Won’t you be my neighbor?

Note: This column appears in the 7/1 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/2 issue of the Peoria Times

There was a guy who used to live next door to us. He never wore a shirt -– I literally saw him with a shirt on only once or twice –- and he always had a beer in his hand. Now, this would have been a hilariously endearing scenario were this a sitcom and not real life. Also, he stored his cement mixer (!) on our side of the front yard. Then one day he was gone. We later found out he had been arrested.

Before him, a family lived there. I never could quite figure out their infrastructure. The wife lived with her brother-in-law, and some cousins or something, and there were random children in and out. But everyone over the age of 12 smoked a pack a day, which they did in their backyard, and which delightfully wafted into our living room each evening.

Most recently a different family lived there. They avoided human contact at all cost, and would close their garage door before we could so much as wave to them. We saw them so infrequently that it took us the past two months to realize that they do not live there anymore. The other day my wife mentioned –- in all seriousness -– that we should be alert to any smells emanating from the house in case they are still inside.

On the other side of us lived a man and his father. They similarly avoided us, the son especially. I would say “Hi” and he would turn away. So that was fun. They left, too.

Now, nobody lives on either side of us. We are neighbor-less –- on an island in Arizona. Considering the previous occupants of those houses, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But it’s not good, either. We live in between two vacant houses that do not get pest treatment. Or landscaping. Also, birds have moved in. Now whenever I take the recycling out, at least a dozen birds flutter out of an outdoor vent and I am forced to shield myself with cardboard and run for cover.

The economic circumstances that have created a high turnover of shirtless renters and those with no pride in ownership are beyond my control. I remain confident things will turn around in time. More disconcerting to me however, is the lack of community.

Forgive me if I am speaking only for my small block in northwest Peoria, but I get a sense that this persists throughout the Valley at large. Where I’m from neighbors had block parties, and pool parties, and you could go knock on their door when your mom ran out of eggs, and you all met in the street to talk on warm summer nights while the kids ran around. Here? Everyone seems to keep to themselves. Nobody comes out. Few even wave back. The only thing of note that has happened in our neighborhood in the past year is when we were attacked by dogs.

It’s sad that nobody lives on either side of us. It’s sadder that those who remain in the neighborhood remain inside. Maybe a recovering economy will result in more families moving in and searching for the same sense of community that we seek. But for now, it’s cold in this heat.


Because my yard's not big enough for a cement mixer, THAT'S WHY!

Gaining party experience for my family’s benefit

Note: This column appears in the 1/14 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/15 issue of the Peoria Times

I have been on the 1st birthday party circuit for the past month.

This is mostly all new to me. Sure, I have been to 1st birthday parties before. Most of them, I imagine, when I was one. But I do recall attending my niece’s 1st birthday party a couple of years ago. I even, rather appropriately, brought a couple of my ol’ college buddies, partly because they were staying at our house at the time and I had no other choice, and partly because they really know how to party.

Nevertheless, things are different now that we’re kind of, unofficially, parents. Whereas before at non-family 1st birthday parties we were shunned as “childless acquaintances,” we are now members of an exclusive club, with a laundry list of privileges, not the least of which is acceptance. And cake.

Case in point: While in California over the holidays visiting our friends, we tagged along to a 1st birthday party that we weren’t even invited to. Normally, this would be frowned upon by a society that is largely unwilling to dole out goodie bags to strangers. But it was cool, because we had our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter with us. We belonged. We didn’t even bring a gift and I’m pretty sure I was first on the buffet line.

I am also beginning to understand 1st birthday party etiquette, my buffet line escapades notwithstanding. And this is good, because I had many questions going in, namely: Is it okay to ask for beer? Also: What am I supposed to do there? I have come to understand that it is okay –- encouraged even –- to accept beer if it is offered. (As a side note, at the party in California, I was offered hard liquor. I declined, as that would be a faux pas.) And your main responsibility while you are there is to smile and make sure your own child doesn’t get hurt. This is easy when you’re boasting a largely immobile four-month old. Less so when you have an almost two-year old and the birthday features a giant party bouncer, as my friend Rashad can attest.

This experience gave me confidence going into yet another 1st birthday party last weekend, which was for the daughter of our good friends around the block. Like a true professional –- and because I know my wife can hold her own at such an event -– I made sure to carry in our hopefully-soon-be-daughter myself, as I knew this would be an instant ice-breaker and conversation-starter. After I was offered a beer, I located the other men at the party and talked about baseball. Then I sang “Happy Birthday.” Acapella. I even talked to some of the other kids there, which is not required, but I was feeling it.

I have also been taking notes, because God-willing we will be able to plan a 1st birthday party of our own sometime down the line. So far I have: 1) don’t invite ol’ college buddies and 2) no peanuts. We also need a theme. Which is why I hope she likes baseball.


Goodie...box? Pfftt.

Professor graybeard, old age on line one

Note: This column appears in the 8/20 issue of The Glendale Star and the 8/21 issue of the Peoria Times

Ever since I could grow it, I have had facial hair. In one form or another.

As a young teenager it was the wispy mustache and patchy beard. Later on it was the goatee. In college I rocked the thin-beard plus goatee combination, which I only now realize made me look like a rejected member of the Backstreet Boys. Besides appearing dangerously older to members of the opposite sex, another important attribute of this early facial hair was my increased ability to buy beer.

To this day I sport the facial hair. Currently I am enjoying the beard that is not fully a beard, but more like a “third day on ‘Survivor’” beard. This look was popularized by Don Johnson and Bruce Willis in the 80s, so obviously I am up to date fashion-wise. The irony of it all is that this look is supposed to say, “Hey, I don’t care…shave, don’t shave, whatever, man,” but I actually have to trim it to keep it that way which requires effort and is evidence that I do, in fact, care what I look like.

Which makes it all the more traumatic that I recently discovered some gray hairs mixed in near the chin area.

To be honest, I am not exactly certain that they are, indeed, gray stragglers. My facial hair has a way of, when reflecting in a certain light, looking bleach blonde. This is what I have been telling myself. My wife is convinced they are grays and has not let me forget it.

Scared off by a potential disaster in which I am mistaken for a college professor or an elderly member of the Backstreet Boys, I have, on several occasions over the past few months, shaved completely. They were very uncomfortable days in which I felt facially naked and oddly adolescent. On one occasion I was actually carded while buying beer, which was kinda cool considering I’m over 30, but not really. Without facial hair I am just another white guy walking down the street.

I partly believed that if I shaved completely, my facial hair would grow back normal and grayless, as if the gray was an aberration or a temporary genetic hiccup. As I have restarted my half-beard from scratch, I now realize this is not the case.

Now I am torn. What do I do? For me personally, my facial hair has been a strong indicator –- maybe the only indicator –- of my masculinity. I don’t know anything about cars, I can’t fix or build anything, and I hate AC/DC. My facial hair is my only defense mechanism, the only thing that says, “Hey, you might not want to mess with this guy. He doesn’t care about shaving, so who knows what he’s capable of.”

Yet I am certainly not ready for grayville and a life of buying Just For Men beard formula at Walgreens. I’m only 31, for crying out loud! My wife tried to comfort me the other day by informing me that George Clooney has a graying beard. This was unconvincing, as the rest of George Clooney’s features look like George Clooney, and also George Clooney is 48.

I also do not think it is a coincidence that I noticed this a month into our latest foster placement. I have aged seven years in the past four months. That is why I am buying so much beer.


Inside he is crying. Trust me.

Classic card of the week

Mark the Beer Guy, 2008

Okay, so here's the story: I'm at a celebrity baseball game yesterday in Scottsdale, and I go to get a beer. (Weird, I know, but stay with me here.) The line was too long to wait at the concession stand, so I left, but on my way back to my seat I run into Mark the Beer Guy, who I didn't know at the time was running for beer-related office. After pouring me an ice cold brewskie, he says, "And here, take my card." I'm thinking to myself, "Geez, beer guys have business cards? Freakin' Scottsdale," until I actually looked at the card, and saw this.

Now, I don't know what the chances are that a random guy who blogs about silly sports cards would run into a beer guy who hands out a silly sports card of himself, but there must have been some divine intervention going on here. You should also know that the card was in the plastic protective sleeve inside the hard plastic cover, as if he were handing Mickey Mantle rookie cards. Just amazing.

Intrigued by the electoral theme, I had a hunch this wasn't the first Mark the Beer Guy sports card. So I went over to his website and discovered that, yep -- Mark the Beer Guy has cards of himself related to various point of the calendar year, most notably St. Patrick's Day. I can say without hyperbole that running into Mark the Beer Guy is one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me.

As for this particular card, it's hard to pick out my favorite aspect of it, but this certainly doesn't hurt:

And remember when Mark is near to make a toast and cheer; because he'll never give you a bum steer.

You just can't find poetry like that these days. And in case you are wondering, yes, I am obviously voting for Mark the Beer Guy in 2008. Anyone whose platform includes a foreign affairs policy of "Drink imported beer" will always have my vote. That should go without saying.