Tagged: Oprah Winfrey

Some Broadcasters Are Lame…But It’s OK

I was in my car for part of tonight’s game against the O’s, so I listened to Baltimore’s audio feed on my phone. While I appreciate partisanship in a radio broadcaster (John Sterling defines the term), tonight’s duo would have made anyone wince.
Here’s why.
1) Yes, the Yankees have the highest payroll in baseball. Blah blah blah blah blah. But do you really have to bring it up 7,000 times during a spring training game? And were you serious when you said, “The Yankees will probably go after Albert Pujols because he’s a big name?” Have you not noticed that we have a first baseman named Teixeira?
(And no, I was not amused when he got hit on the elbow and had to leave the game.)
2) There were several (I forget how many) homers hit during the game. But, according to the O’s announcers, the ones the Yankees hit were cheapies that only cleared the fences because of the windy conditions. The shots hit by the O’s, on the other hand, were bona fide, honest-to-goodness dingers.
3) When prospect David Winfree came in for the injured Teixeira, one of the O’s announcers said, “I wonder if he’s related to Oprah?” You think?
And then they mused about the fact that Winfree spells his name differently from Winfrey. Duh. But the discussion didn’t stop there. “Oprah is America’s television sweetheart,” one of them proclaimed. “And Matt Wieters is America’s catching sweetheart,” added the other. America’s catching sweetheart?
I’m sure Wieters has a very bright future in Baltimore, but I don’t think he’ll be getting his own talk show any time soon.
Oh, well. The truth is I enjoyed listening to the O’s guys tonight. No question they were nonsensical at times, but they had soothing, baseball radio voices – a nice change from the certain-to-be-overheated announcing we’ll be getting on ESPN on Sunday night. The important thing is that Tex’s elbow appears to be all right (the proverbial contusion), and Vazquez pitched well. I’ll take it.

Is There A Full Moon?

Watching Team USA play the Yankees at Steinbrenner Field was enjoyable but weird. It felt as if we had loaned Jeter and his Captain-ness out for an All Star game. 
And what to make of Brett Gardner and his relentlessly hot bat? He has worked his way into my subconscious and is even starting to show up in my dreams.
Then there was the news that A-Rod bolted from the Dominican team after their exhibition game and flew to Vail, Colorado. The reason? No, not a quick ski trip. The problem, apparently, is this.
hip cyst.jpg
I know. The photo looks a lot like a porterhouse, all marbled and fatty, but it’s actually an X-ray of a hip with a cyst. See the cyst right there in the middle? That’s what A-Rod has. So he’s off to consult a doctor named Marc Phillipon.
Yes, you’d be smiling too if you were “one of the world’s leading orthopedic surgeons,” which is how Dr. Phillipon is described on his web site – or, should I say, the web site of the facility where he’s a partner. It’s called the Steadman-Hawkins Clinic. And, no, it’s not named for this man.
The clinic promotes a product line of nutrients and vitamins called “Liquissentials.”
One can only hope that whatever is in them is not banned by Major League Baseball.
Speaking of which, I was settling into my chair tonight to catch the MLB Network’s roundup of the day’s news. Harold Reynolds and the guys were about to discuss the latest in the Dodgers-Manny soap opera when suddenly my TV screen went blank.
And then I heard a man’s voice yell, “Fernando Vina? What the f**k!”
The man was not my husband, either.
Obviously, there was a malfunction in the studio, and somebody F-bombed on national television. Uh-oh. Will there be a fine? A suspension? A public reprimand followed by a tearful apology?
If so, I’ll probably miss it. I’ll be on a plane to Florida, en route to spring training in Tampa and my signing at Barnes & Noble. I don’t like to fly, as anyone who’s read my book already knows, so please send happy thoughts for a flight with no mechanical problems, no flock of geese anywhere near the engines, and no bad plane wine.

How Can I Be Missing History – Again?

I’ve been to the World Series. I shared a “Kumbaya” moment with 54,999 other people at Yankee Stadium. I witnessed this.


I have no business sulking and yet that’s exactly what I’m doing. Why? Because millions of people are in Washington for the inauguration and I’m not. Sure, it’s cold there. Sure, it’s a logistical nightmare. Sure, it’s easier to watch the proceedings from the comfort of my living room. But how many times in life do you get to be a part of this?
They’re coming from all walks of life – from ordinary citizens to the other “O.”
Even Dave Winfield will be there.
And let’s not forget Cheney,
despite pulling a muscle lifting boxes.
All the former presidents will be on hand….
George H.W. Bush-4.JPG
I should just accept that I’m sitting this one out, be content to observe history from afar. So why am I feeling as if someone denied me access? Why am I taking this personally?
In a word? Woodstock.
My parents wouldn’t let me go, and I’ve never gotten over it.
“The crowds! The drugs! The sex! You’re too young to be exposed to all of that!” they said in the summer of ’69.
“But Jimmy Lowell is going,” I whined, launching into a list of all my friends whose parents weren’t saying no to them. “It’s about the music.”
My parents were unmoved. They made me stay home. I worked at my summer job as a camp counselor that weekend instead of being in upstate New York doing this.
How cool would it have been to get all muddy with other, similarly blissed out teenagers, and hear live performances by Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Crosby, Stills and Nash?
Yeah, I have the DVD of the movie. The soundtrack too. It’s not the same. 
After the inauguration I’ll hear the stories from the people who were in D.C., and it’ll be Woodstock all over again.
The good news is it’s not just about the music this time. It’s about the chance to change our world. Time to grow up.

There’s a DC-10 Flying Over My Head


This was pretty much the view outside my window last night. It would be kind of scenic except that my “posh celebrity enclave,” as the New York Post calls it, was burning.
Yes, it’s true that we have famous people living here.
O’s house hasn’t been damaged so far and she’s not here anyway. She’s probably in Chicago with the other O.
Rob Lowe wasn’t home either.
Haven’t heard about Jeff Bridges’ house.
As for me, the least known person in all of Montecito, I didn’t evacuate because the winds shifted and spared my house. This morning at the press conference, the local officials announced that we were getting military-type fire tankers to drop water on the nearly 3,000 acres and hundreds of structures that are burning. I can hear one of the planes right now. Rrrrrrrmmmm. (It doesn’t sound like that, but I’m totally sleep deprived.)
Ahnold, our Governator, has been going around comforting people, although he hasn’t comforted me or even attempted to hug me.
I’m waiting to see what happens later today, when the winds are supposed to pick up again, before deciding whether to grab my Yankees T-shirts, caps and bobble head dolls and get out of town. The question is…Where to go?
Do you think A-Rod has a spare room in his Manhattan apartment?
Or maybe I could camp out in some empty office at Steinbrenner Field in Tampa?
Or I could check into one of these.
No, wait! Thanks to the miraculous trade that happened yesterday, I have another option! I could stay with our newest Yankee, who looks thrilled by the idea!
So what if he’s a .219 hitter who’s not even close to being the Gold Glove first baseman I had hoped for. If he’s got a sofa, a TV and a well-stocked wine cellar (and maid service), I’m there. 
More on Mr. Swisher when I’m not dodging flames.