So, Do You Like ... Stuff?

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 co...

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...

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, ...

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 togethe...

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, ...

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 N...

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 ...

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 divisi...

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...

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...