Bernie Madoff now is in the first day of a 150-year prison sentence for orchestrating with the flair of a maestro frozen in malevolence the largest, longest and most widespread Ponzi scheme in history.
Perhaps he’s thinking positively and figuring that after today, there are only 149 years and 364 days left for him to serve. Granted, a few leap years during that duration might mess with the math a bit.
But I really think Madoff is feeling bluer than blue today. He undoubtedly can feel the air grow still, dark and cold as a death mask crawls over his face. He will die in prison unless he somehow becomes immortal.
So he rots in jail before he rots in hell. A fitting destination for a guy who stuck a stiletto between the ribs of so many people — now poor (literally) folks who swallowed a fireball of pain and crave retaliation for the violent upheaval of their lives that was frightening and mesmerizing in scope.
When I think of Madoff and the people he fleeced, the howl of the wolf and the bleat of the lamb come to mind.
My wife mentioned to me Sunday that Billy Mays had died.
I figured that was bad for Billy Mays, but I didn’t have a clue who Billy Mays was and asked her if she meant Willie Mays, the Hall of Fame center fielder for the Giants.
She assured me that she meant Billy, the OxiClean and Orange Glo guy.
Which made me 0 for 3; something Willie Mays seldom did at the plate.
So I had to rip back the curtain on the confession booth and admit I never heard of the guy.
As you can tell by now, I don’t spend a lot of time cleaning. And whenever a commercial pops on my screen, I hit the remote faster than Willie Mays tracked down fly balls.
Which is why I probably don’t get out even the toughest of stains and I don’t have beautiful wood.
Of course, by today I realized Billy Mays was the bearded, boisterous pitchman touting OxiClean and Orange Glo about 4.72 zillion times a day on more channels than you can point a remote at.
Apparently, judging by the media coverage, I was the only person outside of Lapland who had never heard of him until he died.
But after hearing some clips of Billy today, I realized I had heard him. His voice sounded like a watermelon hitting the sidewalk after being dropped from a 40th-floor window. Subtle his delivery was not.
Granted, his death is getting more airplay as well because of its circumstances. He was found unresponsive in his home Sunday. He evidently didn’t feel well when he went to bed Saturday night. Earlier in the day, he said he was hit on the head when his airliner had a rough landing at Tampa Bay’s airport.
He was interviewed after the landing and told TV reporters: “All of a sudden as we hit. You know it was just the hardest hit. All the things from the ceiling started dropping. It hit me on the head, but I got a hard head.”
How haunting is that?
I obviously will never forget Billy Mays in death even though I never knew him in life.
Give General Motors credit. They may be stalled in Chapter 11, sitting there with an engine flooded with despair.
But does GM simply pout in its cubicle at the bottom of the business world?
Instead GM has revved up its marketing muscle. Its Corvette Stingray concept car — Sideswipe — and its Camaro concept car — Bumblebee — are outshining the human stars in “Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen.”
Of course, the irony in the movie’s title is thick enough to be cut with a steak knife.
The tie-in with the flick gives GM a chance to burnish its image.
And a chance to spike its sales appeal to impressionable theater audiences.
For those of us who have hooked or sliced into middle age or beyond, memories of the vintage Corvette Stingray will never rust like chrome.
I wanted a Stingray badly back in its heyday. But all I could afford was a Mercury Comet.
I’m still not over it.
And though you fight to stay aliveYour body starts to shiverFor no mere mortal can resistThe evil of the thriller
Michael Jackson is dead at 50.
Extraordinary talent. Extraordinary whack job.
Who knew he would pass before his nose fell off. Isn’t Peter Pan supposed to live forever?
When you’re dead, it’s tough to find an iPod. So you either hear harp music in heaven or Black Sabbath in hell.
So no more Thriller for Michael.
What’s the odds he’s reincarnated as a moonwalking lumberjack?
I have been in South Carolina and West Virginia and I must say I think the genetic pool in the latter seems a notch higher on the evolutionary scale than the former.
Outside of Hilton Head, South Carolina seems to have nothing but cigarettes and fireworks for sale.
They also have a governor who somehow got lost while hiking the Appalachian Trail and found himself in the arms of a Latin bombshell in Argentina.
Guess Gov. Mark Sanford misplaced his GPS.
Granted, a lot of folks have affairs and apparently politicians seem to have more than their fair share. Of course, the media then immediately turns their infidelities into a Tarantino bloodbath.
Sanford, at least, has been honest about his feelings while being dishonest in his marriage.
While most politicians who admit to affairs suddenly develop a Victorian reverence for marriage and immediately minimize the relationship as a lapse in judgment and kick their mistress to the curb as if she merely was a harlot, Sanford in his mea culpa didn’t belittle the relationship and genuinely conveyed that he loved the other woman.
His true confession likely wasn’t the best way to help deflect the shrapnel now bursting around him. But at least he was sort of a standup guy while on his knees — a feat of coordination that neither Bill Clinton nor John Edwards could muster.
In my salad days, I used to watch ABC’s “The Superstars” and one week I was enchanted watching former heavyweight champ Joe Frazier desperately trying not to drown in the swimming event.
Smokin’ Joe was the only fish out of water that I ever saw in the water. His freestyle stroke resembled that of one flailing at a flock of enraged hornets. His left hook served him well in the ring, but it sure as hell was no flotation device.
For old time’s sake and because I was bored watching the Phillies pillage the Rays, I checked out the premiere of the reincarnation of “The Superstars” last night. This time they have celebrities pairing up with jocks.
Terrell Owens, the diva/stud wide receiver now with the Buffalo Bills after being run out of San Francisco, Philadelphia and Dallas after trashing quarterbacks Jeff Garcia, Donovan McNabb and Tony Romo, this time was on the receiving end: He got tongue-whipped by his “Superstars” teammate — salty and feisty Polish model Joanna Krupa.
That above picture of them together obviously was taken in happier times on “The Superstars” set.
First of all, it was wonderful to see that a fellow Pole could be so gorgeous. But who knew she uses the look-at-that-blonde trick to distract from her vicious personality. Her temperament is even hotter than her body.
Owens and Krupa were the first couple booted from the show primarily because Owens got a foot caught in a net while running the obstacle course. His trapped foot was swiveling as if not part of the same body.
Somewhere Garcia, McNabb and Romo were laughing so hard as if their ass were no longer part of the same body. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, T.O. escaped as dramatically as Indiana Jones.
But the real belly-laughs and guffaws his former QBs must have richly enjoyed came moments later when the volatile Krupa lashed out at T.O., mocking his athleticism with enough profanity to turn a sailor blue. It got so intense you half expected to hear trumpet music, swords pulled and the sounds of horses’ hooves in anxious pursuit.
While Krupa’s mouth was roiling like the sea, Owens kept his mouth shut and took it in stoic silence. Believe me, that sight will be etched into the memory banks of Garcia, McNabb and Romo for ever and a day.
And when Owens later tried to say something encouraging, the svelte Polish spitfire told him to shut up.
When they were banished from the competition and forced to do their farewell walk together, Krupa grumped and glowered every step of the way as she continued her volley of verbal punches in bunches.
Finally, you could hear T.O. telling her that he really feels sorry for her boyfriend.
The Terrell Owens we all once knew may now be scarred for life. His legendary and loquacious ego, once bigger than several continents, may have shrunk to the size of Rhode Island.
A North Dakota woman has pleaded guilty to child neglect after being accused of breast-feeding her 6-week-old baby while drunk.
Stacey Anvarinia could face up to five years in prison when she’s sentenced on the felony charge in August.
Police officers who responded to a domestic disturbance call at Anvarinia’s home on April 13 say they saw an intoxicated Anvarinia breast-feeding.
This lady must be dumber than an ash tray and more selfish than creatures who eat their young — polar bears, burying beetles, hamsters, wolf spiders and a range of fish species.
This woman definitely needs to undergo the ultimate inquisition of herself and her motherhood.
Short of that, she shouldn’t expect any Mother’s Day cards next year.