So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

Jeff Kaiser, 1989 Fleer Like me circa about an hour ago, you may think you know everything about former Major League Baseball player Jeff Kaiser. Sure, there are the jokes like, “No, not the composer and trumpet player Jeff Kaiser, who can be followed at www.jeffkaiser.com—the baseball player, dummy!” Honestly, that joke is so cliché and hacky at this point, I won’t even go there. What I am here to tell you is: set your ego aside for a second because, no—I don’t think you know everything there is to know about Jeff Kaiser, a.k.a. the Kaismeister. For example, did you know he was called the Kaismeister by his close friends and relatives? Oh, you did know that? Well guess what? You are a lying sack of doo-doo because I made that up. See? That’s what I’m talking about. Work with me here. Let us begin. DID YOU KNOW? Tied for lead in saves with Colorado Springs farm team… Okay, yeah well, that is a bad example. I mean, everybody knows that. I don’t even know why they include...

Note: This column appears in the 3/29 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/30 issue of the Peoria Times. People often ask us why we’re vegetarians as opposed to vegans. The honest answer is laziness. The well-kept secret of the self-righteous vegetarian is that giving up meat is not nearly as difficult as people think. And while we agree with veganism and wish we could be part of the club … I mean, c’mon. I have always maintained it’d be infinitely more difficult for me to give up cheese than meat, and while I’m fine putting cheese on my fake burger, I am not cool with putting fake cheese or (gasp!) no cheese on my fake burger. I have to draw the line somewhere, and my line is made of cheese. Yet something happened over the weekend that nudged us ever so closer to the vegan side, and it has me concerned there’s no going back. Like many Americans, I have frequently enjoyed eggs. Last week’s column was about eggs, which is something that just now dawned on me, and which has proven ...

Ya viene el viejito gordito quien nos roba de todos nuestros atletas y come todos nuestros chicharrones!

Karl Malone, 1998 NBA Hoops It is with a heavy heart that I acknowledge that this, right here, is the last 1998 NBA Hoops card that I own. But let us never forget the good times we had, frolicking happily down the road of inane, nonsensical and uninformative street talk. If anyone out there has more cards from this series and would like to see them featured, please send them to me and I will do just that because I love this series of basketball cards more than I have ever loved anything in my entire life. But, if this is indeed the final installment, let’s make it count. Let’s, as they say on the street, run a power move on them. Run a power move on them. “I don’t know what this means. What is a power move? Who is them?” These are things stupid idiots from suburbia would say. Ha, stupid idiots. Let me break it down for you. It’s like, hey, Karl Malone, do that thing you do where you finish a layup after contact, or belittle a subordinate in the effort of emphasizing your authority. GET...

Note: This column appears in the 3/22 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/23 issue of the Peoria Times. I’ve had some embarrassing moments as a parent. There was the time our then foster daughter spit on her teacher at daycare. There was the time recently when our own daughter pointed in the face of the male cashier at Safeway and asked, “What’s her name?” And of course there are the many times I’ve been forced to leave the premises—church, restaurant, bank, playground, grocery store, party, Nickelodeon-themed show, whatever—carrying said child like a football, her screams gradually fading into the distance for the curious onlookers. This is certainly not to say our daughter is more prone to such outbursts than any other 2-year old. Well, okay—maybe a little more prone. Still, a more recent outburst proved especially embarrassing, not so much because of how it went down, but where, and what it said about us. I’ve documented our affection for a particular coffee place that also, app...

" I am going to blow my schnoze into this thing and then I am going to put it back into my pocket and then I am going to blow my schnoze into it again later. " This is the general thesis of the handkerchief-owner. Isn’t that amazing? I find it amazing. I have had a bloody nose for the past three months because moisture levels in the atmosphere here are at a record low negative 30 percent, and I have found myself frequently imagining what I would do were I forced to resolve this matter via handkerchief. My conclusion is that I would not do that because that is disgusting. I have always marveled at the ol’ hanky, mostly because of the paradox between its utter crudeness and how it also manages to represent some formal and high-status means of emergency nose-maintenance. Congratulations on your wedding! I have dressed properly for the occasion by exposing my handkerchief, see? Should my nose run, I will use this to wipe away the boogies. Oh my, I do apologize! I speaketh as thou...

Note: This column appears in the 3/15 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/16 issue of the Peoria Times. One of the mysterious realities of life is how little we change from grammar school, no matter how much we change. Sure, we mature, gain perspective, grow physically and emotionally … all that crap. But when reintroduced to the classroom setting with a teacher and desks, we might as well be 10-years old again. I was reminded of this over the weekend. My wife and I, as criteria for renewing our adoptive license, embarked on an all-day training session in Scottsdale. Is there a better way to spend a gorgeous Saturday than inside of a classroom learning about why kids are nuts? No way! One way that is certainly not better is “going to the zoo,” which is how our friend treated our daughter, texting us pictures throughout the day that weren’t meant to taunt, but did. At one point I found myself looking at a picture of my daughter happily watching the camels while a woman wearing a hat th...

Michael Chang, Sports Illustrated for Kids It’s pretty safe to say I was the only kid on the block with a Michael Chang tennis card, which, obviously, gave me quite the confidence boost as I biked around the neighborhood in search of worthy adversaries and also my soul mate. “What chu know about Michael Chang?” was a common phrase I could be heard condescendingly tossing in the direction of an unsuspecting sucka, while the surrounding kids laughed at this person’s lack of Michael Chang knowledge and memorabilia. It’s also pretty safe to say I am now one of the few people in the world that owns a perforated Michael Chang tennis card, and that’s not to brag. Well, kind of. Sorry, haters. Chang me. In 1989, Michael became the youngest man ever to win the French Open and also the first American man to win it since 1955. He was just 17 years 3 months old! First of all, exclamation point! Second of all, seriously, that is ridonk. A 17-year-old winning a Grand Slam event is absurd. And what ...

Note: This column appears in the 3/8 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/9 issue of the Peoria Times. When I was a kid, and before I actually ever went to one, an “outlet” was an entity of mysterious retail dreams. For the longest time, I was under the impression—because, I think, one of my idiot friends told me this—that the outlet was a place to find not only merchandise unavailable at its regular store counterpart, but also for considerably less money. The outlet, you see, eliminated the middleman. No more insane markups; these would be direct-from-the-manufacturer purchases. This was like a real-life infomercial, and I was never prouder to live in this land called America than when I spoke of the outlet store. Finally, by my senior year in high school, I was presented the chance to go with some friends to “the outlets” somewhere in north Jersey. I think the town itself was called “The Outlets” because that’s the only thing people went there for. The streets were paved with jeans ...

Willie Randolph, 1980 Topps Willie Randolph never got enough credit. I mean, from me he did. But not from you guys. You guys are jerks. It wasn’t Willie’s fault he had to share the limelight with the Greatest Baseball Player in the History of the Universe , or Mr. May, or Rickey being Rickey (man, how did those teams suck so bad? Oh yeah, pitching). All Willie did was go out there everyday and play second base and … boy, how awesome was Donnie, amiright? I miss him so much. Even when he was managing he didn’t get enough respect. When the stupid Mets collapsed in 2007, everyone was like, “Blame Willie! What’s up with Willie? He’s just sitting there! Willie should do something! Willie!” and I was like, “Hold up, morons! The Mets are stupid! It’s not Willie’s fault the Mets are stupid!” This is a sentiment that was later proven correct, thus redeeming Willie, even though he had already been fired a long time ago. Now Willie is the third base coach for the freakin’ Orioles, and it’s like...

Today, Channel 12 here in AZ, in an attempt to capitalize on the linsanity craze that peaked like three weeks ago, ran a segment called, “Arizona’s Top Five ‘Linsanity’ Moments.” Indeed, it would be mega-interesting and newsworthy to unveil the Valley’s top five occasions that were most similar to when an Asian-American basketball player began playing basketball really well in New York. There was no way this wasn’t going to be completely dumb, but it somehow managed to exceed expectations. No. 5 was when Jordin Sparks of Glendale won American Idol. I wasn’t here yet when that happened, but it was actually the number one reason my wife and I decided to move to Arizona. Watching the pure linsanity of someone from an American state win an American talent show, we just had to get to that state and see what all the fuss was about by living there permanently. When we arrived, it was impossible to escape the Jordin Sparks madness. Jordin Sparks this, Jordin Sparks that, hey, is that Jordin Sp...

Note: This column appears in the 3/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/2 issue of the Peoria Times. There are many hot-button local issues as we head into this election season, for example, the Coyotes, the proposed casino, and like, taxes and stuff. Many prospective candidates are like, “I promise this,” and “So and so, whatever” … I don’t know—I haven’t really been paying attention. But my ears will perk up when I finally hear someone address the real issue at hand, the elephant in this room we call Arizona: Who will promise to end this drought? I’m not sure if anyone has noticed this, but it has not rained in, I think, three years. In fact, the state of Arizona, U. S. of A., has been in a general state of droughtitude (new word) since 1999. Nineteen-ninety-nine ! It hasn’t been adequately hydrated here since Sugar Ray was acceptable. (Pop culture joke; Boom, roasted, Sugar Ray. Somebody had to do it) Not that it would have made a difference because my family loves it here, but t...

Andy Van Slyke, 1994 Upper Deck Here is a baseball card in which someone has taken a picture of Andy Van Slyke taking a picture of Andy Van Slyke while other people are taking different pictures of Andy Van Slyke taking pictures. If someone were to take a picture of me taking a picture of this Andy Van Slyke card in which he is taking pictures, the flash from the camera would open an alternate realty where every person is a camera with legs and social status is based solely on your camera’s quality, i.e. the rich and powerful are professional Canon XLG-3000s or whatever, and the disenfranchised are literally disposable. Anyway, baseball! Speaking of baseball, something tells me that baseball player Andy Van Slyke has interests other than playing baseball. Taking pictures, perhaps? It doesn’t say so anywhere on this card, but I am going to go out on a limb and say that, yes, one of Andy Van Slyke’s favorite hobbies is taking pictures. Here is another question though, having to do with ...

Note: This column appears in the 2/23 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/24 issue of the Peoria Times. There are certain items my wife will always purchase regardless of how many of that item we own and our lack of necessity for that item. For example, food storage containers. The technology of air-tightness gets more dramatic by the day, and if a new food storage container item is introduced that promises to retain even more freshness than its predecessor, my wife will purchase 20 of them, which is fine. The only problem is that she refuses to get rid of the outdated containers, arguing, “You never know when we’re going to need them,” like, as a feasible example, on the off chance we mistakenly cook for 85 people one night instead of three. But one item that I simply cannot fault her for consistently purchasing is bed sheets. Whenever (every weekend) I find myself in a department store, and have separated from my wife so that I can wander around aimlessly in search of clothes I wil...

Howard Johnson, 1989 Donruss Diamond Kings I’ve been on a Diamond Kings kick lately, and well, I will not apologize. I mean, LOOK AT THOSE SQUIGGLIES! That is art . There are so many dots and squigglies and stripes of contrasting colors it’s making me dizzy. Dizzy with AWESOMENESS. This card look like a boardwalk caricaturist collaborated with the 3rd place finisher of a firefighters-sponsored youth art contest. But in this homage to art, let us not forget about words. Had it not been for Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark, Howard Johnson would have had an easy path to the Most Valuable Player Award. That is great. Had it not been for other baseball players who were better at playing baseball than Howard Johnson, Howard Johnson would have totally been the best baseball player. Get out of the way, Kevin Mitchell and Will Clark—Howard Johnson is trying to win the MVP over here! Showoffs. Also, what the hell is this card talking about? In 1989, Johnson finished fifth in the NL MVP vote. A m...

Note: This column appears in the 2/16 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/17 issue of the Peoria Times. I have good news and bad news. First the bad news: crime continues to exist. Our office is here in downtown Glendale, which, contrary to the quaintness and public safety implied by its surplus of antique stores, boasts some sketchy areas and people. You may recall that not long ago , someone who was on the run from police came into our office to stash a crack pipe underneath a stack of newspapers and then asked to use the bathroom. (We did not allow her to use the bathroom.) I also frequently see various ragged-looking locals picking up used cigarette butts to smoke and also emerging from dumpsters, neither of which is a crime, but still. This sometimes provides an odd sense of perspective when I am having a bad day at work. Yeah, the copier isn't working, but at least I do not live in a dumpster. All of this could be viewed as rather quirky, I suppose, but things have recently ...

Artist : Kanye West Song : Everything I Am In this song, Mr. West attempts to define himself by establishing what he is not. Thesis: the things that he is not = everything he is. This seems rather all-encompassing, as listing the things you are as means of defining who you are would seem much simpler than acknowledging everything you are not (table, coconut, Asian person, wind, pencil, and so on and so forth) in order to reach that same conclusion. However, as in many rap songs, the “theme” is only approached intermittently, and the song quickly devolves into some faux self-deprecation and the declaration, “I got a lot of cheese.” But one line in this song has been stuck in my head since I heard it again the other day, and I would like to explore it here further: I never rock a mink coat in the winter time like Killa Cam Or rock some mink boots in the summertime like Will.i.am What is intriguing here is that Mr. West seems to be implying there are two established sides of the hip-hop...

Note: This column appears in the 2/9 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/10 issue of the Peoria Times. Already having mastered soccer by age 2—and by “mastered” I mean “proven her lack of interest in”—our daughter recently began dance class. I am, so far, the only dad who attends these weekly Saturday morning classes. (At her first class, while our family was still in town, we showed up with a party of six adults, and everyone was forced to leave the room after five minutes because our daughter, who has the attention the span of a spinning top, was too distracted.) I promised myself I was there only to observe, but last weekend I was pirouetting and bear crawling on the floor. The reason I was doing this was to coerce our daughter to actually participate in the class. One of the most confounding aspects of parenthood has been, for me, the transition from the unabashed joy of home life expression to the reluctance of organized participation in those very same endeavors. Our daughter l...

Dave Winfield, 1984 Topps Championship Baseball Hello! Is everybody here interested in playing some Championship Baseball by Milton Bradley—not the wacky modern baseball player named Milton Bradley, but the game company; I realize this is confusing—? Yeah? ALRIGHT! How about you, AL Super Star Dave Winfield? Ha, ha! Don’t be such a grouch, Dave! Look on the bright side—you have a shiny new ear flap-less protective helmet, and you play for … what team do you play for? … The Yankees! Cool. And hey, I’m sure more people will show up to your baseball game eventually. So, do you want to play or what? Fine, whatever. Everybody else, let’s play some Championship Baseball! Okay, it looks we’re going to need some dice. Or is it “die?" I forget which one is plural, but die is stupid, so let’s stick with dice. Who has dice? Anyone? Nobody? Okay, I will go to the store. ( Two hours later; most people have left party …) Sorry that took me so long! Shop Rite didn’t have dice, so I had to go t...

Note: This column appears online on The Glendale Star and Peoria Times websites. My wife introduced me to Words With Friends. At first I thought she was trying to tell me something. Shouldn’t we be playing Words With More Than Friends? But then I realized it’s just the name of the game. Everything is cool. Words With Friends is an app for the iPhone. People have said it’s like Scrabble, but the thing is, it is Scrabble. It’s just called something different, for some reason. The only difference is that it’s played on your phone at your respective leisure as opposed to the urgent confinement of a board game setting where several letters are missing and a dictionary must be referenced. (One day I will tell our daughter that, when I was young, we used to play a board game that required a dictionary, and I am going to sound like a Pilgrim.) Anyway, my wife won the first game. I discovered this when I logged into the app to see if it was my turn and was instead greeted with a party-type au...