So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

We recently went to the park as a family and before long, our daughter wanted to blow bubbles. As a mini-surprise that my wife had secretly stashed away, she broke out the Crayola Colored Bubbles. In a scenario of “which spouse made the correct decision?” I am almost always on the losing end. But the second I saw these bubbles I was like, “This looks like a terrible idea.” On this rare specific occasion, my instincts actually proved correct, so I figured I’d record it for historical purposes. Because it was, in fact, a terrible idea. Granted, it wasn’t so much a terrible idea on my wife’s part—she had the best of intentions, and only purchased something that was available for sale. It is more, I would say, a terrible idea on Crayola’s part. I don’t want to go overboard here, but Crayola Colored Bubbles is definitely the worst item on the market available for consumer purchase. This is how it went. I saw the bottle and said, “This looks like a terrible idea.” My wife was li...

Note: This column will appear in the 4/26 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/27 issue of the Peoria Times. Well, it happened. I yelled at kids to get off my lawn. Okay so, not my “lawn” exactly, as we do not have lawns in Arizona. What I literally said was, “Get off my property!” To a girl. Who is like, 6. A little background, in my own defense. I have detailed before the children who gallivant throughout our neighborhood unsupervised and unaccounted for by what society traditionally describes as “parents.” Among those are several young girls who are not as openly mischievous as their male counterparts—with whom, by the way, they have recently joined forces to the benefit of zero people—but who must be watched closely. I used to believe any trouble or inconvenience the girls may have caused was born of their own naïveté, but recent events have proven this assumption incorrect. They hang on people’s trees. They throw rocks. They toss garbage in the street. If your gate...

Reggie Miller, 1990 Skybox The thing that was awesome about Skybox basketball cards, besides nothing, was how they transported you to an alternate realty. If you stare at this card long enough, it’s like Reggie Miller is about to execute a reverse layup in space, within another galaxy, which is really what a basketball card is supposed to be all about. For the sake of ingenuity, let’s call this galaxy “The Silky Way,” named in honor of the silky way with which basketball player Reggie Miller glides to the space hoop while wearing a knee brace. Is that big yellow thing the sun? Maybe. What about the purple ring with the blue border? An abstract space defender? Possibly, and if so, good luck blocking that stylish layup, space defender! Ha, ha … idiot. Also, is that a comet basketball about to be deposited for two galactipoints? You betcha. So if the front of the card is fantasy, can the back of the card be realty, you ask? Sure. Keep in mind, however, that the realty we speak of is...

Note: This column appears in the 4/19 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/20 issue of the Peoria Times. Not long after I entered the real world, I had a revelation: Why do we work five days a week with only two off days? If we claim, as a society, to value most the transcendent things in life, why is considerably more time dedicated to capitalism? I thought I was really smart for thinking about this, as if no one before had ever considered it. Also, my motivation at the time was by no means “spending more time with family” or “taking aimless walks on the beach and contemplating the vastness of the ocean.” I really wanted another night to go out, and/or another day to recover. It was around this time I began dating my wife, and assimilating myself to Italian culture. Strengthening my resolve for the 4/3 week were the stories I began hearing about Italy, where businesses are literally closed in the afternoon so people can nap. Even regular business hours mostly involved peop...

Before we begin, I’d like to mention that I had to browse many different sites in order to find the lyrics that seemed to be most accurately recorded. The site I eventually chose begins thusly: Check out Bobby Brown My Prerogative lyrics - another terrific addition to the already magnificent Bobby Brown lyrics collection. My Prerogative lyrics are part of the Dance! Ya Know It! album that features an amazing beat and vocals. Obviously, we came to the right place. “My Prerogative” is originally part of Don’t Be Cruel , by the way, and Dance! Ya Know It! was the remix album. How do I know that, besides owning both albums and listening to them each like a million times? I don’t know. The point is, that album does have one singular amazing beat and also vocals. Let’s go … Everybody’s talking all this stuff about me Now why don’t they just let me live I don’t need permission Make my own decisions oh That’s my prerogative Is there anything more relatable to the average listener th...

Note: This column appears in the 4/12 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/13 issue of the Peoria Times. There has been some discussion in our household concerning how often our daughter gets injured on my watch. To be specific, my wife believes our daughter has gotten injured way too frequently on my watch, and that I am somehow responsible. I, on the other hand, while conceding I would certainly like to see her get injured less often when I am watching her—or, ideally, not at all—believe these occasions to be the random result of an active childhood. Ignoring previous instances of injury, let us say for the purposes of this column that it began two weeks ago. We were at our friend’s house and I was pushing our daughter on the swing outside. Mind you, because she is a thrill seeker, she was laying on the swing on her belly, like in a flying motion. I want to specify that my wife bore witness to this and did not pose verbal opposition. Unless she voices her disapproval, ...

Jack Clark, 1987 Topps Normally I like to make fun of my old cards. After all, that is what I get not paid to do. But today I am here to tell you: this is a pretty darn cool card. It’s got action, dashing good looks, eye black, suspense, dirt, an unbelievable head of hair … all the things I look for in a great baseball card. There’s also this: check out the peeps in foul territory. Media? Maybe. One guy’s got a tripod. Other dudes are just sort of hanging out, watching the game. How is that a thing that used to happen? I don’t think the guy in the white shirt has the reflexes to get out of the way of a hard-hit foul ball, but he doesn’t seem to care. Man … the 80s. Sit wherever you want! Here’s some cocaine. Enjoy the game. Try not to die. As for Clark himself, I enjoyed this tidbit from that source of all that is good and right, Wikipedia : But Clark hated the Giants' Candlestick Park, a notoriously bad park for power hitters because of the wind coming off of the San Fran...

Note: This column appears in the 4/5 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/6 issue of the Peoria Times. The City of Peoria recently renegotiated its lease with Arizona Broadway Theatre. ABT had requested a new lease because they are $150,000 in the hole, and could not afford to pay its $4,900 monthly rental payment. The City of Peoria was like, “Oh, that stinks about you being kinda broke. We’d be happy to create a new lease. How about … one dollar? Will that work for you?” And ABT was like, “Yeah, that should work.” (These are not direct quotes.) Upon hearing about the lease, the City of Glendale was like, “Pfft. We’ve been charging the Los Angeles Dodgers and Chicago White Sox—two of baseball’s biggest markets—one dollar annually to play at Camelback Ranch-Glendale since 2009. And we spent over $200 million to build that complex for them .” Granted, in lieu of a traditional lease, the Dodgers and White Sox are responsible for the maintenance and operational costs of the c...

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...