"Get Small!" "Go Green!" "Lose Billions of Taxpayer Dollars!"
Also spract Obamathustra.
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The Orlando Magic have now featured seven-year-old Gina Marie Incandela four times singing the National Anthem, and four times they’ve won.
Remarkable since Gina was born with autism and couldn’t even pronounce words. Her parents enrolled her in the University of Central Florida, where speech therapists used music to coach her into speaking. It worded magic (there’s that word again), and especially so after she heard Leanne Rimes sing "The Star Spangled Banner." She copied that recording, learned it by heart, and you can now hear the results in this video:
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A month into their self-proclaimed coronation as the greatest team since–oops, much greater than–the 1927 Yankees, reality once again caught up with the Los Angeles Dodgers.
When news flashed through our office yesterday morning that Manny Ramirez had tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs and been suspended 50 games, I shouted, "Now, we know how he did it all these years." His exposure as a phony leaves only one big man standing–Albert Pujols. Will his Emperor’s Clothes come off next?
Typical of the recently exposed, Manny was quick to issue an apology–for taking medication for a "private" medical issue that his doctor prescribed but which he (Manny) and presumably the doctor didn’t know violated Major League Baseball’s drug policy. Oh, yeah, and for $24 I’ll sell you Manhattan.
In a press conference, General Manager Ned Colletti praised Manny for taking "ownership," especially since it wasn’t his fault because he didn’t know what the prescription was!
Manager Joe Torre, whom I used to respect, spent way too much time babbling on and on about, well, you know, everyone is human and we all make mistakes.
Victor Conte, who used to steroidize Barry Bonds (who with Roger Clemens, of course, would never knowingly touch the stuff), quickly pointed out that the Mannian substance, HGC or human chorionic gonadotropin, is used to restore sperm count and bring one’s gonads back to life after abuse of steroids.
Now, we know the sad truth–Manny Ramirez had no balls!
Sadly, we also know that the Dodgers are full of crap from head to toe–from owner Frank McCourt to GM Colletti to Manager Torre.
Manny can’t play again until July 3, but the Dodger brass, instead of realizing what a sham their team and organization have become, will no doubt plaster the town with billboards and radio spots starting in June announcing, "Only two weeks till Manny returns!" "Only five days till Manny-mania fills the city!"
Barf, puke. Let’s hope they’re irrevocably in last place by then, and Manny can’t even reach the warning track when he’s off steroids. (Of course, HGH is available to all, and baseball looks the other way.)
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Two years ago, an average-looking (to be modest) Paul Potts strode to the stage of the show Britain’s Got Talent and before a silent, unbelieving audience stunned the world with a masterful rendition of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma. The former cell phone salesman now travels the globe giving concerts.
This past week another Potts-like performer strode to the stage, but instead of silence she was accorded open boos and cat calls based solely on her frumpy (some would say ugly) looks. the rendition of I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables instantly turned boos into applause and transformed 47-year-old Susan Boyle into an international celebrity. Reportedly, Simon Cowell himself is now working on a contract for her.
Watch it all here and share in her joy and accomplishment.
via videosift.com
Here’s her appearance on the Today show:
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Though the death of Nick Adenhart cast a pall over the entire baseball season, I figured the least I could do was show up as a loyal Angels supporter for the tribue they paid to the young pitcher this past Friday before the game. Herewith are some photos I snapped.
The makeshift fan memorial at the entrance to Angel Stadium:
Close-up of the fan memorial:
Video tribute before the start of the game:
A stadiumwide moment of silence with teams lining the diamond, followed by, "Let’s play ball."
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Ecstasy can quickly turn to grief even as you celebrate the rites of spring. On Monday, the beautiful weather and feelings of opening day anticipation at Angel Stadium had me all aglow with joy. I even opined about it here in my last post.
Then, gone, shattered, all feelings of innocence destroyed…maybe forever.
The third day of the season, a young pitcher struggling to make the Los Angeles Angels’ roster pitches like a bulldog for six straight innings, holding the hated opponent to zero runs. After the game, he tells everyone that he finally feels like he’s a major leaguer.
Then, early the next morning after celebrating with friends, that same pitcher is slain by a vehicle speeding through a red light, the driver drunk, driving with a suspended license from a previous DUI. Two of the pitcher’s friends die, a fourth clings for his life in a hospital.
His parents, at least one of whom–his father–attended the game, lose their only child. A cold ring from the phone awakens the family to the most horrible news in the world–a child has been taken before them.
Baseball is no longer the innocent sport of summer. Nick Adenhart is gone, and here just hours before he pitched, I was predicting "the bum" wouldn’t last two innings.
It’s so easy to have opinions in baseball. Opinions are hard to shatter when there’s no wake-up call, but once a loving, proud family is shattered through a terrible tragedy, baseball fades into the dark shadows of reality. The warm glow of opening day is now but a nightmarish eclipse.
Can we fans ever recover? Ever attend a game with youthful abandon, gorging ourselves on hot dogs and beer, and thinking, "At last, spring is here and we are renewed"
With time, probably. Time, they say, heals all wounds, but even when wounds heal, often there are scars.
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It’s hard to be patriotic when the man in the White House more closely resembles Hugo Chavez than he does Abraham Lincoln, whom he arrogantly claims to resurrect, but the Los Angeles Angels tried. God bless them for still believing in mom, apple pie and Americana.
The return of baseball, especially on a mid-70s, beautiful day like it was in Southern California yesterday, always brings back a revival of my spirits.
Football (betting on it anyway) may be more popular, but there’s a reason baseball is and always will be the National Pastime. And it’s best when it’s played on grass in daylight, which is what made yesterday so special.
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Tata of India gets props for winning the JD Power award for quality in its Jaguar line, which it just recently purchased from Ford, but I have my questions about the Nano (pictured), a super-compact that Tata is bringing to the Indian market in July.
The first 1,000 buyers will get theirs for 100,000 rupees, or less than $2,000. After that, the price skyrockets to $2,200 or so. Now, and here’s the clincher, if you want air conditioning to help you survive the heat and humidity of Mumbai, or anywhere else in India for that matter, the price soars to $3,300. Still, there’s sweetheart financing available for the Nano–just $60 down and then monthly payments. I wonder how big the payments are and how long are the contracts.
Tata’s stock closed down after the preview of the Nano to the media and others. Oh, well.
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I can’t recall if I’ve broached the topic of our current economic difficulties on this blog or another one of mine, but let me recap: I’m calling this the Immaculate Recession because it’s (I have my fingers crossed!) forcing us to jettison the Industrial Revolution and move into the Information Age. Leave manufacturing to emerging countries, and let us rule the waves where we are clearly superior–in all things digital and cyber.
Think of that. In 20 years, most people in the United States will never have to commute to work except via the Information Superhighway (thank you, Al Gore–at least cyberspace is real unlike your current obsession). We’ll telecommute. The Industrial Revolution brought us factories and jobs away from home for the first time in human history, and the modern office is nothing but a carbon copy of a factory but without the loud noises, noisy machinery and bellowing smoke (instead, you have to listen to a bunch of blowhard, no-nothings bellow).
Here’s a nice little example of a woman in Thailand–Pilaporn Jaksurat, 33–who got laid off from her textile factory job because of the global recession. She made $7 a day toiling in probably some stinky little hole. Knowing that she had no future in textile, Pilaporn set up a street stand where she peddles shots of medicinal wine. She now earns $10 a day. Good for you, Pilaporn. We need more success stories like yours.
(For those of you interested, I found Pilaporn’s story in today Wall Street Journal in an article called "The Rise of the Underground" (you may need to be a subscriber to access the article)).
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Sad to learn but the company that owns both Santa Anita Race Track and Golden Gate Fields, my two favorite race tracks in the entire world, has filed for bankruptcy, proving that the sleaze of Wall Street has spread to the azure pastures of the king of sports. Magna Entertainment, the bankrupt company, said it will immediately sell Golden Gate and Pimlico in Baltimore, the latter certainly a stellar name in horse racing. Buyers evidently also exist for Santa Anita, which cannot ever go out of business. It’s one of the most magical and majestic destinations in the United States.
Now here’s the sleazeball, Wall Street parallel: Santa Anita had $11 million in its bank account and Golden Gate $4 million the day before the bankruptcy filing, but a newspaper report said the funds "were significally depleted on Wednesday." The rats who left the sinking ship also took its cargo of gold with them. The question is, was it really sinking or just a convenient time to abscound with the lucre?
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