Loudly

Two days after their flag was displayed upside-down at Game 2 of the World Series between the Atlanta Braves and Toronto Blue Jays, thousands of Canadians loudly responded Tuesday night before Game 3. They stood and sang the U.S. national anthem. They sang it louder than it was sung in Atlanta last weekend, and when Jon Secada sang "land of the free," they erupted in cheers.

All he asks, Los Angeles City Atty. Carmen Trutanich frequently says, is that voters judge him on his record. As he wages an uphill battle to hang onto to his job in the May 21 election, Trutanich rattles off a list of reasons he should be "rehired" to head one of the nation's largest municipal law firms. He cites a substantially reduced reliance on costly outside attorneys, favorable outcomes in lawsuits that he says have saved taxpayers more than $300 million and a crackdown on illegal billboards that activists called scourges on their neighborhoods.

For Jung Joon, the moment of truth arrives for his clients as they slip into the casket and he pounds the lid in place with a wooden hammer. Insights arise, he says, as they are confronted with total, claustrophobic darkness, left alone to weigh their regrets and ponder eternity. Jung, a slight 39-year-old with an undertaker's blue suit and a preacher's demeanor, is a resolute counselor on the ever-after who welcomes clients with the invitation, "OK, today let's get close to death."

The first time I experienced a Korean spa, I was a youngster, visiting my grandparents in Taegu, South Korea. The shallowness of the oval tub reminded me of our local kiddie pool, except everyone was female, not a bathing suit was in sight and there wasn't an ice cream stand. In recent months, I have started visiting the mogyoktang , or Korean spa, in Los Angeles' Koreatown. Korean is the preferred language at the spa, but I don't speak it, despite my Korean roots.

He has a Harley in his garage, LSD in his past and a "liveskunk" he occasionally holds in his lap aboard airplanes. He talks up Jesus at stadiums and on surfboards. And he gets letters threatening his life. Greg Laurie, the man behind all those Harvest Crusade bumper stickers, has carved out an unusual niche among evangelists.

Her eyes are his eyes. On the bad days, when little Tatum Fisher can't stop crying and can't begin to understand, Derek Fisher's clear eyes cloud. "Sometimes in the morning, I want to call Phil and tell him I just can't make the shoot-around, I just need to be home," he says. "But as one of this team's leaders, that's not something I can do."

DALLAS - It's remarkable how slow - and disjointed - architecture can sometimes appear. For nearly a decade, younger architects have pushed for a new agenda in the profession. They've been loudly (and rightly) critical of the expensive, highly mannered and sometimes self-indulgent trophy buildings turned out by some of the world's most prominent architects. And they've helped bring different and more public-minded priorities to the fore. And yet the trophy buildings keep coming.

A good set of tires has always made a big difference in safety, fuel economy and handling, but one area that is getting new attention is the quality of tires to reduce or increase the amount of noise a vehicle makes. Tire manufacturers are racing to develop tires that reduce noise, aiming to meet tough new standards mandated by European and Asian nations that want to reduce noise pollution. Though U.S.

When I heard that a national law to ban loud TV commercials had taken force in December, I was skeptical. Why did we need a Commercial Advertisement Loudness Mitigation Act (CALM), I wondered, when more urgent issues demanded action? There were nations to invade, marriages to prohibit, guns to enshrine. Loud commercials were just an itch - to scratch it would be like trying to pay the mortgage and replace a burned-out light bulb. If we can ignore global warming, we can ignore loud commercials.

Behind the wheel of his tour bus, Don Baisa prays. Please. Give me George Clooney today, he thinks as tourists scramble aboard the 12-seat, open-top van marked "City Tours!" Or Charlize Theron. Or Jennifer Aniston. Will Ferrell. He'd take Will Ferrell. Baisa, a 61-year-old veteran of the tour bus scene with a neatly groomed, salt-and-pepper mustache, knows what his passengers want during their two-hour journey through Hollywood and Beverly Hills. Spotting stars means big tips.