Caesar writes that Costa — still ensconced in his Wyoming rumpus room — is unwilling to continue doing a show for KFNS if Markel sells or turns stations operations over to a third party. Markel for his part, claims no such deal is in place, yet doesn’t seem especially tearful at being denied Bonkers From Yonkers’ oratory skills.
Markel said Costa won’t be back. Friday “will be (Costa’s) last day — if he’s even on,” Markel said. “I’m not about to drive up to Wyoming and make him go on the air. I don’t even know where Wyoming is.”
And Markel said he is tired of the tumult with Costa, who has made personal attacks against many people in print, on the air and in social media.
“I like Dino, he’s like your crazy brother you have to bail out of jail,” Markel said. “I believe in Dino. He’s very talented. But it’s the BS (he said the words, not the letters) that comes along with him that’s hard to take. He came into this area with a scorched-earth mentality and it just didn’t work. It’s the way he wanted to do it, I wasn’t about to stop him. You hire somebody to do what they do, he tried it. It didn’t work. … It was a constant uproar. Me for one, I’m tired of the drama.”
In the summer of 1984, I was employed as clerk/bag security schmoe at the Copley Square location of Strawberries Records and Tapes, the New England chain store owned by Morris Levy (who may or may not have been the inspiration for “The Sopranos” Herman “Hesh” Rabkin). This was a pretty wild time for the music business with a plethora of blockbuster albums by veteran acts competing for shelf space. In the wake of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’, industry expectations were sky-high for The Jacksons’ ‘Victory’, to say nothing of Bruce Springsteen’s hotly anticipated ‘Born In The U.S.A.’. But both would ultimately be overshadowed (in the aisles of that Strawberries, anyway) by Prince’s 6th album, ‘Purple Rain’.
The store’s buyer loaded up on ‘Victory’ LP’s to an insane degree. THOUSANDS of the fuckers, overstock crammed into every available corner of the store’s back rooms and behind countertops. As you may or may not remember, the album was poorly received, the subsequent stadium tour (co-promoted by New England Patriots exec/heir Chuck Sullivan) bombed and well, the staff of Strawberries had boxes of ‘Victory’ hanging over their shoulders all summer long.
‘Born In The U.S.A.’, was of course, another story. Huge critical acclaim, immensely popular videos (even if the Boss was pissing on the flag, see above), and most importatly, the store had enough stock to satisfy demand, but just barely.
‘Purple Rain’, however is where things got crazy. The film wouldn’t open until late July but the album dropped in June, weeks after “When Does Cry” had pretty much blown everyone away. Despite the fact we had real-live-human beings walking into the store several times a day asking when ‘Purple Rain’ would be out (amongst them, the J.Geils Band’s Peter Wolf, who lived across the street) our store’s manager, for reasons known only to herself, determined that Prince Rogers Nelson was some product of hype and a couple hundred copies of the year’s most eagerly awaited album would be enough.
We blasted thru the available stock within a couple of hours of the doors being unlocked. Customers were outraged, apoplectic that the record they already knew would be the soundtrack to their summer wasn’t available.
An edict came down to tell aggrieved consumers that while we were out of stock on ‘Purple Rain’, we could, however, furnish them with copies of Newcleus’ ‘Jam On Revenge’, which just so happened to be released by the Morris Levy-owned Sunnyview Records.
This suggestion did not sit well with inconvenienced Prince fans. I’d previously not been cursed at in the store before, save for the time Monoman came in to yell at me about a middling review for The Lyres’ ‘On Fyre’ in Matter Magazine (“you should be in prison,” Jeff said…and he was right!). Let’s just say this was my one and only experience being on the retailer end of the Great American Bait & Switch and either I wasn’t very good at it…or Newcleus were way, way out of their league. Maybe a little of both.
So there you go. The music business when it still existed. Needless to say, ‘Purple Rain’ was great, some of us saw the movie twenty times or more and that was the summer Prince went from merely being super popular to the sort of megastardom that caused geniune panic & anxiety in Copley Square.
I was called that growing up before I even realized I was gay. When you’re closeted and thinking about coming out, you have nightmares about friends or family members using that word and making you feel like an outcast. It hurts when your friends use that word in a teasing manner. It’s a whole different feeling to have people direct that word at you with contempt. I’ve had that feeling.
Now put yourself in the shoes of a closeted gay athlete. You’re in a locker room or on a playing field, and you hear your teammates use that word. You start thinking, “Is this how they really feel about gay people? Is that what they would call me if I came out to them? Would I still be a member of this team? Would my career be over?”
That word is why gay athletes everywhere hide their sexual identity and often live lives of torment. It’s why some contemplate suicide and develop emotional and psychological issues they might never rectify.
Shaw was heartfelt in his pledge to learn from this, to stop using the word no matter how riled up he gets on the ice. I told him I didn’t view him any differently Wednesday than I did Monday. I’m still going to see how he’s doing when he’s in the locker room and still will pester him with hockey questions. If he ever wants to ask me more about the word and what kind of an effect it has, I’ll be there to answer — after every practice and before and after every game, as long as the Hawks find a way to re-sign him after the season.
ESPN baseball analyst / videogame flop Curt Schilling shared the above item on Facebook yesterday, but lest you think this is in some way a reflection on the former Phillies/Diamondbacks/Red Sox starter’s views on gender specific bathrooms, well, think again. If you’re offended, IT’S ALL IN YR HEAD.
This latest brew ha ha is beyond hilarious. I didn’t post that ugly looking picture. I made a comment about the basic functionality of mens and womens restrooms, period.
You know how I know you ‘offended’ people are full of crap? Because I’m not even close to any of the things you so desperately want me to be, so you can whine.
Wouldn’t you assume that all of you offended folks would have heard of me treating people the way you needed me to treat them, to be what you so desperately want me to be?
If people want to create stories or impressions where there are none, and you want/need to get offended by them that’s on you.
NY Post sports media critic Phil Mushnick has for years targeted hip-hop as negative influence, suggesting broadcast partners and franchise owners alike would shudder were they fully aware of the coarse, anti-social lyrical content. Perhaps in recognition of changing times, Phil’s managed to lay off Jay-Z for a while, instead aiming his less-than-laser-like vision at Chance The Rapper. From Sunday’s Post :
Keepin’ it real: Peter Rosenberg, hip-hop hotshot and mostly superfluous addition to YES/ESPN-NY radio’s “The Michael Kay Show,” Wednesday insisted Chance the Rapper would be a great addition to MLB as a paid community “ambassador” for the White Sox. Chance’s work, Rosenberg said, is a wonderful inspiration to young folks.
OK, then he’d have no trouble proving the courage of his conviction. I’ll supply him the lyrics to, say, five Chance recordings — more, if he’d like — starting with, oh, the one that begins, “Ladies loving my music is like some sex s–t. N—-s trying to grip up my mic like it’s my d–k.”
Rosenberg can read those lyrics aloud on the air then again claim Chance meets with his enthusiastic approval as an MLB youth ambassador. And if he won’t — or can’t — explain why.
True story folks : I’m on an airplane right now and there’s a couple of passengers throwing something not quite approaching a shit fit (but still a little too loud and angsty) over the aircraft’s satellite TV system being unable to show tonight’s possibly historic Grizzlies/Warriors game.
My options are as follows :
a) calmly explain to them that sports are essentially irrelevant, the results have no bearing on their lives and the players would almost certainly despise them if they ever met (and rightfully so).
b) calmly explain to them the NBA was much better back in the old days. Before expansion. Before the 24 second clock. Before the three-point shot. Before dunking. Before desegregation. Before sneakers. Before the iron hoop. That if they cannot appreciate the superiority of an (all-white) game played (very slowly) beneath the peach-basket using a cow’s bladder for a ball, they really don’t understand basketball and they’ve got a lot of nerve disturbing my beauty sleep with their petty complaints.
c) whisper conspiratorially, “shit’s fucked up,” glance towards the cockpit and add, “and what are we gonna do about it?”
d) put a germ-bearing blanket over my head and wait for the unpleasantness to end.
(I know a lot of you have a boner for Steph Curry and with good reason. He’s ridiculous. But unless he’s playing 12 games a year against the Rochester Schaubroecks on a concrete floor w/ huge puddles all over the place and angry fans throwing darts at him (PLUS A COW’S BLADDER IN LIEU OF A BALL) these 72/73 wins should be accompanied by an asterisk.)
All kidding aside, this seems kinda sketchy and the best possible thing I can say about it is that at least it’s not nearly as bad a look for Jarrett as those econo razor commercials are for Brett Favre.
At the risk of irritating the Braves’ marketing suits, who would prefer you focus on their new mutant food creations, magnetic schedule giveaways and fond reminders (corporate euphemism) of this being their final season at Turner Field, here’s your reality check.
This team stinks. No, I mean it really stinks — way worse than most even expected it to stink, which means sportsbooks’ dire projections of 66 to 67 wins is starting to look optimistic. The Braves hadn’t started 0-5 since the 1988 season, when they opened 0-10 on the way to going 54-106.
Centerfielder and leadoff hitter Ender Inciarte, whose entire game depends on his speed, went on the disabled list Sunday with a wonky hamstring. Reliever Dan Winkler, another of the Braves’ post-Tommy John reclamation projects, dropped to his knees in pain in the seventh inning after suffering a right elbow fracture while delivering a pitch.
In another move, the Braves shipped the remains of reliever John Gant (four runs, six hits, two homers, several dreams crushed, in three innings) to Triple A Gwinnett before the game. So before opening a seven-game trip at Washington Monday night, the Braves’ roster will include three new players who weren’t considered good enough to make them out of spring training.
They return home April 19. There are tickets available. Also roster spots.
When the ECHL’s New Orleans Brass were launched in 1997, it was a big deal, not only in a city where ice – other than in sweet tea – is rare, but also in the African-American community, where interest in the sport is, unfortunately, also rare. As a franchise majority-owned by an African-American investment group – one that included New Orleans ex-mayor Ray Nagin – the Brass were billed as a landmark development in black business circles, garnering an article in the March 1998 issue of Black Enterprise.
Other partners in the ownership group included attorney Roy Rodney and political insider and entrepreneur Stan ‘Pampy’ Barre. Behind the scenes, the Brass were additionally funded by silent partner John Georges, a self-made multi-millionaire of Greek-American ancestry.
The Brass were a bold business venture as well since the Crescent City had little knowledge of hockey. In fact, when New Orleans Times-Picayune reporter Peter Barrouquere was given the Brass beat, he was a novice to hockey. “I had seen four hockey games,” Barrouquere said. “I didn’t really know about it.”
But Barrouquere learned quickly, as did a sizeable chunk of the New Orleans sports fans. The team built a base of hardcore devotees who came in thousands to watch games at the Municipal Auditorium. The squad also found a fair amount of success on the ice, making the ECHL playoffs each of its five seasons, advancing to the third round in 1999 with a physical style of play that appealed to patrons who love New Orleans Saints football.
The team moved to the New Orleans Arena in 1999, but when the NBA’s Hornets arrived in 2002, the Brass became second fiddle. The costs of transforming the building’s floor from hardwood to ice and back proved too steep and the Brass failed to negotiate a long-term lease at the Auditorium, leaving the franchise without a place to play. Despite financial and on-ice success, the team had to fold.
Now, 10 years later, three of its former investors have run into trouble with federal authorities. In July 2008, Barre was sentenced to five years in prison for skimming more than $1 million from a city energy contract. A month later, Rodney got four months in the clink for failing to file tax returns, a charge that surfaced during investigations of the administration of then-mayor Marc Morial.
Nagin, meantime, who gained global recognition for his reaction to the Hurricane Katrina crisis, is now being investigated by a grand jury probing alleged gratuities he received from city vendors. – Ryan Whirty, The Hockey News, August 8, 2012
“Bomani Jones couldn’t have been a more perfect spokesman for the intent of the shirt,” Kirby says. “It’s not an angry thing, it’s more about making a point in a humorous way. It’s just holding up a mirror saying, ‘Hey, I’m wearing this and you’re broadcasting Indians games with the same kind of imagery. Why is this a problem and that not a problem?’ It’s about flipping the image on it.”
The ‘Caucasians’ shirt has gone viral before, including one day in 2014 when it was the No. 1 trending item on Reddit after a DJ for the Canadian-based electronic group A Tribe Called Red took to wearing it. But Kirby says his startup, which he runs out of basement with his wife when he’s not working as a digital marketer, has never received as much attention as it did Thursday.
Within 24 hours of Jones wearing the shirt, Kirby estimates he made 2,000 additional sales. Shelf Life Clothing’s website also crashed, because its hosting company couldn’t handle the onslaught of traffic and subsequently dropped it as a client. As of Friday evening, the site was still not fully restored.
Whether you’re a Kiss Kompletist or simply fascinated with the career arc of one-time Ace Frehley replacement Vinnie Vincent, recent entries at the Bobby Rock Blog — memoirs of ex-Vinnie Vincent Invasion drummer, Bobby Rock — are a must read, particularly the extensive descriptions of the hellish attempts to measure up to Vincent’s version of click-track perfection. Still, after characterizing Vincent as an exacting taskmaster with few social skills, Rock is hardly unsympathetic, insisting, “I’m the better musician for having endured the rigors of those sessions.”
How about some kind of OCD type vibe as an explanation? Nowadays, we think nothing of diagnosing folks with some form of this. But back then, it wasn’t largely talked about, and we were all far less familiar with it. One could make a case that Vinnie’s behavior had all the classic symptoms. It’s like the guy who can’t leave his house until he knows that all the soup cans are facing label-out in the pantry… and then he has trouble leaving the house without going back and checking on the soup cans multiple times before he actually leaves. Here, Vinnie appeared to have an obsession with the tracks being perfect against the machine, and I know there are maybe a few “behind the scenes” things that a few of us there were privy to that might support this case.
The man was simply a perfectionist who was trying to create an oil painting with watercolors. He was wanting to hear these triggered, programmed-sounding Mutt Lange-style drums du jour, when we were set up to deliver more of a classic, raw, acoustic-drums-in-a-big-room-with-a-live-drummer-bashing kind of thing. But… none of us really knew this at the time.
Consider the context. Up until the early 80s, virtually everything had live drums on it. Pop, rock, soul, even disco. But Vinnie was someone who liked all kinds of music, and I knew he listened to a lot of the standard pop stuff from the mid-80s, as well. (Forever a student of good songwriting, no matter the genre.) At the same time, Vinnie was a serious player, and he appreciated serious musicianship. So I think Vinnie was having trouble finding a balance between these two opposing concepts: he loved the modern, rock-solid, big drum approach of either programmed or programmed-sounding drums; but he also loved a drummer who could play a bunch of crazy shit, as well. So these sessions were largely about Vinnie trying to reconcile these two concepts… without really knowing he was trying to reconcile them.
A final question I get from time to time: Would I ever work with Vinnie Vincent again? My answer? A few prerequisite inquiries aside… hell yes. Vinnie Vincent is a bad motherfucker, and truly bad motherfuckers are almost as extinct these days as the main man himself.
The secret behind the vast fortune of former WWE fixture turned Sirius Outlaw Country host James Morris (aka Hillbilly Jim) is finally revealed. I’m as surprised as the rest of you ; it’s not like he was spending the money on clothes.
Each pill had its own name. The five-milligram amphetamines were known as white crosses—and these were passed around like candy, if that was your bag. The heavier doses were black beauties. Remember, this was well before the common use of steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs; in many ways, you could make an argument that the drugs of choice in our clubhouse were more performance reducing than anything else. But most starting pitchers were loath to mess with any chemicals that might mess with their mind-set—anyway, I was. You’ve got all that time between starts, the last thing you want is to be anxious and on the edge for four days; if anything, you want something to take the edge off.
Still, the jar was very much in evidence, very much a part of our team “chemistry,” even though the jar itself had disappeared by the 1986 season. We continued to use the same language, though, so you could still hear the terminology on the team plane and in the clubhouse, but the pill-taking became much more secretive. You either understood the euphemism—or you didn’t, because it didn’t apply. It was no longer out in the open. The talk went underground, but even there you’d continue to hear comments like, “Hey, I did a couple of white crosses but that didn’t do it so I threw a black beauty on top and it was perfect.” You’d see guys toward the end of a game, maybe getting ready for their final at bat, double-back into the locker room to chug a beer to “re-kick the bean” so they could step to the plate completely wired and focused and dialed in. They had it down to a science, with precision timing. They’d do that thing where you poke a hole in the can so the beer would flow shotgun-style. They’d time it so that they were due to hit third or fourth that inning, and in their minds that rush of beer would kind of jump-start the amphetamines and get back to how they were feeling early on in the game—pumped, jacked, good to go. How they came up with this recipe, this ritual, I’ll never know, but it seemed to do the trick; they’d get this rush of confidence that was through the roof and step to the plate like the world-beaters they were born to be.
“You become a millionaire overnight and you don’t know what do with it. We don’t understand taxes. We don’t understand lifestyles. We create a big expensive lifestyle for ourselves… I had some fetishes that I liked, materialistic things… and then obviously you get into an investment world that you don’t know about, that you don’t learn about in college and you put your money in the hands of other people that try to take care of it,” he said.
While the NBA does give its rookie players a “crash course” on finances, Walker said it needs to do more. That’s why he’s teaming up with Morgan Stanley Global Sports & Entertainment (MS) to help educate student athletes on their finances.
Prior to the extended dejá-vu session that saw the New York Mets lose their 2016 season opener to Kansas City (with a Yeonis Cespedes error taking center stage), the hosts raised their World Series championship banner in a pregame ceremony the ever-sportsmanlike Ned Yost called, “awkward”. Were the clubs’ roles reversed, however, Metsradamus is adamant that when and if it comes time for the Mets to commemorate a title, he’ll leave no stone unturned :
Hell, I’ll go as far as to say this: If the Mets are fortunate enough to be celebrating this next year, I want to go all out. I want the banner raising on Opening Day, and then I want separate ring ceremonies for every player individually to be spread out through the end of July. Players, coaches, trainers, Bobby Bonilla since he’s still on the payroll, everyone gets a ceremony. And these ceremonies are to take place against division rivals, and whatever team Chase Utley is playing with in 2017. And if he’s retired, then the ring ceremony takes place at his house. Because fuck Chase Utley through his pee hole with a saw.
I’m pretty into the idea of awarding rings to any number of persons connected with the franchise, past and present, but I absolutely draw the line at Chris Cotter.
Eric Hosmer’s fateful decision to try and score from 3rd on an infield grounder in the 9th inning of last November’s World Series Game 5 worked out splendidly for the eventual champion Royals, not nearly so well for Mets 1B Lucas Duda, whose wild throw evaded the grasp of Travis D’Arnaud. Fast forward to Opening Night in Kansas City, and Duda — while owning the error — has heard just enough about the play from Royals 3B coach Rusty Kuntz. From Newsday’s Marc Carig :
“I read something from Kuntz, the third-base coach,” Duda said of the Royals’ first-base coach. “He said ‘we’ve got this guy as a DH,’ and again, that’s an opinion. But it’s somebody to me that really doesn’t matter. How many big-league games has that guy played in?”
The answer is that before becoming a well-respected coach, Kuntz played 277 games in parts of seven seasons with three different big-league teams. To Duda, the point still stands.
“That opinion has no substance,” he said. “It’s a guy talking that coaches third base.”
“He gave it to me pretty good,” Duda said, once again seizing upon Kuntz’s comments. “It’s his opinion, man. If he thinks I’m a [expletive] first baseman, then it’s OK.”