Please truck, come home for Christmas

Note: This column appears in the 12/10 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/11 issue of the Peoria Times

When I lived back east I drove a pick-up truck and appeared, on the surface –- with my facial hair and, ya’ know, pick-up truck -– like a man who knew a thing or two about motor vehicles. But that was a front that was easily exposed when anyone asked me how many cylinders the truck had, to which I would reply: “many.”

So when I moved here to Arizona I wanted something simple and cheap and fuel-efficient that would get me to work and occasionally to Old Navy. I settled on a Subaru Impreza, and so for the last few years, on the road, I have appeared as what I truly am: a vegetarian man who drives a small car and listens to soft British rock. The good news? Nobody asks me about cylinders anymore.

(It should also be mentioned that the irony of me being the only person in Arizona that doesn't drive a truck is not lost on me.)

Things were moving along fine until I recently noticed what appeared to be some paint splattered on the passenger side of the car. I took the car to get washed but the paint remained. So I took it to the detail shop of the car wash and had them look at it. They could not get it off. Also, it wasn’t paint. It was stucco.

Now my car has the same exterior finish as my house. I do not know how this happened, but I imagine that it occurred while I was driving through one of the 26 construction zones I pass through on a daily basis. Believe me that if I owned this car there’d be a better chance of me stuccoing the rest of it than getting what’s on there removed. Because I don’t care. But the car is leased.

Which leads me to another issue. When I leased the car I managed a 12,000 miles-per-year agreement. They had originally offered me 10,000 miles annually, and so I walked out of there feeling like a true negotiating genius. Little did I know at the time that my job was 80 miles from my house. So now with one year remaining, I will be over the mileage like, tomorrow.

Then the other day I got a letter that began as such: We would like to thank you for selecting a 2005-2008 Subaru Forester or 2005-2007 Impreza with a 2.5 Liter engine (non-Turbo). So sincere! But it turns out my engine is not turbo, which was disappointing, though not shocking.

The letter goes on to explain that I need to take my car in for service immediately because the one-way fuel valve in my vehicle’s fuel tank is faulty and may damage my catalytic converter. Also, Merry Christmas.

So now I am driving a small car that is caked in stucco and that is already over the allotted mileage and that has a catalytic converter (?) that could spontaneously combust at any moment.

I realize only now that I took my truck for granted. Sure, I had to fill it with gas every six hours and it was so out of alignment that when I took my hands off the wheel I did donuts. But I miss being perceived as a man. I mean, if I had a truck with a ton of miles on it that was splattered with foreign substances, John Mellencamp would be signing about me. And trucks don’t even have catalytic converters.

See? If I drove a truck you would have believed that. Sigh.

‘How Does It Feel?’ Dylan & Co. respond: ‘Too hot’

Note: This column appears in the 8/13 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/14 issue of the Peoria Times

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you are Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, and the artist formerly known as John Cougar Mellencamp. You are a combined 712 years old, but you are still jamming.

You want to bring your brand of folksy-country-Americana music to the Valley, but you are not sure when, or where. So you consult your concert promoter, Jam Productions, who are, coincidentally, the same promotions company aligned with the Chicago White Sox. In turn, you agree to be the first musical act at Camelback Ranch, an outdoor venue and the spring training home of the White Sox and Dodgers.

The date you choose is August 11th. At 5:30 pm. What could go wrong?

If you are indeed, and not hypothetically, Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, and John Mellencamp, or one of the thousands of fans who bought tickets to see the show, what went wrong was that the show was canceled. Due to the heat.

Considering that word of the cancellation came just days before the show was scheduled, it seemed as though Jam Productions and virtually everyone involved was surprised that temperatures were expected to, according to the press release, “soar to 110 degrees” on Tuesday. For anyone familiar with Valley weather, 110 degrees is pretty much autumn, or, at the very least, standard as it pertains to mid-August.

Nevertheless, outdoor concerts do indeed take place here in the summertime. However, they typically start after sundown, and not when the sun is at its absolute peak of hotness. It’s uncertain if the Jonas Brothers could survive a 5:30 pm start in mid-August in Glendale, much less three men most famous for a collective diet of whiskey, marijuana, and now Ensure.

Every fan that purchased tickets will be refunded, and an additional show scheduled for the following day in Las Vegas –- "What? It’s hot there, too?!" said Jam Productions -– was also canceled. According to Jam Productions, the impending heat was a risk “too great for all involved.” But the obvious question remains: Then why the heck did you schedule the show for 5:30 pm in mid-August? This is, of course, reminiscent of the time Jam Productions scheduled a December 25th Hootie & the Blowfish show in the North Pole, but had to cancel two days beforehand, claiming: “We had no idea it was Jesus’ birthday.”

For an event that was supposed to bring money, fans, and attention to one of the city’s newest facilities, this is just another black eye for the city of Glendale. To add insult to injury, I imagine Dylan will perform nightly at the new Tohono O’oodham casino in 2011, after singing the national anthem at the first Ontario Coyotes game.

When asked to comment on the cancellation, Bob Dylan muttered something incoherent, Willie Nelson fell asleep mid-sentence, and John Mellencamp just kept repeatedly singing, “”This is oooouuuurrrr country…”

Man, that show would have been awesome. I am sweating just thinking about it.

Classic card of the week

Dikembe Mutombo, 1992-93 Fleer

I’m sorry -- I know this sounds dorky, but aesthetically, this has to be one of the ugliest series of cards ever made. And within that ugly series, this card may very well be the ugliest of them all. And that is saying a lot.

Imagine that you have absolutely no background in basketball whatsoever. Somebody hands you this card. What would you make of it? Would you enjoy looking at the multitude of flailing arms and assortment of atrocious colors? Would you know what the letters -- written vertically, so as to cause additional confusion for the uninformed -- signified? And if you were somehow able to distinguish that the letters formed the name of the moderately popular Congolese-American professional basketball player Dikembe Mutombo, would you be able to figure out which player featured on the front of this card was him? And let’s say, for arguments sake, that upon further detailed inspection you were able to determine which player was Dikembe Mutombo. Would you then be able to understand why he was wearing a rainbow-themed uniform? Then, after all of this exhaustive research that has caused you to drop out of college and has created a major rift in your most treasured relationships, would you then be able to explain why, in a series of cards that classifies itself as a “Slam Dunk” series, you are left holding a picture of Dikembe Mutombo blocking somebody’s shot?

These are rhetorical questions, of course. Let’s find out the facts:



It only took a year for Dikembe to establish himself as one of the NBA’s most intimidating centers.

Dikembe Mutombo is 7’2” with the wingspan of a football field. He talks like Cookie Monster and he played collegiately for one of the most popular basketball schools in the NCAA. He has 17 elbows. It took him three-and-half seconds to establish himself as one of the NBA’s most intimidating centers.

(By the way, it is not known whether or not, after blocking this feeble Derrick Coleman dunk attempt, Mutombo executed his famous finger wag, in which he awkwardly wags his 3-foot long finger in the direction of the player whose shot he just blocked, as if to say, in a Cookie Monster-type voice, “No thank you, sir! I will not be enjoying your dunk today,” while the other nine players run down the court and continue to play basketball.)

There’s even a song about his shot-block exploits, a reggae tune called, “The Dikembe Block.”

Add this to the list of things I did not know before today. This reminds of the Calhoun Tubbs character from In Living Color: ”Wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it go!” Also, I couldn’t resist an attempt to look up additional info on this reggae jam, and while I couldn’t come up with the song in full, I was able to locate this little tidbit:

Hey mom,

I’m assuming they mean “mon.” Unless they are actually singing a song about Dikembe Mutombo’s blocking exploits to their mother, which would be weird.

Have you heard da word?

No! What is da word?

No more flyin like a Bird. No more Mail Delivery. He don’t come into da key.

An obvious swipe at Larry Bird and Karl Malone. Bird himself would return fire -- via John Cougar Mellencamp –- on the dis track entitled “This Is Ouuuuuur Country,” which appeared as a bonus track on Mellencamp’s 36th album. Sample lyric:

A little diddy, ‘bout Dikemebe Mutombo
Ain’t from ‘round here, but he'll foul ya' hard if you go down low
Trying to be a basketball star
But he can put that finger wag back in his cookie jar
Cause a little Birdy, just pooped on his head
This is ouuuuuur country

Did you know?
Upon reading this post, Dikembe Mutombo reveled in the irony that he can speak nine different languages and I have yet to master English. He then finger-wagged in the direction of his computer monitor.

Classic card of the week

Carl Pickens, 1992 AW Sports

Few players loved America as much as Carl Pickens, who refused to be a part of this Carl Pickens card unless America was adequately acknowledged. And while it may be difficult to notice unless you look closely at this card, the American flag is, in fact, waving above Carl Pickens’ head. It is widely assumed that, going through Carl Pickens’ mind at this very moment as he waits to field a punt, are the emotional words of the National Anthem, which go, “And I’m proud to be an Americaaaan, where at least I know I’m freeeee…” That, I’m being told, is actually not the National Anthem. But it should be.

Besides loving America, Carl Pickens also played for the Cincinnati Bengals in the early 90’s, who were quarterbacked by Boomer Esiason, who also loved America, but not nearly as much as Carl Pickens, as evidenced by his mostly flagless cards. (Said Pickens, “You look great, Boomer, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t tell what country you’re playing in.”) Taking their cue from their forefather Pickens, the 2006 Cincinnati Bengals displayed even more love for our great nation, one-by-one actively traveling through America’s swift legal system in search of justice. Because Pickens considered himself a “star” on a team that wore “stripes,” he inevitably began to feel as much loyalty to his team as to his nation. According to his Wikipedia page:

He is also known for the "Carl Pickens Clause". This was a loyalty clause that the Bengals created and added to Pickens' contract which would cause him to forfeit all or some of his signing bonus if he insulted the organization in public. This clause has since been used in contracts with other players.

In stark contrast to the “Carl Pickens Clause” is the “Clause That Every Other Player Besides Carl Pickens” currently uses, which encourages said player to publicly trash/embarrass the organization, force a trade or flee for free agency, and then enact some sort of nonsensical “revenge” against that organization by scoring a touchdown or something. Pickens himself has likened this strategy to Benedict Arnold, which is a statement Terrell Owens did not take offense to, as he thought Benedict Arnold was the kid from “The Wonder Years.”

Did you know?
On the back of his pick-up truck, Carl Pickens displays an image of a pilgrim riding a bald eagle over Mount Rushmore.