So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

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 a...

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...

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...

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 ...

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 posi...

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 ...

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’...

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 : ( ...

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 Distefan...

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 fro...

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...

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 girl...

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-...

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 v...

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 ...

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...

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!"

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 h...

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 threate...

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 no...