Edgy MD

My guess is that the interpreter will be his attorney and he won't be taking any questions.

It sure would. But it even if true, it wouldn't take much for the interpreter to come around to the position that it's more in his interest to take the bullet for his guy with the faith that his guy will take care of him and his down the road. A perhaps-not-very-kind part of me wants this to explode into a disaster just to get MLB and organized gambling out of the same bed.

While the two scenarios Braden mapped out are pretty much the main two I would suspect, his questions at the end seem a little obtuse. Also, holy crap! I'm getting my analysis from Dallas Braden! Does Placido Polanco have a hot take?

Story gets front-page Times treatment.

Wow. in 2024, I'd've figured there was little reason for people to do their gambling through an illegal bookmaker, but I guess the idea is to make your activity less traceable when the money you're gambling isn't yours. Sounds like it's still an open question as to whether Ohtani is in the clear.

Perhaps the goofiest part is that Keith wore a number on the front of his uniform as a Cardinal too. AND as an Indian. I guess there's some version of a uniform he wore without a number on the front, but it was more or less a constant throughout his MLB career.

Gosh, Keith needs neurological workup, STAT. As for this spring, the number-on-front is certainly less prominent, wrapped around the left side of the ribcage.

Probably second only to Heaven Help Us in the Mary Stuart Masterson oeuvre (although Gardens of Stone has its partisans). Cast went together to the premier of Pretty in Pink and were so surprised by how similar the love-triangle/wrong-side-of-the-tracks plot elements were that they spent the rest of the shoot singing "♪♬Aren't we ... Pretty in Pink!♪♬" Although Pretty in Pink has the more iconic soundtrack, this film's selections are far more interesting and thoughtfully curated with more of a B- or C-team of dramatic alternative pop acts. (No version of the song that gives the film its title appears in the film or credits roll!) About 83% of the comedy comes from Elias Koteas' supporting role, and it kinda shoulda been a breakthrough performance for him a la Jack Black in High Fidelity or Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids, but that just didn't work out, and that's all very sad.

Newsday and Gary Binford sure seem to think the whole incident was on Felix.

Ed Ott: Frequently referred to by Bob Murphy as owning the shortest name in baseball history. I've never been able to find video of the fight, but I feel like I have it recorded pretty accurately in my head. It also opened the door for Joel Youngblood and Bobby Valentine at second base. Neither stuck there, but it kind of provided the germ for two pretty definitive Mets careers to get going. They eventually replaced him by moving Doug Flynn over there, so that's sort of three chapters in the Mets story opening up as one was cut short.

Yeah, I know, you're probably thinking, "Those are some interesting freaks haunting Sandy Koufax's motel, but it's not like any of them are Mick Ronson or someone like that!" Well, one of them is. [FIMG=500]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2f/6f/ba/2f6fbade054060ad5f9039d7292031d2.jpg[/FIMG]

It's almost always good money to bet on any band that includes a guy named "Nigel."

Today's guests of honor at the Tropicana Motel are The Alarm — big haired Welsh post-punkers who struggled to get past derivative directions, but had their moment. Maybe a moment and a half. Pictured here in the Johansen Spot by the kidney-shaped pool are (l. to r.) Nigel Twist, Eddie McDonald, Mike Peters, and Dave Sharp [fimg=650]https://media.gettyimages.com/id/84258508/photo/the-alarm-rock-group-portrait-session.jpg?s=2048x2048&w=gi&k=20&c=EL7O_WSGiexuBhNKtWXkk7mv2J2oEJKR3XbWB3xFPlU=[/fimg]

Sandy seems to have drained the pool, creating a summat disappointing visit for fellow New Yorkers Chris Stein, Jimmy Destri, Debby Harry, Gary Valentine (with a dodgy hairstyle), and Clem Burke. I think those must be Gary's sunglasses that Debby is sitting on.

The wrist cast can probably help us date the photo. Here's Joan at The Tropicana, with special guest John Wayne! [FIMG=700]https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/databasela-d8afb.appspot.com/o/uploads%2Fbrad%2Fimages%2F210413%2F_1600_DBLA-u1p2x1.jpg?alt=media[/FIMG]

In his day, DeLeon had the best stuff of anybody not named "Gooden." He rarely put it all together for an extended stretch, but he did win a strikeout title. He also asked the Pirates to keep sending him out there when he was in danger of losing 20, but they stuck him in the bullpen the last two weeks of the season. He managed to lose 19 a second time with the Cardinals in 1990, this time staying in the rotation and losing his last seven starts in a row.

I don't want to brag, but I'm on a nice little winning streak over at Tubi, and those creeps at Netflix can go cry, but their tears don't move me. This movie was a good young-man-who-can't-get-his-****-together film, with a lot in common with High Fidelity. It's maybe accidental, but kind of appropriate that the film seemingly borrows its title from a Doors song, because the protagonist (despite being an ethnically Greek German guy) kind of looks like Jim Morrison — albeit Jim Morrison in that awkward in-between period, after the weight started sticking to him, but before an early death released him from the indignities of the world and any need to live like a responsible adult. Our man isn't into Doors music, however, but funky seventies soul, and there's a great delight in a groovy soundtrack being cued up as we see him explode at everyone around him as his life falls apart, and then seize up in pain because his explosions trigger the pain from a back injury which of course he brought on himself. (Comedy!) But like High Fidelity's Rob, he treats the misfits around him as a weight around his neck, which they certainly are, but they're also the only ones left standing by him. Lots of raunch, but a solid small-businessman arc that'll bring out the dormant entrepreneurial spirit within you.

The Trop had other company. [fimg=275]https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/60073a18f931384d59d33a93/7fe7350d-5727-408c-88d0-592a70c4e18a/Romones+at+Tro%5B.png[/fimg] Young Joan Jett actually lived there with her family when she was a kid. If LA has a Chelsea Hotel, this is probably it.

That spot behind Sandy where those three folks are looking up from an outcropping of lounge chairs? That was also a favorite spot of The New York Dolls.

Rickie Lee Jones had a terrific following as a performer and song interpreter in the Laurel Canyon scene, but was having trouble coming up with original material to take her act further afield. She had the same manager as Tom Waits, and he encouraged her to hang out with Tom and work on some songs together at The Tropicana. Jones hit it off with Waits and fellow songwriter Chuck E. Weiss, and the three of them ended up rooming together at the motel, splitting the rent while working on their music and acts and supporting each other's efforts. Things were going great, but also — being young musicians in Los Angeles — kind of hazy and grubby, and one day, Jones and Waits realized that Weiss hadn't been home in a couple of days. They started worrying and calling around and asking after him before he finally called to check in with his friends at The Trop. Waits took the call, with Rickie Lee listening on with concern as Tom simply responded "Uh-huh ... uh-huh ..." at Weiss’ explanation that he met a woman and quickly started a torrid relationship that took them on a whirlwind romance for the last few days and he lost track of time, and he was now calling in from, um, Denver, of all places. Tom hung up, shrugged at Rickie Lee, and simply explained, "Chuck E.'s in love," and Rickie quickly had her breakthrough single.

A funk-loving, hotheaded Greco-German operating a greasy spoon in Hamburg runs afoul of tax inspectors, unscrupulous land speculators, a parolee brother , his girlfriend's abandonment, and a slipped disc, as his psychopathic new chef tries to put a haute cuisine spin on his lowbrow soul food fare. Do hijinks ensue? Ja, they do! (And they're currently streaming for free on Tubi.)

Indeed there was, but that message could have disqualified a lot of people on the same terms. (At least two performers walked out for less-than-impressive reasons.) I certainly don't think she was necessary to make anything artistically superior. I'm just trying to underscore the stranglehold The Ken Kragen Agency had on the guestlist. I would have pegged the Diana Ross as the biggest diva in the room, but by the (seemingly credible) accounts of the documentary, she comes off as quite the opposite. And she and Kenny Rogers were the only ones to wear that totally unflattering sweatshirt the whole night. I'd like to see a killer documentary about the American Music Awards ceremony earlier that same night. If that was truly "the greatest night in pop," that broadcast is half the reason why.

Ackyroyd — like Lionel Richie, Kenny Rogers, Kim Carnes, and Bette Midler — had the inside track by being on Ken Kragen's roster. Probably one or two others also. I mean, somewhere, at some time, this conversation happened. 　　"Great news! It looks like Madonna is available." 　　　　"We don't need Madonna." 　　"But ... she's Madonna." 　　　　"We got Cyndi Lauper. We're fine without Madonna." 　　"But you're telling me Elwood Blues is a must-have?"

We've been singing alternative lyrics for a week. There comes a time When you need to write a song And Stevie Wonder ... ... he won't pick up the phone ...

Yeah, but there's a lot of good footage of the session from the youtube. Where this comes up short is that, like a lot of music docs, it's totally authorized, so the documentarian isn't free to follow where the story leads, and a lot of interesting paths get cut off. Kenny Loggins repeats something kind of nasty that Paul Simon said about an artist that wasn't invited. A good documentarian would instantly get feedback from said artist or their representatives, but not here. And nobody is free to say the obvious, that it's not a particularly good song, and because of time constraints, Quincy Jones wasn't able to break up the arrangement into any harmonies. When Stevie adds to the vocal arrangement, he's definitively onto something, but they really don't have time to change things with everybody in the room waiting for their five seconds, so that gets scrapped.