[Pictured, Mark McGwire reporting to Cardinal Spring Training.]
A second tell-all is on the horizon regarding Mark McGwire’s steroid use, and it begs the questions, a) how much more do we want to know (even about Cardinal steroid use), and b) just how much of a spite generating, grudge-inducing bastard is Mark McGwire to inspire two books on his steroid career? I mean, this is the “aw garsh” bawling bash brother who burst into tears in front of media while accepting his massive Cardinal contract (while doping). Apparently, Canseco, and MM’s own biological bashing brother, have no problem laying him out cold. What’s up? Not surprisingly, Jay McGwire is on his big brother’s You’re Dead To Me list. As the AP reports, the feud apparently started over Mark McGwire giving Jay’s son a swat on the butt. Of course, what’s left out is that given McGwire’s strength at the time, the kid flew an impressive 600 feet:
Jay McGwire says in the book that he persuaded his brother to start using steroids regularly in 1994 and set him up with a supplier. He says Mark regularly used an array of drugs through 1996 that included Deca-Durabolin, human growth hormone, Dianabol, Winstrol and Primobolan. McGwire later used androstenedione, a steroid precursor that wasn’t banned by baseball until 2004, when it became a controlled substance.
“I’ve already come out and said what I’ve done and apologized,” Mark said. “As far as I’m concerned there’s really nothing new. It’s kind of sad as a brother what he’s done, but I’ve moved on from it.”
Jay McGwire, a former bodybuilder who turns 40 on May 5, said he was introduced to steroids by friends in 1989, beginning with pills of Anavar. He says his brother only gave in to using steroids after an injury-filled 1993 season.
McGwire hit 70 homers for the Cardinals in 1998, shattering Roger Maris’ record of 61 set in 1961.
The brothers haven’t spoken since 2002. They fell out after Jay McGwire’s stepson, Eric, tickled Mark and caused Mark to spill coffee on himself. Mark then swatted Eric on the backside. Jay’s wife, Francine, then refused to attend Mark’s wedding.
Newly acquired utility dude Eric Hinske ascribes “no special significance” to the above design, writes the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s Jeff Schultz of the newly 45 hours of tattoo work that cost the former Blue Jay nearly $5K. To paraphrase Mike Piazza’ diss of Pedro Martinez, all that money and you just can’t buy class.
œIt™s just traditional Japanese styling tattoo, he said. œI got a tattoo of a cross on my left arm when my grandfather died and I liked it so then I got one of a dragon on my other arm. I just liked the way it looked. Then I got addicted to it and I couldn™t stop. I had my arms and chest plates done so I just wanted to tie it all together so it looked like 0ne big piece. So I just got this big Japanese warrior and this snake wrapped around with the snake™s mouth open, with wind and clouds and stuff. It™s pretty cool.
“My wife’s side of the family knows nothing about wrestling, they’re not into wrestling ” so they’re very much normal. And the Sheik gets up there and says I’m one of his closest friends and what a great person I am and he loves me so much ” “Danny McDermitt.” So, he calls me by the wrong name ” and I think, ‘Oh, this is going to be good.’
“So, he’s drunk, and he says, ‘I just want to say to everybody, I have so much respect for Danny because he didn’t kill the Jews like Hitler. And he’s not like Saddam Hussein. And he’s not a no good son-of-a-bitch like Osama bin Laden.’ And I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Man, to make me sound like a good guy, did you have to compare me to the three worst dictators in the world?’
“Meanwhile, my side of the place ” the wrestling [side] ” is going crazy, screaming and yelling. And my wife’s side of the family is absolutely horrified.
“Then Stevie Richards comes running and pulls out a ‘Hulkamania’ sign and [Sheik] goes into a tangent about ” [the usual one] you’ve heard on YouTube.
“Everybody on my side of the family is in tears; my wife’s side of the family is getting up and leaving, walking out of the hall. It was kind of just downhill from there ” 10 months later I was divorced.”
CelticsHub.com’s Brian Robb has a stronger constitution than most hoops bloggers, spending his early Wednesday morning chronicling the spray-tan exploits of Boston’s Brian Scalabrine. It seems a local radio outlet challenged Scalabrine to submit to a tanning procedure if they were able to elicit a quarter-million All-Star votes from their listeners.
Hosts Toucher and Rich choose today strategically, knowing the C™s would be playing a nationally televised game tomorrow against the Cavs for Scal to debut his new look. While it was a smart date to choose, there was a lot of anxiety around the trade deadline last week that Scal might be traded, throwing a wrench in the potential bet payoff. Danny Ainge hung onto his prized 11th man, allowing the tanning to go on as scheduled today.
Call me crazy, but I don™t think the tan looks that bad on Scal. In fact, I wouldn™t be surprised to see him do it more often.
Imagine, if you will, turning up for a piano bar audition and declining an invite to, y’know, play the piano? Applying for a job as a short-order cook but refusing to cook a meal for your prospective employer? That’s sort of what’s happening with former Texas QB Colt McCoy, last seen in public talking about not being able to feel anything in his right arm.
After being KO’d 5 plays into the Longhorns’ National Championship defeat to Florida last month, McCoy has been advised by Dr. James Andrews not to throw any passes at the upcoming NFL Scouting Combine, reports ESPN’s Chris Mortensen. Texas’ all-time QB leader in wins and TD passes, “will participate in all other drills at the event”, writes Sir Mort, with McCoy instead choosing to showcase his throwing abilities at UT’s pro day, March 31. Why McCoy is even participating in the meat market combine is hard to fathom, but if he’s able to grip a clipboard in public, that could be sufficient evidence of his future qualifications.
If the economic collapse of the last year-plus has given us anything, it’s a crazed and broken discourse, tragically unserious meta-politics, soaring unemployment and crashing faith in the idea of virtuous citizenship. Which, you know, thanks a lot for that. But if it has given us anything else, the economic collapse has provided bleak proof that those of us who felt like we kind of didn’t get it weren’t actually missing anything about the mega-rich solons of the now-smoldering old economy.
Those idiots turning the Lower East Side of Manhattan into a shrieking frat-bumout? Actually idiots, and as bad at their jobs as they were at not-ruining bars. Big-time real estate douches leveling neighborhoods, gobbling up tax breaks and raising identikit glass-dildo condos? Currently broke, towers in foreclosure. Those sage billionaire CEOs with their vague positivism and savvy-rich-dude ebullience? Yeah, they didn’t necessarily know what they were talking about either. What kind of smelled bad but seemed to be working turned out to be both more rotten than we could’ve imagined and totally defective, and those inexplicable millionaires held up as heroes of capital — and who will be again, as long as we labor under the belief that millionaires create jobs, as opposed to the other way around — turned out to be every bit as feckless and crass and venal and deeply mediocre as we could’ve imagined. The economic collapse gave us that, but I’m still not sure these months of disillusionment prepared us for just how terrible Frank and Jamie McCourt — the owner of the Los Angeles Dodgers (and LA real estate magnate) and his soon-to-be-ex-wife (above) — actually are. I don’t know that anything could have.
The venality and childishness of their split and the implausible extravagance of their life together has been covered both here and in the less widely read Los Angeles Times — the $600k in salaries paid out to McCourt kids with other full-time gigs, the former Mrs. McCourt’s request for nearly a million dollars a month in spousal support, and so barfily on. In the Los Angeles Times, Michael Hiltzik reveals the unsurprising (if still kind of nauseating) fact that the McCourts paid a grand total of zero dollars in state and federal income taxes on their $108 million in income between 2004 and ’09. The secret of their success: creative use of depreciation and refinancing on their assets, very good lawyers, the ability to take Juan Pierre and Andruw Jones’ terrible contracts as tax write-offs, and just generally being pretty awful people:
The tax benefits reaped by the McCourts helped turbocharge their lifestyle. There are eight houses, including four in Holmby Hills and Malibu. The McCourts treated their family and business checkbooks as “largely one and the same,” according to an e-mail from a McCourt executive Jamie filed in court. (Oddly, the e-mail ascribes to her the philosophy of “why have a family business but to support the family lifestyle.”)
…The point is not to begrudge the McCourts these luxuries. The point is to question why we as taxpayers should subsidize them. Jamie asserts that, although the state of Massachusetts is auditing the couple’s personal returns for 2006 (they used to be based in the Bay State), neither California nor the Internal Revenue Service is doing so. This raises another question: Why not?
Can we as taxpayers be confident we aren’t paying more than our fair share? Jamie alleges that for the purposes of the divorce, Frank has manipulated the business accounts to make himself look $670 million poorer than he is. Delivering fake numbers to the IRS is a rather different matter from delivering them to your spouse in a divorce action, but the McCourts structured their business as a stew with a lot of complicated ingredients, which makes it hard to verify that all the tax breaks are fully warranted.
…”Only the little people pay taxes,” [Leona Helmsley] reportedly told a maid. The lesson of the McCourts is slightly different: The little people pay taxes for the big people.
I’ve never been divorced and I’ve never been rich, so maybe I’m lacking some perspective on this. But I’m inspired, queasily, to tip my hat to the enduring Republican rhetorical tack of painting America’s richest people as an oppressed minority beset on all sides by ACORN and ponytailed left-wing college profs and union laborers demanding health care. I don’t know how the hell that works, but I see it surviving even the McCourts, somehow.
While the battering a professional boxer hands out to his wife clearly is no joke, how can anyone take seriously the peddling of supposedly deep psychological problems in front of a retired shrink and a studio full of drooling ghouls, not to mention those hypnotised stay-at-homes who can’t find the remote?
Holyfield (above, right) and Candi could barely contain their lust to join the celebrity queue which leads on to redemption, global rediscovery and rebranding, an exercise in commercial crassness made possible only by the willingness of millions of fools to watch it.
The “Verse of the day” on Holyfield’s website yesterday was: “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” (1 John, 4:18).
How true. Evander has been so diligent in his pursuit of perfect love down the years he has managed to father 11 children by three different women, driving out fear at a rate that would scare the devil himself.