My Daughter, Aroku Saki

Thank God for the Internet.

Because of the Internet, homes have fewer and fewer periodicals delivered to their door. The only time I’ve ever been part of a newspaper subscription service was when we used to get the Washington Post in the apartment sophomore year, and that was only because we liked crosswords and needed kindling for the grill. And as for magazines, it’s been over a decade since I got SI for Kids, A Boy’s Life, and Nintendo Power.

Those rags were AWESOME.

Sports Illustrated for Kids was the adolescent installment of the athletic flagship, but with 100% less Peter King. Features included tear-out playing cards that you can trade with your friends, who of course got the same exact magazine and had the same exact collection. But perhaps he’s a huge Oksana Baiul fan and can’t get enough of him. Of course, there was also the famed pull-out poster that was used to decorate my childhood room. Behind my door I hung the glossy visages of Shawn Kemp, Jaromir Jagr, and Michael Chang.

Those three would have made an excellent sitcom.

A Boy’s Life was a magazine for Boy Scouts, by Boy Scouts, and rumored to be made of Boy Scouts. You could follow the adventures of other scouts doing awesome things like white-water rafting, rock climbing, and international espionage, while you take a break from building yet another poorly conceived birdhouse. The highlight of ABL? The page in the back with all the jokes. Those were hilarious. That is, until I realized how much puns made by head bleed sadness.

Nintendo Power was a great read back when you could still name all the games Nintendo had in one breath. It would have tips and codes as to how to actually beat Maniac Mansion, and previews of future games sure to appear on your next Wish List for Santa. “There’s no way they can make a Super Mario Brothers 3! The first 2 are so awesome! How will they top them – what’s this? A 47 page spread? A Giant Kingdom? Flying Hammer Brothers on the move? Dear God! I must rent The Wizard for further research!”

But those subscriptions have long expired, and the little reminder cards you get in the mail have stopped coming. It’s probably for the best I suppose.

Clara Condon HATES magazines.

At least this is the impression I’ve gotten over the last few months. Even though my Childhood Reading is long gone, that doesn’t mean my mailbox isn’t a haven for catalogs from various furniture and fashion chains. Part of my nightly routine is to scoop up the little mag-wrecker and head downstairs and get the mail. For catalogs we have zero use for (Wine Enthusiast? Really?) they get pitched immediately. But for the ones that Katie may want to peruse, they get brought up to the fourth floor.

And promptly shredded.

That’s right – any magazine in reach of our daughter becomes ribbon fodder once she gets a hold of it. We’re not quite sure why it’s so much fun to rip sensibly priced furniture out of a greater marketing record, but she loves it. Conventional wisdom would say that magazines are well-constructed, and should be able to withstand the feeble attempts of a mere baby to part paper in half.

Conventional wisdom just got its butt handed to it by a nine-month old.

So as this holiday season approaches and the Condon household could use some extra scratch to buy presents, we’d like to offer the services of Clara, who for a small fee will gladly take your old copies of Redbook and produce some delightful packing material for all your shipping needs.

Operators are standing by (and likely have the phone in their mouth.)