Gavin Kendall

Ten days. Sure. Calf strains in the Bronx age like milk. He’ll rehab, take a few swings, tweak it again in some meaningless September game, and they’ll call it precautionary. Tampa keeps winning. The division slips away. October arrives with Judge in a hoodie on the bench while the front office explains how this roster was built to survive it. It wasn’t. Enjoy the coin flip.

Show me games played. Then we’ll talk.

Major economic boost." Sure. Where’s the number? No projected rate impact, no grid reliability data, no health cost offset. Just manufacturers cheering and regulators shrugging. If scrapping these standards is such a windfall, show me the kilowatt-hour price drop on my next bill. Until then, this is a press release dressed up as economics.

Cheap energy was the trick holding this together. Now every barrel gets paid for in a weaker yen and thinner paychecks, while the central bank picks its favorite disaster — inflation or a currency in free fall. Households lose either way. There’s no clever fix coming. Just a longer, more expensive grind, and a government pretending it’s temporary.

Cute. We’ll call it teaching, then sell the footage and pave that forest for palm oil. Progress.

Stop the presses: farmers who stored barley and wheat also kept figs. Who could have predicted that a cave full of grain had more food in it? Dried fruit survives millennia — that’s the entire purpose of drying it. Next headline: ancient humans reportedly ate. Somewhere, a grant application just wrote itself. Riveting.

So the Manhunters are a Guardian screw-up, they shrug and try again — who exactly signs off on my recurring nightmare?

Combining biomarkers—who could’ve guessed it.

I keep thinking about Tarantino getting Travolta to say yes to Pulp Fiction after a dinner at his place—same playbook, different decade. A good meal and a captive audience still beats a formal pitch meeting.