Kuzul

Bernie Madoff came to town

Made off with our money

Stuck our money in his hat

And called it… pasta, some kind of pasta

That’s what these guys do.  When they stick things in their hat, proverbial or otherwise, they always call it by a pasta name.

Now, the Mets are in this murky Madoff mire.  The attorney for Madoff creditors are suing the owners of the New York Mets—Fred Wilpon, Jeff Wilpon, and Saul Katz—and the parent company of the Mets, Sterling Equities. 

Let’s back up and restate.  The trustee, Irving Picard, for the Madoff victims (aka pigeons, scammees, and shmoos) sued Sterling Equities, trying to claw back money under the belief that Sterling received money from Madoff improperly.

In baseball terms, it’s like when someone hits a home run and rounds third to see his teammates ready to greet him at home plate when the ump starts shouting something about the batter not stepping on second base. 

In other words, some victims may have fared better than others, with the ones left holding the bag looking around to see another guy with a not-so-empty bag.

What I can’t figure out is why people were so trusting of this Madoff guy anyway.  Just like my jingle at the top of the page, didn’t his name give you a clue?  Someday he might have “made off” with your funds?  Could he have been more obvious?  How about “Charles Ponzi, Jr. Investments.  We pay high interest.”  All I’m saying is that the surname might give you a foreshadowing, if I’m to believe my own theories.

Want a few examples?  Let’s go back to some of the Ponzi schemes and see who we find.  When the Greater Ministries of Tampa bilked 18,000 people out of $500 million, who was in charge?  Who put all these people in a world of hurt?  Who made them feel like they were agony?  Gerald Payne, that’s who.

When a pyramid scheme crashed down on the citizens of Albania to the tune of $1.2 billion in the mid-90s, who was in charge?  Who perpetuated such a fraud?  Enver Hoxha!  If ever you might have suspected…just a smidgen…something might be a hoax…duh!

In Costa Rica, The Brothers defrauded 6300 people out of a half-billion dollars.  Again, nobody was the least suspicious even though they knew The Brothers consisted of Luis and Osvaldo Villalobos.  If it’s good enough for Little Red Riding Hood, why not go right into the wolf’s home?

All this leads to my ongoing theory: names count.  What you’re tagged with might possibly foreshadow an occupation or a tendency, says a guy typing up a silly story with the name Stan Silliman.

I started building this theory when I was introduced to two Oklahoma City businessmen, the Fail brothers—Never and Will.  Serious as a heart attack and in his late 60’s, Never Fail was into real estate and every apartment complex he developed thrived. 

Will Fail tried business after business after business…to a point he couldn’t even get a bank loan.

I continued to study these circumstances and even took note when I started performing comedy in a trendy new nightlife hotspot called Bricktown.  The club was called Comedy Corner and owned by a lady named Shirley Bynum. 

It was near the first karaoke bar in Oklahoma City, with a book binding business behind it and the first micro-brewery in town—The Bricktown Brewery—down the block.

I wanted to double check my theory but here’s the odd thing: the business owner/name tie-in existed but it was like one business off.  The names were there in a sound-alike or slightly punned fashion, but they were tied to the wrong enterprises.

For instance, you remember Shirley Bynum? Well, her name had little to do with a comedy club.  But her name, slightly punned, became Bind’em—which fit well with a book binding company.

But the owner of the book binding company was named Singer, which would have been a great name if you owned a karaoke bar.  But the owner of the karaoke was named Brewer.  You see, perfect name to own the Bricktown Brewery.  However, the owner of the Bricktown Brewery was named Jester.  Did I mention the Comedy Club?

In some mysterious way, my theory still works but maybe a Fringe-type alternate universe sprang up when they started converting these old haunted warehouses into bistros and yuppie hangouts.  

How does this affect the Mets, you’re asking?  Really?  I lay out this semi-elegant theory and you’re still worried about the Mets? 

Here’s the answer: depending on the clawback, the Mets will still be viable.  Mets Limited Partnership invested $523 million with Madoff and received $568 million in return.  What they lose above their profit depends on many factors, including timing and perceived favoritism. 

Will the Mets come out smelling like their brand new Citi Field ballpark?  After all, Sterling Equities has a reputation to uphold.  They boast about it.  Some might call their reputation…er… sorry…the word escapes me.

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Wow! Roy Halladay just pitched a playoff no hitter for the Phillies.

I’m trying to remember the last time I remember a no-hitter in the playoffs. I’m sure Sandy Koufax had some. No? Curt Schilling? No? The Big Unit? No? All those Atlanta Braves guys? No?

Okay! You’re forcing Stan Silliman to Google. I’m too old to Google.

Don Larsen? The perfect game in the 1956 World Series? Geez, what was I doing October 8, 1956? Hmmm?

Game 5 was on a Monday so I was in school—junior high—in the Panhandle of Oklahoma. I remember a little of the series. Actually more interested in Darla of civics class, but that was my hormones talking. Darla was our school’s Annette (of the Mouseketeers) except without the dark hair…and the big mouse ears.

On top of that, I had just seen The Ten Commandments the night before and little did I know my heart was about to witness two major events in back-to-back days. Really, how often do see the waters of a sea part and a perfect game, back-to-back?

Well, actually I only saw part of the perfect game and I can’t really say I saw that much. I will explain.

I did have an interest in the Yankees-Dodgers series. It wasn’t my Cardinals with Stan (my name) Musial but it did have two Oklahomans—Mickey Mantle and Dale Mitchell. After finishing algebra and  heading to Phys Ed, Joe Clark came up to me saying he heard on the principal’s radio a no-hitter was being pitched in the World Series and suggests we skip the final class, head to my house, catch it on TV.

I agreed even though I knew every time Joe Clark suggested a scheme, I always took the blame.

On the way to my house, Joe and I argued Doris Day versus Kim Novak. Both of them had the boobs. Not much diff but I favored Novak on the freckle factor. Didn’t care for the freckles.

We hit the door just in time to catch the eighth inning. My mom didn’t even know the game was on but we buzzed up the black and white. Snowy black and white…with a rolling bar. We couldn’t find the GAME! Either the reception was bad or they weren’t carrying it on a Monday afternoon in our part of the world.

We switched on the radio and you could hear the tension. My stomach started to knot. I got out my baseball cards to see how many of my cards were in the game. Jackie Robinson is up. Had his card. Grounds to first. Then Gil Hodges is at bat. Had his card. Lines it to third. Sandy Amoros is up. No card. Hits it deep, there’s excitement, flies out.

Then the Yanks come up at the bottom of the line-up – Larsen, Bauer, Collins. Sal Maglie, the Barber, clips them, shaves ’em, strikes out every batter. If it weren’t for Larsen doing the impossible, Maglie would have got praise for a special game. Maglie was the Debbie Reynolds to Larsen’s Liz Taylor.

Now it’s the ninth and our radio gets scratchy. Furillo, Campanella and Maglie are up. I get out my cards. I’ve got Roy and I’ve got Sal, no Furillo. Makes no difference as Furillo flies to right. Now Roy is up. He is one of my favorites and he can smack the leather off the ball.

Mom hears us screaming and walks in. Roy grounds to second. One more batter, Maglie! No, Dale Mitchell pinches. Not only do I have the card, but it’s autographed. MY autographed card is getting ready to ruin a perfect game. OU’s Dale Mitchell will be known as the guy who cost Don Larsen a perfecto.

Strike One. If Mitchell connects it better be a homer. Strike Two! He’s pressing. No chasing a slider, he’ll wait for a good one. Strike Three! A called strike three.

Joe jumps. Mom jumps. I didn’t know she could do that. My cards go flying…and my magazine with Marilyn Monroe on the cover lands on top of them with Mom still in the room. I said my little heart might not handle two big events back to back—10-C and a Perfecto—let’s make it three.

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I am the George Steinbrenner Plaque.

I am 760 pounds of solid bronze living in my new digs in Monument Park.  I’m seven feet wide, wider than CC Sabathia is tall. And I’m five feet tall, taller than CC Sabathia is wide.

I dwarf all these other plaques around me of famous Yankees.  Because I am the Boss.  People walk by and look my way and say, “God, look at the size of that plaque.”  It’s 35 square feet of STEINBRENNER! 

When I say I am bronze, I mean it.  I’m the color all these young muscle builders at the beach yearn to be. 

Hey you, Joe DiMaggio plaque!  How do you like ME now that I’m next door to you?  Are you able to get a Mr. Coffee out here, Mr. Joe DiMaggio plaque?  Does the ghost of Marilyn Monroe float by and say, “That’s my Joe’s plaque?”

Hey you, Babe Ruth plaque!  Mr. Bambino, I’m in your house now.  Aren’t you going to look my way?  What’s the matter, Babe? You think I don’t belong here with all the Yankee greats because I didn’t play ball?  I BUILT this new stadium; I mean GEORGE STEINBRENNER built this stadium.  I’m his plaque.  I belong. 

Hey kid, I see you looking at the Mickey Mantle plaque.  Why don’t you come over here and look at me?  Am I too big for you?  Yeah, get your Dad, have him come over here.  Read ME!  

Why does your Dad say my coat looks crumpled?  That’s the way they do a plaque, kid.  If my coat were smooth, it wouldn’t be interesting. 

Ask your Dad who was responsible for building this new stadium.  See that little girl over there?  She’s cute, huh?  Maybe she’ll come look at me…hang around, kid. 

The sun is just starting to shine in my direction.  Patina, kid!!!  Look at the richness of my bronze.  Check out the depth of me. That, kid, is what you call your bas-relief.  No, wait a minute, it’s actually your high relief.  Boss gets the HIGH relief.    Not all cast bronze plaques get this much relief.  Only the important ones.

I got so much relief I’m almost a statue. Pigeons have tried to land on my shoulder. Pigeons!   And check out my border; that’s one inch thick, kid.  Go ahead, you can touch it. You can’t hurt me, because I’m made of BRONZE.  Big Bronze in the Bronx. He’s the Bronx Bomber. I’m the Bronze Bomber. Get it, kid?

Hey, Mickey’s Plaque, did you see the kid checking me out?  He’s looking at you and you weigh 120 pounds!  I weigh 760 pounds.  Do you hear that, Mickey’s plaque?  You weigh less than Pee Wee Reese.  You weigh less than Wee Willie Keeler.  You guys are all shrimp plaques.  You were good ball players, but your plaques are shrimps.

Hey kid. Be sure to tell your friends to take a tour. Tell them, if they want to see the most gigantous, beautiful plaque in the world, come out here.  Thanks, kid.

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Manuella Being Manuella  

Manny Ramirez was suspended from baseball for using hCG (human chorionic gonadotropin), a women’s fertility drug which helps steroid users restart testosterone production when they come off a steroid cycle.

Many suspect, because of the hCG, Manny was using steroids. However, we’ve heard a different, possibly ridiculous theory:  the drug is also used in the hormonal treatment for pre-transsexuals.

Could it be? Could the most macho man in baseball decide he no longer wished to be a “he?” Could the most macho man in baseball decide he’s tired of being a “Manny?”

Possible theory: you carry that name all your life—Manny, Manny, Manny—and one day you wake up and wonder what would it be like to be Margarita or Manuella?  What would it be like not to have a penis?

“Does my butt look big in this uniform?”

Crazy theory, right? No possible way Manny might be exhibiting the traits of a pre-transy. Manny never gets moody, right? No, never! You’ll never find Manny decide he does not want to run out a base hit. “Well, today, I just did not feel like running.” Manny would never do that.

It’s a crazy theory. Does Manny like to wear his hair long like Jennifer Lopez? Of course not!

Does Manny ever say he doesn’t want to play because “Manny wants to clear his head?”

Clear his head? Looking for an epiphany like Julia Roberts in “Eat. Pray. Love?”  No, not the most macho man in baseball! Manny would never do that. 

What if a teammate hurt his leg, and it was Manny’s day off, and the manager came to Manny and asked if he would play? Manny would never say “No, I don’t feel like it.” See, Manny’s not a pre-transy.

Manny would never wear earrings like a girl, and then insist the entire team scour the third base area looking for a missing diamond stud.  That’s not Manny.

Let’s go back to the clubhouse. We’re pretty sure Manny’s no transy in a training bra.

Manny, we’re checking out a theory. We have a few questions:

“The movie ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’” says Manny being Manny. “Julia Roberts, she downs a load of carbs, doesn’t gain a pound. Her figure… carumba. How does she do it?”

Manny, ummm, we’re trying to figure…

“Have you tried J-Lo’s new Glow perfume?” asks Manny, being Manny. “I like it much better than Deseo. Too much jasmine in Deseo.”

Manny, there are times, ummm, when they…

“Look in this mirror!” says Manny, “Ozzie wants me to trim my dreads. I’m thinking down to here… or here. What do you think? Here… or here?”

Manny, you keep changing locations, new homes, selling your condos, what’s that about?

“A guy needs a change of scenery. I love to decorate. Is that a crime? Now I’m working with purples and greens. Do you like paisley?”

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The Gift of the Yogi

“Mr. President, I have a gift for you…”

The scene is Nancy’s Restaurant in Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard.  Press Corps is gathered outside as Tom Murro has just shaken hands with President Obama, hoping to deliver a gift from the 85-year-old American sports hero, Yogi Berra. 

Tom Murro, known as the “Celebrity Magnet,” knows he only has a few seconds  — two seconds in most cases – to greet the President and deliver the gift from the American sports hero.   

He grasps the President’s hand for that an extra three seconds just as the president is approaching the next person in line. 

“From Yogi Berra,” Murro says, offering a framed photo. 

The president’s ears perk up when he hears Yogi’s name.  As he looks down at the photo, he smiles to see two American legends in action — Yogi Berra tagging Jackie Robinson at home plate.  On the photo, Yogi has penned:  “Dear Mr. President– He was out.” 

Mr. Murro , having planned for weeks to present the gift on Thursday (tomorrow)  at a golf course on Martha’s Vineyard, is pleased that today (Wednesday), the delivery is complete.

For even though he had made arrangements and discussed the delivery of the gift with members of president’s staff, the possibility of delivering a gift during a golf outing remained chancy. 

Weather, national emergency, any number of reasons can make delivering a gift to any sitting president nearly a logistical impossibility, much less doing so during an official vacation.

Murro says to the president:  “I met you last year when you were playing golf with Spike Lee.”  The president says he remembers.   And then asks, “Your contact information is here, with this gift?” 

“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Tom the “Celebrity Magnet.”        

This is a follow-up to a story written August 23^rd when we reported of Murro’s desire to deliver Yogi’s gift. In that story found here, we emphasize the “Magnet’s” Kismetic good fortune in being at the right place at precisely the right time to meet certain celebrities.

Is it really just luck? Or is something beyond human understanding at play here? 

We’re not the only ones marveling at the surprising events. For right after the president asks Murro about his contact information, a member of the press corps says to Tom Murro:  “Some people have a horseshoe up their butt….  You seem to have a whole case of them.” 

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Now on the docket – Roger the Rocket. Except the grand jury felt he should instead be wearing Roger Staubach’s nickname.

The indictment cites 15 instances of Clemens obstructing Congress. “Hell, only 15?” Clemens asks, “I’ve struck out more batters than that in one game.”

The indictment drips in strangeness.

Our theory is that Clemens, back in February of 2008, embarked on a strategy of denial, thinking that even if he is indicted of obstruction his buddy, George W., would pardon him.

Perhaps he did not realize congress moves EVEN slower than one of his games.

Strange… drippingly strange. How strange was this experience? Hark back to February 13th, 2008 in the Senate hearing room. See how this sounds:

Clemens Steroid Testimony Gets Weird

Voice of Polygraph Operator: I’m sorry, that is NOT the truth

Mark Wahlberg: When Brian McNamee injected both you and your wife with HGH, how many years younger did he say you both would look – 3 years, 5 years or 8 years?

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“Gracias.” 

“If they know the real you, they know you do not cheat. They know you have a heart as big as Lake Michigan.”

“Gracias, amigo,” Sammy signals two fingers from the heart to his lips.
   
A strolling mariachi band swings by. The bagpipe looks out of place.

“What pleases you to start today?” asks O’Malley.

“Antes de nada (First of all) I start with the Cork Salad con Salsa.”

“Cork salad con salsa for Sosa?” O’Malley has fun with the order, repeating it over and over as he heads back to the kitchen. “Cork salad con salsa for Sosa, salad con salsa for Sosa.”

“What did he say, Sonia? Salsa for Sosa? Nah.” Sammy asks as Sonia, his wife, returns to the table.

The Mariachi Band is playing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling.”

This time the bagpipe shines. In honor of their favorite guest they change the title of the following song to “Oh, Sammy Boy.”

“Oh, Sammy Boy… the pipes, the pipes are calling. From Glen to glen…you had a practice bat. It came from Cork and all the flowers are dying….Oh, Sammy Boy…” 

“What was that song?” Sammy asks his wife Sonia, not sure he heard right.

Other entertainers are coming to the stage as the mariachi band takes a break. It’s usually a mix of Spanish and Irish music and limericks.

Tonight a trio of Cuban gals, Las Sacacorchos (the Corkscrews), celebrate their new release Ponga un Corcho en Su Boca (put a cork in it).

Sammy is pleased to see this Cuban group. They start singing “You talk too much. You talk too much. Hablas demasiado. Hablas demasiado. Ponga un corcho en su boca.”

“What did I hear?” Sammy asks Sonia as Corky O’Malley brings his cork salad con salsa.

“And for your main course may I recommend South American Bat? Sixteen inch wingspan served with Irish potatoes. It is very good with Guinness.”

“How is it cooked?” asks Sammy.

“Either blackened or grilled over cork.”

“Grilled over cork? That sounds delicious, South American Corked Bat, I’ll take it.”

The Cuban band has left the stage and the limerick master has replaced them. He starts with Sammy’s favorite: “There was a young man from Cork. His….”

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Yogi vs Casey Quote War: Top That     

This week we’re making the quote face-off battle between two of the funniest baseball managers of all time – Yogi Berra and Casey Stengel. Both were Yankees, one played for the other and it should be classic. We’ll try to keep it on baseball but you never know about Yogi, he sometimes wanders. We’ll see where this takes us but we’ll start off by asking Casey about the punctuality of his players:

    CS: I got players with bad watches – they can’t tell midnight from noon.
    YB: I knew I was going to take the wrong train, so I left early.

Yogi, you played for Casey. Guys, give us an idea of the banter between you.

    CS: Sure I played, did you think I was born at the age of 70 sitting in a dugout trying to manage guys like you?
    YB: Think!? How the hell are you going to think and hit at the same time?

    CS: I was such a dangerous hitter I even got intentional walks in batting practice.
    YB: Slump? I ain’t in no slump. I just ain’t hitting.

Casey and Yogi, you were great managers but not particularly organized. Give us examples of your managerial style.

    CS: All right, everybody line up alphabetically according to your height.
    YB: If you don’t know where you’re going, you will wind up somewhere else.

    CS: If we’re going to win the pennant, we’ve got to start thinking we’re not as good as we think we are,
    YB: Baseball is 90% mental – the other half is physical.

    CS: Managing is getting paid for home runs someone else hits.
    YB: The other teams could make trouble for us if they win.

    CS: Nobody knows this yet, Kid, but one of us has been traded to Kansas City.
   YB: He can run anytime he wants. I’m giving him the red light.

    CS: The secret of managing is to keep the guys who hate you away from the guys who are undecided.
    YB: If the fans don’t come out to the ball park, you can’t stop them.

You’ve both been honored quite a bit. Tell us what you said on those occasions.

    CS: I feel honored to have a ballpark named after me, especially since I’ve been thrown out of so many.
    YB: On Yogi Berra Appreciation day I want to thank you for making this day necessary.

Players and people in general have approached you for advice. Can you share?

    CS: You have to go broke three times to learn how to make a living.
    YB: You asked me what I’d do if I found a million dollars? I’d find the fellow who lost it, and, if he was poor, I’d return it.

    CS: There comes a time in every man’s life, and I’ve had plenty of them.
    YB: If you can’t imitate him, don’t copy him.

    CS: When you are younger you get blamed for crimes you never committed and when you’re older you begin to get credit for virtues you never possessed. It evens itself out.
    YB: If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

    CS: It’s wonderful to meet so many friends that I didn’t used to like.
    YB: Someone told me I looked cool. I said ‘Thanks, you don’t look so hot yourself.’

Casey, so how’d you like having this quote battle? Yogi is tough to beat, right?

    CS: They say he (Yogi Berra) is funny. Well…
    YB: I didn’t really say everything I said.

    CS: They say he (Yogi Berra) is funny. Well…
    YB: This is like déjà vu all over again.

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