Posted October 24, 2007 in News


This week’s subpoena of a House of Representatives aide who worked closely with Rep. Jerry Lewis (R-Redlands) probably has nothing to do with the recent resignation of Attorney General Alberto Gonzales over the alleged politicization of the U.S. Attorneys Offices, but it certainly makes for a sweet coincidence. The investigation into Lewis’ dealings with lobbyists has inexplicably been on hold for months. But with Gonzales gone—and Thomas O’Brien on the job in the U.S. attorney’s office in Los Angeles for only a week—a subpoena from a federal grand jury is issued seeking documents and testimony from Greg Lankler, who worked under Lewis on the Defense Appropriations Committee. So far, nobody has actually charged Lewis with any wrongdoing. But if nothing else, it’ll give Lewis something to answer for as he runs for re-election.



Former San Bernardino County sheriff deputy Matthew Linderman is arraigned on charges he solicited sexual favors from four women he detained while on duty. That’s probably a relief to the women who Linderman allegedly sexually battered, solicited oral copulation under threat of arrest and pressured for bribes. It’s probably a shock to people who shop at the Victorville mall where Linderman had been reassigned after his arrest.



Opening-round reportage from the Samsung World Championship in Palm Desert hits the local sports pages, and lots of stories note the obvious—that former prodigy Michelle Wie turns 18 today and observes the occasion by drifting further still from her potential. She shoots a 79, while later-comer Lorena Ochoa of Mexico shoots a wonderful 68. Riverside Press-Enterprise columnist Gregg (yeah, with three g’s) Patton takes that tack, too, but as usual he turns the typical into something special. Like, get this sentence he uses early to tell his readers where his column is going: “If Wie is more famous than accomplished as a pro, her career having evolved backwards, Ochoa is the more classically constructed star.” That’s good. Later, Patton notes that Ochoa “has a give-back mentality and a generosity of soul that often eludes young athletes, especially those who are pampered and feted before they can drive. Ochoa is known for meeting with course maintenance crews before each tournament, a self-directed outreach ambassador in a sport that caters to the most affluent of audiences.” That’s great. Or as Gregg might write it, gggreat. What is with that extra G, anyway?



Eddie Gip Noble is spending another Friday night behind the piano at Mama Carpino’s in Apple Valley, and at some point during his four-hour set he’s going to sing “Love T.K.O.,” the rhythm-and-blues song that Teddy Pendergrass turned into a hit in 1980. Noble wrote the song in what might seem like another lifetime, except that he’s never stopped singing it and has just released it on his own album, which is titled—yep—Love T.K.O. But the story of that song is an aberration in the longer story of Noble’s life, which has revolved around the piano since he began to play when he was four years old growing up in Chicago. After moving to Hesperia in 1995, Noble played piano
at the Mall of the Victor Valley
for a decade, performing in the mall’s food court until January of this year. Now you can catch his act—and buy his record – at Mama Carpino’s. Of such trivia are music’s real legends made.





The Planes of Fame museum throws itself the final party of its 50th anniversary year, a wine-tasting gala called “A Taste of Flight”—and though we don’t get the connection between alcohol and aviation, we gotta assume Orville and Wilbur had a little nip o’ something to get their courage up at Kitty Hawk. Anyway, 50 years is a pretty long time—long enough that Planes of Fame is the oldest aviation museum west of the Mississippi. Not long enough that I’ve ever visited, though. You?



Michael Clayton is the best movie of the year.



The Big Bear Grizzly puts out a request to its readers for their original ghost stories, to be printed in special Halloween issue, and I’m scared already. First of all, this is not only the least original idea for filling a Halloween issue, but the most terrifying—well, if you’re somebody who is terrified by the idea of being literally bored to death. And don’t think that’s not what the Grizzly’s editors—lore has it they are back-from-the-dead spirits of failed former journalists—have in their diabolical minds. The rules of the contest are configured to be sure that nothing capable of stimulating the brain will make it into any of the ghost stories—entries are limited to 200 words, they must be “suitable for any age . . . not too scary” . . . and thirdly, their talent pool is composed of people who read the Big Bear Grizzly. Finally, on October 31, the sedative little tales are printed, consumed and an entire little town drifts . . . slowly . . . off . . . to sleep . . . forever


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