This week, I debated whether to write about LeBron James or Mel Gibson, both of whom didn’t exactly endear themselves with the public. (Unless, in Lebron’s case, you live in Miami.
I can explain it if this brief look back at July 4 seems a bit “disjointed.” (And no, that’s not an endorsement for the November marijuana initiative.
Summer is usually a slow news season. Not this summer. Every day, thousands of barrels of oil spill into the Gulf of Mexico, with August or September as a likely end to this ecological nightmare.
A week ago the Lakers won their 16th NBA championship. This past Monday was the big parade and now it’s back to the real world. (Ugh.) But first a few final words (actually, 826) about game seven.
Last year, comedian David Letterman shocked his TV audience by confessing his sexual affairs with female staff members. Given Letterman’s humor, I suspected it was a gag for which there would be a witty punch line.
Eons ago (actually, 1929) my father attended UCLA as part of the first class on the Westwood campus. My mother enrolled two years later. It’s probably not surprising that, growing up in my house, the late John Wooden was like a god.
It’s obvious why Celtics fans, often appearing inebriated, mindlessly chant “Beat L.A.!” Ever experienced a humid Boston summer? How about one of their freezing winters? They’re green all right, green with envy.
This past weekend, I was lounging at the pool and happened to notice a pretty woman, a recent divorcee. She was babysitting her 6-year-old son who’s an excellent swimmer but she didn’t seem to be watching him.
Despite the title, this column is not about West Hollywood or the gay lifestyle. (Nor is it about the heterosexual lifestyle.) It’s definitely not my intent to offend anyone from GLAAD.
As I follow the news lately it seems that either the world has gone mad or I have. This week it’s BP Global, a conglomerate highly enriched by our taxpayer-funded war in Iraq (often cited for safety violations).
It was eight years ago when I first met Oscar, an adorable, albeit a tad headstrong 5-month-old golden retriever service dog. I was walking back from the tennis courts next to my apartment building when I saw him with his owner, Colleen Hughes, who’s my neighbor.
The legendary TV cop drama, “The Naked City” (1958) was set in Manhattan. Each episode ended with the famous voice-over, “There are eight million stories, in the Naked City.
