pushed the “chop” button and, well … yeah.

My wife, who was bathing our daughter upstairs when she heard the familiar noise of an inappropriate object being destroyed in an electronic device, yelled, “What happened?!” I did not answer.

Instead, I spent the next twenty minutes painstakingly looking for tiny, indistinguishable shards of wood to remove from my pesto sauce. I don’t like to brag, but it turned out okay.

Classic card of the week

2011-09-22T13:00:00.000-07:00

Rob Maurer, 1991 Upper Deck

I don’t know anything about Rob Maurer, but dare I say he’s got a look in his eyes that reminds me of … I can’t even say it! Am I going crazy???!!!????!!!!????!!!!

Maurer is following in the footsteps of another hot-hitting first-baseman from Evansville, IN,

omg, omg, OMG!

the Yankees’ Don Mattingly.

Rob Maurer grew up in the same town, and played the same sport, and the same position within that sport, and made it to the same Major Leagues. Coincidence? More like the movie, “Single White Female,” if you ask me. Except it’s like, “Single White Female Part II: Married White Male: Footsteps to the Majors.” Wait, was Rob Maurer married? I don’t know. Probably. To Don Mattingly’s wife! What? This is crazy. I am scared. Is Mattingly okay? Has anyone heard from him lately? This reminds me of that movie, “The Talented Mr. Mattingly.”

“Don gave everybody in Evansville something to look up to,” Maurer said. “He gave everybody the idea they had a chance.”

“Follow Me Out Da ‘Hood” was the title of Don Mattingly’s 1991 rap album, and many did, including, obviously, Rob Maurer. For years, kids growing up in Evansville, Indiana would play stickball in the streets until the gunshots rang out, never believing they had a chance to play professional baseball like the kids from other American neighborhoods. But when Mattingly made it? Pfft. It was like, to use the timeless words of youth, “Dang, son! I can DO this.”

For a young child like Rob Maurer, who was born six years after Mattingly in the same room of the same hospital to the same
~~mother~~ doctor, it was impossible to not be motivated by the success of his predecessor. But, as they say in the business (baseball), all that motivation is moot if you’re not exposing yourself to older men.

Maurer received plenty of exposure from scouts

Or, receiving exposure. That is nasty. Let’s move on.

Maurer was selected in the sixth round the same year, and his intense desire to excel sometimes led to frustration during his first two summers of professional baseball.

Intense desire almost always leads to frustration, whether in love or baseball, like that movie, “Love and Baseball,” starring Queen Latifa and Satchel Paige. Except, of course, in the case of Don Mattingly himself, whose intense desire to succeed led only to success, and also to back problems. ‘Tis much better, one might say, to curb that desire and just be like, “Whatev,” so that you may, as a result, attain that once desired success or, if doesn’t work out, not really care anyway.

Thus concludes today’s lesson.

Did you know?
Maurer's nickname, "Robbie Baseball," was deemed blasphemous by the 2002 MLB Collective Bargaining Agreement.

Common decency, attentiveness not playground philosophies

2011-09-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 9/22 issue of The Glendale Star and the 9/23 issue of the Peoria Times

One of the less-than-fortunate side effects of having a child of your own is being forced to deal with that most unpredictable and confounding of creatures—other people’s children.

I took our 2-year old daughter to the playground last week, where a bunch of kids—all of them older than her—were already playing. On a nearby bench sat three moms, watching the children with the intensity of a hawk that is blind and flies into things. I couldn’t help but overhear portions of their conversation, and let’s just say I was surprised the playground wasn’t surround by ancient Greek columns. She said what? Puh-lease!

Anyway, our daughter loves older kids. She wants to do everything they’re doing. She instantly began climbing the parts of the playground the older kids had traversed, and looked at me for approval. Then she attempted to break the ice with an excited, “Hi!” to one of the older girls, who promptly turned up her nose and looked the other way.

Now, I can tell the difference between shyness and something else, and this reaction was most certainly not the former. And this girl was plenty old enough for manners. I don’t know, maybe it’s the pathetic look on our daughter’s little face when someone can’t so much as return a greeting, but it offends me. Greatly.

Then she wanted to slide down one side of a dual slide. Two boys in the vicinity, however, who noticed her moving that way, instantly rushed to the top of the slide and started hanging off of it, not moving, so that she couldn’t go. Our daughter waited patiently behind them, hands folded. (By the way, these descriptions of her are not meant to illicit sympathy. She has played the role of aggressor many times. But she’ll always say “hi” before biting you in the face. We’ve taught her well.) It irked me to no end these boys wouldn’t let her go, so I said to the older of the two, “Hey, you guys mind sliding down so someone else can have a turn?”

The kid looked back at me like I had just ask him the Pythagorean Theorem, and for a second I interpreted his stare as resistance. Were it my own kid, I would have grabbed him by the shirt and tossed him down the slide. Instead I stared back and through gritted teeth said, “Slide. Down. The slide.” Which he did, on his stomach, and which of course our daughter had to mimic, almost landing on her head before I caught her.

Our time at the playground proceeded as such, with our daughter weaving through thick clouds of rudeness and obnoxiousness while I monitored it all since no one else seemed willing to do so. I do realize that kids are kids, and quite often a reflection of how they are raised, but I am wondering if there is a specific age where we are allowed to transfer that resentment from the parent to the child? Four? Six? I say three. Don’t get me wrong—I’ll still resent the parents, but it’s an easier thing to channel in direct interactions.

Of course, I know we’re not supposed to judge at all, but, I mean … have you ever been to the playground?

Classic card of the week

2011-09-15T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dante Bichette, 1996 Upper Deck

Yo, yo, yo, Melly-Mel, wussup, wussup, wussup, it’s Dante … Bichette, foo! Whatchu think? Stop playin’ … Not much, just sitting here, trying to avoid BP, ya’ know, the ushe … Whatchu mean, ‘How’m I talkin’ right now?’ Ever heard of a cellular phone? Get with the times, bro. Whatchu on a landline or some shizz? Gettin’ wrapped around a curly cord? You crazy. This thing is as mobile as it gets. You should see it—it’s sleek as hell, yo. Only thing is, it’s got all types of invisible, dangerous laser rays popping out of it in all directions. Technology, ya’ know? That’s why I’m wearing my batting gloves and helmet, just to be safe. Anyway, wussup witchu? … THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! I’m trying to get this day game over with, son! What time are we meeting? … Eight!? What are you like, a grandpa or something? Club don’t get bumpin’ till 10, at least. Besides, I gotta shower and fluff the mull. Takes time, bro. Make it nine. Compro-miz-ize. We’ll do din-din at the Tin-Tin, aiiiight? … True, true. Hey, you talk to Michelle yet? … What’d she say? … Uh, huh … Uh, huh … What!? First of all, I was wasted. Second of all, what are we married now? Geez, these broads. Listen, tell her that chick I was talkin’ to was my cousin or something. Then, tell her I’m sorry. Make it sound good though! Sincere, but like I don’t really care, ya’ know? Good. Then tell her I’mma hit a home run for her today. Or a single. Or a walk. At least a walk, tell her. Then tell her to wear that blue dress tonight, okay? … Oh, listen—remember when you talk to the chicks, it’s not Club Android anymore. Those dudes got arrested last week. It’s called The Android Club now. New owners. From Russia or something … Yeah, same cover. Man, you are cheap … Well I told you years ago you could be makin’ millions like your boy over here, but noooooo—you just had to follow in your dad’s footsteps. Sucka. Don’t hate on me … Whatever, bro … What? Who called? … Ted Williams? Weird. I’ll call him back whenever. Listen, I gotta go. Baylor’s on my case. Dude is such a hard-ass. Besides, these lasers are giving me a headache. So nine o’clock, aiiiiiiight? And remember—blue dress! Aiiight, peeeeeeeace.

Riding high

2011-09-13T17:00:00.000-07:00

An edited version of this column appears in the 9/15 issue of The Glendale Star and the 9/16 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife’s cousin moved from New Jersey to Arizona and is staying with us. She is a smaller, female version of my father-in-law. From Italy to the States without even knowing the language, yet acclimating oneself immediately thanks to an unflagging work ethic, ambition, and dynamic and engaging personality, is a story they both share.

It never ceases to amaze us how easily and seamlessly each of them can strike up a friendship with a complete stranger, especially my wife’s cousin; my father-in-law has become at least mildly jaded by the Brooklyn degenerates he deals with on a daily basis. Having lived here for over four years now, we find it increasingly difficult to coerce our own neighbors to wave back. They, on the other hand, are constantly making connections on our own territory, which, for us, is both a marvel and an embarrassment.

In fact, my wife’s cousin had visited us for a few days a couple of years ago. In the span of an hour she met a man named Hercules (?) at the development pool, and then brought us home pizza, which she received at a discount after making some connection with the store owner, who I had never once witnessed smile.

Suffice it to say, she’s already hit the ground running, finding a job and closing in on a place of her own to stay, making friends and connections along the way. Last weekend, she decided to hit the ground biking instead, and still remained a magnet for interaction.

She borrowed my wife’s bike to go for a brisk morning ride around the neighborhood. As she was biking down the main road, a man, also biking, rode up next to her to strike up a conversation.

As a quick sidebar, that alone is astounding to me. To solicit a stranger for mere human interaction while both parties are moving at high speeds while also maintaining an awareness of passing motor vehicles is just so foreign to me. When someone I don’t know tries to strike up a conversation with me at a social function, while I am standing up straight, my first instinctual reaction is, “What is wrong with this person?” And I consider myself relatively friendly. I don't know.

So anyway, he engages her in the typical small talk that two people who have never met before have while they are riding bikes. Where you’re from, what you’re doing here, the weather, etc., etc. Turns out he’s from Trilogy, a 55-plus community contained within our development. The pleasant small talk continued. Then, before they part ways, he drops this doozy: “So, uhhh … you smoke weed?”

Indeed, my wife’s cousin, while riding her bike, was offered drugs by a retired Trilogy resident. After politely refusing, he assured her that, if she changes her mind, he’ll be “easy to find”—I assume this means if she gets a craving for marijuana, she can just start riding her bike around, and he will instantly emerge from a side street—and then, as a sign of friendship and an acknowledgement that what happens on this bike ride stays on this bike ride, gave her a fist bump before riding away. A fist bump!

Again, I have lived here for over four years and have yet to be offered a joint. She was here three days before finding a drug connection, who is like 60. I don’t know how she does it.

Interestingly enough, before my in-laws bought a home here, my father-in-law came to visit us and look at houses. We all went to the local wine bar one Sunday afternoon, where he struck up, of course, a conversation with a local Trilogy resident. They were still talking when my wife and I left, and eventually my father-in-law went MIA, frequent phone calls from my wife and I revealing only that he was “somewhere in Trilogy,” and “safe.” He eventually stumbled home very late in the evening, reprimanded by his daughter in an astounding role reversal. No one is really sure what happened that night—he doesn’t like to talk about it.

So, I don’t know what goes on in Trilogy. I do know, however, where we’ll be retiring in 22 years or so.

Classic card of the week

2011-09-08T13:00:00.000-07:00

Jose Oquendo, 1991 Topps

Some baseball players are good at hitting home runs. Some baseball players are good at pitching. Some baseball players are good at playing defense. Some baseball players are good at stealing bases and running fast around the bases and stuff. Some baseball players are good at doing baseball-related things that are intangible and that transcend definition, like clapping and screaming, “Go get ‘em, Charlie!” Some baseball players—and this is the most important quality a baseball player can have—are good at getting to the ballpark before other baseball players.

Jose is regularly the first player at park for game.

Which game, you ask? Every game, I think. For baseball.

Ozzie Smith: Jogs onto field at 5:07 for 7:05 game …

Jose Oquendo: Slept on the field from the previous night in full uniform, been taking grounders since 10:15 a.m. … Glad you could join us, Ozzenthal. Rolls eyes in direction of coaches …

Ozzie Smith: Sorry I’m late, fellas. My kid got sick and we had to rush him to the hospital …

Jose Oquendo: Pfft.

That was unnecessary. What else, Wikipedia?

José Manuel Roberto Guillermo Oquendo Contreras

Trivia question: What did Jose Oquendo have more of: names, or positions that he played on the baseball field? If you answered “names,” because you know now that he has so many names because I just mentioned it but are unaware of how many positions he played because we haven’t gotten into that yet, then you are an idiot.

In 1987, Oquendo played every position, except catcher, and was nicknamed “The Secret Weapon” by manager Whitey Herzog.

What made Oquendo a weapon was that he played almost every position on the baseball field, which was an asset to a baseball team similar to the way a weapon is an asset to a person trying to kill something. By inserting Jose Oquendo at shortstop one day, and left field the next day, you literally kill your opponent’s chance to win the World Series. Fact. What made him a secret was that he played all of these positions while wearing a Ronald Reagan mask.

Also, a super-utilityman who is first at the ballpark every day and only 5’ 10” AND who was born on the Fourth of July??!! If his name were, say, David Beckstein instead of Jose Manuel Roberto Guillermo Oquendo Contreras, I would have come up with at least 1,925 links to articles detailing his scrappiness when I Googled his name earlier.

Oquendo is currently the third base coach for the Cardinals. Also, this:

On April 4, 2009, Oquendo appeared as a Cardinals pinch hitter in a preseason exhibition game against the Cardinals' triple A affiliate, the Memphis Redbirds. Oquendo fouled off several pitches before being walked. He was advanced to 3rd base on a hit and walk before an inning ending groundout.

With no one to coach him when he reached third base except himself, all the dimensions in the universe converged and reality was suspended. Everything in life that has happened since then has been a dream. Sorry.

Did you know?
Oquendo was fond of introducing himself to new teammates in this way: "Hello, my name is José Manuel Roberto Guillermo Oquendo Contreras. You killed my father. Prepare to die," which once caused Jack Clark, unfamiliar with the line and feeling threatened, as he had, allegedly, once killed a man in Reno, to kick Oquendo in the groin and run away.

A part of this

2011-09-06T17:00:00.000-07:00

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

Everyone has his September 11th story, and many of those stories are, to this country’s great misfortune, infinitely more dramatic and heartbreaking than my own. Nevertheless, 10 years passed is a decent time for all to reflect, and so I will.

I was working in customer service at a healthcare products company in New Jersey on September 11, 2001. After everything went down, it was decided that, because our company serviced virtually every nearby New York City hospital, it would be required for some employees to volunteer to work overnight, and field the expected flood of phone calls. After the confusion, fear, and helpless feelings brought on by the day’s events slightly faded, then morphed into an urging to be a part of this, to help out, I volunteered.

I worked throughout the night, only in that I was physically at work. No phone calls came, except one, requesting only body bags.

With nothing to do, virtually alone in my department, and already feeling overexposed to the images, breaking news, and immediate commentary of this historically awful event still unraveling, I had only my thoughts to work through. They raced around, unhinged, disorganized, at odds with each other in my head, and I needed to sort them out. The keyboard seemed as good a place as any to start.

I wrote down my feelings and emotions, and attempted to put 9/11 into some type of context. When I was finished, I was proud of it. So much so that I printed it out and, hours later that morning, handed it to a few incoming coworkers who I was close to, and, later, to my family.

Whether genuine or to humor me, people said they liked it. I felt—such embarrassing naïveté—that I had helped in some small way to add a sense of perspective. Move over, George Will—a 20-something customer service rep from New Jersey has something to say. It was an uniformed, juvenile take on things, and I shudder at the thought of what that paper read. I don’t remember everything. I have tried at times, like the event itself, to erase from my memory my take on it.

But I will never forget, like the event itself, the feeling I had upon finishing that piece. How therapeutic it felt, how rewarding, how exciting the anticipation of others reading it. I decided, pretty much then and there, to be a writer.

At that time, I was, for all intents and purposes, going nowhere, lost in a post-college haze of immaturity, reluctance to join the real world, and beneath it all, uncertainty and fear at what I would do in that real world, how I would contribute. September 11th violently awoke me out of a slumber of dependency and indifference, and—I don’t even think it was conscious—inspired me to get moving, and revealed to me how I would do just that.

September 11th inspired others to do heroic things, and sacrifice their very lives. To them, all just due attention be paid, always. Some of us were simply inspired to be who we were supposed to be all along. I don’t know why God allows such trivial positives to arise from the ashes of such colossal tragedy, but I don’t know a lot of things. This is the real world. There is simply too much to comprehend, which is why we have each other, and everything that each of us brings to this grand table.

When raiding a suspected cockfighting home with Steven Seagal and a tank goes wrong

2011-09-06T09:41:00.000-07:00

If you've ever wondered what would happen if Steven Seagal and Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio combined forces to raid the home of a cockfighting -- totally Arizona's biggest problem right now -- suspect with a tank, wonder no more.

“If my deputies—or posse man Seagal for that matter—had done something so awful like shooting a family dog, then where are the photos to prove it?” -- Sheriff Joe Arpaio

He asked this question while discreetly placing several glossy, color documents into a shredder labeled, "Evidence?" Seriously though. Where are the photos? Where. Are. The. Photos. Everything has photos.

Hat tip to the great Don Dykstra.

*Alternate title: "Out of the way animals *gunshot* -- we're trying to save animals!"

Classic card of the week

2011-09-01T13:00:00.000-07:00

Jeff Juden, 1991 Upper Deck

Jeff Juden discussion begins … now!

Jeff was Houston’s first round draft selection in June, 1989 from Salem High School.

Wikipedia, would you like to expand on this?

He is in the discussion of being one of the best high school pitchers in Mass history.. pitcher at Salem High School.

No period to abbreviate Mass., two periods at end of sentence, followed by part of a phrase that belongs God knows where … just when I think I can’t love Wikipedia any more, I read another Wikipedia page. Anyhoo, the point is that Jeff Juden is in the discussion of “best high school pitchers in Massachusetts history,” and that is a discussion I would like to have, if it were up to me, every single day.

The Astros expected to take it slow with Jeff, but his performance for Osceola dictated an early promotion to Double-A.

Astros Exec. 1: Tell me about Juden, Charlie, and remember that we as an organization are fully expecting to take it slow with him, as he is our No. 1 draft pick and prized pitching prospect.

Astros Exec. 2: Sit down, Orville. Listen—I know we’re expecting to take it slow with Juden. But have you seen him at Osceola?!

Exec. 1: No. That is why I am conferring with you.

Exec. 2: He’s throwing bee-bees over there, Orville! He can’t be contained! Last week he struck out all 27 batters in one game!

Exec. 1: It seems impossible that I have not heard about that until this very moment. Is that true?

Exec. 2: No, but you get my point. The truth is, his performance dictated a promotion. I’m sorry, Orville! I gotta wipe my hands clean of this (symbolically wipes hands) … there was nothing I could do!

Exec. 1: Well, technically, one thing you could have done was not allow him to be promoted by an abstract concept like “performance,” which has no authority to do such things, and let him continue to pitch well at Osceola because we EXPECTED TO TAKE IT SLOW WITH HIM!

Exec. 2: You’re overreacting, Orville. Take a chill pill, ‘Ville. Here, listen to this … (begins playing Naughty By Nature’s “Everything Gonna Be Alright” on nearby tape player, bobs his head … Orville begins bobbing his head)

His poor performance at Columbus was not due to being overmatched by batters, but rather from fatigue. Juden, who never threw more than 90 innings in high school, lost 5 mph off his fastball due to his amount of innings pitched.

Record scratches on tape player …

Exec. 1: Strangling Charlie … GET TO COLUMBUS NOW AND TAKE PRECAUTIONS!

The Astros, taking all precautions

Except the ones they “expected” to take in the first place.

gave Jeff the last week of the season off

Read: “Allowed him to miss one last start”

to give him time to regain his arm strength.

Montage of time passing, seasons changing …

Jeff’s performance in the Florida State League was good enough to be voted the second best prospect.

Exec. 2: Bursts into Exec. 1’s office … Orville, did ya’ hear?

Exec. 1: Angrily at desk, without lifting head from paperwork … What?

Exec. 2: Juden’s performance in Florida was just named second best prospect!

Exec. 1: How does a performance get named as a prospect and not the individual?

Exec. 2: I don’t know! Same way a performance can promote a guy, I guess. Still!

Exec. 1: Alright, call the local paper. Tell ‘em we want a reporter down here stat for a Juden feature, and tell him to be careful with the name and context! You still got the tape?

Exec. 2: Pulls Naughty By Nature tape out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket ...

Exec. 1: Play that shizz!

Wild animals: better on television

2011-08-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 9/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 9/2 issue of the Peoria Times

After four years of blissful enjoyment of my outdoor desert surroundings, it was bound to happen. Last week I came face-to-face with a coyote.

Granted, our faces were about 25 yards apart, but still. I had just finished a jog around the neighborhood, and was cooling down by walking around the cul de sac near our street that overlooks a barren desert that should have been developed years ago (thanks, economy!) when our eyes met.

It was very similar to that time I was viciously attacked by bears (don’t know what I’m talking about? Buy the book!) in that I felt extremely vulnerable. He—I didn’t think to check the genitalia from afar, so let’s go with “he”—sized me up. I have heard that when confronted by a coyote, one should make lots of noise and move menacingly forward as a means of intimidating the great beast. But we were far enough apart that I didn’t feel overtly threatened, plus I didn’t want to take the chance of screaming and approaching and having him charge me, at which point I would have turned around immediately and started running, thus sealing my fate. I know my neighbors wouldn’t have helped. Instead I maintained eye contact while sidestepping towards my house, and when he was out of sight, I booked it like Usain Bolt, minus the casual confidence.

Ironically, I began that day’s jog telling myself that I should really start carrying something on these runs in case of danger. Something light, of course. A knife? I later mentioned as much to my wife and she laughed, saying, “That’s too close!” She’s right. As if I could imagine some violent struggle between myself and a coyote ending with me stabbing the coyote in the heart. Who do I think I am? Some kind of bearded mountain man? I would need something that would allow me to keep a vast distance. Like a machine gun. Or netting that sprays out of my wrists.

The reason I had been contemplating protection was that our friend, who lives in the neighborhood across the street from ours, had recently experienced the pleasure of seeing a bobcat in her backyard. Not near her backyard. In her backyard, where her kids were playing. Not a cute construction Bobcat. The animal bobcat. Again, for emphasis—a bobcat. In her backyard.

Here’s the thing. We live in a development, and while I realize our Home Owner’s Association can’t feasibly be asked to contain the surrounding wildlife, it’s like, I mean … we pay almost $300 per quarter. I wouldn’t mind if all of that money went towards the bobcat/coyote protection fund. Pools? Parks? Pfft. Don’t care. Can you keep me from getting mauled by a desert animal? Cool. Here is all of my money.

This whole situation has also forced me to rethink everything about myself. I used to be like, “The environment! Save animals! This is their habitat!” which is an admirable line of thinking, until you are in a t-shirt and shorts and staring back at a coyote. Now I’m twitching during cartoons. “Winnie the Pooh will EAT YOUR FACE!” is something I screamed at no one in particular the other day while forcefully turning off the television.

Now I will not leave the house unless it’s behind a steering wheel. I’m not sure what to do. It’s either a treadmill or a gun at this point, and I fear either choice ends with me hurting myself badly.

Those treadmills are too narrow.

Dramatization of my encounter.

Classic card of the week

2011-08-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

Darryl Strawberry, 1991 Scores

Everybody knows that Darryl Strawberry is a master at blasting. And also that he is The Franchise. But I have a question about Darryl Strawberry, and I’m wondering if Score, the baseball card company, can answer it. Here is my question, and it’s a three-parter: Darryl Strawberry’s mere presence. Important? Also, do people feed off him? Not his flesh, but like, his ability or something? Finally, can he carry a team of nine players including a pitcher and will them to win if he so chooses? (Bonus question: Does he have an exciting swing?)

Darryl is one of those rare ballplayers who makes his team better because of his presence.

Lesser players make their team worse with their presence. Or, worse, only affect their team in the way that they play baseball for that team, and otherwise said team treats that player’s general existence as a matter of indifference. Not cool, lesser players!

When he is on a roll, he carries the Mets.

I do not enjoy the precondition that Darryl Strawberry must be on a roll to carry the Mets. He is always on a roll, and even if he’s not, he will still carry the Mets, albeit to a place they do not necessarily want to go. Like a chick flick. Or CVS.

His swing is exciting even when he strikes out.

Even when he strikes out looking, it’s more exciting that watching a different player with a less-exciting swing hit a home run. Oh, Bo Jackson hit one into the upper deck? BO-RING! Way to be right-handed with a more compact swing, idiot. Merely imagining what Strawberry could have done to the pitch—even if (especially if!) he missed it—had he swung excitingly, is more exciting than almost anything. Fact: the excitement of watching Darryl Strawberry strike out four times (78.5 on the excitement scale) is more exciting than the Batman ride at Great Adventure (65.8).

When Darryl is focused in, he can carry the Mets.

Again with the preconditions. Darryl Strawberry has laser-like focus. Did you SEE “Celebrity Apprentice?” His mere presence catapulted someone other than him to win the show.

Almost singlehandedly, he lifted the Mets from fourth place into the NL East division race.

He did, at one point, have to use both hands, but that was only because Ron Darling put on a few pounds after going on the DL.

“The other players feed off him. His mere presence in the lineup energizes them.”

“I didn’t feel like getting a hit today,” Howard Johnson said after an afternoon game in 1989 in which he went 1-for-4. “But when I saw Darryl’s name in the lineup, I don’t know … it just energized me. I mean, he’s usually in the lineup. But for some reason I thought Skip was giving him the day off. So when I saw his name there I was like, ‘Dude. Bro. Let’s do this.’” When Strawberry was removed in the eighth inning for a pitch runner, Johnson subsequently allowed seven ground balls to roll through his legs.

The moment that Darryl signed with the Dodgers, he instantly transformed them into a prime contender for the 1991 NL pennant. That’s how much of an impact Darryl can make on a team.

When Darryl Strawberry discovered a clause in his new contract that required him to play baseball and not just like, exist, he was like, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

“Ever since I’ve been here, if Straw hits, everybody feeds off him,” said Doc Gooden.

“Unable to suck from the Strawberry teat, Mets wander around aimlessly, starving, in outfield, lose 81st straight,” is a headline from the Daily News in 1991 that is totally true.

“When he’s hot, he can carry any team on his back,” said Padre GM Joe Mcllvaine.

A focused, hot, Darryl Strawberry on a roll could literally carry the Empire State building on his back up a stairway into the clouds, and when he reached the top, all of earth’s inhabitants would join to feed off him, and his mere presence would make them better people, and then he would toss the Empire State building into the air, grab his bat, swing excitingly, and master blast that thing into the stratosphere, proving he is The Franchise. Then, he will come back down to earth, and fire himself from a Donald Trump reality show because he doesn’t really feel like being there anymore.

My questions have been answered. Thank you!

Did you know?
When asked if he was interested in having the Padres be a team Strawberry could carry on his back, Joe Mcllvaine replied, "Oh heck no. Too much baggage."

Softening on the water softener

2011-08-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 8/25 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/26 issue of the Peoria Times

Although Arizona is quite far from New Jersey both geographically and climate-wise, it is still, I think, located in the United States of America, and therefore I was confused and rather annoyed when it was discovered that we would require certain things here that we did not require back east.

For example, sure, some people tint their car windows back east. The people who choose to do this, mostly, do not wish to be seen doing illegal things in their vehicle, and thus, ironically, become magnets for police. When we first moved here I bought a new car, and people were like, “Did you tint the windows?” and I was like, “No, I’m not a drug dealer.” Then I drove my window-tinted-less car around for two days in the summer and all of my CDs melted. Ha, ha … remember CDs? It was 2007. Anyway, I got my car tinted.

Then people were like, “Your home is too sunny! You need to tint your home windows!” My wife and I were like, “Cool! Another few hundred dollars to spend. Why don’t they just install tinted windows when they build the house?” This question was answered by nobody. So we tinted our home windows. It made (checking my energy bills while wearing sunglasses) … zero difference.

Then people were like, “Tint does nothing! You need window coverings.” This is crazy, I thought. No way we need window coverings. We are NOT doing window coverings. But my wife wanted them, so we got window coverings. Now our home is slightly darker and hot instead of sunny and hot.

Throughout all of this time, many people were trying to convince us that we also, besides all this other stuff, needed a water softener. Never in my life had I heard of a water softener, and the mere combination of those two words made no sense to me whatsoever. Our home was already “looped” for one, so people didn’t understand why we didn’t have one. They said things like, “Just wait until you shower with soft water … it’s amazing!” I did not understand what this meant, but if having an orgasmic shower every day was a reality, my ears were at least open.

A few years ago my in-laws bought a home here, which was similarly looped. My father-in-law asked us about water softeners and if they’re necessary, and I told him what I knew—better showers, apparently, less calcification, and no, not necessary. He was like, “Whatever.” We gave each other a high-five, bonded by a mutual, east-coast recognition of the ridiculousness of water softeners.

Then my father-in-law spoke to an actual plumber about a water softener, and I went to their house after work one day and bam—there it was. Now he is the lead voice in the chorus of those saying we need one. He questions our lack of a water softener as if he has lived here all his life and we just arrived last week. For that reason alone, we must get one.

Also because there are little white thingees in our ice cubes and our dishwasher is so calcified we can basically no longer use it. Arizona! If there’s anything else we need, please let me know now, before we go broke.

Classic card of the week

2011-08-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

Michael Barrett, 1999 Topps “Scouts Choice”

Michael Barrett is a “Scouts Choice,” which means—without even having to look at the back of the card—he has grit, heart, a gritty heart, hearty grit, is a winner, a leader, a leader of winners, a winner of gritters, and also he is scrappy, and a throwback to other scrappers, and a leader of throwback heart-having scrappers. But: does he play baseball? Let’s see what the Bowman scouts have to say.

HITTING: Shows nice, balanced, under-control swing…

As opposed to other major league prospects who show not nice, unbalanced, out of control swings in which they fall down and also their pants fall down.

Knows how to put the ball in play…

Asked the secret to putting the ball in play, Michael Barrett leaned in close to the scout and whispered into his ear, “By hitting the baseball in fair territory.”

Has hit the ball harder every year.

The hardness with which Michael Barrett hits baseballs has increased exponentially each and every year. This is an actual statistic called HQTWSS (Hardness Quotient That’s What She Said) and Barrett’s HQTWSS went from 34.8 in 1997 to 36.9 in 1998, and so on and so forth. In the year 2017, Michael Barrett will hit a baseball so hard that it will hit the outfield seats and the stadium will fall over on its side. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.” – Scouts

BASERUNNING: No real base-stealing speed, but is aggressive with infallible instincts.

Michael Barrett doesn’t have speed on the bases, but he will run anyway, and every decision he makes on the bases is the right one. He is the Pope of running around the bases.

DEFENSE: Made the “typical” shortstop-to-catcher conversion…

I don’t know why typical is in quotes. Is that sarcasm? The scout who I am picturing in my mind does not compute sarcasm, so … I don’t know.

Now he may be a third baseman –

I thought he was a catcher. I am very confused.

where’s he excellent…

Is that a question? All of the above? None of this is making sense to me.

Behind the plate, shows mobility and feel.

As a catcher, Michael Barrett can move and possesses the sense of touch. Rejoice, Expos pitchers—no more throwing to cardboard cutouts of famous buildings!

ARM: Strong and accurate, regardless of where he plays.

“And get this,” said the scout. “His arm ability remains the same no matter where he finds himself on the planet. It’s almost as if the complex laws of geographical arm strength don’t apply to him!” Arm is also good for punching.

SCOUT’S FORECAST: Though on a yo-yo between positions,

What about third base? Triple yo! YO-YO-YO!!!

Barrett is an asset on both sides of the ball

Sphere or sphere? It doesn’t matter to Michael Barrett! Asset! Michael B-asset!

no matter what number follows his name on the lineup card.

Whether it’s the number “C” or the number “1B” or the number “3B” or the number “PH” or whatever, Michael Barrett doesn’t care. Just get ‘em in there already!

He is a leader and a hustler, and should have a nice career.

If we are speaking in generalities, using only folk wisdom combined with things pulled out of thin air that in no way can be proven, and are ignoring anything related to actual baseball-playing ability, then I know everything I need to know about Michael Barrett. Except which position he plays. But that doesn’t matter. Because his arm works anywhere. Yo-yo. Scouting!

Did you know?
Besides Michael Barrett, another "Scouts Choice" is the turkey club at Milly's Diner off State Route 76.

The joy of Swedish home furniture shopping

2011-08-16T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 8/18 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/19 issue of the Peoria Times

Ever been to IKEA? It is a Swedish furniture store. Its appeal, I think, used to be affordability, but that has waned—the Swedish economy is worse than ours, I have heard, and IKEA is their only source of income—and now their greatest appeal is lack of furniture salesmen, which is important, because furniture salesmen make car salesmen seem standoffish. (If you are a furniture salesman reading this, I’m just kidding! If you’re not, I am not kidding. They are the worst.)

Besides being not-that-inexpensive and maintaining the sturdy quality of cardboard, another great aspect of IKEA furniture is that it is all in boxes and you have to put it together yourself, later. This is great for a person like me, who is not very good at putting things together. We currently have a large IKEA bookshelf in our home that we cannot anchor to the wall because I put one of the pieces with the anchor holes on backwards and refused to start over. If it falls over, it will be a good excuse to get a new bookshelf. If it falls on me, my wife will bask in the irony.

That piece, actually, was purchased years ago on a trip to IKEA in beautiful Elizabeth, New Jersey. That trip remains the greatest test our marriage has ever witnessed, and it culminated when we hit a pothole on the New Jersey Turnpike on the way home and the glass shattered on several pieces we had just purchased. The sound of that glass breaking and the look on my wife’s face will remain etched in my memory forever. (This also doesn't account for the stuff I broke personally, later, while trying to put stuff together.)

So we had fond feelings about IKEA when we decided to make a trip back there, this time with a small child who has a six-minute window of adequate behavior in the grocery store. IKEA, I’m pretty sure, has four locations worldwide, and one of them happens to be in Tempe, although it’s really Mesa, and the drive felt like it is was in Tucson. Part of the 10 was closed, as was part of the 101, and the 17 was whittled down to a half-lane, so it took 26-hours round-trip. Luckily, it was 130-degrees.

IKEA, as anyone who has been there knows, is a process. The minimum requirements are a pencil and a dream, and also adept navigation skills, not only for the overwhelming—apparently people are going to college soon? Who knew?—and inconsiderate foot traffic, but to properly follow the arrows on the floor. You MUST follow the arrows. If you spot something, you need to make a decision then and there or risk a return trip around the compound. In fact, seeing something you like in IKEA is burdensome, knowing what it will take to actually get that thing into your home the way it looks right now. I guess that’s why we didn’t buy much. Plus the prices. We saw a couch we liked, but it was $1,400 and made of clouds.

The child was relatively well-behaved for a two-year old in a Swedish furniture store, and for her troubles, one of the few things we did purchase was a blow-up ladybug pillow, which was, relative to her future as a functioning member of society, essential. When we got home, we realized we did not, apparently, purchase the accompanying and required filler for the giant bug. IKEA, in a cruel twist of horribleness, has a website but does not let you order from that website. Some say, "Why even have a website?" IKEA says, "Whatev!"

So … we must return to IKEA. For ladybug pillow filler.

No rush though. We’ll get there. When she’s ready for college.

I don't know what this picture means, but I like it!

Classic card of the week

2011-08-11T13:00:00.000-07:00

Jay Buhner, 1989 Topps

During the heyday of my card-collecting, few things set off the alarm of excitement in my heart more than seeing a distinguished logo on a baseball card—a “Rated Rookie” insignia, a “The More You Know”-type colorful “Future Stars” banner bursting across the center of the card, or, as in this case, a Rookie All-Star trophy goblet logo. To see one of these things meant that you might have something special on your hands. “Something special” being a card that may, in a few decades or so, be worth enough money to cash in and pay off a tiny fraction of a bloated student loan so the creditors will get off your back for two seconds. Or to like, pass down to your son or some crap like that.

Anyway, as you can see here, Jay Buhner drank his beverage of choice—Buhner Juice: a potent long-standing family recipe of orange juice mixed with pretzel stand and school play intermission refreshment-famed “orange drink,” and vodka—from the Topps All-Star Rookie trophy goblet, a luxury he was afforded after blasting 10 ding-dongs in only 192 at-bats with the Mariners in 1988. Jay Buhner as a baseball revelation was cause for great joy in Seattle; great lament in New York.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Sure, Jay Buhner liked to play baseball. But what I really want to know is—what sports did Jay Buhner enjoy watching, so that I can be like Jay Buhner and watch similar sports?

Jay’s favorite spectator sports are pro basketball and baseball.

Jay Buhner: I’ll watch a pro basketball game or two. None of that college crap! With the two-handed bounce pass … pfftt. Gimmie a break. Long live the Supersonics!

Jay Buhner’s wife’s friend’s husband, Jim, who Jay Buhner just met: I have a basketball in my garage. Wanna shoot around?

Buhner: Dammit, Jim—I said I’ll watch a game or two. I gotta play stupid baseball 162 times a season all over the freakin’ place and I’m sick of it! Can I be a spectator here for like two seconds?! Sheesh. Now put on the game and hand me my Buhner Juice.

Jim: Sure, here. What else do you like to watch?

Buhner: I like to watch baseball. And "Saved by the Bell: The College Years." That's all the college entertainment I need.

Players who had the greatest influence on his career were Willie Stargell and Bucky Dent.

I have no comment here, other than to say that, while thinking of a comment, I Wiki’d Bucky Dent to see if he like, coached Jay Buhner or something, because, ya’ know: why else would someone name Bucky Dent as an influence other than because of his famous home run, which wasn’t so much an influence as it was a thing that happened? And I came across this. See if you can follow:

Dent was born 25 November 1951, in Savannah, Georgia, to Dennis O'Dey and Russell "Shorty" Stanford.

Bucky Dent was born to two dudes. Got it.

He went home from the hospital with his mother's brother and his wife, James Earl and Sarah Dent. He and his half-brother were raised by the Dents, and they changed his last name to theirs, but his mother would not allow them to legally adopt him.

Recommended easier way to say this: "Aunt and uncle." Also, is his mother “Dennis” or “Shorty?”

He and his half-brother thought of the Dents as their parents, and until he was ten years old, Dent believed his biological mother was his aunt. Later in life, she mentioned the name of his father, whom Dent tracked down and developed a relationship with.

Happy 10th birthday, Bucky! Hope you like the cake. Also, I am not your actual mother. No biggie. For your 18th birthday I may “mention” the name of man you might be interested in developing a relationship with. Okay, make a wish!

Sorry for the tangent there. Probably more apropos for a Bucky Dent card, but what can I say—he is a great influence on my blogging. As is Wikipedia.

Anyhoo, Jay Buhner went on to have a very nice career, hitting over 300 home runs and having the marketability of a shaved head and goatee that garnered him immense popularity in and around Seattle. Scientists believe that had the Yankees never traded him, they—the Yankees, not the scientists—would have won 12 consecutive World Series. So there’s that. Jay Buhner remains in Washington, a most intimidating spectator.

Who plays where – battle of the babes

2011-08-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 8/11 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/12 issue of the Peoria Times

We have a Yankee room in our house. This is pretty much what it sounds like, unless you are a million years old and still associate Yankees with northern folk. It is a room filled with New York Yankee-related pictures and memorabilia. The room was not, amazingly, my wife’s idea, although she has never been opposed to it. One time, she even bought me, as a gift, a Yankee lamp. It was the greatest day of my life.

Having a Yankee room was a concept of the mind of a young, passionate Yankee fan with an extra room, no children, and a lot of Yankees stuff. Initially the room was a place to put all the team-related things I had acquired throughout my life, but it slowly morphed into a reason to acquire more stuff. That said, I had embraced a minimalistic approach—less is more, and I wanted to feature only the classier signed photos and nostalgic items, such as my box of Derek Jeter corn flakes. But once I made the conscious decision to stop acquiring, I found myself continuing to acquire items, as my extended family has embraced the room as a foundation for gift-giving. (My mom and mother-in-law share the very thoughtful characteristic of discovering what someone likes, and then getting them that thing forever. If you casually mention around them that you like, say, walnuts, my mother-in-law will put them in everything each time she cooks for you, and my mom will buy you a year's supply of cashews and say, "I know you like walnuts, but they didn't have any, so I got you cashews," while she laughs and my dad nods his head. Suffice it to say, they have been a steady source of merchandise.) Now I have more Yankee stuff than I know what to do with, and the room is more cluttered than classy. So, note to family: from now on, send money.

Another concept behind the room was to have it be a place to hang out with friends and drink beer and watch actual Yankee games or sports in general, as my wife and the wives of my friends hung out downstairs and watched HGTV and drank wine and talked about how frustrated they are with us. But this idea was flawed, mainly in that most of the few close friends I do have here don’t like the Yankees because, I guess, we live in Arizona, and, more importantly, because they have as much time and opportunity to do such things as I do, which is none. Not helping matters is the fact that the TV in the room, which came with us from New Jersey, is not HD and weighs three tons and, ummm, doesn’t get Yankees games.

Unable to utilize the room for its intended fantasy, we were forced to make it practical. It is now a Yankee-guest-workout-storage room which, quite frankly every home should have. The room, however, was recently threatened thanks to a separate concept—a playroom for our daughter.

Obviously, it was more important that my Bucky Dent-signed photo remain on the wall than my daughter be able to experience daily, real-life joy in a safe, contained environment amidst a bevy of toys. Eventually, it was decided an upstairs playroom for a girl her age was as impractical as the Yankee room has come to be. Instead we will attempt to morph a downstairs room into a play room/office, where stuffed animals and a shredder will coexist.

So the Yankee room remains, but it has been put on notice. To increase its chances of survival and ensure the light on that lamp is never turned off, I am in the market for an affordable HDTV. And time. Plus more friends. Apply within. Must love Yankees.

Like Plax, but pink

2011-08-09T13:28:00.000-07:00

Not to bring up this again, but ... this.

The message was clear?

2011-08-08T11:04:00.000-07:00

Here is Peter King today discussing, for some reason, backup quarterback Brad Smith and the, apparently, amazing impact he will have on the terrible football team, the Buffalo Bills:

On Sunday Smith stood in shotgun formation on a sweltering afternoon at St. John Fisher College, with four receivers spread across the line. At the snap he felt pressure, rolled right, took a step toward the line as if he'd run, then stopped in the face of a strong rush and flipped the ball ... 55 yards in the air. It fell shy of Stevie Johnson, but the message was clear, and the threat. Buffalo has a new toy.

That new toy is ... an incomplete pass machine? I am confused.

However: Where can I get one of those?!

The Green Beret

2011-08-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

In the book, there is a section devoted to occurrences at a fictional and hypothetical newspaper that I totally never used to hypothetically work at and completely made up off the top of my head. Here is another part in that series, which is not in the book, because I just wrote it like, the other day. I hope you enjoy. All of this is true, in a hypothetical kind of way, except the names and some very minor details ...

The sales team—and by sales team I mean woman with eight kids who wore sweatpants to work and sometimes brought a few of her kids in and who didn’t “sell” as much as she drove around doing personal errands—at the paper was somewhat understaffed. This, rather gloriously, resulted in a revolving door of eccentric personalities who, for reasons ranging from “not having a driver’s license” to “clashing immediately with Hank” (the same Hank who had hired them), lasted, on average, three days.

Eventually, Hank became so frustrated with the sales process that he decided to sell himself. Not his body, on the street—that would have been awful. I mean he decided to take over, with a little help from his “assistant publisher,” a woman named Michelle who did, in fact, assist Hank tirelessly in the process of getting absolutely nothing accomplished.

For the first several weeks, Hank’s sales plan involved he and Michelle spending three hours at the local diner eating and discussing the sales plan. They would later come back to the office, high off omelettes and bottomless cups of coffee, and spend the rest of the day talking to coworkers about, respectively, sports and CBS sitcoms.

But one day Hank and Michelle had a revelation. There were several ports in the area that transported working citizens into New York City via ferry. Our paper, per my job requirements, was available at these ports, in beautiful, warped newspaper stands which had collages of graffiti penises and which, during the harsh winter months, housed local wildlife. (I once attempted to remedy this blight, but encountered a bee’s nest in one stand, and got stung, and so I stopped.) This way, people could grab a copy of our paper, which they didn’t, and absorb its content on the pleasant water ride into the city. Hank and Michelle’s brilliant idea: sell advertising to the NYC businesses closest to these incoming ferries.

Indeed, why wouldn’t New York City businesses, which had literally dozens of newspapers in New York City and other outlets by which to advertise, if they chose to advertise at all because, ya’ know, they were right by the ferry in New York City, choose instead to advertise with us, a small, New Jersey, politically-based weekly newspaper a mere hop, skip, jump, and 50-minute ferry ride over the East River? It made sense.

So much sense, in fact, that Hank and Michelle returned from the diner that day with the gusto of having just formulated the plan that would save the paper from the financial abyss in which it currently resided. The following day, they would go into the city and sell.

Amazingly, they did not make any sales. When they returned from the city after yet another wasted day—albeit one in a more bustling and hip environment, so it probably didn’t feel as wasted, to them—the gusto of the previous day’s reentrance was equaled by their current frustration and anger. The reasons given for their lack of success varied, but included the city, in general, being “stupid” and “uppity,” and also a little racism was thrown in to boot, as it seemed communication with several small business owners proved difficult. Hank did a few tasteful impressions for the office, which lightened his mood a bit. Anyway, New York City’s loss. Good luck surviving, financial and social epicenter of the universe!

But before all of this happened, before Hank had grown frustrated enough with the sales effort to hop on a ferry with a donut and a dream, he had hired a woman named Janet, who was, of all the wacky people he had briefly hired on whims to sell ads, the greatest.

Janet was from a nearby town which a local radio station had recently dubbed, “the white trash capital of New Jersey,” to, as far as I deduced, no argument from loyal listeners. Not that anyone held this against her—literally half of our working staff was from this town. Nevertheless.

She was youngish. In her early 30s, it seemed, although she had a son who was like, 17, so … who knows. She had short, black spiky hair. She wore a beret. Everyday. Every single day, she wore this beret. Also, she was missing several front teeth.

She was extremely perky. This was probably what sold Hank on hiring her. I highly doubt she had a resume. If you were nice and could “yes” Hank for a sustained amount of time, he would hire you on the spot, for anything. But Janet wasn’t just traditionally perky, like Katie Couric or something. She was oddly perky. Dysfunctionally perky. She was pleasant as all heck, but you never left a conversation with her without feeling as though something wasn’t right, ya’ know, mentally. This was our new salesperson.

One day Janet walked in while Dylan and I were at the copy machine discussing fantasy baseball. Overhearing us, Janet jumped in to excitedly mention that her brother used to play Strat-O-Matic baseball (an old board game that many consider to be the forbearer of fantasy baseball). “Cool!” was our response, as we attempted to steer the conversation back to each other. But she went on to explain to us, in great detail, what Strat-O-Matic baseball was—regardless of the fact we both informed her we were familiar—and how much fun it was, and how good her brother was at it, and also: Does she still have that game somewhere? She may still have it. Do we want her to bring it in to work tomorrow? Maybe we can play it at work?! She’ll look for it later! She would call her brother if she knew where he was! He’s into drugs! We know what Strat-O-Matic is, right?

Dylan would later take advantage of Janet’s quirkiness for humorous purposes and once engaged her in a conversation about Guinness—it was St. Patrick’s Day, and Janet was wearing all green, and her beret and missing teeth finally seemed appropriate—that lasted, I think, four hours.

Janet ventured out for days alongside our one-woman sales team. She did not sell much. On the rare occasion that she was able to sell even the smallest ad, the confusion that ensued back at the office when it came to actually putting that ad together often proved insurmountable, and was, unbeknownst to us, adding to Janet’s rising stress level.

Because I worked late into Wednesday nights getting the paper out, I came in later on Thursdays. One particular Thursday, there seemed to be much commotion as I pulled into our huge, pot-hole-filled parking lot. I had been hearing sirens, and noticed flashing lights, and when I pulled up, there was an ambulance in front of our small office building and a handful of people were congregating outside. When I walked inside, paramedics were wheeling out Janet on a stretcher. Her beret remained in tact, but an oxygen mask was over her face. She had suffered, apparently, a panic attack, and was having trouble breathing.

Dylan stood in the background, wearing a look of genuine concern mixed with genuine restraint. “Godspeed, Janet,” I think I heard him whisper as they rolled her away. In my mind, I see her giving the small crowd a thumbs-up, but that may have not happened.

She was okay. In fact, most of the seasoned veterans of the office were largely skeptical as to the legitimacy of her condition. Janet, however, either due to embarrassment, recovery, or the fact that she didn't have a driver's license, never came back to work. I think she lasted the better part of two weeks, which was a new record for sales department hires, although her exit was, I believe, the most dramatic, and most costly, insurance-wise.

Whereabouts unknown

2011-08-03T13:15:00.000-07:00

I never know where to put my cell phone when I’m walking around and stuff. Where am I supposed to put it? I am a man.

Years ago I purchased, for my cell phone, a belt clip. This was nice because I could put my cell phone in it. Then I read on the Internet somewhere that belt clips for cell phones aren’t cool. Get a fanny pack, dorkface! I got rid of my belt clip, and by “got rid of” I mean I broke it in a way that was accidental and purely coincidental to my realization that belt clips aren’t cool. Perfect timing!

Then I was like, “Maybe I can put it in my pocket!” So I put my cell phone in my pocket. Not my pocket with my keys, but my other pocket, with my Bert’s Bees lip balm. It fit, but it jutted out of my pants and stretched the fabric. “Is that a cell phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” is what someone said to me once. So I was like, “Are you implying that my penis is squared-shaped and flat and exists on my upper thigh? I am happy to see you, but I do not have an erection. Hey, my leg is vibrating!” I also read on the Internet that cell phones near the groin area are NOT good for the groin. Groin danger! I mean, skinny jeans are in but belt clips are out?! I AM CONFUSED!

Then I was like, “Wait, I have more pockets!” I put the cell phone in my back pocket. Not the back pocket with my wallet, but the other one. This was great when I was walking around, although it chafed my buttocks slightly. But occasionally I would need to sit down again, like on a bench or something, and I was back at square one. “Move your phone, buddy—I live on that bench,” is what a local crazy person said to me once. Also, my back pockets are smaller, and getting to the phone proved difficult when I saw someone I sort of knew and wanted to avoid conversing with by pretending I was on my phone. Can’t talk now—talking to someone better and farther away! Pinky wave!

Then I was like, "Maybe I can wear cargo pants everywhere! More pockets!" So I bought 10 pairs of cargo pants, and I started putting my phone in the side pockets, and knee pockets, and tiny pockets with zippers exclusively crafted by underage Tainwanese children for the American luxury of cell phones. It was okay at first, minus the violent thrashing of the hard phone against my body, but then someone was like, "Nice cargo pants! What is this, 2009?" And I was like, "What does that mean???" Also, it was like, 112-degrees out, because I live in Arizona, and the cargo pants suddenly seemed very inappropriate. I wish I hadn't purchased so many pairs!

Then I was like, “Maybe I can hold my phone! In my hand!” That was okay, but my hands get sweaty, and I read on the Internet that hand sweat isn’t good for cell phones, and that cell phones aren’t good for hands. Also, I drop the phone ALL THE TIME! I used to have a cover for the phone, but I dropped the phone so many times that I busted the cover. Now when I drop the phone, it splits in two, and the battery goes flying underneath a parked car. I have to put it back together and hope it turns on again. Fingers crossed!

I like to go jogging, and sometimes before I go out for a brief jog, my wife will say to me, “Call me if you encounter a wild beast and need to be picked up, and I’ll call you if I have a question about what the heck is going on with the television,” and I’ll be like, “Pfft. Babe, I’m not bringing my phone!” And she’ll be like, “Why not? What if it’s AN EMERGENCY??!!!” And I’ll be like, “Babe, these are athletic shorts! I can’t have my phone bouncing all around up in there! That is extreme discomfort!” And she’ll be like, “Why don’t you hold it?” And I’ll be like, “Babe, are you serious?” And she’ll be like, “Fine! But if you get back to the house and everything’s gone because we were robbed and I’m under the bed traumatized and shaking, YOUR FAULT!”

No, society’s fault! They have yet to give me an acceptable place to put my phone. Also, they should stop robbing people!

Looking up in a world of downers

2011-08-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 8/4 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/5 issue of the Peoria Times

I wouldn’t necessarily call it naïveté, but when I was younger I had a much more minimalistic outlook on life. Sure, I thought about the bad things every now and then, but it never really stuck with me. People get sick? That stinks. Hey, Woody Woodpecker is on! This is, I think, an integral part of a child’s makeup, as no kid should be contemplating such matters.

When I was a teenager, and then a young adult in college, I retained a fundamental understanding of reality, but I was nevertheless, like many of that age throughout history, invincible. Even when news or a particular event would strike my mind as something to consider, I still acted otherwise. With blinders, blissfully undeterred.

Suddenly I am a full-grown adult with a family and a slew of new perspectives and fears, and when unfortunate news is revealed—no matter how far removed from my own day-to-day life—it stays with me in a way it never has before. And whether coincidence or as a direct result of this newfound and rather unwitting and acute awareness, it seems like unfortunate news is revealed more and more often these days.

Should, however, any such news manage to slip past me, my parents, who are in a more advanced stage of morbid awareness, will alert me immediately, usually at the outset of any conversation. Did you hear about (the awful thing) that happened to (good, innocent person)? This, combined with consistent attention to the obits—Did you hear (person I cannot remember from my childhood despite their insistence that I do) died?—makes for pleasant small talk.

It used to be a running joke between us “kids” how the adults at family functions always managed to find the common ground of morbidity. A birthday party or graduation, it seemed, was yet another event to remind them of their own mortality. Yes, there would be cake, but first they must discuss who is sick, and who is dead, and how imminent the threat of terrorism/natural disaster/recent political decision is right now. “Debbie Downers” we would call them, as we lightened the mood by changing the subject to something more comically inane.

But now, like the adults, I too sometimes find myself preoccupied with such matters, unsure if or when to reveal these concerns as a topic to which others can relate (i.e.: this is supposed to be a humor column, right?). Of course anyone can relate—we all share common fears and anxieties—but few ever really agree on an appropriate occasion to do so. As a result, we are often left to our own devices, and solitary occasions like a sleepless Sunday night. Good times!

Luckily for me, and many others I am sure, said childhood was grounded in a foundation of faith, which has served me well, and better each year as misfortunes mount, some resolved, some ongoing, some viewed from afar. And while those who lack it often view faith as a mere coping mechanism—coping is difficult regardless—those who boast it recognize it as something much greater. Truth. Actual reality. To be honest, I don’t know how some people get by without it.

Strife abounds, but faith—like a teenage me, except even more so—remains invincible. And while I may have Debbie Downed this entire paper, the point is a positive one. And that is this: Have faith. Eventually, there will be cake.

Classic card of the week

2011-07-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

Mike Greenwell, 1989 Sports Illustrated for Kids

Here is another of my Sports Illustrated for Kids perforated baseball cards which I tore out of the magazine and which is worth at least $700. What makes it so expensive is the beautiful blue-green splotchy design, which resembles a line of low-end kitchen countertops.

Mike joined the Red Sox’ regular starting lineup in June 1987, and he still hit 19 homers and drove in 89 runs that season.

“Despite playing baseball, Mike Greenwell acquired good baseball statistics.”

In 1988, he batted .325 with 22 homers and 119 RBIs for the American League East division champs. He also led the league by driving in 23 game-winning runs.

Greenwell finished second in the ’88 AL MVP voting to Jose Canseco, who became baseball’s first 40-40 man that year and who recently pitched “6 strong innings to knock of funky Fielders lineup,” whatever that means. By keeping generally quiet and doing the opposite of everything Jose Canseco has done since 1988, Mike Greenwell has won the ’88 AL MVP of America’s heart.

How many more RBIs did Mike have in 1988 than he had in 1987?

Don’t patronize me, Sports Illustrated for Kids. I subscribe to your magazine of words and data—if I can send in a renewal check, I can do simple mathematics. Jerks. Also, it's "RBI," not "Runs Batted Ins."

Amazingly, SI for Kids offers little in the way of useful information. Where, oh where, can we turn for that?

Greenwell owns a 890-acre (3.6 km2)

I thoroughly enjoy how Wikipedia consistently posts alternate measurements for things, as if this is necessary for a person coming to Wikipedia for information. What the heck is an acre and how am I supposed to know how much land former Red Sox player Mike Greenwell owns in measurements I can understand??!!! (yelled in a British accent)

ranch in Alva, Florida, on which he grows fruits and vegetables. He runs an amusement park in Cape Coral, Florida called "Mike Greenwell's",

Mike Greenwell: I don’t care what ya’ll call the dang amusement park! I got fruit to harvest! Just make sure the people know it’s mine.

which opened in February 1992. He also coached both of his sons, Bo and Garrett … Upon his retirement from baseball, Greenwell began driving late-model stock cars.

That is such a cliché it barely warrants mentioning.

In May 2006 he made his Craftsman Truck Series debut at Mansfield Motorsports Speedway for Green Light Racing, starting 20th and finishing 26th. In 2010, Greenwell had given up racing.

Mike Greenwell: Former almost MVP, vegetable farmer, carnie, coach, father, late-model stock car driver, retired late-model stock car driver, not necessarily in that order, but kind of. Too bad he wasn’t a prankster.

“The Gator”
Greenwell received his nickname during spring training in Winter Haven. He had captured an alligator, taped its mouth shut, and put it in Ellis Burks's locker.

Mike Greenwell: Ellis Burks is our teammate. Let us prank him!

Todd Benzinger: Indeed!

Greenwell: Any ideas?

Benzinger: We could order pizzas to his house, and he will be surprised because he’ll be like, “Whaaaaat? I didn’t order pizzas!” and he’ll have to pay for the pizza and eat it!

Greenwell: Okay, okay, not bad. But how about this—I capture an alligator and then tape its mouth shut and leave it in his locker!

Benzinger: Wow. Ummm, okay. Well, uh … what kind of tape are you going to use?

Greenwell: I don’t know—haven’t thought it through yet. I mean, not Scotch, if that’s your concern.

Benzinger: Okay, how about this: You do that, and I’ll do the pizza thing, and we’ll see which one he likes better.

Greenwell: Okay. But I have a feeling they’ll be calling you, “Pizza” for decades. Are you willing to take that risk?

Benzinger: I’m willing. Let’s do this!

Did you know?
There were two roller coasters at Mike Greenwell's amusement park. The Florida Board of Safety shut down one. How many roller coasters were left?

Oversized binder harbinger of unfortunate incidents

2011-07-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 7/28 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/29 issue of the Peoria Times

We have to sign our daughter in and out of daycare using two mediums—the modern touch-screen technology of a computer, and the ancient method of a pen and gigantic, alphabetized binder. It is the latter that most concerns me on those days when I am responsible for picking her up.

For you see, it is the binder wherein her daycare includes all parental notifications, and 90-percent of the time that means an “incident report.” There was a time—it seems so long ago—when our daughter played the victim in these reports, and I, the sympathetic father, simply signed the paper, opting not to press charges, and later consoled the precious girl. Somewhere along the way, this precious girl learned to fend for herself, then to defend others—one report detailed how she bit a kid because he bit another kid; hers is a vigilante justice—then to defend her territory—she once bit a girl for having the audacity to sit next to her on the comically small couch—then to defend … her honor? Country? I’m not sure. At this point, she plays the role of Jack in this Lord of the Flies-type environment. The conch is hers, and if you try and take it, expect teeth marks. (The conch is a stuffed animal, by the way. Or, anything.)

This is, of course, very embarrassing to us, her parents. I hold my breath each time I flip to her page in the binder, and I have run out of exasperated expressions upon finding a report. It’s impossible not to feel as though these incidents are some reflection of our ability to parent, although it should be mentioned she no longer bites us, so there’s that. Most of our extended family feels a sense of pride that their granddaughter/niece/cousin takes no prisoners, but I am not sure the parents of her daycare co-inhabitants—I would call them “friends” but, ya’ know—feel similar pride.

The teachers and employees at daycare have done an admirable job of deflecting our shame. “It’s the age, don’t worry!” “My kid was the same way!” But they are paid to say such things. And even faux optimism could not penetrate the binder thickness last week.

As I walked in, the daycare worker at the front desk kindly greeted me, then playfully nodded her head and said our daughter’s name three times. “What happened?” I asked, deadpanned. “Oh nothing!” she said. Relieved, I paged through the binder, eventually reaching our daughter’s page. “Except that,” the worker said softly, wincing.

Three incident reports. Three. All biting. All starring our daughter as the aggressor, for offenses ranging from “standing too close” to “holding a toy.” Black Wednesday, as it will come to be known.

Bereft of any more indignation and frustration—part of our frustration is that our home discipline methods are not exactly matched in daycare—I stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, then regrouped, signed the papers as quickly as if I were closing on a house, and picked her up. As we walked back through the lobby, the workers wore exaggerated frowny faces, and one of them assured me that she had had “a little talk” with our daughter. “Yeah, I’m sure that worked,” I thought, as I smiled politely. The thought never occurred to me to reason with the girl who recently pooped in the bathtub.

People tell us not to worry. That this will pass. I hope so. In the meantime, it would help if they got rid of that big old binder. That thing bites, big time.

Classic card of the week

2011-07-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

Vladimir Guerrero, 2000 Upper Deck’s Most Wanted

Captain Williams: Alright everyone, get in here. Stevenson—work the projector. Johnson—grab me a coffee, will ya’? The rest of you knuckleheads, listen up! Got one that just came down from the feds, and it’s a doozy. Russian guy, from the Dominican, working in Canada. I have no idea how this one ended up in our jurisdiction …

Officer Daniels: ‘Cause the Feds can’t do their JOB, that’s why!

Capt. Williams: Shut yer cakehole, Daniels! But you got a point. Anyway, Stevenson—flash the info …

Projector turns on, displays a graphic image of a naked, overweight woman riding a go cart. Room erupts in laughter and cat calls.

Capt. Williams: For crying out loud, Stevenson!

Officer Stevenson: It wasn’t me, Cap. It was probably Sully. After all, it’s HIS mom!

Officer Sullivan: You wish, Stevenson!

Officer Stevenson: What does that even mean, Sully? You’re such a moron.

Capt. Williams: Alright, cut the crap, guys! Where’s the Guerrero file?

Officer Stevenson: I don’t know, Cap.

Officer Johnson: Maybe she ate it! Ha, ha …

Capt. Williams: Yes, good point, Johnson. Maybe the large woman on the screen riding a go cart ate the Guerrero file. Your wit knows no bounds. Stevenson—your dad was the best officer I ever worked with, but he obviously taught you nothing. Now sit down! And everyone, pay attention! We’re dealing with one of the most wanted men around right now, and I’m not about to lose another one of you, not today, and not any day!

Room tightens up, each officer adjusts himself in his chair and focuses intently on his captain.

Capt. Williams: Alright, then. His name is Vladimir Guerrero. He’s 6’3” and 206 lbs. He (flipping through papers) … bats right handed.

Room looks on, confused.

Capt. Williams: Says here, he uh … set a club record with 42 home runs in 1999, and also had a … 31-game hitting streak.

Officer Sullivan: (under his breath, yet audible) Monster!

Capt. Williams: He, uh, continues to put up the kind of numbers in Montreal that place him among the game’s elite talents. And he may possess the best all-around game. So that’s what, uh … that’s what we’re working with here.

Officer Johnson: Raises hand.

Capt. Williams: This isn’t Kindergarten, Johnson! Do you have to make a wee-wee? What do you want?

Officer Johnson: Sorry, Cap. Just one question. So, ummm … what is he wanted for?

Capt. Williams: Well, it looks he’s wanted for being, ya’ know, a really good baseball player or something.

Officer Daniels: Shoot to kill?

Capt. Williams: You know the drill.

“Operation Not So Convenient” is a real thing that happened

2011-07-19T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 7/21 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/22 issue of the Peoria Times

Uh, a police report, I guess.

The convenience store is a proud testament to a person’s geographic location. And by “proud,” I mean shameful and dirty. Nevertheless.

Back in New Jersey we had many convenience stores. Seven-11, Quick-Check, and even Wawa, which is Philadelphia-based but spreading, thanks to the popularity it has garnered by not being as disgusting as other convenience stores. When I lived in Baltimore we had Royal Farms, which, like an actual farm, was a good place to buy a 72-oz soda, or get shot.

Upon moving to Arizona, I quickly discovered that Circle K was the place to be for convenience, especially since there is one at every major intersection. What separates Circle K from even my own accustomed standards is that it sells the two major things that require the utmost convenience—gas and alcohol.

As a matter of fact, I have had several interesting experiences while trying to purchase both at Circle K. Several years ago, while on the way back from the airport after a trip back east, we stopped at Circle K so I could pick up a few beers for that football Sunday. My timing was incidental, but it was nearing 10 a.m., and when I walked in, a line of patrons was waiting inside the store to purchase alcohol. Frustrated that it was already 10:01 and the alcohol had not yet been released for purchase, this friendly mob of consumers began banging on the plastic barriers, demanding the doors to the “beer room” be opened. Things got pretty ugly, and I wondered, “Where am I? I don’t need beer that badly.” But then I started banging on the door, too, because, ya’ know … football.

On a separate occasion at a separate Circle K, I attempted to purchase gasoline for my motor vehicle, and although I accomplished this task, the gas pump was broken and gas went all over my car and clothes and—worse of all—the pristinely manicured Circle K parking lot/gas-getting area. When I informed the employee of this Circle K what had happened, she rolled her eyes and informed me she had other customers to “deal with,” that customer being, specifically, a man buying a hot dog at 6:30 a.m.

Also, the first time my father-in-law purchased gas at the Circle K closest to our house, an employee there acquired his credit card information and made several purchases. Convenience!

Anyway, my point is that Circle K is awesome. The police, however, disagree.

A recent ASU study revealed that Circle K is, by far, the most crime-ridden convenience store in the Valley. In 2010 alone, Glendale police were called to three specific Circle Ks 1,382 times. This past March, a Peoria man was stabbed trying to stop a beer theft at Circle K.

This report is surprising only to people who have never been inside a convenience store, which can always manage to somehow draw the crazy out of even the most sane surrounding locale. Circle K, however, has indeed outdone itself. According to the study, and police—“Operation Not So Convenient” was a recent police surveillance operation of the stores; I am not kidding—the company has been less-than cooperative in attempting to find a solution to this problem. Based on my own experiences, I find that impossible to believe.

Regardless, if you’re in a pinch for gas, or beer, or lottery tickets, or peanuts, or a hat, or band-aids, or the latest issue of Guitar Magazine, feel free to stop at Circle K. Just be careful. Convenience has its price. The price is, for some, zero dollars. Don’t try and stop them. Just call the police. It won't be the first time.

Classic card of the week

2011-07-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dennis Northcutt, Visa debit card, Exp. 02/06

I think it’s safe to say the NFL would not be experiencing a lockout if more players were willing to use their Dennis Northcutt debit card.

The great thing about a Dennis Northcutt debit card is that it prevents you from overspending. For example, if you don’t have adequate funds in your Dennis Northcutt checking account, and you mistakenly attempt to purchase some Dennis Northcutt memorabilia with your Dennis Northcutt debit card, the debit card will not allow you to do this. In this regard, Dennis Northcutt is always looking out for your best financial interests. “Why don’t you purchase this autographed Dennis Northcutt plaque when you have more money in your account,” is what Dennis Northcutt says to you, via his debit card, on such an occasion. Another way the Dennis Northcutt debit card prevents you from overspending is through the fact that you cannot actually use the card to buy things. I found this out the hard way:

Cashier: That will be $13.86.

Me: Do you accept the Dennis Northcutt debit card?

Cashier:

Me: He used to play wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns …

Cashier: Is it a Visa?

Me: Yes.

Cashier: Fine. Anything but Discover.

Me: Swipes card …

Cashier: It didn’t go through. Can I see the card?

Me: Hands cashier card …

Cashier: This card has no magnetic stripe. Also, it expired in 2006. Also, it explicitly says it’s void. You didn’t fill out a credit application for this, did you?

Me: I think it was handed to me at a bar.

Cashier: I don’t think I can sell you these pistachio nuts.

Me: Wait—do you accept the Keenan McCardell American Express?

THIS SEASON, UNEXPECTED MOVES WON’T JUST HAPPEN ON THE FIELD.

What does it mean?! Could it be that unexpected things will happen in life away from the realm of professional football? That seems impossible to me! What should I do to find out more so that I may protect myself?

VISIT VISA.COM/NFL

Okay, so I did that. Turns out, Visa and the NFL are a perfect team. Also, Visa and the NFL have partnered up to engage high school students in a different kind of football game—one that prepares them to become fiscally fit adults. “Financial football” is an engaging, educational video game that teaches students about personal finance using curriculum from Practical Money Skills for Life. Wow, unexpected move, indeed! This sounds like the greatest game of fiscal responsibility ever!!! How do I play?

"Financial Football" is fast-paced and fun, but instead of using a game controller to gain yardage and score, players must answer personal finance questions correctly to advance down the field. "Financial Football" is available for free and can be downloaded for playing on computers and cell phones.

Should I invest in a mutual fund or money market account? Three-yard gain! Nice! Should I reapply for a Dennis Northcutt debit card? Sack and fumble!?!?! Nooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did you know?
You can earn cash-back rewards by using your Dennis Northcutt debit card at participating locations in the Cleveland area. Locations subject to change without notice; card not valid; Visa and its subsidiaries are not affiliated with Dennis Northcutt; offer expires always.

When Arizona hands you scorpions, make lemon juice or something

2011-07-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 7/14 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/15 issue of the Peoria Times

Many thought it wasn’t possible, but here is how you go to the same store four times in the span of about two hours.

We had just returned home from an extended holiday weekend, and there was no food in the house, so I went to the grocery store. When I got there, I realized I had forgotten my wallet. The good news was that it was only 118-degrees outside with 90-percent post-monsoon humidity, so getting back into the car I just finished driving for seven straight hours because I am an idiot was a very appealing and exciting thing for me to do. This was my first trip.

I got my wallet and went back to the store. I did my usual thing that I do at the grocery store, where I walk around confused and buy things and forget stuff. I was almost done when my wife called to see where I was. She was wondering if I could come home asap—she had just been stung by a scorpion.

Had she not sounded so relatively calm and composed, I probably would have reacted even more panicked. As it was, I rushed my cart to the front of the store, located a girl who was bagging groceries, and said something along the lines of, “My wife was just stung by a scorpion. Here’s my cart.” She looked at me with the concern of someone who had just told her, “Today is Tuesday,” and said, “Are you coming back?” I yelled, “I don’t knooooowwww …” as I ran out of the store. This was my second trip.

This was a nice welcome back to Arizona—insufferable heat and scorpions, the latter of which we thought we had rid ourselves of. Freakin’ scorpions. My wife, thank God, was okay. She was well and brave enough, actually, to be upset with me for leaving all the stuff at the store. Chivalry is overrated when it’s time for dinner. I was going back, but because encountering one scorpion makes it seem like you’re under attack, I brought my daughter with me.

They left my cart in the floral refrigerator. After making a scene while exiting just minutes earlier, no one seemed overly concerned about my situation until the cashier looked at my daughter and said, “Is she the one who got stung?” I was like, really? If she just got stung by a scorpion do you think I’d be here buying fish sticks right now? Man. This was my third trip.

My in-laws were concerned, obviously. While video chatting with them shortly after I returned from the store, my father-in-law urged my wife to drink a shot of lemon juice mixed with garlic and honey to ease the pain. The lemon juice with honey and garlic combination is my father-in-law’s cure-all for everything. He has it in his cereal every morning, just in case. If he ever saw a leper, he would douse them with this combination and say, “Don’t worry—you’ll feel better soon.” We didn’t have any lemons, and my wife felt bad that I had already been to the store three times. She asked my father-in-law if the lemons were necessary, and he became increasingly upset at the idea of compromising his cure-all as a result of laziness.

I went back to the store to get lemons. This was my fourth trip. The cure-all made my wife feel better. She is a trooper. I canceled our bug guy and called a new one. It’s good to be back.

This works, too, ironically.

Classic card of the week

2011-07-07T13:00:00.000-07:00

Jose Lind, 1988 Topps

The future held many things for Jose Lind, as we will soon see. And while stardom based solely on his achievements on fields of play may not have been one of them, we are here talking about him today—the future—on a blog, mostly because one time he drove a car without pants. So there’s that.

Other than predicting future greatness based on four career home runs in five minor league seasons and a .322 batting average in limited time in the bigs based on 143 ABs even though his career minor league average was like .260-something, Topps offers little in the way of information and entertainment. For such things we must turn to Wikipedia:

He also acquired a reputation for whimsical behavior, as one might expect from a man nicknamed "Chico" (Spanish for "Boy") … he often surprised fellow players in the clubhouse by playfully brandishing one of the many knives he kept in his locker.

It’s very much unlike Wikipedia to be inaccurate or misleading, but I think they are confusing “whimsical” with “bizarre and threatening.”

Barry Bonds: Yo Chico, what are you doing, man?

Chico Lind: Oh, this? I’m just playfully brandishing my knives, while looking at you menacingly from across the locker room.

Bonds: Why do you have knives at your locker?

Lind: In case I want to stab someone. Ha, ha! Just being whimsical, Barry! I’m like a Spanish boy! What do you expect?

Besides, in Wikipedia’s defense, it’s not like Lind had a history or future of violence that Wikipedia would highlight immediately after labeling his knife-brandishing actions as whimsical:

Lind's personal life continued to spiral out of control. Police were called to the home of his ex-wife, Lizza Lind, in July 1996, when he visited in violation of a restraining order and the situation escalated to physical violence, which was witnessed by his daughters, Joyvelisse and Thivizahei Lind. They arrested him for possession of cocaine, and he pled guilty to that charge in February of the next year.

I don’t mean to make light of this terribly awful occurrence, but the end of this statement makes it sound as though his daughters arrested him, which would be awesome, and sounds like it’s from a movie about two daughters who are sick and tired of their dad being a violent idiot, and who decide to take matters into their own hands by training to become assertive cops. The movie is called, “Enough,” starring Jennifer Lopez and someone else. Also, and I don’t want to nitpick, but: “possession of cocaine?” Was that the only charge? What about violating a restraining order and domestic abuse? Just saying.

On November 21, 1997, highway police in Tampa, Florida stopped Lind for leaving the scene of an accident. They discovered that he was visibly intoxicated, and that he had been driving while naked from the waist down. A search of his car revealed seven cans of beer and one gram of cocaine. Lind ended up spending a year in jail.

They arrested him for speeding. Also, pop quiz: What do you think the very next section of Jose Lind’s Wikipedia page is? “Downward Spiral?” “Rehab and Recovery?” “Wake-Up Call?” The answer is: you are wrong.

Managing career

Seamless transition.

Lind underwent rehabilitation to compensate for his addiction,

“Compensate for?”

and after his release from prison he signed with the Bridgeport Bluefish as a player/coach.

Sam Crawford, Bridgeport Bluefish President: Ya’ know what sports needs more of? Player-coaches! A true leader who’s still got some game left, but who can get his feet wet in coaching as well. Saves the team some money, too. I think the Bluefish could use a player/coach.

Arnold Wentworth, Bluefish Vice-President: I’m pretty sure Jose Lind just got out of prison … ?

Crawford: Is that the guy who hit-and-ran while drunk and also while wearing no pants or underwear?

Wentworth: Yes.

Crawford: Call him up.

Did you know?
Driving under the influence without pants in commonly known as DUIWP.

Report: Some things are bad, maybe; others are not, we think

2011-07-05T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 7/7 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/8 issue of the Peoria Times

When I was growing up, it seemed like every other week on the news a report would surface about how butter is better for you than margarine … which would be followed a couple weeks later about how, no—margarine is better. And so on and so forth. I don’t know which product won, but one time my mom brought home a bottle of butter spray, which I thought was disgusting, but I still used it.

Anyhoo, my point is that … I’m not really sure. What was I talking about? Butter? Really? Hmmm. Allow me to transition.

In my book—oh, you didn’t buy and enjoy my book yet? That’s too bad. Please do, and then feel free to rejoin this conversation—there is an entire chapter about how, in attempting to become a tan person living in Arizona, I ultimately realized that it’s much more important for me to be protected in the sun. The person most responsible for this revelation was my wife, who was like, “You’re an idiot. Put on sun block, idiot.”

So I started using sun block much more consistently, and things had been progressing quite well. Until last week, when one of my wife’s friends forwarded her a link via facebook about how sun block is terrible for your skin, and is actually more harmful than actual sun exposure.

In a nutshell, the link states that the FDA doesn’t allow natural sun block to be classified as such, so as to generate more profits for “chemical companies.” Also, the chemicals in almost all sun tan lotions cause cancer.

It sounded a little bit conspiracy-theoryesque, but I’m not naïve enough—I watch documentaries!—to think it’s not at least partly true. My wife was more convinced of the completeness of this information, which led to this conversation over the weekend:

Me: I am going to go outside.

Wife: Okaaaaay.

Me: What should I do?

Wife: What are you talking about?

Me: Should I put lotion on?

Wife: NO! Are you crazy?! Didn’t you read the report?!

Me: Okay, so … should I burn?

Wife: No! Just go underneath a tree or something.

I ended up staying inside.

This all reminded me of the butter versus margarine battle from my youth (I knew I led with that for a reason). And it’s not just diary products and sun block—it seems like we’re provided contradicting information about everything, and part of that information is about how we shouldn’t even trust those giving us that information. It’s enough to make a man see red, and be red.

It leaves me torn. On one hand, I don’t want to fall into that category of, “When I was a kid, we ate raw bacon and used lead paint and ate lead paint and breathed asbestos and played outside and didn’t have the Internet and also we didn’t need seatbelts and we turned out fine! Well, except for Bob, and a few others, who are dead.” I also don’t want to go crazy worrying about what’s harmful, and what’s not, and what is again. I’m too busy doing stuff to think about how the stuff I am doing is wrong and harmful.

So what’s my solution? Like a point, I don’t really have one. I guess I just have to take it one battle at a time. For example, I have decided to start protecting myself in the sun with a combination of lotion and butter spray. They say that two wrongs don’t make a right, but I have heard that is wrong.

Classic card of the week

2011-06-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

Wade Boggs, 1989 Score “1988 Highlight” series

I always thought this Todd Worrell was my most “that’s what she said” card. And it still may be. But the back-of-the-card-tidbit title alone on this Wade Boggs beauty gives Worrell a run for its suggestive money.

WADE WHACKS ‘EM

Yes. That is one way of putting it. Elaborate, please.

Wade, who has been called a hitting metronome,

By whom? Who has called Wade Boggs a “hitting metronome?” If I ever heard anyone describe Wade Boggs as a hitting metronome, my first immediate thought would be, “‘Metronome?’" Not because I don’t know what the word means, or what that statement implies, but because a) why? and b) I’m not certain anybody ever said that, and so I think you, Score, are lying. Wikipedia defines a metronome as “any device that produces regular, metrical ticks (beats, clicks) — settable in beats per minute.” They add, “Boggsian. Like Wade Boggs, the baseball player, in the way it produces metrical ticks.”

did something with his bat

Because we are in TWSS territory, I am hoping that this will be about the great and consistent manner by which Wade Boggs hit baseballs with his bat, as opposed to something else that I do not care to discover.

in 1988 that no other player in the 20th Century has ever done.

“Metronome sets 20th century bat-related mark,” was the headline of the Boston Herald one day in the fall of ’88.

He banged out 200 hits

Bill, Score editor: Dick, you bang out that Boggs card yet?

Dick, Score writer: Almost, Bill. Actually, had a question for you: Would you say that Boggs whacks balls, or bangs ‘em?

Bill: Hmmm, good question. I’ve seen him do both. Why don’t you use “whacks” as a lede and “bangs” in the middle …

Dick: Good call.

for the sixth consecutive season, an unprecedented feat, and only topped by Wee Willie

That’s what she said.

Keeler’s eight in a row way back in the 1890s.

Listen, we can talk all day about 19th and 20th century metronomes, but the long and short of it is this, as the title suggests—Wade whacks ‘em. “’Em” being balls. Hard.

Did you know?
I am not proud of all this. Nevertheless.

Four years later, potential unrealized, but happiness sustained

2011-06-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 6/30 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/1 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I moved here to Arizona four years ago this very week. Since then, the following things have happened:

We were forced to refinance. We purchased our home, unbeknownst to us at the time, at the height of the real estate market. It is not classy, apparently, to talk about how much one spent on his home, so let’s just say we paid enough, at like a 26.3 percent interest rate. When the bottom fell out of the national real estate market and Arizona fell further down than most, our payments remained the same but our home dropped in value exponentially and suddenly we had no neighbors, construction halted, and we were surrounded by empty homes and vacant lots until renters began to move in and their dogs would relieve themselves on our property, which continues to this day.

Many things we liked, including people, are gone. Four years ago, a great part of our excitement in moving was the chance to live near several good friends who had already settled in the Valley. Many of those friends, for reasons both economic and personal, have moved back from whence they came. So glad you guys are here! Peace, I’m out! Even dining establishments have abandoned us. Though difficult to find food that approaches our east coast standards, we did manage to locate a few gems … which are now, with almost zero exceptions, gone. There used to be a really good Greek pita place near our house. One day I went there to pick up some falafels, and when I walked in I found myself inside a T-Mobile store. I walked out with no falafels, but a new phone, which I did not need, but used to order a terrible pizza. The T-Mobile store is now gone.

Arizona became more famous for its questionable politics than its weather. When we first moved here, our friends and family back east would eagerly ask us how hot it was during the summer, and then avoid asking us how awesome it was during the winter. Now we get emails asking if we’ve ever seen John McCain shaking his fist angrily at a car going 30 mph in a 25, or if we saw the hilarious expose of some recent-passed Arizona legislation on The Daily Show. We were able to return fire during Weinergate, but still.

Sports and entertainment are flailing. Whenever guests visit during the winter months, the one thing we always try to do—and this is totally true; not just for the purposes of this column—is take them to Westgate and a Coyotes game. As it stands now, the Coyotes have one skate out the Valley door and Westgate is bankrupt. It’s hard to believe that a desert ice hockey team couldn’t withstand its own annual economic losses, despite a city’s best efforts, and immediately after I openly declared myself a fan, yet it may in fact happen. And while Westgate may not see a change, it may want to alter its approach—Scottsdale 2.0 was a good idea, but I’m not so sure many people in this area, in lieu of a hockey game, will go to “Men's Ultimate Grooming.” Anyway, I’m not sure where we’ll take our guests this winter. Maybe Kohls and then Chili’s?

All of this begs the question: Do we regret our decision? Not in the least. Arizona—the West Valley in particular—has been an amazing blessing for us for so many reasons, despite the aforementioned misfortunes. With regards to those misfortunes, I still believe things will turn around. Who knows—maybe our ice hockey team will survive, and we’ll get a bobsled team, too. Maybe we’ll make new friends, who own an awesome restaurant. Maybe Jan Brewer will post progressive ideas on Twitter. Either way, we’re in it for the long haul, and happy to be here.

Classic card of the week

2011-06-23T13:00:00.000-07:00

Bo Jackson

Crack, the horrible and deadly addictive drug, was introduced to the streets in the 1980s by—according to noted historian Kanye West—Ronald Reagan, who “cooked up” the drug and planted it in the streets because … I’m not sure what his motive was there, actually.

Anyway, in the 80s there were two sides to the crack issue: those who liked and enjoyed crack, and those who opposed crack. As a means of adding brevity and friendly competitiveness to an otherwise extremely violent and heart-wrenching situation, MTV, in what would ultimately become the first of its popular Rock n’ Jock Series, in which people like Dan Cortese could hit a 10-point basketball shot, decided to host a baseball game.

Through which spectrum the nation as a whole viewed the crack issue would be decided by this baseball game. On one side was the “Turn Your Back on Crack” team, led by actual baseball AND football player Bo Jackson, who once single-handedly defeated a bumblebee. They had blue hats and uniforms. Their motto was, “No Caine,” in which the “0” in “No” was struck-through, which kinda made it seem like were against not having cocaine, but most people, I think, got the intended message. There were no other team members.

On the other side was “Team Crack,” a team of crack addicts. They were led by Jimmy, a.k.a. “Jim-Jam,” who event organizers found asleep in the stadium parking lot the morning of the game. Their uniforms were jeans and their motto was, “Gimmie Some Crack!” No one from Team Crack showed up for the game, including Jim-Jam, who never returned to the field after excusing himself to go use a payphone.

In an effort to be sensitive to the issue at hand, there were no first and third base lines, so all balls were in play. That's what she said. As a safety precaution, all fans were asked to sit in the upper decks, as games with a “crack” theme did not traditionally end well.

Fortunately for America, Turn Your Back on Crack won the game 26-4, thanks in large part to Bo Jackson’s “blonk-a-donk” hit in the fifth inning, which was a ball that bounced off of three seats in the stands and which, by Rock n’ Jock rules, earned his team 20 “blonker points.”

And with that, it was decided: Crack was bad, and people, especially kids, if offered crack, should turn their back on the drug. Said Jackson after the game, into a microphone held by Michael Rappaport while “YMCA” played in the background, “Remember, there’s nothing we can’t accomplish by literally looking the other way!”

Then he broke his bat over his thigh to thunderous applause. It was then that Jim-Jam returned, looking for his left sneaker and asking if anyone had a few bucks for the bus.

Unworn hat a fashionable reminder of insecurities

2011-06-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 6/23 issue of The Glendale Star and 6/24 issue of the Peoria Times

Months ago, while shopping at Ross, my wife convinced me to buy a hat.

I have mentioned before that I have always wanted to be a person who wears cool and hip headgear. I have always desired to wear a cowboy hat in some ironic fashion, but have yet to find one that fits well and doesn’t make me look like an idiot, nor have I found a reasonable occasion on which to potentially wear one. (I think I’ve seen too many beer commercials, as I frequently imagine myself in such a social situation, when in reality my wife and I go out approximately three times a year, and by “go out” I mean go to someone’s house and leave by 10pm.)

Anyway, this particular hat was pretty cool, especially for summer. It was the type of hat Jason Mraz would wear. Or Frank Sinatra, if he were still alive, and 20-years old, and at the beach. Plus, when I tried it on, it fit perfectly. Still, I was hesitant to buy it because I knew I would never actually wear it.

I tried to explain to my wife that I’m not a cool hat guy, and that it’s too late in life for me to become one. My buddy Rashad is a cool hat guy. He wears the type of hats that Irish gangters wear—he’s not even Irish; I’m Irish!—and it looks totally normal and stylish. Last year we all went to a festival near the beach in California and he got to stop by the cool hat stand and peruse hats. I cannot say that I was not jealous.

Well, this hat was on sale, making it impossible for my wife to leave it behind, and I was thus forced to buy it. I have not worn it.

I contemplated it, however, last weekend. We were going to a pool party at a friend’s house, and it really would have been the perfect situation to try it out. I stood in the closet and stared at the hat for a long time, ultimately deciding not to wear it. I figured that the potential coolness factor of the hat going over well did not surpass my anxiety at how the hat would be accepted, and the questions I’d have to answer. Where’d you get that hat? I didn’t know you wore hats! Do you have any other hats? Is something wrong with your head? Besides, even if people were nice to my face, I worried what would be said when we left by 10pm. I can’t believe he wore that hat! Who does he think he is, Jason Mraz?! What a dork!

I never imagined the internal crisis this hat would cause, and the insecurities it would expose. As I have said time and time again, I should have started wearing cool hats years ago. If I were a cool hat guy, all of my problems would disappear, and we’d be invited to many parties where people park their jeeps on the beach in the late evening and bring their guitars and what not.

Soon we will be visiting Rashad and his wife in L.A., which may be an even better time for me to try out the hat. Nobody knows me over there, plus you can wear a toilet seat on your head in L.A. and no one will think twice. I don't know ... I’ll think about it. I mean, I don’t want to upstage Rashad.

Classic card of the week

2011-06-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

Kurt Miller, 1991 Upper Deck

I’m not a superstitious person. At least I try not to be. But I married into an Italian family, and there are many, shall we say, quirks involved, of which I must abide lest I be blamed for an unfortunate occurrence. Among these not-quite-superstitious-based obligations: no shoes on the table, walk through the same door you came in, and, of course, when forced to mingle with an untrustworthy person—wear red underwear.

These are all important, obviously, but the most important obligation of all is this: never get ahead of yourself when speaking. In other words, the future is uncertain, no matter what things may seem, and never assume that this is not so. My wife and in-laws tend to take things a small step further with the notion that if you do happen to speak positively about something that is actually happening right here and now, your very words have just prevented this positive thing from moving forward. “Jinx” is an ugly, superstitious word, so let’s just say, in this case, you’ve (other word for “jinx”)ed it. Thus, if something good is happening, never acknowledge it until it is so over that you are safely removed from the risk of being personally held responsible for ending it.

A prime example, and one in which I am perpetually the victim-slash-perpetrator: If our daughter is behaving well for a sustained amount of time—rare, but it happens—I will often say something like, “Wow, she’s being so go—“ and at this point, my wife and mother-in-law will simultaneously shush me, dramatically roll their eyes in each other’s direction, and haphazardly prepare for an onslaught of bad behavior. Should our daughter, immediately after this, so much as faintly verbalize any sort of frustration or confusion, most likely as a result of the spontaneous and inexplicable reaction she has just witnessed, I will be outcasted to a different room and no one will speak to me for at least the next three hours.

So, I try not to get ahead of myself, so much so, that when I witness other people do it, it bothers me. As an example … Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that a person is speaking about a young pitcher, and this person, who is speaking about this pitcher, and ignoring the immense physical strain of pitching in general and also the random circumstances that can frequently cause unfortunate injuries, virtually guarantees, based only on the pitcher’s smooth delivery, that this pitcher will never get injured, and in making this point as emphatically as possible, uses a horrific example of something that, though seemingly improbable, could happen and which, if it did happen, would not only injure this pitcher but also kill him instantly.

Yes, something like that would bother me.

“He has a perfect delivery,” one scout said. “The only way he’s going to hurt his arm is if he’s run over by a semi.”

I spent way, way, WAY too much time on the Internet searching for “Kurt Miller injury,” and there is just so little information about him minus straight baseball statistics. So, I’m not sure if he ever got injured—if anybody knows, holla—but I will say that from ’97 through ’99, one season removed from throwing 46.1 innings, he threw a combined 14.1 innings.

More importantly, according to Wikipedia, unless they simply forgot to mention it, he was never—as of this date, as I would like to express my sincerest hope that this never, ever happens to him or anyone, ever—run over by a tractor trailer.

Did you know?
The anonymous scout quoted here once said of Tiger Woods, “Only way that guy doesn’t win 30 majors is if his personal life spirals out of control via an exposed extramarital history involving porn stars, initiated by a pre-Thanksgiving car accident.”

Rebuttal

2011-06-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

I just really like that word. I also have one, here.

To scare a monster with a monster

2011-06-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 6/16 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/17 issue of the Peoria Times

It has recently been revealed that our daughter is scared of Cookie Monster.
I can’t say that I blame her, with his aggressiveness and broken English—I’m not so sure that “Me want cookie!” is the best educational resource for young children—not to mention his wandering eyes and the fact that he is a self-described monster. Nevertheless, this evolved fear has been wonderful news for us.

You see, virtually nothing scares our daughter. In fact, she is greatly amused by the rare occasions when she is scared, like when I jump out from nowhere during a game of hide-and-seek. More, more! As parents of a child who, not yet two, is still too young to grasp the consequences of discipline—we still valiantly try though, which typically worsens the behavior we were attempting to correct—we are more than ready to employ scare tactics.

Is this wrong? Probably. But I think that, as parents, we are often asked to set down the moral compass in the interest of greater goals, like ending a hunger strike or being able to move about normally in a public setting. Plus, if we lose our sanity, nobody will be there to parent her.

Last weekend was one mini-disaster after the other. Constant mayhem, unnerving selfishness, and borderline malicious defiance, all of which had us both, but my wife especially, on the verge of a breakdown. (My in-laws, by the way, insist that my wife is raising an exact replica of herself, to their utter delight.) This terrible behavior resulted in my wife looking furiously online for a Cookie Monster mask.

For reasons that transcend corrective behavior, I was really looking forward to seeing my wife, amidst the chaos of the latest tantrum, jump out wearing a Cookie Monster mask and yell in a deep voice, “Cookie Monster say, ‘Eat your dinner or else!’” I would have definitely taken a Flip video of that to send out to the family, and to Parents Magazine. But alas—she either couldn’t find an adult-sized mask, or, more likely, abandoned her search on second thought.

One day after our exhausting and self-reflective weekend, my wife was working late and so I put our daughter to bed. After she had fallen asleep, a landscaper working next door, but right by her bedroom window, turned on his extremely loud blower. It scared our daughter out of her sleep. Like, really scared her.

“Dad-DEEE, Dad-DEEE!” she desperately and repeatedly screamed from her crib, and while we normally make it a point to not go back into her room if she cries, this was a special exception. Plus her “Dad-deee” scream is my kryptonite.

I rushed in there to comfort her back to sleep. It’s a strange feeling to see your child genuinely scared—you feel sad for them, but there’s an overwhelming feeling of happiness at being there to comfort them, and joy that they called you to do so.

I told my wife what happened when she got home, and she put her hands over her heart and made extra certain I went in there. I’m pretty sure she abandoned her search knowing that whoever wasn’t playing Cookie Monster would cave and immediately console our daughter, rendering the whole operation useless. I guess we’ll continue parenting the old-fashioned way—persistent love, discipline, and constantly questioning whether or not we’re doing the right thing.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dad-dees out there doing the same. Enjoy your kryptonite.

Classic card of the week

2011-06-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

Doug Drabek, 1991 Fleer Ultra

The trinity of attaining pitching excellence is as follows, in order of importance: 1) smile, 2) pitch, and 3) hit without looking like a total doofus. And as Meatloaf once said, specifically with regards to Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Doug Drabek—many people don’t know that—two out of three ain’t bad.

Let us begin:

The last time the Pittsburgh Pirates had a pitcher lead the league in victories, Doug Drabek wasn’t even born.

Because a specific date doesn’t always tickle my fancy, I enjoy relating the length of time by which something happened to the age/nonexistence of a different person. For example, if you were to say, “On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,” I would be like, “???” But if you were to say, “When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Bill Cosby was four years-old,” I’d be like, “Okay—I get that.”

Also, taking note that this is a 1991 baseball card, a more accurate way for this sentence to read would be: "The last time the Pittsburgh Pirates had a pitcher lead the league in victories, Doug Drabek was that pitcher." Now that, my friends, is a lede. But I digress.

Bob Friend led the NL in victories in 1958 with 22.

If you retain no other baseball statistic in your entire life, remember this one. It is on the test to get into heaven.

Also, the last Pittsburgh 20 game winner was John Candelaria (20-5) in 1977, when Drabek was all of 15-years-old.

I mean, 15 isn’t all that young, really. Wasn’t Freddy Adu 15 when he won the World Cup? I would have said something like, “John Candelaria was the last Pirates 20-game winner in 1977,” or, better yet, I wouldn’t have mentioned John Candelaria at all. In fact, if I were in charge, the entire back of this card would be two sentences which would read, “Doug Drabek won 22 games in 1990, which is cool, if you like wins, which mean close to nothing for a pitcher. Infinitely more important was his 1.06 WHIP, although he struck out one hundred fewer batters than innings pitched, so basically, he pitched like he does every year, only his teammates hit better, and speaking of hitting …” Then I would cover the rest of the empty space with these:

Did you know?
Doug’s son, Kyle Drabek, currently pitches for the Toronto Blue Jays. He was part of the trade that brought Kyle Drabek to the Blue Jays, as the Drabeks recall it.

Trapped in the Closet of No Self-Awareness

2011-06-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

Note: This post originally appeared on this blog in July of 2005.

This post was going to be part of the music chapter of the book, but I ultimately decided against it. It's one thing to have a large chunk of your life's work involve Vanilla Ice -- quite another to include R. Kelly. Silly versus profane. Anyhoo, because I did put a modicum of effort into reediting it, I figured I'd just repost here for all to enjoy, or -- as it pertains to many people who have read said Vanilla Ice pieces in the book -- to be utterly confused by.

For what it's worth, it's been six years since Trapped in the Closet (anniversary special???), and I still don't know what to make of it.

The immortal R. Kelly has put out yet another album, this time a kind of R&B opera entitled Trapped in the Closet, which is accompanied by a string of approximately 800 music videos in which he “acts” out the song chapters. By “acts” I mean he lip syncs and occasionally pretends to drive a car in front of very fake backgrounds that are probably being held up by two girls in bikinis. In fact, “opera” is a poor word choice, as it signifies some semblance of cultural ingenuity when, in the case of Trapped in the Closet, there is a scene where a little person defecates himself.

Trapped in the Closet is so awful and so bizarre that it has become the object of ridicule among many, myself included. It’s difficult, however, to decipher whether or not the joke is lost on R. Kelly. It seems impossible that any human being would be able to process this series of songs and videos as anything other than parody. It seems even less likely that the creator of such a…thing, would be able to do so from a genuine place. Alright, I want the little person over here on the counter, and put the cherry pie over there. I’m gonna hold the gun like this, and those two girls are gonna make out. Okay? Alright, ‘action’ on three…”

But R. Kelly is not your everyday R&B crooner. He is currently immersed in a legal battle—one that surpasses the tragic and bizarre nature of any Trapped in the Closet scene, if only because it involves real life. Plus, the passion with which R. Kelly speaks about his latest work, and the obvious admiration he has for it, does little to dissuade me from believing that he and I have differing opinions with regards to its intended impact.

The best case against Trapped being intentionally hilarious is the fact that R. Kelly has other albums from which to base judgment. It’s fairly obvious to me that R. Kelly fashions himself to be the titan of modern R&B singing and songwriting. This self-perception is based on an extensive catalog of what can only be described as greatness. Like the time he recruited Ronald Isley to play a character called “Mr. Big” in a series of songs and videos that included dialogue such as this:

Hello Mr. Big / How ya’ doin’ Mr. Big / What the hell is goin’ on? / What you mean what’s goin’ on?

Yes, what is going on? It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that we delve deeper into some of R. Kelly’s past lyrics in order to decipher whether or not Trapped in the Closet is a genuine or ironic form of classic. But please, be forewarned. Besides believing he can fly, R. Kelly really, really, really likes sex. Really. For example:

You remind me of my jeep, I wanna ride it

Comparing women to automobiles is a popular American pastime, mainly for the obvious sexual innuendoes, i.e., placing the “key” into the “ignition,” and putting “gas” into the “gas tank,” and so on and so forth. Women like nothing more than to be compared with cars—trust me—especially when you are suggesting that you would like to ride them like a car, as in you would like to sit on top of them and have them transport you to Seven-Eleven to pick up some milk, or, in R. Kelly’s case, “rubbers.”

(You remind me of) my bank account, I wanna spend it

Now I’ve heard of spending money on women, but R. Kelly has taken that concept to a whole new level in that he actually uses women as currency, mainly in order to purchase other, better women. Or socks. Also, a lot of everyday things seem to remind R. Kelly of sex. Stop being so suggestive, everyday things!

Let’s go half on a baby

Hey, why not? I mean, we’re just sitting here. We might as well procreate. And I promise—when the baby comes out, I’ll take care of the head and arms, you worry about the legs and torso. Or we could fight for full body rights and then have Solomon decide. Whatever. By the way, when we’re done, can we go half on a pizza? I’m hungry. And horny. But mostly horny.

(I would also like to mention that this particular lyric is not a throwaway, plucked at random from the ocean of other great R. Kelly lyrics. This is the name of a song. Speaking of great song titles…)

I like the crotch on you

Let us not beat around the bush. (Or, as R. Kelly might suggest in a fabulously appropriate jingle, let’s.) I’m just going to throw this out there, because I have no time for complimenting hair, or jewelry, or any other facet of your person that does not exist within the circumference of your reproductive area: I like the crotch on you. There. Sue me. Or, better yet, have sex with me.

Girl, run to your Internet and download me / Get my computer love right off your screen

R. Kelly’s love has gone digital. There is no telling what the implications of this may be.

It's the pied piper, your music weatherman / It's love-o'clock and we're broadcasting live / right here from the Chocolate Factory

Wait—it’s love-o’clock already? I was supposed to be at the Chocolate Factory an hour ago! Time flies when you’re downloading R. Kelly’s love off the Internet.

Okay you, you're saying you came in and / And these two women they, they poured / Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, it wasn't nothing like that / All I know is uh, I was asleep, they came in / Woke me up pourin' hot grits / And all kinds of (bleep) on me man, okay beatin' me and (bleep) / Hittin' me with all sorts of type (bleep)

I’m not exactly sure what happened here, or if R. Kelly’s okay, but this reads like a scene from Trapped in the Closet. This is why I am convinced, sadly, that Trapped in the Closet is, in fact, R. Kelly’s genuine and ill-fated attempt at Sergeant Pepper or Purple Rain.

Odd that the same man who sang, so eloquently, “Sex in the Kitchen” and “Feelin’ on Yo’ Booty” would miss the mark on a classic rock opera so badly. The good news, however, is that R. Kelly thinks otherwise. When asked about Trapped in the Closet in an interview before its premiere, R. Kelly described his latest work as “groundbreaking.”

The ground is breaking all right. But it’s Marvin Gaye, rolling over in his grave.

Food shopping together proceeds smoothly, for once

2011-06-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This column appears in the 6/9 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/10 issue of the Peoria Times

I do most of the grocery shopping. It is just one of the domestic roles I fell into, probably because a) I do most of the eating and b) I despise grocery shopping slightly less than my wife does.

I have a pretty good routine though. We make a list of the things we need, and then I will go to the store, forgetting to bring the list, and the coupons I acquired on the previous shopping trip, and our reusable shopping bags. My wife will call me as I’m on my way to the store to inform me that I forgot all those things, and to remind me to pick up an obscure item like scallions. She will say, “You know what scallions are, right?” and I will say, “Yes,” although I really don’t, but plan on figuring it out.

I will spend about 20 minutes in the produce section wandering around aimlessly before I call my wife and ask, “What do scallions look like?” Then I will breeze through the store, picking up items we enjoy eating and that are on sale. “Do I like that?” and “Is it on sale?” are the only two questions involved in my thought process when selecting items.

If the checkout lines are too long, I will attempt to use the self-checkout line, and will get halfway through the process before realizing I have vegetables to weigh. I will spend about 10 minutes trying to find the code for and accurately weigh bell peppers before cancelling the entire order in frustration, placing all of the items back into the cart as the machine yells repeatedly for all to hear, “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CANCEL? PRESS ‘I AM STUPID’ TO CANCEL,” and going to wait on the now longer line at regular checkout. I nonchalantly peruse the gossip mags as I wait.

When I reach the cashier, I will inform him or her that I forgot my reusable bags, so as to make it known that my intentions are pure. Also I forgot my club card. Can you look it up with my phone number? On the slim chance that I actually remembered coupons, I will forget to present them at checkout, and will only remember I have them after the transaction is complete and additional coupons are printed. I must then immediately walk over to the customer service counter, where no one is at the moment, so that I can get refunded the difference. If I deem the worker to be friendly, I will attempt to squeeze in several of the coupons I just received.

When I get home, we will empty the bags together as my wife periodically asks, “Did you remember to get (item)?” I will say, “Shoot. No. Sorry. Hey, did you hear Kate Gosselin had liposuction?”

This is not a perfect routine, but it works. In fact, its usefulness is best highlighted on the rare occasions we go food shopping as a family. I wait in frustration as my wife stands in front of yogurt for an eternity, inspecting each label and trying to determine which is the best deal per ounce, as I follow our daughter around picking up the things she has knocked over. My wife will ask me questions about items that aren’t so much questions that seek my opinion, but more her telling herself out loud she should buy something.

“Should I get this apple jelly? I can use it for lunch … ”

“That thing weighs 30 lbs. Last year you bought ‘pumpkin butter’ that’s still unopened in the pantry.”

“This is why I don’t go shopping with you. Just get what YOU want, and let’s go!”

Anyway, I bring this up only because last weekend we went food shopping as a family—at a megastore, no less—and nailed it. I agreed to everything, we split up to save time and generally knew the whereabouts of things, and our daughter waited until checkout to flip out (because, since you asked, I took away from her the plastic container of strawberries she was sticking her fingers through). It was surreal—the greatest, most productive shopping trip ever. It may never happen like that again, so I wanted to write it down to remember that it did.

I have been known to forget things.

Classic card of the week

2011-06-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

Bill Spiers, 1994 Upper Deck

You know what I like about Bill Spiers besides EVERYTHING???!!!! The way he will sign a baseball or a baseball card while looking awesome wearing a helmet on top of his baseball hat and while not really paying attention because he is too busy trying to get the attention of an attractive female in the distance with the hope that she will notice how awesome he looks with all the protective hats protruding from his head.

Female groupies in distance: Look at Bill Speirs! Gossip, gossip, blah, blah, giggle, giggle! SO cute! You know what they say about a guy with three skulls! Giggle, giggle, hit with foul ball.

That helmet is so high atop Bill Spiers’ dome that there is ample room for a fast-moving baseball to still nail him in the head, rendering the helmet pointless, unless you count the fashion aspect of it, which is, from a monetary standpoint: priceless. It’s possible, however, that Spiers was simply basking in the glory of a facemask-less helmet that could let his brim breath a little, ya’ know? You’re just not afforded the luxury of keeping your hat on when you’re punting footballs:

He was also a punter for Clemson University.

I am assuming Wikipedia is referring to the football team, and is not implying that Clemson University employs a more general punter who is responsible for punting stuff around campus every now and then to the delight of students and faculty. Of course, with the most famous baseball player-slash-college football punter ever, Darin Erstad, as our prime example, I am also left to assume that there existed an overwhelming amount of articles, columns, and features about Bill Spiers’ scrappiness, hustle, Caucasian-ness, grit, football-mentality (wherein you tackle the opposing player, or, in this case, punt the baseball), peskiness, heart, and how his baseball statistics shouldn’t necessarily speak to his actual baseball ability because there is no statistic for grass stains on a uniform.

That football mentality and extra layer of helmet protection could have come in handy had Bill Spiers not been so blindsided one unfortunate day:

On September 24, 1999, while playing with the Houston Astros, Spiers was attacked by a 23 year old man while standing in the outfield before the bottom of the 6th inning. Teammate Mike Hampton was first on the scene and delivered several kicks to the attacker.

Mike Hampton is a pitcher. Pitchers pitch from the pitching mound. How was he the first one on the scene? The combined grit quotient of the other Astros was minus-1,095.98.

He was later quoted saying "The good thing was he didn't have a weapon... I always check right field before I deliver the first pitch.

"To, ya' know, make sure the right fielder is not getting randomly attacked," added Hampton. "Also to check the Jumbotron to make sure I am pitching that day."

It's just a habit. I looked out there and saw the guy on Billy's back... It was a scary thing. My instincts just took over. My rage took over. I was pretty furious. I wanted to get him off my teammate."

Honestly? This is the best Bill Spiers-by-way-of-Mike Hampton story I have ever read in my whole life.

After being arrested the attacker faced two counts of battery and one count of disorderly conduct. Spiers wound up with a welt under his left eye, a bloody nose and whiplash.

As a means of adding brevity to a tense and uptight clubhouse, Mike Hampton walked up to Bill Spiers the next day wearing a t-shirt that read, “NOW who’s the punter?” Everybody laughed, except Bill Spiers, who had whiplash.

Did you know?
The rumor around baseball was that Bill Spiers wore his helmet high atop his baseball cap to signify, as a nod to his football-playing days and also his off-season job as an event organizer, that he wore many hats.