Earlier this month, when the great Dom DeLuise passed, I asked the Sox to win that night’s game for Dom. “Not DiMaggio,” I wrote, “Dom DeLuise.”
Then, a few days later, Dom DiMaggio actually did die, which was pretty eerie. Like the time I started talking to someone out of the blue about that flick, The Last Supper, only to find it on cable that very evening. The lesson here is don’t mess with my wizard-like ways! But on a more serious note, I never took the time to give Mr. DiMaggio his proper respects. And nothing I can conjure would do him justice like this piece on his work with the Jimmy Fund.
Meanwhile, I’ve become oddly addicted to Coco Crisp’s tweets, my personal fave being, “Went out with some of my boyz from Inglewood high last night, I forgot how crazy they are. Fat, pretty, skinny, whatever they talked to… everyone and everything that walked through the door and no alcohol involved either. thats just a snippet it was a short but hella fun night.” In this age of The Fake Steve Buscemi, who am I to know if it’s the True Covelli dropping all this science. But it’s still top notch.
