The site is called Mediaite, and according to publisher Dan Abrams' mission statement, it hopes to become "the must-read for anyone interested in media, the business of it and the personalities behind it." At this point, it is perfectly acceptable for the rest of you to throw a shoe at your computer.

As you might have noticed, the world of media is imploding upon itself like a dying star. (That sentence there? Science.) Because we are the media, we keep making a big deal out of this, and the public, perhaps quite justifiably, is responding with a resounding, "Christ, about time!" Why does everyone hate the media so much? I posit that sites like Mediaite — along with Gawker, of course, and MediaBistro and anything else that acts like people in media are somehow more interesting or important than people who have, you know, real jobs — are a major part of the problem. From my experience, 27 percent of the people who work in media (and I'm using the Mediaite definition of media, which is pretty much "anyone who gets paid for typing, talking or figuring out how to fire people who type or talk") are journalists in the truest sense, out to enlighten the public for common good, altruistic believers in the fourth estate and its power to invoke change. The other 73 percent are pretending to be that 27 percent and really just trying to promote their own personal brand. In the past, this has always been an inside joke, something for media folk to snicker about in private. Mediaite breaks with the pretense and just states what everyone already knew: This is really what it's all about. It's not about informing the public. It's not about being good at your job. It's about being known, and being recognized. Mediaite doesn't damn this, not at all, not nearly as much as they should: They just point it out ... and then they prove it. They're excellent at that.

By far, the most entertaining and popular section of Mediaite is their Power Grid, which ranks reporters, columnists, editors, anchors, executives and talk show hosts by their "buzz" ranking, or some such meaningless word tossed out in a dead conference room somewhere.

But wait, you ask: Isn't the media dying? Yes! It totally is! This is the last gasp. It would make more sense to have a Plumberite, or a Morticianite, or a Forecloserite, you know, professions that are actually growing and have a concrete future. (They make more money than most media people too, and are generally more attractive.) But plumbers and morticians aren't self-indulgent assholes! They don't assume that just because they care about what they're doing, everyone else does. They'd never start a site like that. That's our job.

All this said: I'm pretty obsessed with that Power List too. You can probably guess whether I'm in the 27 percent or the 73 percent.

I mean, look! Deadspin has a page! Aw, there's Daulerio's! (Taken, hilariously, from this photo set.) And Dash's! And Drew's! And Craggs! And Simmons! And Reilly! And Lupica! And Me! You don't care about this at all. But I guarantee you every person on that list — with the possible exception of Craggs, who will be too busy counting the number of sentences Joe Morgan ends with a preposition — will be checking that number incessantly. Am I going up? Am I going down? The number doesn't mean anything. (Any list that has me above Eugene Robinson is a profoundly flawed list.) But we will watch it anyway. Because we are pathetic.

And this is why you hate us. I, for one, accept your scorn.

Kobe Bryant. In the last three weeks, pretty much ever since the Lakers won the title, I've received four different promotional packets for Kobe Bryant's "Black Mamba" watch. What is this? Witness. It's the "Most Complex Watch Case Ever Engineered." And it costs $25,000. For some reason, the makers of the watch — some company in Switzerland — has been begging me to write about it. Here's their paragraph: "Swiss watchmaker, Nubeo, will be introducing the Black Mamba collection, at Baselworld 2009, which begins on Thursday March 26th. They have recruited one of the best basketball players in the world, Kobe Bryant, to promote this new collection. The Nubeo Black Mamba collection's main draw, other than being backed by one of the NBA's best, is its 131 component case. The Black Mamba features a 48 mm case made of titanium treated with DLC. The bezel is ceramic. Rubber is used on the crowns, pushers and strap. Water-resistance is 100 meters. The collection starts at $25,000." It's a ridiculously expensive watch with Kobe Bryant's self-inflicted pet name. Happy to help promote, gentlemen. Let's try to keep it orderly, buying masses.

Joey Chestnut. I enjoyed Cajun Boy's writeup of the July 4 Hot Dog Eating Championships almost as much — almost! — as I enjoyed my own. It's truly an event that every American should witness at some point in their lives, and the sad thing is that I'm not even kidding. But they threw in a wrinkle this year a day before the ceremony that I could have done without. Right next to the competitors, there were elephants. As you would probably expect, they ate four times as many hot dogs as their human opponents, and, as the Associated Press points in uncharacteristically wry fashion, "they even paused to eat some fresh fruit, which was not counted toward scoring." Competitive eating is one of humanity's grandest inventions, and it's depressing to learn that animals, even if they don't understand what is going on, are still so much better than us. (Related: The time a bear beat Kobayashi.) Just to exact vengeance, the next two competitive eating events should involve eating elephants and bears.

Bernie Ecclestone. In the future, when scientists have figured out a way to make us grow a foot taller, run 5 mph faster and lactate from dorsal moles with just one little pill, I hope they figure out a dosage that eradicates the word "Hitler" from the vocabulary. You can never, ever go right, whatever your analogy: At this point, it's offensive even to compare Hitler to himself. I did enjoy the Formula One fellow — and by "fellow," I mean "I have no idea what this person does for Formula One, and am somewhat hazy on what Formula One actually is" — going far afield with his "Hitler got things done" comment, and not just because Hitler was rather lousy at getting things done. (That guy would spend hours on a Sudoku puzzle, first off.) These types of sports gaffes usually happen more with Europeans than Americans, but I'm not sure we should feel particularly pleased about that: I suspect it just means that about 3 percent of American athletes have heard the name "Hitler" in the first place.

Ryan Franklin. So, there's no Manny Ramirez or Alex Rodriguez to sully up our All-Star Game this year, so clearly, the Age Of Steroids is over, and we can all go back to our lives. This is the All-Star Game That Will End The Steroid Era, the one when small-ball defensive specialists like Ryan Howard and Josh Hamilton reclaim the game that was always theirs. But, lest we forget: There is a proven PED user on the All-Star team this year: Cardinals closer Ryan Franklin, who was busted in August 2005, when he was with the Mariners. He was handed a 10-game suspension, but nobody cared, because it was Ryan Franklin, and who the hell is Ryan Franklin? Well, now he's an All-Star, and still nobody cares, and Lord, why should they. Charles Pierce has a solid column about fans making their peace with steroids, and even though he's about two-three years late on that observation, that's OK, the message is filtering up (down?) a little bit. By 2045, Bill Plaschke will no longer stop people on the street to ask them why they aren't more outraged. By the way, when you watch the game next Tuesday — and I say that knowing that few of you will actually be watching the game — marvel at Franklin's ridiculous goatee, which I think is fastened to his jersey with its top button.

John Henry. Facts most people don't realize about Red Sox owner John Henry:

*** He grew up a Cardinals fan in Quincy, Illinois.
*** He made his initial money in soybean futures.
*** He bought the Red Sox for $200 million less than the Cubs were just bought for.
*** He has an oddly compelling Twitter.
*** Henry was giving interviews to Rob Neyer about Bill James, sabermetrics and used to play dork Tabletop Baseball, which was like Strat-o-Matic except they had to play it by rubbing sticks together to make fire.

Anyway, John Henry's kind of a fascinating guy who seems to be living the American Dream, which is why, somehow, I found myself not hating him when he got married to an saucy 30-year-old at Fenway Park while guests had their pictures taken in front of the Green Monster (and Larry David showed up!). Life's been good to John Henry. Jerk. Makes one want to start studying soybean futures, like, right now.

Casey Kasem. With all the celebrity deaths of late, it's a little shocking to realize that, lo, Casey Kasem is still alive. He's 77 years old, and he officially left the Top 40 countdown last weekend, saying, "this decision will free up time I need to focus on myriad other projects." I have no idea what those "myriad other projects" are: Can we just assume those projects involve "dying." No offense to the man: Casey Kasem, in a similar fashion to Michael Jackson, is a relic of that time when the top 40 songs in the country mattered to humanity. I mostly just remember Kasem's Long Distance Dedications, which, to my recollection, were always Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings." Kasem also was the voice of Shaggy, of course, which makes this awesome rant that much more entertaining. ".I want a goddamn concerted effort to come out of a record that isn't a fucking up-tempo record every time I gotta do a goddamn death dedication!" Oh, and don't forget Kasem's report on the laser technology of compact discs.

Michael Kay. Every town has its local celebrity sportscasters — I always felt this was the one aspect Anchorman got wrong; it could have done so much more with Champ Kind — and New York, now that Warner Wolf and company are fading, has Michael Kay, the official Iraqi spokesperson for the Yankees Entertainment and Sports Network. Kay is everywhere in New York, with a local radio show, like, six shows on YES and, of course, his TV gig as the play-by-play man for the Yankees. Now that he's officially The Voice Of The Yankees, he has cut down on his infamous crazed talking-about-a-perfect-game-equals-putting-people-in-ovens rants. But living here, I think I hear his voice more than anyone else's, and it might be driving me crazy. Fortunately, there's an antidote: The amazing Fake Michael Kay Twitter, which digs so deep into the announcer's lunatic brain I suspect it'll never get out. Every Tweet begins with Kay's condescending trademark "Hey Fans!" and then goes into crazy land from there. It has made listening to him enjoyable, because I can't wait to see what Fake Michael Kay will say. Over the weekend, Jon Heyman "reported" that the real Michael Kay finds the Fake Michael Kay "hilarious." I do not believe that he really thinks that.

Pedro Martinez. According to the aforementioned Heyman, Pedro plans to sign with a team this week. It could be the Cubs, or the Rays, or the Phillies, but it'll be somebody, and we'll have Pedro back. It's odd how Pedro already seems like a relic. (You'd think he did steroids or something.) One would think the ideal destination, if just to assuage that Fierce Competitor Ryan Braun, would be Milwaukee, but, according to Heyman, Pedro was late to his Brewers tryout and the scout left. (Bless his heart.) By now, I assume Pedro throws his fastball around 65 miles per hour, which is fine, of course: As long as he has the Jheri Curl still, we'll all be happy. Now watch: He'll end up winning a World Series for the Cubs. If that happens, we will never, ever be rid of Pedro Martinez.

Steve McNair. I felt the most touching tribute to McNair, in an odd way, was KSK's "McNair murdered, expected to start Saturday" Tweet. It sums up what everyone thought about McNair before this weekend: The toughest motherhumper in a league full of them. I don't know anything about his death and won't pretend to guess, so I'll shut up about that except to say that it's horrible. (Always listen to Spencer Hall, people. He is always right.) I will say this: If McNair's Titans had come back to win that Super Bowl over the Rams, is McNair a bigger legend than he is? Remember how amazing he was on that drive? If Kevin Dyson can reach one ... foot ... farther ... maybe the Titans send that game into overtime, and then win it. McNair and the Titans are not historic footnotes. The man is not The Toughest Guy Ever; he's The Guy Who Somehow Won The Super Bowl Nearly By Himself. One foot short, that ball. I maintain that's the best play in NFL history. So much of sport, so much of the world, so much of life, wrapped up in that idea: You do everything right, you reach out to reach the goal ... and someone behind you pulls you back just one foot short. And then everything is different, from then on.

Gary Oldman. It took Rainn Wilson's and Sarah Silverman's Twitters for me to notice it, but I can't believe it was just last week that I finally learned about Tiptoes. What's Tiptoes? It's a direct-to-DVD film that came out in 2003 starring Matthew McConaughey, Kate Beckinsale and Gary Oldman. What's it about? Well, it's your typical romantic comedy: McConaughey meets Beckinsale and falls in love with her. He then takes her to meet his family, and, as it turns out ... they're all dwarfs! No, really: That's the plot of the movie. And Oldman plays one of the dwarfs. Via Videogum — which was a few months ahead of me on this — here's how Beckinsale described his performance: "He was on his knees. He was basically on his knees with a prosthetic part of his head and face and a hump and different kinds of harnesses to strap his arms back to make them short, and special clothes. They had various different effects, like if he was sitting in a chair, his legs would actually be inside the chair and he'd have these little fake legs sticking out on top. It was amazing what they did with him." Bwahahahahahaha! Obviously, someone realized right after the movie was wrapped that this was a terrible and, uh, kinda offensive idea, and it was ushered to DVD while everyone hoped the world didn't notice. And until the last few months, few did. Everyone go buy this immediately. Remember: Dwarfs, not midgets. Midgets is a slur.

I don't mean that in a glib way. (Mostly.) The strangely moving aspect of Michael Jackson's death was how we so quickly dismissed the freakshow he'd become over the last 20 years and focused almost solely on the music, and just how fucking great it really was. His death shouldn't have shocked us as much as it did; clearly, something was wrong with that guy. But it did what death is supposed to do: It gave us the needed perspective to hark back and reevaluate the artist, understand what it was we'd truly lost, give us something to all share as one. If you would have told me two weeks ago that Michael Jackson's death would turn into a week of shared grief, I would have thought you were crazy. That weirdo? Come on. And now that it has happened, in retrospect, it seems obvious we'd react this way. We'll actually all remember where we were when Michael Jackson died. Never would have thought that.

And it got me to thinking: What sports deaths would cause us to have that reaction? Who in sports could die right now and jolt people in that way? Who would shake us like that? Whose death would cause such an unconscious re-evaluation?

So, this week's Ten Humans is a thought experiment. It's my list of the 10 people in sports who, if they were to die tomorrow, would inspire similar recalculations in the public consciousness. Whose death would affect us the most? It's a little morbid, I grant you. But I think it's instructive.

A few parameters to let you know where I'm coming from:

1. Age Matters. If, say, Willie Mays died tomorrow, it would be tragic and awful, and it would cause countless reminisces from Baby Boomers — I'm pretty sure there'd be a Bob Costas-Billy Crystal special within the hour — but I'm not sure it would be shocking. That is to say: Willie Mays is 78 years old. The same goes for Vin Scully, or Bob Pettit. Epic figures. Great men. But old. Their death loses points because of their own longevity. Sorry.

2. Culture Importance. Stan Musial was a better baseball player than Pete Rose, but he hasn't contributed nearly as much to the national conversation as Charlie Hustle. We account for that.

3. Historical Recalculation. When Michael Jackson died, we really did dismiss the weirdness — and, perhaps, evil — and remembered what truly made him great. We even felt a little bad for forgetting about that in the first place. That's a factor too: Roger Maris' death grew in significance because we had pegged so wrong in the first place. Our own guilt, revisited upon death, adds to the equation. It's the Man, now that we look at it, we were harsh to that guy principle.

4. Shock Value. Obviously, we remember Len Bias' death more because he was 22 when he died. In the same way you are inherently sadder when a relative dies suddenly than you are when they've spent 15 years slowly wasting away in a funeral home. It's not fair — after all, dead is dead, and it sucks to die no matter how old you are — but them's the breaks.

5. Specific Vivid Memories. The true joy from the Tyson movie — the only real joy, if you ask me — is watching the montage of knockouts, those massive bursts of violence that made him Mike Freaking Tyson. Anyone who watched sports back then remembers just how amazing it was to watch Tyson, and can share those memories, in the same way you could share memories of the Michael Jackson Trapper Keeper you had in the third grade.

Anyway, those are the parameters I'm working from here. What deaths would effect sports fans in a Michael Jackson way today? Here are my nominees. Let's hear yours too.

Muhammad Ali. Kind of a no-brainer, and even though he's old — only 67, actually — and feeble, the public outpouring of affection for him would be enough to stop most normal conversation for a day or so. ESPN's upcoming "30 for 30" documentary series — which you'll be hearing a ton about over the next couple of months — features one film on Ali's fight with Larry Holmes, back when Ali had a mustache and got himself pummeled. It's going to inspire a whole other round of Ali worship ... not that he'll need it. Ali was dominant, important and charismatic, and his late-in-life deification has allowed most people to forget how truly (and unfairly) despised he was at one point by the national media that now reveres him. I think Jeremy Schapp will be on television for 30 consecutive hours when Ali dies.

Charles Barkley. It's insane what Barkley gets away with, even today. Let's not forget: Not only did he get charged with a DUI a few months ago, he told cops it was because "I was gonna drive around the corner and get a blow job." He took a month off, and by the time he had returned, everyone had forgotten about it. Barkley is charming, funny and hilariously blunt, and all this obscures that there seem to be some legitimate demons bubbling underneath there somewhere. (The guy threw a man through a plate-glass window.) Generally speaking, we've all had this quiet grand vision for Barkley; he's too smart and fascinating not to run for public office, or cross over to the mainstream non-sports culture in some dramatic way. But he's not living the most healthy life either. If Barkley died, there would be a palpable sense of loss, and what might have been. Plus, you could just run clips of him talking for about three full days.

Steve Bartman. The glory of Bartman is that he shut up. The guy could have had a reality show by this point, or become some sort of unofficial Cubs spokesman in the wake of the 2003 NLCS. But he didn't. He released one statement about his broken Cubs fan heart, and then was never heard from again. Still, we've all kind of assumed that at some point, he'd return, perhaps right before the Cubs made it to the World Series again, and all would be forgiven. Cubs fans would realize how awful they were to him — and they were quite awful — and the guy could reach full absolution by throwing out the first pitch. I bet he'd get a standing ovation, and we'd recognize the depth of our sins. But what if that didn't happen? What if he were hit by a bus this week? We'd never have closure on the Bartman story, never have a full conclusion to a story that we cruelly invented for him. Bartman would end as a ghost, just two minutes in the public eye, vanishing forever, leaving us alone, dealing with what we had wrought.

Larry Bird. Oh, heavens, to imagine the rending of garments and gnashing of teeth from the aging white sportswriter set! Bird was heaven-sent for the casual sports fan: Talented, hard-working, scrappy and, yes, white: He became the example of Doing It The Right Way even while hundreds of others were also, lo, doing it the right way. Bird's death would bring forth all the stories about how There Can Never Be Another Bird, even though there are Birds everywhere, particularly people fortunate enough not to have grown up in French Lick. Bird dying would be an elegy for a time period that never actually existed. And Lord, in New England no one would stop drinking for a month.

Magic Johnson. Along those lines, Magic's death would hark us back to that day in 1991, when two different worlds collided in a way nobody quite understood. In a way, Magic should die of a heart attack, or a kitchen accident: Something that has nothing to do with this HIV at all. (Considering it has been 18 years since he was diagnosed, this seems somewhat likely.) Magic has gone through so many incarnations that his death might, in a fashion similar to Michael Jackson, remind us of his true genius as a basketball player, rather than the embarrassing spectacles of his television work. We'd all find ourselves lucky to have had the extra time, even if he didn't always use it wisely.

Michael Jordan. Man, lots of basketball players here. Still, the other MJ has to be included. He's probably the closest we have in sports to a Michael Jackson, actually, someone who came around and dominated at the exact perfect social time to have everyone on the planet watching his every move. Jordan had our complete attention in a way no athlete has had since, and surely, the first week of retrospectives would be just like Jackson's, with everyone talking about where they were when he hit the Ehlo shot, or won his first title, or retired (the first time), or beat Byron Russell. We don't have many true traveling roadshows anymore, the circus coming and taking over, and Jordan and those Bulls teams might have been the last glimpse of it. Jordan's just young enough to that we'd all wonder what his next step would be; it still seems unbecoming that the great Jordan's final act could be as absentee president of the freaking Bobcats. There has to be a third act, right?

Pete Rose. For years, people have said the only way Rose is going to make the Hall of Fame is if he's willing to wait until after he dies. Well, we'll find out! I happen to be of the belief that Rose's sins were far worse and for damnable, in baseball terms, than using steroids or HGH or whatever, but with every year that passes, it's more obvious that my view is in the minority. Rose — a guy who becomes more profoundly unlikable the more you learn about him — could benefit from the whitewashing death provides a reputation, and he'd be seen as the sad exile rather than the monstrous pit of self-indulgence he ultimately became, and probably always was. A baseball player was once anonymously quoted as saying, "the only way you'd like Pete Rose was when he wasn't in the room." Death is the ultimate exit from the room. Rose's sins are the sort that we can't forgive while he's alive ... but are easy to let go once he's dead.

O.J. Simpson. There will be no re-evaluation on O.J.'s death: He'll go down in history as a brutal double-murderer, as a relic of a decade in which we, as a country, made a compulsion out of meticulously obsessing over events that didn't actually matter. (Simpson trial, Monica Lewinsky, Y2K.) In fact, it won't be as an athlete that we'll ever really think of O.J. Unlike Michael Jackson, it seems unlikely there will be a revisiting of Simpson's athletic career. As accomplished as his gridiron life was, there were no signature champion moments that could be replayed to offset the wretchedness of what would come later. O.J. was the beginning of empty, gawking culture, a culture we all revel in. Now we use it as distraction. Back then, the rest of the world, the part that didn't involve the O.J. trial, was the distraction. Simpson will be a symbol of a time in American history in which we were all very, very stupid. It seems fitting.

Mike Tyson. Even more so than Magic, the secret surprise about Tyson is that he didn't actually die before now. Tyson has comfortably settled into pseudo tragic hero / comedic punchline now, which is odd, because it wasn't that long ago that he seemed the very nexis of our entire sporting culture, the dividing line between Real Sports Fan and Gawking Sideshow Rubber Necker. Tyson's death would be perhaps the most similar to Jackson's; we watch the old videos of him and be reminded how dominant, how violent, how holyshit he really was at one point. His highs didn't last long, and they were over by the time most of us graduate from college, but at its best, there was nothing like it. It would be worth it to watch that over and over, and I suspect, ultimately, we'd forget the Robin Givens and the Mitch Green and the eating of children.

Vince Young. Ideally speaking — at least for this column's conceit — Young would have died three years ago, when he was at the peak of his powers, the amazing Texas quarterback who pulled off one the greatest single-game performances most of us have ever seen. He could have been our Len Bias then, the one who got away. Instead, he went pro, and that's when all the great college stories explode. But with Young, there's the sense of a mental issue, something in his brain standing in the way, an inner torment that perhaps even he does not understand. Young would be the ultimate little-boy-lost, a superhuman talent who reached the top and then collapsed before any of us, particularly him, noticed what was going on. Any list like this needs a true athletic tragedy. Young's is already happening. Hopefully he can turn it around ... but, as the song goes, enjoy yourself, it's later than you think.

Other nominees: Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Wayne Gretzky, Pele, LeBron James, Mark McGwire, Terrell Owens, Cal Ripken, Derrick Rose, Bud Selig, Bill Simmons, David Stern, Michael Vick, Tiger Woods.

PHOTO: SBB

I was assigned the story by the New York brass because I had considerable experience with upstart dot-coms, but I was outside of the loop on this one; Twitter was scary to me, someone who, as you might have noticed, prefers to write long, rather than in 140 character increments. I started my Twitter account because I thought it might be a fun gimmick for the story, a reporter updates readers on interview while it's going on type of thing. It didn't work out that way — thankfully, considering that's a really hacky way to write a story — but I ended up being hooked. But I'm not hooked on Tweeting. I'm hooked on reading Tweets. That has to be one of the more effeminate sentence combinations I've ever written. And I've written many.

As you know if you follow me on Twitter, I'm not the world's most entertaining Tweeter. Mostly, it's just links to stories I've written, banal updates on parental visits and conversations with Cardinals beat reporters. As a writer, I find Twitter useful mostly as an aggregate. But as a reader, it has become my morning newspaper. When I wake up in the morning, I log onto Twitter to find out what's happening in the world. Which is idiotic and utterly true.

To me, Twitter is the world's greatest RSS feed, allowing me to gather information from friends, colleagues, reporters, comedians and anyone else who regularly updates with information I care about. Movies? Check! TV reviews? Check! and Check! Hilarious stumbling and backtracking? Check! Smart media criticism? Check! and Check! Genius baseball wit? Check! Dry fake outrage? Check! Mattoon news? Check! I make my own newspaper every day. And I can unsubscribe to any section of the paper I want to, at any time.

This is nothing new, of course; Old Man Discovers Twitter. But what's interesting to me is that I find using Twitter almost as passive an experience as reading a newspaper. I update my own Twitter about as often as I wrote on my newspaper, which is to say, "occasionally." I just feel like everyone does it better than I do. I enjoy reading what other people have to say; some seem to have mastered the form. Twitter has become my morning news source, because I just pick and choose what I want and ignore the rest. This is why I'm growing stupider. This is why we all are. I couldn't be happier about it. I'll read the New York Times later, to explain what happens. For now, this'll work.

I'm not turning my icon green, though. I still support the Iranian people. Honest.

J.J. Abrams. My parents were here all weekend, and as with all parents visiting from out of town, eventually you run out of activities for them and everybody just collapses in front of the television. (Like we were gonna go to a museum or some shit.) Desperate, I strapped them in a chair to watch the pilot episode of "Lost," and now, of course, they're hooked, spending most of the rest of the week trying to figure out why the bald guy can walk now and who's going to be the lucky castaway to shoot Boone and Shannon in the face. You would have thought my parents the last people on the planet to lack even the most cursory exposure to "Lost," but you'd be wrong. Witness! Foster Kamer at Gawker this weekend uncovered a Dutch television station duped into thinking the scene of the plane crash in "Lost" was actual footage from the Air France crash. No, really: They actually thought this. They even had a hilarious Web posting about it, which they of course took down. The best part is that you can see Evangeline Lilly as Kate in the photo. The Dutch don't know who this is? Come on, Holland, let's try to stay in the game here.

Michael Bay. I love the notion of enormous robots fighting as much as anybody, but after the horrific first Transformers movie — which was a spectacle in the same way that spinning around in circles in your yard for an hour until your brain explodes was a spectacle — you couldn't drag me to the sequel. (Particularly after withering report from a screening, the highlight being the product placement of "a huge Planters peanuts can is placed smack in the middle of a garage floor during one scene, because that's where one usually keeps food - on the floor with nothing around it in a huge garage." (Roger Ebert's review is particularly spirited.) You still can't escape the marketing of this film, though, and much of that is because of Bay, who really shouldn't ever be forgiven for Pearl Harbor, which has a legitimate claim on the worst, most misguided movie imaginable. His instantly legendary angry email to the Paramount promotions department contains this super doubleplus brilliant clause: "So far our print has been in my opinion and abject failure." That is the most sentence ever. That looks like it was written in this column.

Matthew Berry. Like Daulerio and Drew, I received an angry email from Tucker Max this weekend, and man, if that's not a career capper, I can't imagine what is. I'm not sure why it's Daulerio's fault that the aging cretin outed ESPN fantasy expert Matthew Berry as a guy who had a "threesome set up with a porn star and some other girl, had them both IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, and blew it-didn't fuck either one!" but hey, the video he sent all of us was awfully clever anyway. Of course, acting as if Tucker Max has ever said a truthful word in his life is somewhat of a fallacy in the first place; one gets a sense that Berry and Max had a few beers, and next thing you knew, Max was writing pretend stories about threesomes with porn stars and Berry's all "Wha-wha-wha?" I'm sure this hasn't been a pleasant week for Berry, who seems like a nice, if somewhat frattish, fellow, but it's difficult to feel too sorry for him: If you hang out with Tucker Max, and then tell the world about it (at 5:40 in the morning!), you probably deserve whatever's coming your way. I like that Max felt obliged to point out it wasn't Bill Simmons, though. I'm sure Bill appreciates that.

Stephen Curry. As a late-in-life, I-grew-up-without-a-team, hey-Woody-Allen-likes-them-why-not? New York Knicks fan/convert — I accept all scorn here — I'm cheering madly for the Knicks to end up with the modern-day Maravich, even if almost every mock draft anymore has someone choosing him before he comes around. I was trying to come up with the worst possible person for the Knicks to draft, the person who would inspire the Garden to freak out like the Balkman days of yore. I decided it would be Tyler Hansbrough, who, oddly, NBADraft.net has going to the Nets at No. 11. There wouldn't be a worse player for Mike D'Antoni's style, and he'd become an instant, legendary punchline. No one would remember Frederic Weis again. I almost hope it happens. How will you feel if your team drafts Tyler Hansbrough, and your team isn't the Charlotte Bobcats? This is my favorite new storyline of Thursday's draft.

Johnny Depp. I'm willing to wait in line for hours to see Public Enemies — rough early buzz aside — because I would watch Michael Mann film a peanut butter sandwich for two hours. (Particularly if that ham-sandwich was being eaten by a crazed Al Pacino with a come beat everybody up.) That looks like the mascot for Hell's minor league baseball team. Nightmare Fuel, indeed. [pours one out for Chandler]

Lucas Glover. Like the rest of you, I have no idea who Lucas Glover is and will therefore not bother telling you anything about the new U.S. Open winner. I do think some credit should go out to The New York Times' Mark Sweeney, who, using some strange golf Bill James statistics, picked Glover as his sleeper pick to win the tournament last Wednesday. Way to go, Mark Sweeney, whoever you are! Actually, it turns out that he kind of is the Bill James of golf. This Golf Digest story from two years ago talks about his "Urgency Effect," which basically attempts to quantify how golfers get the yips. I don't know what it means. I'm just relieved we're halfway through the golf season, when people like me have to pretend golf is a sport we follow as closely as we follow other sports. You know what golfers need? They need numbers, like in NASCAR. That way the middle manager at your corporate complex could stick a "23 Woods" sticker on the back of his Miata, and we'd know all we needed to about the guy we're honking at in traffic.

Joe Morgan. Now that Craggs has hit his stride — eventually we're all going to forget anyone else works here — I'm taking particular glee in his weekly hectoring of Joe Morgan. Much like Josh Levin is still in Rick Reilly's head to this day with the whole tooth metaphor thing, you get the sense, in the wake of Morgan's "apology" on Sunday night, that the same thing might be happening. That's the good news. The bad news is that Morgan might end up so shaky that he turns into Tim McCarver. You can imagine in future telecasts, Morgan, afraid that he will inadvertently unleash another pile of bullshit "confusion," limiting himself to saying easily verifiable things like, "That was a single. I once hit a single." and "There are nine innings in most baseball games." I'm not sure if that would be better or worse. Think of it this way: Do you prefer the harmless brainlessness of Clark Kellogg, or the obnoxious but opinionated snootiness of Billy Packer? That we must make such decisions ... that, friends, is our plight.

Alex Rodriguez. Pete Abraham of the Journal News is what New York beat reporters would be like if they weren't all crazy — slight oversimplification! Don't depant me next time I visit the press box, guys! — and he has absolutely nailed how sloppy the Yankees have been with Alex Rodriguez since he came off the disabled list. A-Rod's rehab, remember, was more of a split-the-baby procedure, a little bit of surgery here, a little bit of surgery at the end of the season, let the man settle in and work his way back type of thing. Manager Joe Girardi didn't do this at all, though, playing him every day until, inevitably, he broke down, to the point that they're going to be sitting him at least a day a week for quite some time, probably even more. It's like they completely forgot he was hurt, which is not a smart decision for a team paying him about $26 million every season through the 2017 season. This is why the Yankees are insane and still compelling: Every year is so important that they're willing to risk a guy they still owe $206 million simply to stay competitive for May and June. And it didn't even work. I have to say: The Yankees are a fun team to write about for your job.

Donte Stallworth. Like me, the Palm Beach Post, in the wake of Donte Stallworth's light sentence for killing a man while driving under the influence, got to thinking about Leonard Little. The Rams linebacker killed a woman in 1998 while driving home drunk after his birthday party — the woman was actually the wife of a photographer who occasionally shoots Rams games, as documented memorably by SI's Mike Fish — and was only suspended for eight games. (He served 30 more days in jail than Stallworth will.) Little, amazingly, is still playing, even though he was arrested again for a DUI in 2004, though he was ultimately acquitted of the charges. It's impossible to have the right stance on instances like Little's and Stallworth's. Part of you wants to throw them in jail for 100 years, and the other says that if you serve your time, you should have the right to rejoin your chosen vocation while you have the opportunity, even if you're a monster who did something stupid and terrible. Either way, it makes you want to bash your head into a wall until it bleeds.

Jeff Weaver. One suspects Tigers fans, Yankees fans and Mariners fans aren't doing backflips about it, but we Cardinals fans are happy for Jeff Weaver, who appears to be settling into a somewhat regular rotation slot with the Dodgers. As I've mentioned before, there's no place on earth other than Busch Stadium that Jeff Weaver would be greeted with a standing ovation, and that includes the Weaver household. On the list of unlikely World Series heroes, Weaver has to be considered one of the least likely; the man was dominant in a deciding game against a classic offense. (The only guy who hit him was Sean Casey, of all people.) The Weaver tenure in St. Louis was a total blur; he didn't show up until July and was knocked around until the playoffs. His October was so ridiculous that, when my father and I had a discussion on whose World Series jersey we should buy to commemorate 2006, we ended up choosing Weaver. Sure, I look like an idiot when I wear the jersey to softball games, but hey, I'm usually wearing black socks and maroon shorts anyway, so the jersey is the least of my problems. By the way, the 2006 commemorative championship video is particularly amusing to watch now, considering Albert Pujols, Jim Edmonds, Jeff Suppan, Adam Wainwright, everyone looks all officially and grownup, and then Weaver shows up looking like the biggest dirtball alive. All he's missing is a pack of Winstons and rotting teeth. Bless him.

The great Bernie Miklasz touched on this in his column yesterday, but I think he was soft-pedaling it a little bit, lest your average St. Louis Post-Dispatch reader try to drown him-or-herself in his/her oatmeal. Pujols leaving wouldn't be as damaging as LeBron James leaving Cleveland — we at least have won a couple of World Series over the last 40 years — but it would be close. And it might actually be more likely to happen. It's the most terrifying notion imaginable to any Cardinals fan, and, all told, if you were to ask me to set odds on it, I'd say it's 50-50. And that's probably being optimistic.

Pujols isn't a free agent until after the 2011 season, though that's somewhat misleading: The Cardinals will have to take care of his contract situation long before then. He has a $16 million option for that season, one the Cardinals would obviously pick up. But $16 million is nothing: That's $2 million less than Andruw Jones is making this year. If the Cardinals let it go long enough to the point that they're picking up that option, Pujols is as good as gone already.

Here's how it might go down:

The Cardinals are currently a game out of first in the NL Central, but that's far from some grand accomplishment. Their offense has imploded — the one Cardinals win against Cleveland over the weekend was a 3-1 victory behind two Pujols solo homers and a wild pitch — and Pujols has zero protection in the lineup. Every Cardinals hitter has regressed, from Skip Schumaker to Ryan Ludwick to the injured Troy Glaus to, yes, Rick Ankiel. (This season, Ankiel has transformed into Rob Deer ... except he only has four homers. It's possible he's playing so poorly that he priced himself back in the Cardinals plans next year.) Pujols is walking more, yes, but more to the point, he's straining to make something happen, swinging at pitches outside the strike zone and overextending himself in a way that, say, Barry Bonds was just patient and blase enough never to do. When you're constantly batting with no one on base, and you're bored with walking, you start swinging at anything. Only pitchers as sloppy as Tomo Ohka are throwing him strikes.

His frustration is palpable, but that's nothing compared to Tony La Russa, who is in the final year of a two-year contract. La Russa — who has been in St. Louis 13 freaking years now — was the last management piece left standing last season when Cardinals brass embraced the scouting stathead types like VP Jeff Luhnow and general manager John Mozeliak and allowed old GM Walt Jocketty to leave for Cincinnati. In theory, the owners made the right decision: Jocketty mostly ignored the draft (a slight oversimplification, sure) and stocked his triple-A squads with veteran fill-ins like Roger Cedeno, Timo Perez, Brian Daubach and Larry Bigbie, where as Mozeliak and Luhnow use the minors, you know, to develop talent. But so far, none of that talent has turned into Albert Pujols, and La Russa, who was close to Jocketty, is frustrated: He feels like there are no reinforcements coming, and that ownership is being purposely cheap. He might be right. He might not be. All that matters is that he feels that way.

Because no matter what your thoughts on Tony La Russa are — and I love him — nobody's closer to La Russa than Pujols. In Pujols' second season, La Russa said El Hombre was the best baseball player he'd ever managed, and though that seems obvious now, back then it was a shocking statement from a grouchy manager known for openly disdaining young players. Pujols and La Russa both have a lot of Bob Knight in them: They're surly, singularly focused on winning every game, in any possible way, and if you are in the way of that quest, you must be destroyed. Pujols is not one of those Bonds-esque superstars who does his own thing and sits idly by: His passion to win, at any means necessary, rivals La Russa's. The two men were born to work together. If Pujols had come up with any other system, under any other manager, he's not the player he is now, and if Pujols doesn't arrive, La Russa would have been gone seven years ago. At this point, they're nearly the same person.

So if La Russa decides these new front office folks don't have The Right Stuff, that they're not as brutally committed to winning as he is, he will leave. I'm not sure where he'd go next — maybe he'd just co-manage the Tigers with Jim Leyland; awesome idea for a bromantic comedy! — but he would, without question, leave. Every game the Cardinals lose 3-0, every solo homer Pujols hits, every heralded Cardinals prospect that disappoints (the "Faberge Eggs," they're called), brings him a little closer.

And have no doubt: If La Russa leaves, Pujols probably isn't far behind, because the only reason La Russa would leave is the same reason Pujols would leave: This Franchise Does Not Have What It Takes To Win. The Cardinals simply cannot afford to pay what Pujols is worth on the open market, something Pujols is aware of; he's always said as long as the Cardinals remain "committed to winning," he'll stay. But what if, say, the Red Sox, or the Mets, offered him $25 million a season, and La Russa is already gone? What is keeping him in St. Louis? Nothing. He's not money-crazed by nature, but he's also not a moron.

Miklasz encourages the Cardinals to try to extend Pujols now, but that seems unlikely, not from their perspective, but from his. Why would he agree to spend the rest of his All-World career — seriously, I get to watch Ted Williams every time I turn the Cardinals game on — on teams like this one, teams that have no hitters other than him? Even though the Cardinals are considered one of baseball's jewel franchises, St. Louis is not a major metropolis (it has fewer people than Kansas City) and doesn't have a lucrative cable deal. (CLARIFICATION: The St. Louis metro area, of course, has far more people than Kansas City's metro area; the comparison was meant merely to remind that St. Louis is thought of as a larger sports franchise city than it is. But I should have been clearer.) And the city itself is struggling financially; wait, come All-Star time, for all the reports about the empty lot next to Busch Stadium that was supposed to house "local businesses." Not even Anheuser-Busch is owned by St. Louisans anymore. The Cardinals could turn into the Royals, the Reds or the Orioles quicker than you think, once-proud franchises decimated by money worries and a heartbroken fanbase. (You can take a look at their payroll through Cot's Baseball Contracts.) That very well might happen if the Cardinals lose Pujols. It's more possible than anyone realizes.

The Cardinals are counting on cheap young players, and right now, those cheap young players are not hitting. Pujols is going to look to La Russa on this one; if La Russa can be convinced that the Cardinals can surround Pujols with quality hitters, he'll stay, because you only get to manage an Albert Pujols once in your lifetime. And much of that, much of La Russa's decision, is going to come down to the next month-and-a-half of baseball. If the Cardinals continue to not hit, and they don't trade for someone to help Pujols out, La Russa will have his answer, justified or not: They're not serious here, not anymore. And Pujols will follow, as soon as he can. (Again: If this isn't resolved by the time Pujols' option is up before 2011, he's gone.) Only through La Russa do the Cardinals get the hometown discount. And that only happens if they start hitting, immediately. I'd argue that the next month-and-a-half might be one of the most critical timespans in Cardinals history. We're gonna know, real quick.

When I talked to people about all this this weekend, non-Cardinals fans, they looked at me like I was crazy: It was difficult for them to imagine the Cardinals losing their franchise player, their whole identity. But it could happen. It really could.

So when you watch Pujols' moon shots evaporate into the St. Louis night at the All-Star Game next month, bathed in the adulation of 47,000 red-clad corny Cardinals souls, realize that it could all end, that he's not tied to St. Louis forever, that, yes, he could be yours. If you want Albert Pujols to be your first baseman — and, of course, you are a fan of the Red Sox, Mets, Cubs (gasp!) or, if Mark Teixeira dies, the Yankees — you need to start rooting against the Cardinals, right now, this second. We'll know very soon.

Gary Bettman. Dash knows hockey far better than I do, so I'll cede to his knowledge, but I'll say I found his description of how Gary Bettman was received after Game 7 of the NHL Finals kind of sad: "How many times can Gary Bettman walk on the ice-in any and every NHL city-to a chorus of merciless boos before he gets the hint? You're there to oversee the biggest moment of the year for your industry and the only thing everyone can agree on is that you are a villainous bum. What is he hanging on to?" Obviously, Bettman hasn't exactly run the NHL as a well-oiled machine, but the grief we give him and Bud Selig, and the slack we give Roger Goodell and (especially) David Stern, seem a bit out of proportion. The NHL has teams go bankrupt and sell off players, and it's just one more example of how much of an idiot Bettman is; when that happens in the NBA, hey, those franchises are stupid! Major League Baseball is about to pass the NFL in total revenue ... but boy, Bud Selig sure does look like a clueless car salesman, doesn't he? I think it's just because we like to make fun of dweeby-looking people. Which is fine, of course!

Joe Buck. You have to give it to Artie Lange, who singlehandedly turned Joe Buck's show watchable, if only briefly. I'm sure he knew it: I'm sure he was watching Buck's interview with Favre — because hey! It's HBO! It's comedy! It's Favre! — and said, "Jesus Christ, this show is horrible. I need to take it over, or no one will ever talk about it again. Besides, I'm very, very high right now." And that he did. I'm on the record as liking Joe Buck, but man, did Lange ever expose him as out of his element on that show. When Lange nuked the set, Buck was helpless; he didn't have the tool in his arsenal that would have minimized Lange and wrested back control of the show. Sure, Lange was being impossible, but Letterman could have dealt with him, Costas could have dealt with him. Buck was stuck, falling back on pre-readied "hey, see how goofy Paul Rudd and I looked when we were 18!" photos and crawling under his chair. (Spencer Hall has some fun with Buck-as-decorating-accessory.) Look, Buck seems like a genial enough guy, but the problem wasn't Lange, who, after all, is simply being Artie Lange. The problem was Buck. Hosting a variety talk "comedy" show is not something he's particularly skilled at. Lange just exposed it, in the worst, loudest and most immediate way. It's not the worst crime in the world. It happens. As Craggs pointed out this morning, Buck didn't help himself by going to his sports media buddies and apologizing for the whole episode, like it was some terrible ordeal he feels awful that children had to see. (You'd almost call it a "disgusting act.") But you think last night's episode was bad? Wait until the "safer," "friendlier" Episode Two of "Joe Buck Live." That's going to be the talk show equivalent of when, in the wake of Stephen Colbert's blistering mockery of George Bush at the Correspondent's Dinner, the White House asked Rich Little to do it. Episode Two is going to feature Troy Aikman and Billy Crystal playing checkers.

Andrew Friedman. I've always had a soft spot for the Rays ever since, before they suddenly ran to the World Series, they were good sports enough to buy themselves a fan on eBay. The whole organization seems like my type of people, and I can't help but root for them. And something else they're doing right: Annoying Murray Chass! Everyone's favorite Octogenarian (NOT A!) Blogger took the Rays general manager to task for not returning his phone call and, well, Friedman struck back (through PR flak Rick Vaughn), pointing out that Chass called him the day before the draft, when he obviously wouldn't have time to chat. Friedman was kind enough not to point another reason he didn't call Chass back: Because Chass' columns are basically conversations with the wall of his office, a sad old man still writing notes columns every Sunday, like the widower who still fluffs a pillow for his beloved even though she died 25 years ago. Chass, bizarrely, uncorks this gem while explaining his mindset:

How in the world could I expect to get the general manager the day before the draft, Vaughn asked, suggesting that the timing of the column was bad and that I should have waited to write it another time when it would have been more convenient for Friedman to call back.

Now Vaughn was not only acting as the Rays' vice president for communications, but he was also acting as my editor. One of the things I like about writing for this Web site is I don't have editors. I like having no editors. Most of them, I have found, have been useless, if not downright incompetent.

Emphasis mine, obviously. Murray Chass hates editors and thinks they're useless. But no. Murray Chass is not a blogger, not at all.

Phil Jackson. Phil Jackson has always been my favorite NBA coach, and I'm not sure why. Growing up without a team in Central Illinois, I just kind of picked my spots, and I eventually fell in love with that Bulls team that just missed the NBA Finals, the year after Jordan retired. This was Jackson on the top of his game, drawing the best from the most unlikely places — seriously, he could have won an NBA title with Toni Kukoc as the second-best player on the team — and once Jordan came back, I suspect Jackson was happy but lost a little part of who he was. Ever since then, quite reasonably, he has waited to coach supremely talented teams (and/or teams owned by the woman he's having sex with), and you get the sense that mostly, he just wants a place to sit down and rest his back during games. His pseudo-Zen ridiculousness can grate, and he's certainly more fake pop intellectual than real intellectual, but if someone was going to win 10 championships, I'm glad it was him. Surely better than Pat Riley. He'll surely "coach" one more year, then retire and spend the rest of his life on a beach, smoking old weed and having sex with younger women. (I'm assuming they'd have to be on top.) All told, not a bad life.

Michael Lewis. The author has a new book about Dads, and more power to him, Dads rule. (Though his "Today Show" interview about it struck me as strangely awkward. He was on with his wife, former MTV vixen Tabitha Soren, and, well ... I dunno ... I'm not sure those two are in complete agreement about parenthood, marriage, or anything, really. Maybe it's just me.) It will be fascinating to see how the movie version of Lewis' best seller turns out. No, no, not that one, the one with Brad Pitt and Demetri Martin and Steven Soderbergh. I mean the other one, the one coming out later this year. Somehow, everyone's being quiet about the movie version of The Blind Side, which stars Sandra Bullock and Kathy Bates. No, really: The film hits theaters in November. Obviously, football fans will rush out to see it, because nothing says Inspiration Football Movie than Sandra Bullock and Kathy Bates. Do we see Terry Bradshaw's ass in this one?

Shaquille O'Neal. I'm not sure any of us realize how fortunate we are to have Shaq in our lives. I mean, the notion of Shaq congratulating Kobe on his NBA title by Tweeting, "Congratualtions kobe, u deserve it. You played great . Enjoy it my man enjoy it. And I know what yur sayin rt now "Shaq how my ass taste" is on the good side of the force. (It was amusing to watch ESPN quote Shaq's Twitter on Sunday night but ignore the one line that actually has some funny news in it.) Also, make sure to watch Shaq challenge Jose Canseco to a fight and punch a cardboard cutout of Chuck Liddell. Sometimes I think the Internet was invented just for Shaq.

Stephen Sommers. Every summer movie season needs a big-budget full-fledged faceplant of a flop, and this summer is not short on candidates. Land of the Lost and that Eddie Murphy movie are already solid contenders, and the fact that critics aren't even being shown Year One until tomorrow, two days before it opens, is a bad, bad sign. (The NBA Finals commercials didn't help either, clearly.) But it's beginning to look like the worst film of the summer, by far, is going to be that G.I. Joe movie. The trailer looks horrible, the director (the guy who did the Mummy movies) has reportedly been canned and there are rumors that the film received the worst screening test scores in the history of Paramount studios. And those people did Dickie Roberts: Former Child Star. We have our true bomb, methinks. It's a shame too, because a G.I. Joe movie had the potential to be so much better than that Transformers junk. I just wish they would have found a way to get the William "Refrigerator" Perry G.I. Joe character in there; he was my favorite.

Peter Venkman. The wait is over: This week, the Ghostbusters video game hits stores, and from all accounts, it's really fun! Basically, you just play as a "new" ghostbuster, joining the team only a month or so after the events of Ghostbusters 2. (Maybe Bobby Brown will show up!) Not only does it have the voices of the original cast — with the exception of Rick Moranis, who "retired" from acting, but including Bill Murray! — but the story was actually written by Dan Ackroyd and Harold Ramis, which makes it, I dunno, canon or something. I mean, they made a Ghostbusters sequel, and you get to be a ghostbuster. I wasn't planning on leaving my apartment this summer anyway.

Frank Williams. Everybody misses Ralph Wiley; It's worth remembering just how amazing that ESPN Page 2 lineup was back in 2002 (Halberstam, Wiley, a limping but still potent HST, Simmons right when he was learning his fastball). One of my favorite Ralph Wiley columns was about the 2002 NBA Draft, when Yao Ming, Amare Stoudemire and Caron Butler were drafted but all he wanted to talk about was old Illini point guard Frank Williams. Of all the Illini woulda coulda stars over the last couple of decades, Frankie was the one who got away, a leisurely, winding Slinkie of a point guard who could find every gap in the lane and somehow twist his way to a bizarre layup. I loved Frank Williams but — and I have Illini sources everywhere! — even back then, he was known as a guy more interested in the gravity bong than the pull-up jumper. Thus, Frank's drug bust last week made me a little sad, but far from shocked. Clearly, because he's a failed basketball player who had "between 30 and 500 grams of marijuana" on him, his life is Out Of Control, or something. That, or, you know, he just had some weed on him. Wait: How much is 30 grams again? God I'm getting old.

Tiger Woods. It's Father's Day this Sunday, which means it's yet another Tiger Woods weekend. The U.S. Open is the signature Father's Day event, and it's the perfect opportunity for old videos of Baby Tiger palling around with his dad, and new photos of Tiger being licked by the family dog. Why hasn't Tiger come out with a book about Father's Day, and his own father, yet? That thing would sell like crazy. (I know just the co-writer.) Anyway, your Father's Day is going to be spend on the couch, watching Tiger win the U.S. Open and talk about how much being a dad has changed his life, and Jim Nantz will happily promote his own Father's Day book, while he's at it. (CORRECTION: The U.S. Open in on NBC. Maybe Nantz will just run onto the 16th green with a copy of his book.) And then you will have another nacho.

This is a weekly column from Leitch.

SI.com's look at the best NFL teams and players of the 2000s pointed out something to me that I obviously should have noticed: We're at the end of the decade!

It seems like less of a big deal this time, doesn't it? Each decade has its own personality and greatest-hits collection; the '90s were grunge and flannel, the '80s were cocaine and big hair, the '70s were key parties and disco, the '60 were hippies and astronauts. (Note: Previous sentence is somewhat of an oversimplification.) It doesn't feel like the 2000s have been going on long enough to develop that much of a personality. Or, more accurately: Too much has happened, in too short amount of time, to develop any sort of coherent takeaway. What are the "aughts" — such a terrible term — going to be known for? It's gonna have to be September 11, and everything that happened in its wake, isn't it? That's going to make for some real downers of retrospective clip shows: "Now THAT'S What I Call Terrorism!"

Obviously, What The Aughts Meant will dominate all news coverage pretty much from Columbus Day on, but I suspect they're going to have considerable trouble pulling together a single unifying theory for a retrospective that doesn't just show the World Trade Center on fire for two hours. (Though, of course, the World Trade Center was not actually on fire that long.) What else is there? Obama, Bush, Iraq, Google ... they all feel just like offshoots of the day, spinoffs, supporting characters. Also: We do so much instant analysis of everyday occurrences — Best Hour Ever! — that a recap of 10 years seems unnecessarily massive. Last week's news already seems like a rerun. Gary Condit? The AOL/Time Warner merger? Hanging chads? God, did we even have TV back then?

I love lists, and nostalgia, and snap remembrances of matters long forgotten. But I think this decade has been too much, and too little, for any of it. We all just adjusted to this decade arriving, and it's already almost gone. I don't know about you, but I'm hoping the 2010s are boring and inconsequential. I'd love a decade when the main debates were "Nirvana, or Pearl Jam?" or "Was Dan Quayle right about 'Murphy Brown?'" I'm not sure we handle Importance well anymore. There's too much Importance for anything to feel important anymore. Let's get this damn decade over already.

Mind you, it's possible that the Y2K virus destroyed all of humanity, and you all exist as simply my last spasm flicker of brain activity until the lights go out. That would explain a lot.

Hélio Castroneves. I know nothing about auto racing, obviously, so I have no idea if my assumption that Sasha Baron Cohen's character in Talladega Nights was based on Castroneves is true or not. But man, it should be, particularly considering the picture right there, taken after his win at the Texas Motor Speedway over the weekend. I can only guess that it was called the Yosemite Sam 500. Doesn't this seem like a character that will show up in Bruno?

Roger Ebert. The main reason I majored in journalism at the University of Illinois was because Roger Ebert had done it. My life goal was to be a film critic (I'm lamely still trying this), and I figured if I just did what Ebert did, I'd have a chance. It didn't work out that way, but Ebert's still a personal hero, and I remind again, you must check out what Ebert's doing over at his site. He apparently has decided to save the Sun-Times Media Group singlehandedly, reviewing everything in site and writing mammoth personal posts about great trips he's taken, the home he grew up in and death itself. Ebert is still recovering from thyroid cancer and cannot speak. He is channeling all his excess energy into his site and his writing, and the blessing is all ours. (He even responds to people personally in comments.) Ebert's energy, wit and open-heartedness is a gift, and one you almost feel bad about him wasting my having to sit through My Life In Ruins. I remain optimistic, and positive, that Ebert's going to live a long life and keep producing at an optimum level for many years to come. But you should still check out what he's doing, right now, and savor it. It's kind of an amazing thing. "I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. What I am grateful for is the gift of intelligence, and for life, love, wonder, and laughter. You can't say it wasn't interesting. My lifetime's memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris."

Roger Federer. Whenever Roger Federer does something great, like he did by winning the French Open on Sunday, sports commentators always point out that Federer is "underrated," or somehow unappreciated by the unwashed fan masses. There's a simple reason for this: Roger Federer has never been involved in any sort of scandal. This is the world we live in now. We invest more interest and gravitas in a Kobe Bryant, or a Charles Barkley, or a Barry Bonds, because they're trouble: They're neurotic and weird and dangerous and vaguely out of control. We find ourselves hating them in spite of their success, and because of it: Their failings at normal human activities attach weight and importance to their athletic prowess. It's fun to boo Kobe, and when he succeeds, he gives us all something to talk about it, allows us to mutter "oh, we know what happened in that hotel room" when he's winning yet another championship. Federer doesn't give us any of this. He's just methodically brilliant and overpowering. Federer's never going to become a superstar in the United States until he kills a drifter. 'Tis the price of fame. If only he had decapitated that guy who ran on the court Sunday.

Zach Galifianakis. If you made it out and saw The Hangover this weekend, you're aware of the most ridiculous, batshit insane hilarious performance since, I dunno, Nicolas Cage in anything. I giggled uncontrollably every time he showed up: By the midpoint of the movie, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had eaten a live chicken, right there on screen. (Considering what we see over the end credits, eating a live chicken would almost seem restrained.) Galifianakis is most famous these days for his standup, but I'd forgotten that he had a short-lived, heavily hyped talk show on VH-1 a few years ago. I remember seeing advertisements for it back then, and, like everybody else, said, "Who the hell's that guy?" and moved on with my life. It's probably because he didn't have a beard back then: Everybody's funnier with a beard. If you haven't seen this movie, you need to. Even if it doesn't have a sarcastic font.

Magic Johnson. All right, it's probably time to address Magic Johnson on ABC/ESPN/Hyperion's NBA Finals telecasts, isn't it? Listen, Magic's an inspiration for a lot of people — particularly those who have the money to cure their own HIV — and has done more with his life to help other people than I will ever, ever do. But man, is he ever horrible on television. The ongoing Magic As Media Superstar business was confusing even before his talk show disaster. It's worth remembering that disaster though, because it's still hilarious, a decade later. It's worth noting that the only clips of the show I can find anymore are the ones of Howard Stern's appearance. (I still can't believe Magic let Howard's "band" just fart on the air for five minutes. Yikes.) In that Bracketology book I keep referencing all the time, New York Times television writer Bill Carter talks about how there's something uniquely humiliating about having a talk show canceled because it's a direct refutation of the host as a human being and personality. If that's true, there was never a more definitive refutation of a personality than what the viewing public gave to Magic Johnson. And he doesn't seem to know anything about basketball anymore either! I mean, Stuart Scott is the second smartest guy on that panel ... and that's just insane. But hey: If the series keeps going as it's going, we all get to watch Magic hug Kobe and tell him how awesome he is over, and over, and over, in about four days. Fantastic. Maybe Howard Stern and the Losers can play then too. Magic: Every time you talk on television, you make us forget everything good you've ever done. Please stop.

Tony La Russa. I think Daulerio's still a little mad at me for stupidly "breaking" the news that La Russa was suing Twitter on my Tumblr page. I have no idea why I did that: Maybe I was subconsciously hoping ESPN would put "The Will Leitch Experience reports" on the crawl. (I want my Josh Elliot shoutout! Without Blog Buzz, bloggers are simply screaming into the nether! Before Blog Buzz came around, why did we ever bother?) Anyway, the excellent Ken Davidoff points out that La Russa is a free agent manager this offseason, and if the Cardinals keep offering up Khalil Greene, Yadier Molina and Nick Stavinoha as Albert Pujols' lineup "protection," La Russa might decide enough is enough. (I doubt this will happen, but it's something to talk about, anyway.) I still love the idea that the Yankees would fire Joe Girardi and decide to bring in La Russa. God, that would be such a shitshow, I'm almost curious to see it happen. La Russa would never stop punching Joel Sherman in the face.

Mike Locksley. In the offseason, Ron Zook's Illini lost assistant coach Mike Locksley, who became the head coach of New Mexico. It seemed like an odd move: Locksley was considered one of the top recruiters in the country, and one would have thought he could find a better job than all the way out in New Mexico. What was the deal? Well, it looks like the athletic directors of college football might have done some advance research: Within six months of being hired, Locksley lost his first big recruit and, more ominous, was sued for sexual harassment and age discrimination. No details have been released yet — which is a terrible way to get some wind at the back of your sexual discrimination lawsuit; come on, lady, think Woody Paige! — but Locksley says, "Change and transition is always tough on everybody." That's quite a first impression. By the time Locksley coaches his first game, I want him to have accused Wyoming coach Dave Christensen of "cheating" and, for good measure, impregnated a Lobo cheerleader. You're running the place now, Mike: You're under Zook's thumb no longer. Make it yours!

Nate McLouth. I absolutely cannot stop cracking up over the Pittsburgh Pirates' overheated reaction to the trade of Nate McClouth. As commenter BitterBuffal0 pointed out, the timing in the wake of Nick Adenhart's death is awfully suspect, but it's important to remember that baseball players spend six-seven months out of the year simply hanging out with each other and, therefore, are completely batshit. This also explains the ridiculous facial hair baseball players come up with: There really isn't anybody around to say, "Uh, Ryan Franklin? That's not a good look for you." To those Pirates, it really was like Nate McLouth was dead, rather than a guy making $2 million and now playing on a team that actually does seem to care. (Even if there aren't that many more fans, really.) Though, to be fair, if you've ever tried to drive around Atlanta during rush hour, you can imagine how it would feel like you are, in fact, dead.

Ross Ohlendorf. I loved Tim Kurkjian's piece of Pirates pitcher Ross Ohlendorf, who is a genius, I guess. Well, a genius in the baseball way, which is to say: He can actually turn in a senior thesis, and he has heard of Bill James. Kurkjian's story is strange, because it's half a serious look at Ohlendorf's thesis' claims — that signing bonuses are, on average, a good deal for the team — and half human interest, "Holy crap, there's a smart baseball player!" story. I'm not sure I understand his study — by Ohlendorf's rationale, you should just give big bonuses to draft picks regardless of the individual player's circumstances because, hey, it has worked in the past! Also, there's a weird median/mode/norm difference that Ohlendorf just flatly ignores — but yes, I am proud of him nevertheless. For the record, Ohlendorf received a $280,000 signing bonus, right about the time he wrote that thesis.

Shinji Okazaki. Thanks to a goal by Okazaki — whose club national team is the awesomely named "Blue Samarai" — Japan became one of five nations to clinch a spot in the 2010 World Cup over the weekend. (The others are The Netherlands, Australia, South Korea and host South Africa.) I can't believe it had slipped my mind that the World Cup was next year. We had so much fun around here live-blogging the 2006 World Cup, and it boggles my brain that it's already time to start thinking about the next one. We are just more than a year away from the first match, and other than the baseball-and-dads book I'm working on as we speak (early book plugs! Whitlock will be so mad!), I can't think of a better Father's Day gift than a one-way ticket to Johannesburg. If you think maybe South Africa might not be the most bitchin' place for the world's most massive sporting event, you can wait until 2014, when they have it in Brazil, where the women will be wearing less clothes. Like you, I've spent most of my life trying to figure out when I'm going to make it to South Africa. Finally, my chance. By the way: I watched the U.S. win over Honduras, and look! Freddy Adu is still alive. Good for him.

This is a weekly column from Leitch.

So I just found out last week that, barring unforeseen circumstances, I will be heading to the All-Star Game in St. Louis this year. I've never been to an All-Star Game before and, all told, I'd never really considered it a legitimate option. Tickets were going for upwards of $3,000 last year at Yankee Stadium, and I think that was for a table at the McDonald's across the street. This year, I have the opportunity to sit with my parents at Busch Stadium. I just hope my scorebook can handle the overstimulation.

I love baseball All-Star games, and I don't understand why not every baseball fan watches them. For crying out loud, it's the All-Star Game! Sure, I guess nothing is at stake, but, jeez, it's baseball: There's rarely anything at stake until September. That doesn't mean the notion of Zach Greinke throwing to Joe Mauer while Albert Pujols bats and Chase Utley leads off first isn't awesome ... what baseball fan wouldn't want to watch that? I don't think I've missed an All-Star Game in years: I even stayed up for the weird tie game. And I didn't think it was The End Of Baseball As We Know It. Which is good, because it wasn't.

I can't wait to go to the game — it will be a relief to watch the Home Run Derby the day before without having to hear Berman — but I think it's going to be a rude reminder that All-Star Weekend is when baseball likes to put on its best public face to the world. And even though it's now the most profitable professional sport in the country and is being watched by more people on earth than any other time in human history, baseball is rarely at its best when it's trying to put on its fancy Sunday clothes. Inevitably, Bud Selig's going to say something he shouldn't, something embarrassing will happen, and we'll have to go through this whole WHAT'S HAPPENING TO BASEBALL? business we go through every month or so. I'm hoping that actually being there will keep me farther away from that, rather than closer.

But holy shit! I'm going to an All-Star Game! Finally, an excuse to wear my Dallas Braden jersey. At least there's no longer a big huge hole in the ground next door. Let's just hope the weather cooperates and no one is run over by a garbage can.

Henry Abbott. Remember way back when, in the days when the "Mainstream Sporting Press" and "blogs" were somehow different animals, on theoretical opposite sides of some imaginary divide? We used to have quite a time around here, back in dem days, back before Jay Mariotti and Murray Chass had blogs, back before Josh Elliott was giving Daulerio shoutouts on "SportsCenter," back before I was interviewing a naked Brandon Jacobs. Everything's all fuzzy now, and though I'd argue that it was pretty much always like this, certainly, public perception has morphed somewhat. (Finally.) Back then, people used to always ask me what a successful merging of "mainstream" and "blog" sensibilities would look like, in a perfect world. I'd argue it's exactly what Henry Abbott — who predicted back in October 2005 that "Deadspin" would be a bigger name than "Quite Frankly," the fool — has pulled off with the True Hoop Blog Network over at ESPN. In addition to the "established" folk like John Hollinger, Chad Ford and Chris Sheridan, liberally sprinkled in are the purveyors of outstanding team sites like Cavs: The Blog, Orlando Magic Daily and Forum Blue And Gold. It is not enough for a sports site to give a dispassionate rundown of What Went Wrong in the Cavs series; they need to show how it feels for a fan, and TrueHoop accomplishes this beautifully. I've never enjoyed an NBA Playoffs more than I've enjoyed this one, and TrueHoop is a major, major reason for that. (They even have their bloggers on ESPN Radio shows, and most of them are pretty good!) This is how it works. Take notes, people.

Kobe Bryant. Now that I'm the freaking NBA expert all of a sudden, I can't help but be a little depressed by how the Finals played out. I loved Tom Scocca's Slate breakdown of how Beating Kobe is a grand rite of passage in the NBA — and you should really read that guy's stuff on The Awl while you're at it — but the piece had one major blind spot: What if the Magic ended up playing the Lakers in the Finals? Oops. Whatever your thoughts on Dwight Howard — and I love him, love him, love him — it's not exactly a personal breakthrough for him to beat Kobe Bryant, if that were to happen. If the Magic win, it won't be because Dwight Howard personally bested Kobe Bryant, in the same way the Magic's win over the Cavs wasn't about Dwight Howard personally besting LeBron James. (By the way, question for fans: Why do we really care if LeBron James left without talking to the media? Oh, I'm sorry, Mitch Lawrence didn't get to stick his tape recorder next to a bunch of microphones, and now he's ANGRY. LeBron's pissed off he lost and didn't want to say something he regretted. Had he ended up saying something, we'd all be destroying him for that. When you lose when everyone expected you to win, everyone finds a reason to make you look like an ass. It happens. It doesn't make LeBron less of a "man" for not sitting on a podium and grunting quick bland answers through dark sunglasses for 10 minutes. Anyway.) If the Lakers win, Kobe has another title, whoopedy-doo, and if the Magic win, Kobe is denied one. The Finals is all about Kobe. Sonuvabitch did it to us again. Dammit.

Joe Buck. Of anything I've ever wrote, here or anyplace else, very little has brought me more grief than my dogged, biased, vaguely nonsensical defense of Joe Buck as a halfway decent announcer and not actually a horrible human being. I've even found him — I know! I know! — somewhat amusing from time to time. (I'm a Cardinals fan. Forgive me. I never had a chance.) This was something I've always suffered in silence, assuming I was the only one ... actually, kind of hoping I was the only one. But nope! Apparently there's a whole TV network that agrees with me. "Joe Buck Live" is a show I will absolutely love as long as every guest is Mike Shannon, or Todd Zeile.

Joseph Garner. According to Garner, a Purdue University Assistant Professor (here is a picture of him), it turns out that fish can feel pain. This is not making me feel better about all that sex with fish I've been having. The highlight of Slate writer Michael Agger's piece about this new "discovery?" The debate among commenters on the original story about the study. Two sides of a battle:

Pro-fish: "Every time I see an angler, I say a little prayer that he will get his fishing hook lodged in his body, and then perhaps he will give some thought to the barbaric 'sport' he is pursuing."

Anti-fish: "I'm a trout fisherman and I can tell you all with 100% accuracy that the trout I catch feel absolutely no pain after I've smacked them over the head with a cosh."

Also, we learn there is a PETA Web site that allows you to make your own "sea kitten." And by "sea kitten," they mean "fish." PETA people are fantastic sometimes.

Randy Johnson. Tomorrow night, Randy Johnson goes for his 300th win, and we will hear all about it, because we are all fearful of getting old and Randy Johnson is really old and That Means Something. (It's so exciting, you can expect Nationals Park to be at least one-third full.) I don't think I'm alone in finding Randy Johnson a singularly unlikable player, whether it was tanking for Seattle, pushing a cameraman in New York (on the way to his first press conference, no less!) or ignoring his love child stuck with unfortunate predicament of looking exactly like her biological father. But I'll always remember him for one moment: The time he exploded a bird with a pitch. When you consider the number of different cosmic lottery numbers that had to align at the exact right point for that to happen, not only to a pitcher but to Randy Johnson, it's simply staggering. They should put a picture of an exploding bird on his Hall of Fame plaque.

David Letterman. I'm still laughing about Videogum's joke that someone should ask Snopes to investigate whether Jay Leno really was funny once. (I argue that he was not.) But I'm with New York's Sam Anderson: What does all this late-night chair-shuffling mean for David Letterman? He's the only late-night host I have any emotional stock in — I love Conan, but I've got history with Dave: I desperately want him to be my uncle — and I'm terrified that Conan's going to beat him. It's one thing to lose to Jay Leno: People are morons, you know, so at least you fought the good fight, Dave, even if you lost to the morons. But to lose to Conan, to go out the door (since Dave can't have more than five years left, can he?) a two-time loser ... am I ready for Dave to end that way? I'm not. I'm not at all.

Bernie Miklasz. Miklasz is the hardest-working sports columnist in America. While Mariotti pretends he's somehow blue-collar because he writes few columns a week, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist (and Springsteen obsessive!) runs a STLToday forum, maintains a Twitter, hosts a radio show, writes a blog and still files regular columns. And he even breaks real news, regularly: The latest was the news that the Rams might be sold to non-St. Louis bidders, paving the way for a potential move of the franchise. I'm always wary of talking about the Rams, because I don't want to offend any of my fellow Cardinals fans who, when they're bored of watching old baseball highlights in October, occasionally deign to see what else is going on downtown. (See here for details.) But, while admittedly indifferent to the Rams, I'd like to see them stick around, lest downtown become even more abandoned, angering Matt Vasgersian even further. Though there'd be something perfect to see them turn into the Los Angeles Rams again, wouldn't there?

Chris Mortensen. Today's favorite sports "celebrity" Twitter — and I cannot fathom, by the way, why anyone would ever follow an athlete's twitter. Hey, C.J. Wilson can type the same banalities into his phone that he gives reporters after the game! Thanks, C.J.! — is The Mort Report. I've always liked Mortensen; slowly moving him off the frontlines of "ESPN Countdown" and into the old "Inside the NFL" Gary Myers role, in favor of Mike Ditka and Keyshawn is a maneuver from which the show still hasn't recovered. And if you follow his Twitter, you'll know ... he's got a little Peter King in him! Actually, more than a little. Here are some Mortensen Twitter highlights from the last week:

****** I went to church. I finished plaster/painting pool. That's not shabby, is it? I will mow a little more grass now, too.
****** Grabbing lunch & watching Bama girls putting it on Arizona in softball world series.
****** Pesky fly about to lose its life.

Actually, I love the idea of Chris Mortensen announcing an insect murder mere seconds before it happens. Cold-blooded.

Todd Tichenor. I have a natural sympathy toward baseball umpires. They're underpaid, they're on the road all the time and they spend most of their time being screamed at. They're like baseball's Amway salesmen. (Or, for that matter, politicians.) So I couldn't help but grin at the impassioned defense of umpire Todd Tichenor at SportsJournalists.com, posted by a friend of his. My favorite is the "i'll gladly im you his cell phone number, his personal address where his wife and two young boys are, and you by God give him the riot act" section, which is a new and fun way of dealing with anonymous online hatred: Encourage those people to scream at your friend in person! It's like the opposite of how that usually works. Typically, people will say things like, "you wouldn't have the balls to say that to my face!" The (anonymous) poster at SportsJournalists.com has a grand new twist: "You wouldn't have the balls to say that to HIS face! If you want his number, here it is, I DARE YOU!" Anyone upset with the Hurdy Gurly Man posts ... I bet you don't have the balls to say that to Daulerio's FACE! He lives just down the street from me! I'll give you his address ... WE'LL SEE JUST HOW MAD YOU ARE!!!

David Wolman. The Wired reporter just came back from the Digital Money Forum, and guess what? We're going to get rid of cash! That's right, thanks to the cellphone, Wired suggests that we're not too many years away from a planet in which cash is abolished. "Imagine someday paying for a beer with frequent flier miles," the story says, and hey, why stop there: I'd like to pay for a beer while in my car, using a gas card! Can we do that? Wolman points out one potential problem with a cellphone-based economy: It would be extremely difficult to give money to the homeless. Though the idea of a homeless man stopping you while you're smoking a cigarette to ask for a brief swipe of your Diners Club card is a delicious one. Who loves ya, baby?

This is a weekly column from Leitch.

Like a lot of you, I'm a white middle-class guy who has never faced much difficulty in his life. Sure, I was unemployed and broke for a while, I've experienced some sadness, I can't dribble with my left hand ... I've rarely missed an opportunity to bitch and moan about grievances that don't actually matter and don't really hurt. I've been able to disguise this in a general Midwestern mock ethos of "hard work" and "common sense" and "cow tipping," but none of it changes the central fact: I'm a little sheltered wuss kid who has no idea of how the real world works.

Allow me to present you with a story that's the logical extension of everything my pampered life has led to: Someone stole my iPhone the other day.

I was at my girlfriend's birthday party on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and I was scheduled to do a radio interview with the great Rany Jazayerli previewing the Cardinals-Royals series. I stepped outside the festivities to take Rany's phone call, making sure to find a semi-secluded, quiet spot so I would be relatively undisturbed. Five minutes before the call, I took out my phone and figured I'd check the Cardinals score. I put the phone in front of my face ... and then some guy came out of nowhere on a bicycle and grabbed it. It was an impressive move, clearly practiced: I was not the first douchebag he'd swiped a phone from going full speed. One second the Cardinals were up 1-0 on an Albert Pujols homer ... the next, the phone was gone from my hand and heading down Ridge Street.

I have never been the victim of a crime before, save for the time in college when some guy asked me for all the money in my wallet, I showed him there was none and he shrugged and walked away. Through 9 1/2 years in New York, I've maintained a healthy awareness of my belongings — I insist on keeping my wallet in my back pocket on the subway and am constantly monitoring its whereabouts — but have always wondered what would happen if someone tried to mug me. I've always had the idea that I'd challenge the "assailant," that I'd let him know this mark would not be as amenable to his plans as others might have been. I imagined it as a big event in my life. I would be more man than mouse. I would show a backbone that a life as an Internet and magazine writer would not imply. I would make my father, and the generations of Leitch men, hard, military men who built their homes from the ground up, with their own hands, proud. Their hands were coarse from years of labor; my hands were smooth from years of typing and adjusting my iPod. What would I do when challenged? Was a Mattoon man, or a lily-livered neutered product of the Information Age? I vowed I'd be strong. I vowed I'd stand up.

And yes: I feared I'd crawl into the fetal position and just whimper.

In a situation as shocking as a sudden larceny, there is no time to think or fathom what has just happened. You just react. And so: I reacted.

I flipped out. The second the phone was snatched, and I turned and started running and screaming, "You son of a bitch! Stop that motherfucker!" Even in the second, I was shocked by my vulgarity: There is too much Midwest in me, still. My flight-or-fight instincts kicked in, and boy, was I ready to fight. I imagined someone, hearing my alert, knocking him off his bike, and I would pounce, stomping on his trachea, planting my knees deep into his lungs, ripping off his earlobes with my teeth. After this ritualistic destruction, I would take back my phone ... and then just drop it on his bleeding chest. "Here's your fuckin' PHONE. Hope it was worth it." Then I would go back to the party and slug whiskey until everyone in the room was dead.

I swear to God I was thinking all this. The reality of the situation? The notion that had I caught up with the guy, he surely would have hopped up off the ground and implanted my testicles somewhere between my coccyx and my pancreas? The truth that I've never actually been in a fight in my life and would have had no idea what I was doing? The fact that I was chasing a guy on a bike? None of that mattered. I just wanted to kill.

Fortunately for me and my dry cleaner, I didn't catch him. He made a quick dodge of a child on the sidewalk, a swerve that allowed me one last-gasp leap at his back tire. I'm not sure what I thought I would accomplish with this maneuver. Did I think I was going to grab the wheel and fling the bike back, lifting it and pounding against the ground like Bamm-Bamm? I have no idea. I just felt like I had one chance.

I dove and scraped the back of the tire, and then landed face first into the sidewalk, flipping over twice before coming to a rest right next to a street drain. I tried to jump back up, but I was disoriented and fell over again. It was, suffice it to say, not particularly graceful: I must have looked like I was having a seizure. By the time I was finally on my feet again, the bike, and my phone, and my pride, were long gone.

I went back into the party, told my girlfriend what happened, called AT&T to shut off the phone and surveyed the damage. A lost phone, a scraped up wrist, a small cut on my chin and rip in the back of the tweed sport jacket I wore to the party. Sounds about right. Sounds about right.

I hope he enjoyed the phone. It's a nice phone. The moment meant nothing to him, of course: He has long since passed, or failed, whatever insecure tests in his life that I was giving myself. I'm sure I know nothing more about myself now than I did before the incident. It was not a metaphor for manhood, or my past, or my place in the world. It was just some dude on a bike swiping a phone from a spaced-out iPhone douchebag zombie on a Thursday evening. Easy pickings.

But I did not crawl into a fetal position and whimper. I do have that, if nothing else. Small victories, small pleasures, small little prickles of whatever it is we wish we were and what we are not. We must take what we can.

Will Carroll. For pure Geekdom Culture run amok, you'd be hard-pressed to top the Prospectus Idol contest they're running over at Baseball Prospectus. The idea, essentially, is that 10 "contestants" can take turns trying their hands at impersonating Will Carroll, Nate Silver and Joe Sheehan, and readers can vote on their favorites. I love that BP people are judges: I'm calling Will Carroll as Randy Jackson, Christina Kahrl as Paula Abdul and Kevin Goldstein as Simon Cowell. You probably think I'm being facetious with those classifications, but I'm not: It's clear they've thought this out and are playing those roles. Here's Carroll on contestant Brittany Ghiroli: "This was obviously going to be a tough week for her and one where she has to prove herself to some of the more "hardcore" people that questioned whether she could handle writing that more stats-oriented stuff." Yes! A tough week for her! Next week, though, they're covering Prince songs: Much more in her range! I kid because I love, of course. But it's awfully hilarious to see an American Idol-esque contest in which your contestants are writing things like "FIP = NC + (HR*13 + (BB+HBP-IBB)*3 - K*2)/IP." Note to Daulerio: Deadspin Commenter Idol. Get on it. Make Craggs organize it, just to watch him slowly go insane.

Donald Duck. Here's news you can use: According to The Wall Street Journal — and they would know! — Donald Duck has reached Jerry Lewis-esque levels of fame in Germany. Makes sense! This explains 45 percent of the public statements Dirk Nowitzki has made in the last three years. I've always had a soft spot for Donald: Mickey Mouse always just showed up, smiled, squeaked, waved and walked away while something heavy fell on Donald. (He always seemed a better fit for Looney Tunes, really.) Anyway, here's what they say about the German Donald: "In one story Donald's nephews steal famous lines from Friedrich Schiller's play "William Tell"; Donald garbles a classic Schiller poem, "The Bell," in another. Other lines are straight out of Goethe, Hölderlin and even Wagner (whose words are put in the mouth of a singing cat). The great books later sounded like old friends when readers encountered them at school. As the German Donald points out, 'Reading is educational! We learn so much from the works of our poets and thinkers.'" Indeed! This is existentialist Donald is what would have happened if this alternate history Duck Tales had occurred.

Postman Guy. The highlight of my Memorial Day — which was spent indoors, writing this column and trudging away on the book, peering longingly at a gorgeous day in New York City, people laughing, drinking, absorbing the sublime pleasures life has to offer — was this video from former Gawker property Consumerist.com. I understand that being a postman is not a pleasant job, particularly in New York, but considering how many jobs over the next few years are going to be in the public sector, this isn't exactly the most ringing endorsement for the focused, diligent labor force our government trains and sustains. My favorite part is at the end, when it's time to "turn."

LeBron James. As we'll get into a little bit down below, I am the furthest thing from an NBA expert and am still stuck in the Jordan-era fallacies that every team comes down to one man, there must be a single alpha dog of the league and if you are a superstar who doesn't win a championship when everyone expects you to, you are a fraud and a pretender to the throne. So, even though the Magic present serious matchup problems for the Cavaliers and are full of talented, motivated players themselves ... the whole thing comes down, for me, in a rather Skip Bayless fashion: What does this mean for LeBron? It does seem like a Magic victory in this series puts serious chinks in the LeBron As Transcendent Figure armor, and if that's not right, or is just flip and uneducated ... well, sadly, welcome to the media! Because that's what everyone else will be saying if the Cavs lose this series. And then everyone will talk about the Knicks. And then everyone will talk about a "losing attitude" in Cleveland. And then everyone will say LeBron is overextended. And then everyone will promote LeBron's "revenge" season next year. And then you will become so exhausted with all of it that you'll won't look at the NBA until the 2010 playoffs anyway. And this is why I rarely write about the NBA. Because I have no idea what I'm talking about. Ta-da!

Ryan Leaf. The temptation to make fun of Ryan Leaf for his tragicomic attempts to steal painkillers and sell fake pills as real pills is strong, particularly when you consider the mental picture of Leaf attempting to break into an apartment and failing. (The Sporting Blog has an amusing animated GIF exploring the possibilities.) But considering what he was doing professionally — a quarterback coach at a Division II college, which is the equivalent of graduating from Columbia Journalism School and working in the customer service department of the Lanark Prairie Advocate — and how he'd been looking lately, the story is starting to veer uncomfortably closer to Tragedy than Comedy. (Leaf is likely going to be in jail for a very long time.) Which is a shame not just for Leaf, but for sports fans: Quarterback draft disasters hold a special place in our sports culture, gleefully mocked in a fashion that's innocent and even cleansing. (Heath Shuler may have been elected to Congress because of it.) It's not supposed to send them careening into despair. Here's hoping Leaf gets his life together in prison, because it's not fun to mock him if his life is actually shit.

Spike Lee. Ignore, if you can, the NBA mascot the sports media tries to turn Spike Lee into, and instead embrace his work as a filmmaker, particularly his Grand Achievement, Do The Right Thing, which turns 20 years old next month (Old!) I saw Do The Right Thing in high school and thought it was just about the best fucking movie I'd ever seen, even though I'd never been to New York, couldn't figure out why Sal's pizza place wasn't a Little Caesar's and had met maybe three black people, one of whom was Willie McGee. I've probably seen Do The Right Thing 50 times in my life, and it still kills me: I've yet to see, since, such a vivid capture of the unique collection of oddballs, miscreants and dreamers that make a community. (My favorite is Sweet Dick Willie. Nobody remembers Robin Harris anymore.) Anyway, there's a special edition double-disc of the film coming out next month, and, from the LA Times story linked above, I was happy to see that David Denby — Mr. The Internet Is Snarky And Killing Us All! — was just as reactionary and moronic 20 years ago as he is today. His quote about Do The Right Thing at the time contained a clear fear of black people and their damned rioting: "The end of this movie is a shambles, and if some audiences go wild, [Lee's] partly responsible." Charming, Denby. Why does anybody listen to that guy again?

Farhad Manjoo. The Slate technology writer seems to be beaming right into my annoying Yuppie brain and stealing every thought on every new gadget I might possibly have. Witness: His dead-on ode to games on the iPhone, which turns people who don't much like video games into gamers almost instantly. (I love the way he describes the iPhone: "a mobile computer that I occasionally use to make crappy phone calls." Yep.) Mostly, though, I love his obsession with Flight Control, which is the most addictive video game I have ever played. If you have an iPhone — and I know, I know, every New York asshole has an iPhone, got it, we covered this earlier — this is the best excuse to get no work done, ever. I've even been trash talking Denton about it. My high score, set during a fevered ether binge, is 343, and I don't think I can top that (though I read about weirdos online who are over 600). This was the first thing I installed on my replacement phone, before phone numbers or anything.

Raymond Ridder. I'm not sure how much more I can add to the Warriors Flack Popping In On Random Message boards thing than what Craggs originally cobbled together, but, you know, dammit, I have to try. My favorite part about Ridder's justification to posting as "Flunkster Dude" is the idea that he wanted "to get some positive things going ... a positive direction." Well, that surely reveals a profound understanding of how Web message boards work. As I've mentioned before: You could put up a picture of a cute puppy on an open board, and by comment 15, some assbag has brought out the n-word. This is the way it works, and I find Ridder's attempts to somehow stave that off more charmingly naive than an example of corporate malfeasance and Newspeak. I mean, how busy can he be right now, as PR guy for the Warriors? Not very. He was probably bored. That's what message boards are for. Come on in! Get it going in a positive direction! The Web was TOTALLY MADE FOR POSITIVE DIRECTIONS, MAN! But next time: Jeez, hide your ISP. It's not that hard.

Jeremy Shockey. One of three, maybe four downsides of being a professional athlete: Events that would be easily brushed off and laughed at by your friends, if you were a normal person, turn into big "controversies" by a rabid, ravenous news cycle. Hence, Jeremy Shockey, who essentially just passed out because he was too hungover, becomes a national news story. It has happened to all of us — and when we were 28, it probably happened to us all the time — but with us, nobody cared. But when you're a middling tight end whose teams have found success only when you have been on the sidelines, this is a noteworthy event. I do hope Shockey enjoys it while he can: The celebrity clock is starting to tick pretty loudly on that guy these days.

Bill Simmons. The cover to The Sports Feller's new book went up on Amazon last week, and it looks awfully similar to the cover of the last book. (I hope the next one features a big finger touching Malcolm Gladwell's head.) The Book Of Basketball is coming out right before Halloween and is a whopping, amazing 720 pages. (For the record, that comes out to roughly 190,000 words, or two Simmons mailbags.) One guy wrote that it sounds like Simmons' version of Bill James' Old Baseball Abstracts, and that sounds about right. And you know what? I'll read every freaking word of that thing. I'm a baseball guy — my morning sports television routine this spring involves watching an hour of "Quick Pitch" on MLB Network and then catching the five minute recap of the NBA Playoff game the night before on "SportsCenter" — and as much as I enjoy the NBA Playoffs, I'm just not invested enough in the sport to have the depth of knowledge that comes with watching every night for the full 15 months of the NBA season. Simmons, for all his eccentricities and well-known tropes he falls back on, is as talented and obsessed a writer about the NBA as we have, and this is a full book of original material (so we're told, anyway). Now that the stupid "wars" between him and ESPN (and Rick Reilly ... and Elgin Baylor .. and whatever inflated "conflicts" he's initiated and then backs off saying "who, me?" when finally challenged on them), he's focusing on what he truly is: Just about the best NBA writer of our time. I could do without his Twitter — which seems mainly designed to rip on the WNBA and those evil refs — but I'll devour that book when it comes out, a little smarter, a little more entertained, a little more enlightened ... and then I'll go back to my baseball. That's all you can really ask of a sportswriter. All told, guys, we're lucky to have him. Really.

As anyone who has been unfortunate enough to come across my turgid prose over the last few years knows, I have a difficult time working up much enthusiasm for the NFL or NBA Drafts. Drew made a solid case as to why I'm wrong a few weeks back, but I just can't help it: I'm never going to be convinced that watching men in suits read names off index cards for several hours is a productive use of my time. Agree, disagree, whatever, we're both right and we're both wrong.

But I'm about to gut my point. Because I love tonight's deformed third cousin to the NBA Draft: The NBA Draft Lottery. This makes no sense, of course; the only real advantage the NBA Draft Lottery has on the NBA Draft is that it is shorter. But I love it anyway. There's something about watching representatives of professional sports franchises — people who, by definition, are control freaks — put on suits and piss themselves in fear while the indifferent hand of chance either grasps their bosom or slaps them across the face.

Last year was a particularly great one: The Bulls somehow lucked into Derrick Rose, and we got to watch someone named Steve Schanwald, executive vice president for basketball operations, display his balding middle aged white guy pumped-up face. This was legitimately the closest Steve Schanwald will ever come to any semblance of athletic activity, and it was glorious: He looks like a guy who just pulled out an amazing final-round victory at Trivia Night at Applebee's. The only reason Schanwald was there in the first place was because the Bulls had such small odds to win the top pick: If they were at 4:1, you'd have to think they would have sent a Paxson, or even a Bob Love out there. But instead: Steve Schanwald. Awesome.

There's something inherently lovely in watching defeated, doomed losers — who, after all, were the worst teams last year — beg ping-pong balls for a deus ex machina to save them from their own ineptitude. (Bill Simmons' "Elgin Baylor is a Draft Lottery veteran" riff still makes me laugh.) Most in sports is visibly merit-based: This throws fate into the mix. It's always there, of course, fate: It's just now we can see it plain and clear. Right next to desperation.

Who are the highlight reps this time? The Sacramento Kings have the best odds, and we're lucky to have Chris Webber on stage. This guy reps the Clippers, the always-great Kevin Love stands up for the Timberwolves, Allan Houston limps on stage for the Knicks and we'll see Larry Bird out there for the Pacers, which is something he must just love. It's fractions and decimals and the mercilessness of luck, for us all to watch. And it'll be over in 20 minutes.

Maury Brown. Big happy warm girl hugs to Maury Brown from The Biz Of Baseball for providing an easy one-stop resource to see every single member of the Baseball Writers Association of America's "badge list." The association, which has always had a certain Skull & Bones feel to it, has finally started accepting people like Rob Neyer, Will Carroll and Keith Law, but it took forever, and I assume it involved some truly terrifying hazing. The longest current tenure for a member of the organization belongs to Seymour Siwoff of the Elias Sports Bureau, who first got his "badge" in 1952 and, according to my research, is 176 years old. It's a fascinating list to dig through.

Things I learned:

*** Jayson Stark and Tim Kurkjian are a lot older than I thought they were.
*** Jay Mariotti is actually a member, though he probably hasn't been to a game in decades. Amusingly, even though he's fully employed by AOL Fanhouse, they still list him as "at large," because listing where he actually works would presumably be an affront to the great name of the BBWAA.
*** Considering the percentage of new additions over the last few years, they're going to need to add a "BBWAA (and Japan)" at the end of their name.
*** The BBWAA still hasn't figured out what to do with reporters who cover the team for MLB.com. The BBWAA rules explicitly state that "employees of MLB.com shall not be eligible," which is why some of the best beat reporters around aren't allowed in. This is a problem now, but it's about to become more of one. Look at Brian McTaggert, who is about to move from the Houston Chronicle to MLB.com, who is actually the chairperson of the BBWAA's Houston bureau. Does he get kicked out now? Considering that in some cities the team sites' beat reporter is one of the few people left to cover the team, what happens now? And more to the point: How does this affect Mike Lupica's table at the yearly banquet? It's still at the front, right? Better be.

Mark Harmon. Something else I learned from that Bracketology book: Mark Harmon, the guy from the "NCIS" television show that's insanely popular even though I've never met a single person who has seen it, was actually the starting quarterback for UCLA. For two seasons, actually; his father was Tom Harmon, the guy who won a Heisman Trophy for Michigan. This makes me respect him more as an actor than it does as a former athlete: You have to admire a matinee idol ex-jock willing to play Ted Bundy. I was 11 years old when that movie came out, and I was absolutely terrified by men with mustaches for the next 10 years because of it. At least I hope that was why. Memory repression can be a terrifying thing.

James Harrison. It's difficult to be offended by the Steelers' James Harrison skipping out on his team's White House visit, and I'm not quite sure why it's news at all: He didn't go see President Bush in 2006 either, which is a shame, because James Harrison seems like the type of guy who would throw a shoe at the President, if just due to an itch. What I love about Harrison's attitude is that it's not a political thing, or even a laziness thing: He legitimately doesn't see what the big deal about going to the White House is. And even better: He's offended that, had the Buzzsaw won the Super Bowl rather than the Steelers, they would have been invited to the White House instead of the Steelers. "If you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. So as far as I'm concerned he would have invited Arizona if they had won." This is fantastic: I believe this makes James Harrison the first athlete to play the "You didn't RESPECT us!" card with the President of the United States.

Dwight Howard. Congratulations to the Magic center for securing himself a solid spot in the alpha dog upper echelon of NBA superstars: His obligatory cash advances from fake-nutritious colored water products are already on the way, I'm sure. Howard's one of those guys who is difficult to figure out. On one hand, he makes a big show of being a devout Christian — going so far as claiming he only listens to gospel music, which I highly, highly doubt — and on the other, he had a baby with a team dancer (seriously, a team dancer) and leaves tickets for porn stars. I have no specific problem with this, of course — who would?! — but when the spotlight focuses on him a little more, you wonder if roaches might sneak around when someone flips the switch. But man, I hope not. Considering the Magic are likely to be down 3-0 by the time the next one of these columns run, I won't stick around long enough to find out, I promise.

Glenn Kenny. The preternaturally skilled film critic and journalist not only runs a vital movie blog, but he also shows up in Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience, a non-porn film featuring porn star Sasha Grey as a modern-day high-priced escort in Manhattan. (I reviewed it here.) Kenny plays a creepy message board writer famous for "reviewing" the escorts he uses, and he's just about the creepiest, most slimy guy imaginable: Considering it's his first movie role, and Soderbergh picked him out specifically, you have to wonder what the director really thinks about the guy. Anyway, he interviewed Grey for The Daily Beast, and it's kind of amazing how every single person who interviews Grey these days comes away completely in love with her. (This is one of the main points of the film, it's worth noting.) I'd never seen a Sasha Grey porn film, so I assumed they were these erudite, somewhat subversive films that displayed her subtle, quiet artistry. This does not turn out to be the case. (Needless to say, NSFW.)

Jack Kerouac. The Beat writer, known to most of you as the guy you read a ton in college before selling all his books for cash midway through the first year at your first job, turns out to have been a closet fantasy baseball fan. This makes a certain amount of sense: Obsessive minds tend to gravitate toward obsessive hobbies, and fantasy baseball is, at its best, a borderline psychotic activity. (I say this with love in my heart and a full-throated plea of "guilty.") But his embarrassment about it — and his insistence on hiding it from his "cool" friends (most of which he was having sex with, I might add) — severely damages one of my theories about fantasy sports: There's absolutely nothing dorky about it at all. (Or, at least, it's not any more dorky than actually being a sports fan.) For some reason, the idea that it's "dorky" to be in fantasy sports continues to fester, and I always thought it was because studio analysts and professional/retired athletes loved to make fun of people who played. (Until the networks realized how much money was in it, anyway.) But apparently people have been thinking this for decades. Next thing you know, someone's going to inform me it's dorky to own this DVD set. The more you know, I guess.

Tony Kornheiser. The now-former "Monday Night Football" analyst faced criticism of his stint in the booth almost immediately, but it was never as vitriolic as it was for other failed MNF analysts (Dennis Miller, Dan Fouts) because most people who would write media criticism know Kornheiser and like him. The irony of his tenure — which ESPN is kindly letting him slide out using the "I was ready to leave and, oh yeah, totally afraid to fly" excuse; kudos to them, by the way, for somehow avoiding leaks before their announcement — is that if they would have just left him alone to be Tony Kornheiser, he wouldn't have been successful on the show, but at least he would have been tolerable. That is to say: Kornheiser never really fit on "MNF," and the mistake was thinking he possibly could. When Joe Theismann was fired, Kornheiser lost the only path toward this working: Being the guy who drove Joe Theismann crazy on the air. Ron Jaworski is a better analyst than Theismann — by a factor of about 35,000 — but he was too amiable to bounce off Kornheiser. Now, the result of the team of Mike Tirico, Jon Gruden and Jaworski will be a dull, x-and-o description of what's actually going on in the game. Imagine that. Happy trails, Tony.

Bob Ley. Today's "celebrity" to follow on Twitter: Bob Ley! I've always liked Bob Ley — I'm hardly alone in this — and his ability to remain something resembling a normal human being despite being at ESPN from the very beginning of their insane, Vader-ish rise to the top of the sports industrial complex is an accomplishment that must have required a sort of Zen alchemy. He was actually 24 when he started at ESPN, which makes me laugh: It's hard to imagine Bob Ley ever being 24. (Peter Gammons is the same way: I'm having a hard time even conjuring up an image of Peter Gammons as a teenager.) Anyway, Ley's Twitter page is mostly just programming notes, though I did enjoy a playful tweak of Will Carroll and a live blogging of a Bruce Springsteen concert. Also, Bob Ley keeps score at every baseball game he goes to, and if that's not a reason to like a guy, I don't know what is.

Tommy Morrison. I wrote a piece for the magazine last week about athletes who hurt their careers by unretiring, and it got me to thinking about Tommy Morrison. Good ole Tommy Gunn, if you didn't realize, is still fighting even though he, uh, is HIV-positive. (Even if he has convinced himself that he isn't.) He fought in January — note to self: Do not choose the West Virginia Athletic Commission as my primary care provider — and is looking to fight in Australia sometime later this year. (The two men he was planning on fighting have both lost this year, perhaps out of self-preservation.) You can fight as Tommy Morrison in the new Fight Night game, though not while having unprotected sex with animals that recently traveled in Africa.

Lars Von Trier. If you're one of those normal human beings with some semblance of a recognizable existence on a planet of sunshine and hope, you probably don't know who Lars Von Trier is. He's the old purveyor of the "Dogme 95" cinematic technique — which basically boiled down to "just point a camera and shoot, and make it cheap," something he invented and then ignored — and he directed the films Breaking the Waves (great), Dogville (great), Dancer In The Dark (pretty good, plus, it features Bjork being hanged) and Manderlay (pretty awful). Well, he has a new film coming out this summer, and, well, screenings at the Cannes Film Festival are revealing it to be a heartwarming night at the movies. It's called Antichrist, and it's about a grieving husband and wife trying to kill each other. And it features the following scene.

From what we gather, here's how it goes down, more or less: After knocking him unconscious, Gainsbourg bores a hole in Dafoe's leg with a hand drill and bolts him to a grindstone to keep him from escaping. Then, she quickly smashes his scrotum with some sort of blunt object (the moment of impact happens slightly below the frame). We don't actually see his testicles become disengaged from this body, though it's apparently implied. Next, she bring him to a climax with her hands and he ejaculates blood (yes, it shows this).

Well, that's pretty much the exact description of how I felt watching the first Transformers movie, so, you know, sign me up.

It has words, and pictures. It's called Ten Humans Of The Week.

As some of you might know, I write a regular column for Sporting News magazine (they dropped the "The" because definite articles are unhip). I find this more enjoyable than I thought I would going in, because, as you would probably guess, the readers of Sporting News make up a different audience than I'm used to writing for. I sometimes worry I'll freak them out if I make a reference to Facebook, or that whippersnapper long hair Jimi Hendrix. It's fun to try out tricks on new people. It has been great. It's a better magazine than you probably think it is.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, after writing a column making fun of the two New York baseball stadiums, I invited SN readers to email me their pitches as to why their stadium was unappreciated. I would "reward" the best pitch by buying them and me a ticket to a game this year. I received some impassioned pitches for Detroit, Arlington, Philadelphia, Toronto, even Tampa. But the contest was kind of rigged: I really wanted to go to Pittsburgh.

This was for two reasons. First, I've heard from numerous people that PNC Park is a gorgeous stadium where it's easy to procure great cheap seats because the Pirates play there. But mostly: I had slated May 12, today, as my travel day for the game, and the Cardinals happened to be in town that day. That's cheating, but whatever, it's the Cardinals.

Anyway, I was primed to proclaim the first person to email me about PNC Park the "winner," but, because the Pirates have no fans left, nobody sent me a thing. Then, they day before I had to make a decision, I received an email from some guy, whom we'll call "Robert." His note was not inspiring — "The reason that PNC Park is different is that it's the most beautiful stadium of any sport in the entire world and it's parking lot is located near our pre-Forbes stadium, Exposition Park" — but who cares? I had my Pittsburgh resident! I emailed him posthaste, told him he won and asked if he could make it May 12. "I'll buy the tickets," I told him. "We can just meet there. My hotel will just be a few blocks away. I'll buy the booze too!"

I was on deadline, so I began to worry when I didn't hear back from Robert for a few hours. I kept needling him, saying I needed him to confirm so I could file my next column and buy the plane tickets. I kept offering him plenty of booze in Pittsburgh: Nobody fails to act when booze is on the line, I figured. And nothing. So I finally gave up. I chose Minnesota, because I've always wanted to see the Metrodome, which is in its last season, and because I thought I would seriously try to talk the Twins into making me their general manager because that would be HILARIOUS. And then I didn't think that much more about it.

Three days later, I received an email from a woman named "Barbara." She informed me that she was the mother of ... Robert. Who was 13 years old. Who had told her that "the man from the magazine" had invited him to "meet" him at the Pirates game, that his hotel was right by the stadium, that he would buy his ticket and buy him lots of booze.

"He was a bit overwhelmed by your kind invite," she said, and I really, really hoped she'd seen the magazine, the column and the "contest." Because I had just invited her 13-year-old son to come meet a stranger with alcohol at a baseball game. With my hotel "just a quick walk away."

I'm pretty lucky that I gave up and booked the Minnesota tickets. Because if I had shown up at PNC Park and Chris Hansen had been there ... I'm not sure explaining the facts of the situation would have gotten me out of it.

Dusty Baker. The rivalry between Tony La Russa and Dusty Baker has always been an entertaining one, and having just watched the full series between the Cardinals and Reds last weekend, I can attest that the Reds are a lot better than anyone realizes. It would be kind of an amusing irony if Baker ends up taking the Reds to the World Series, something he could never make happen with the Cubs. The only thing that would be better? If Jim Essian came back. I loved that guy. Anyway, yeah: I'm officially terrified of the Reds. And I don't even think Dusty's going to shred all those pitchers' arms this time either.

Murray Chass. The erstwhile Times columnist garnered some attention last week with his detailed takedown of Selena Roberts' book. Whether you agree with him or not — and though I enjoyed the book and don't think Roberts is is some terrible person out to hurt poor little A-Rod, he does make a solid case and, frankly, it appears I'm on the wrong side of history on this one — I was mostly just relieved that, finally, someone is paying attention to Murray Chass. Ever since Chass launched his Protest Blog — a site that makes a big deal out of being "columns" rather than "blogs" — he's just been typing away in the nether, a lonely guy typing away tons of opinions, blissfully unaware that no one's actually reading any of them. I had been feeling kind of bad for old Murray: I feared his attempts to, at last, finally bring some class to that wretched Internet were, you know, failing. But Murray found some new online friends with his Roberts column. Congrats, Murray. Perhaps the striking originality of his recent Steroids Are Hurting Baseball's Image column will push you over the top. "The Hall of Shame will be an invisible wing of the Hall of Fame." Well played, sir. Well played.

Alfred Luckerbauer. You might have missed this over the weekend, but Daulerio and I both received emails Friday night from a man named Alfred Luckerbauer, who apparently is the email attack dog for Freddie Mitchell. I'm not sure why Mitchell would need a protector from Deadspin — which is literally the only place that ever writes about Freddie Mitchell — but I love how much information Daulerio found out about him, including his awesome personal Web site. Money quote: "Would YOU like to improve anything in your life ? More Money? Better Health and more Energy? Maybe spend more time with friends and family or have time and money for your favorite activity........YOUR DREAMS ?" Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! To all those questions! I would love to have time and money for my favorite activity with is MY DREAMS. I would love to subscribe to your newsletter.

Marley The Dog. I find hilarious the depths movie marketers will go to to sell their films. I was watching the Cardinals game on Fox Sports Cincinnati on Sunday, and I saw repeated ads for the DVD release of Marley and Me. When this was in theaters, it was a romantic comedy with a cute dog. Now, it's a brodawg dude's movie, scored to "Bad To The Bone," with Owen Wilson at a baseball game while his big badass Man Dog roams through the stands. Though the scene at the baseball game in the film is only a minute or two, the commercial plays it up like the whole movie is Owen Wilson chilling with his dog at a ballgame while Jennifer Aniston lies around in a bikini. I love it when marketers completely lie about what a movie actually is when DVD/video comes around. My favorite is Six Degrees Of Separation, which put the famous play's title in Fresh Prince Of Bel Air font and featured Stockard Channing and Donald Sutherland with cartoonishly shocked O-faces while Will Smith, that rappin' wiseacre, smiled into the camera. This, for a film, in the official description, about "a con artist who, out of the blue, prevails upon the good graces of a New York City couple in the wake of his supposed mugging in Central Park, claiming to be Sidney Poitier's son and masquerading flamboyantly as a close friend & classmate of their Harvard-enrolled kids, and in the process upsetting their shallow upper crust world."A crowd pleasing hip-hop dope hit!

Barack Obama. How popular is our President right now? Usually, after the White House Correspondent's Dinner — which, considering the state of newspapers, is going to be only celebrities in a couple of years — everyone is offended or bored or whatever by the comedian who ended up roasting the president. (Stephen Colbert good, Rich Little bad, Ray Romano inexplicably asked. I can't believe Norm McDonald once did this.) This year it was Wanda Sykes, who was perfectly fine and not all that offensive, unless you think jokes about Rush Limbaugh being addicted to Oxycotin gasp-worthy. But no one's talking about her at all: They're talking about Obama's jokes. Which, as it turns out, really were funnier. (I love the riff about Sasha and Malia taking Air Force One over Manhattan.) At this point, Barack Obama is perceived by the press corps and many of his advocates (of which I am one) as the best President, the funniest comedian and the guy who's totally going to figure out cold fusion. It's a crazy time.

Manny Ramirez. No, not that Manny Ramirez. I'm talking about the Manny Ramirez that Daulerio's relentless investigation ultimately took down, the Manny Ramirez from Medford, Massachusetts. Daulerio's pursuit of him has spanned decades and taken down many in its wake. I kind of wish Daulerio would show up at this Manny Ramirez's workplace, like Selena Roberts did with A-Rod, and confronted him with all the evidence, demanding a confession. (For the record, that might be my favorite piece Daulerio has ever written for this Web site. It made me a little embarrassed for all the years I was a hack around here, comparatively.)

Alex Rodriguez. No talking about steroids here, or that "eff you" home run Friday night. No, we're just going to talk about The Sports Hernia's discovery of the overly excited woman who sprinted down to "greet" A-Rod after that first-pitch homer. Who is she? Where did she come from? Why was she so excited? I mean, he kind of has to know her, right? Whether you hate A-Rod or just think he's an alien who was never introduced to Earth's ways and customs, it's stuff like this that makes you appreciate how entertaining it is to have him back.

Jack Shepherd. As a general rule, I tend to think "LOST" — which ends its fifth, penultimate season tomorrow night — is a better show the less it focuses on Matthew Fox's Jack Shephard, who is one of those characters whose a lot less interesting than the actor who plays him probably thinks. Jack is just a drunk surgeon with daddy issues and a serious case of inflated self-importance, and the great joke about his character is that everyone keeps blindly following him into disaster even though his decisions are always, always wrong. Well, the big gimmick for the final episode is that Jack is trying to detonate a hydrogen bomb on the island, with the idea that it will change history and allow the original flight that crashed on the island to land as was initially scheduled. This is a terrible, awful, hilariously stupid idea — he is trying set off a hydrogen bomb! — which, I suspect, is going to turn out to be a brilliant idea. Now that everyone on the island has finally realized Jack is a raging loon, they've all stopped following him. It only stands to reason that now that Jack has lost all his followers and is pursuing the stupidest of all his ideas, this is the one that will turn out to be right. Also? Jack = Jacob. DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND? God I freaking love "LOST."

Gordon Shumway Everybody's favorite Melmacian has been relatively quiet on the pop culture radar of late, mostly because all puppet roles are currently being played by Nicolas Cage. Thankfully, the Web is bringing him back to relevance. Witness, then, this hypnotic four-part series of ALF, directed by David Lynch. Never before has Willie Tanner's plight seemed so terrifyingly surreal. I fully expect someone to start remixing all kinds of old television shows as if they were directed by David Lynch. I would love to see what he would do with "WKRP In Cincinnati."

Steven Strasburg. I never like it when baseball has one of those big bonus-baby, CAN'T-MISS draft prospects. It turns the game too much into college basketball or the NFL for my blood, endless obsession on ridiculously young men and all their "tools." This has been going on for a while for Strasburg, who has been called the best prospect ever for months and years now. (Apparently the Chinese team was terrified of him in the Olympics.) He's also supposedly really freaking smart too, which, honestly, translated from baseball terms, means "took more than 85 percents of his college tests all by himself." And he's owned by Scott Boras, which means we're going to read about 50,000 stories over the next two months about Boras' unreasonable demands and the Nationals' attempts to screw over their fanbase, and blah blah blah there really is nothing worse than baseball contract stories. The Nationals should skip out on signing Strasburg and spend their money on fixing their supposedly horrific press box that every sportswriter in America insists on telling us about in every story. Let's fight the real enemy, people.

I'm about to hunker down in the bunker for the next book — out next Father's Day! If I finish in time! — so I'm trying to wean myself off excess, unnecessary Web usage. This used to be less difficult: I'd read Gawker and Slate and Baseball Prospectus a little less, maybe start doing more work on my old computer that doesn't connect to the Web. (This only goes so far: When you're writing something that big, you'll find any way you can to distract yourself. I found myself playing with that non-Web computer's internal clock. "I wonder what time it is in Monaco right now!")

Now, of course, there's a lot more to shut down from. There's my Twitter, there's my Tumblr, there's something called Foursquare, which I use for absolutely no reason at all. (I don't even like it, and its format — telling your friends what bars you're at when you arrive — is literally the opposite of the way I live my life. And still: I feel compelled to be on.) Realize, we are just about a year away, tops, from someone writing one of those gimmick books about staying away from the Internet for six months and seeing what happens, like that couple that had sex every day for a year or that guy who tried to live for a few months as if he were a Civil War general. (He must have been very hot.) It's going to be so much harder than it was the last time I slowed the Web usage for to work on a book, two years ago. I have a fear people will forget I'm alive. Not that being aware of it now is providing them much all that interesting.

(Thanks to Gourmet Spud, by the way, for filling in last week. Unfortunately, he ignored my pleas and wrote something much funnier than what you're about to read.)

(Oh, and I am absolutely not ready to talk about Ankiel yet. I hope you understand.)

Jim Courier. The "retired" tennis pro — I put retired in quotes because no tennis player is truly retired, not really — made a headline or two (but probably just one) for live-Twittering an exhibition match with John McEnroe over the weekend. In case you were wondering whether or not this is going to start some sort of trend, rest assured: It won't. Some highlights:

"I hit a rick-donk-u-lous slice angle pass to go up 2 minibreaks off of a sick mac approach. Yee haw."

"Gagged a fh sitter to lose serve 4-3 mac. Gotta refocus. Loose game there"

"3-2. Tight service game. Was down bp. Served out of it. Rushed that game 2 dbl flts. Relax!!!"

"They just reeled off winner after winner. 10-3 for them in the breaker...whew. I'm tired"

Technology at its finest. Will someone Twitter a marathon someday? (One would think someone already has.) I'd guess stuff like:

"feeling good! beautiful day!"

"look its that dude who pushes his son around in marathons. totally wasting that guy"

"startin to feeel sorrre"

"i think my nipples are starting to bleed"

"fuck you i dont want your water you fuck"

"i just shit myself"

"shit is running down my leg"

"please let me die"

John Danks. I had to feel for the White Sox lefthander, who was "caught" picking his nose during the ESPN Sunday Night game. (Stupid machines capable of capturing human movement for posterity!) I felt bad for him because, well, I'm one of those people who actually scratches and picks at his nose as a matter of fidgeting: I do it without realizing it, and I'm always getting caught. (On the subway the other day, an attractive woman was staring at me intently, which was intriguing until I realized my index finger was halfway to my eyesocket.) It's disgusting, and it's true, and it's happened to you and don't deny it. Thank God no one ever films me at my job. Anyway, I appreciated how Daulerio headlined the picture with different terminologies for nose picking. My dad's a fan of "Hey, Will, pick me out a Cadillac." Seriously, you don't want to see the bottom of my desk at home.

Pasta Dude. I'm not exactly the healthiest eater, to any stretch of the imagination, but I can't say I'm sprinting out the door to buy a bread bowl full of pasta. (I think it's possible that no one does the Atkins diet anymore. Maybe.) Though I am curious to see how that might taste covered in chocolate and ketchup. Anyway, the "So Good" blog pointed out the now-defunct but entirely brilliant "Pasta Dude" commercial that Domino's once had attached to their pasta. Please watch the commercial now. I love this advertisement in every possible way. First, it has a rapping corporate mascot, which is always epic. (His hat be on sideways.) Second, the ad, after the weird rapping corporate mascot shows up, is played completely straight, like this was the only logical way to convince people to eat pasta from Domino's. But mostly: It exists enough in the real world that the family reacts in the horror perhaps any of us would react with upon seeing a rapping corporate mascot show up dancing and singing in our kitchen. It's verisimilitude: It's what commercials would look like if they were all directed by Lars Von Trier.

Brett Favre. Don't you freaking dare. Just don't. Seriously. If John Madden has retired, man, there's nobody left anymore. Even Peter King is tired of writing about you. We can't take it. I'd rather see Dan Marino come back.

(Warning: All this goes out the window if he promises, upon "returning," to have a sex boat part for rookie initiation. He can make that promise, right? To make it easier on him, let's just make it a sex tractor party. I think my dad has some power tools calendar in his garage that's halfway there already.)

Gloria James. It's Mother's Day this Sunday — so if you're planning on ordering flowers online, you best do it today — so I thought I'd take a look at Gloria James, the mother of our new MVP and the best player in the NBA. It has been more than three years since LeBron's mom — who, I remind, is only 40 years old; she should date Favre! — was arrested for drunk driving. During the arrest, she kicked out the back windshield of the cop car and, when she still refused to settle down, they maced her. They maced LeBron's mom! I mean, I really don't think this story could possibly be talked about enough. If he comes to New York in a couple years, she's going to be a huge, huge hit here.

Damon Lindelof. I'm pretty sure I don't understand what's going on on "Lost" anymore, but that doesn't make me any less obsessive about it. As I've mentioned before, I'm a loyal listener to the "Lost" podcast with producers Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, and I'm realizing that Lindelof, in particular, reminds me just how much of my life I've wasted. He's running the most challenging show on television, he's producing the "Star Trek" remake that everyone seems to love and when "Lost" ends, he's writing the screenplay for a movie version of Stephen King's "The Dark Tower," which I'm not afraid to admit occupied about 14 percent of my childhood. And he just turned 36. Meanwhile, most of my friends have trouble getting up before noon on a Sunday. Jerk.

Mine That Bird. Ten years ago, I made my one bet on a horse race: Sitting an OTB in Alton, Illinois, I put five dollars on 30-1 underdog Charismatic to win the Kentucky Derby. Somehow, he did, and I never bet on a race again. I think this makes me the world's greatest gambler. Anyway, right before Sunday's Kentucky Derby, everyone at the party I was at — oddly, the only sporting events I go to that are social events are the Super Bowl and the Kentucky Derby — starting flitting around, asking everybody who their picks were for the race. No one had any idea, of course, partly because no one had any idea and mostly because, geez, it's a bunch of freaking horses. I, totally guessing, just blurted out "Mine That Bird," owing mostly to the fact that those are three words that make absolutely no sense place together. Lo and behold, it won, and I looked like ... well, I looked like an idiot who just threw a name into the air because everyone was asking and expected me to know something because I (kind of) work in sports. Which I quite definitively do not. I don't have a major point here except to say that I hope that Cajun guy stops winning races because he's hard enough to understand when both he and the interviewer aren't sitting atop massive mammals.

Bill Simmons. As you might have heard, The Sports Fella — who is the same age as LeBron's mom — has finally caved and signed up for Twitter. (It probably has something to do with that book he's gonna be promoting in a few months, which, rumor has it, is more than 500 pages.) Predictably, Simmons went dog-nutty from the get-go, powering forth an impressive (and oppressive) 75 Tweets in four days. (That's a pace I hit only when Rick Ankiel has slammed his head into the center field wall at a crazy rate of speed. For example.) As a frame of reference, the hyperactive storm that is Ron Zook is only at 69 after a matter of months. Will Simmons get bored with Twitter, Oprah-style, and gravitate away in the next few weeks? I hope not: There's something sublime about Simmons telling the world about watching Shoot To Kill in real time.

Quentin Tarantino. I'm the only person alive, other than maybe Daulerio, who thinks Quentin Tarantino's movies are actually improving. I'm not sure why everyone seems so annoyed that he makes stylish, empty movies about his personal obsessions: Isn't that what we usually ask from our artists? And this artist makes shit blow up in awesome ways and can even stage a kick-ass half-hour car chase. That is to say: I'm pretty ecstatic about Inglourious Basterds, which is going to debut at the Cannes Film Festival next week. The whole plot of the movie seems to be "Jews killing Nazis in increasingly creative ways." Is there supposed to be something wrong with that? What, is he supposed to make a chamber drama about a dysfunctional family torn apart over long-repressed memories of tragedy? He's Quentin Tarantino, for cripes sake! Give me stuff blowing up, riffs on animated television shows I've never seen and new, cool ways for people to die. That'll do just fine. If you need a reminder, just watch this.

Bruce Weber. No, I'm not talking about the Anatidae-voiced Illinois basketball coach, nor the fashion photographer particularly skilled at shooting profiles of naked men. (Sending that link to my always-eager-for-Illini-news father is still one of my favorite jokes. It gets him every time.) It turns out there's another Bruce Weber, a sports reporter for The New York Times, and his new book, As They Seem 'Em, is my new obsession. Basically, Weber hung out with umpires for three years and learned everything you could know about him. Umpires are weird creatures: They're on the road all the time, they rarely have anything resembling a normal family life and they exist almost solely to be yelled it. It reminded me of Ron Luciano's famous The Umpire Strikes Back, which I read as a kid and made me think that every umpire was secretly charming, funny and sweet. Luciano killed himself 14 years ago. So there's that.

I say "sort of" because, in a decision that was as baffling as it was poorly timed, this site's esteemed editor, Alejandro Jamario Daulerio, decided to invest the entire week's budget in bacon futures. Consequently, I was informed that we didn't have the funds available for me to write about ten whole humans, and that I had to limit myself to ten specific body parts instead. Even worse, I was told that Roy Halladay's aura of invincibility did not count as a body part. What is this, Russia?

In any event, here is this week's list. Apologies in advance to all you vestigial tail fans, but the news has been pretty quiet on that front. Unless my Google Alert feed has failed me.

Dikembe Mutombo's Left Knee. Specifically, its rupturing during last week's game against Portland. Even before Mutombo announced his retirement the following day, you knew his career was over. Which was sad, because you hate to see the career of any athlete, let alone one as likable as him, end with them being carried off on a stretcher, screaming gutterly warbling in agony. He was in so much pain, a young blind child sitting courtside was overheard asking, "Mommy, is Mrs. Chewbacca having a baby?"

Although it's not like a storybook retirement guarantees a problem-free future or anything. John Elway hung them up on top of the world, and even he's had his struggles with post-football life. At the end of the day, I'd be happy to go out the same way my dad did. He was fired after he was caught having sex on his boss's desk. The only thing I'd change is that I'd have someone else there with me.

John Daly's Wang. Did you hear? It's longer than the line-ups at the DMV! Or so wrote Rick Reilly (probably) in his 2004 book, Who's Your Caddy? [note: I thought we had already determined it was Faizon Love?]. In a recent interview, Daly expressed displeasure with this disclosure, claiming that when he (told? showed?) it to Reilly, it was supposed to be off the record.

I'm not sure who comes off looking worse in this story - Daly for the slightly unsettling cockiness, or Reilly for making it pubic. What I do know is that it is we, the giggling, unwashed massives, who benefit.

Whew. Just barely made the pun quota for a Reilly posting there.

Jay Cutler's Liver. Apparently, it's being put through quite the off-season workout regimen. The Bears say they aren't worried about it, which makes sense, considering their last legendarily hard-partying quarterback ended up in the Hall of Fame. I guess one cause for concern might be that Cutler is a diabetic, although admittedly I have no idea what effect excessive alcohol consumption might have on his condition. If only there was someone out there with an intimate knowledge of both football and diabetes, and who had no qualms about interrupting what up to that point had been a delightfully breezy conversation about all things football with a ten-minute soliloquy on this very subject. Does Peter King have a medical degree?

Karen Sypher's Eyes. We still know next to nothing about what may or may not have occurred between Sypher and Louisville coach Rick Pitino back in 2003. We know some of the details of the alleged extortion attempt that Sypher has been charged with, but as she hasn't been convicted of anything, it would be irresponsible to speculate about her guilt or innocence at this point in time.

But still...look at those peepers! I mean, come on! To paraphrase Tony Soprano, somebody dim the Manson Lamps! If the eyes truly are the windows to the soul, then all I'm saying is that someone needs to invest in a serious pair of blackout curtains before she gets in front of a jury.

Now excuse me as I cowardly slink away from any further comment on this subject (note: in case anyone is counting, Sypher's eyes count as two parts).

Susan Boyle's Voice Box. It's amazing. World class. She seems like a lovely person, and I, like most of the planet, really hope she goes on to have a very successful singing career. But I can't be alone in thinking that her appearance on Britain's Got Talent was just a little too perfect to warrant this level of hype. Now I'm obviously not saying it was staged, or that the judges or the crowd in attendance were in on it. But didn't we do this exact same thing with Paul Potts just over two years ago? And given how much attention he received, shouldn't we be expecting one of these "oh-my-God-how-can-something-so-beautiful-come-out-of-something-that-looks-like-that?" stories pretty much once a year?

Don't get me wrong, I love to be inspired as much as the next person. Case in point, I've probably watched the video of Mo Cheeks helping that girl with the anthem about 50 times, and it always gets me a bit misty. But I prefer it when my spontaneous moments of wonder aren't telegraphed by ten cut-aways to dismissive eye-rolling from the audience. And I'm betting I'm not alone. In fact, I know of at least one hard-hearted television writer who no doubt saw right through this slick piece of forced sentimentality and...

Well, that settles it then. Everyone start hoarding the Patchouli oil, I'll tell Barbara Streisand she's President.

Patrick Schuster's Arm. Later this afternoon, the 18-year-old high school senior from Florida goes for his fifth consecutive no-hitter. The U.S. record for consecutive no-no's by a high-schooler is six, and surprisingly, it's not held by Jeremy Stevens (hey-oh)! Best of luck to Patrick, and God help the kid who inevitably breaks the streak with a bunt single.

One question, though - what's the "don't talk to the pitcher" etiquette in this situation? I mean, if a pitcher's got a no-hitter in the fifth, his teammates are supposed to stay away from him. But what if the no-hitter continues over multiple games? Do they keep on ignoring him, even at school and at practice? Imagine how difficult high school would be if no one talked to you for weeks at a time. Why, I can only imagine that it would be horrible!

/bites knuckle, stifles wail

Let's move on.

Hulk Hogan's Mouth. Hogan supporters (formerly "Hulkamaniacs") are saying that his recent comment in an interview with Rolling Stone about "totally understand[ing] O.J." (when discussing his bitter divorce proceedings with his wife) was taken out of context. Good enough for me. After all, if there is anyone who deserves the benefit of the doubt on something like this, it's a hyper-emotional pro wrestler with a long, storied history of steroid abuse.

Seriously, pro wrestlers are the entertainment industry's version of the Kennedy family - the number of them that meet premature, tragic ends is disproportionately high. Is there an easier gig in the world than being the administrator of the WWE's pension plan? That thing pays out less than a Karen Sypher extortion target.

Karl Pilkington's Head. Look at it - it's perfectly round, like a f#####g orange. For my money, the Ricky Gervais series of audiobooks continues to be the funniest thing going, the brand new "Guide to...The English" being no exception. On a related note, I think at this point I have bought every single comedy album available on iTunes. If I had to rank them, I'd go with:

1. Patton Oswalt's Werewolves & Lollipops
2. Paul F. Tompkins's Impersonal
3. Todd Barry's Medium Energy
4. Mitch Hedberg's Strategic Grill Locations
5. Nickelback's Dark Horse

Who'd I miss?

Rick Ankiel's Moustache (In Memoriam). Just a thank you to Will for letting me fill in. He's back next week.

Today's piece of fun, courtesy of The Awl (more on that site in a bit) and The Atlantic Monthly ... it turns out that there's one more great reason to make fun of Yankees fans: They have a more difficult time sustaining an erection than you do.

And it's not their fault! It's all the secondhand smoke! (Or something.)

There's no way that ED cases are five times higher among Yankees fans than the general public, but baseball's aging population combined with the stress and smoking factors inherent to New York might make it especially prevalent among its home fans. With that in mind, maybe Levitra et al should spend a little more on stadium sponsoring and less on commercial ads, if only to give life to the "Earth Dissection" fib.

I have to say, of all the potential insults that could come down at Fenway Park this weekend — and there are so, so many — the HARD STATISTICAL EVIDENCE that Yankees fans have a hard time keeping boners would have to be pretty high up the list. Here is what I encourage The Atlantic Monthly to do: I want a power poll. (So to speak.) I want to know, based on the factors they're looking at here, which sports team's fans can keep their erections, and which can't.

I work from certain basic assumptions:

*** Redskins fans' penises are painted and dressed like elderly women.
*** Cleveland fans keep erections until they very, very end ... and then lose them.
*** Philadelphia fans boo their own penis even when it's working.
*** Detroit fans' penises are rotting and decrepit ... but they're still proud of them.
*** Packers fans' penises have ... you know, I was going to make a cheese joke here but changed my mind.
*** Oakland and San Francisco are equally proficient at keeping erections.
*** Mets fans are better than Yankees fans.
*** White Sox fans are better than Cubs fans.
*** Cardinals fans are better than Cubs fans.
*** Everyone's better than Cubs fans.

Come on! Play along! It's fun!

Alex Balk. In the wake of whatever the heck happened on Deadspin this weekend — to touch on it as briefly as possible, Moe rules — I thought back to the last time we had a former Gawker editor running the site here. Yep, the great Alex Balk, who famously introduced himself with "Okay, listen up, douchebags: I don't like you and you don't like me," who was equally amusing and treated just about as well. Alas. It happens. Anyway, a couple of years removed from Gawker and a few months removed from Radar, Balk is back, with the also-awesome Choire Sicha, at The Awl, which is smart and mean and goofy and everything you might want from a blog. I'm trying to talk them into letting me write about Woody Allen. No luck so far.

Dave Cullen. Up for some light beach reading? Tired of busting out that dogeared copy of The Lovely Bones and concerned you might not get iPhone service out there in Montauk? Of course you are! Worry not! Dave Cullen's Columbine, which I wrote about for the magazine this week, isn't exactly a pick-me-up — I know, shocking, right? — but it is a pretty amazing book, riveting and terrifying. Call me crazy, but that sounds like a perfect beach book to me. Why do we insist our beach books be mindless fluff? If you're too disturbed by something you're reading, put it down and just lie around doing nothing: You're on the beach! Sure beats reading in a cold dark room. (Note: I am assuming, speciously, that people still read books. Sorry.)

Trey Hillman. Whatever your thoughts about the Royals, you have to envy the denizens of Kansas City — home of a great jazz museum and a Negro Leagues baseball museum! — because, for whatever reason, they have more outstanding baseball writers than just about any city in the country. (I'd put St. Louis in second place, so, yeah, go Missouri!) This is not necessarily good news for the Royals, though. While the rest of the country is all, "Whoa, the Royals are in first place, their manager must be a genius!" the loyal scribes of KC town know better, and know better in hilarious ways. To quote three favorites:

Rob Neyer: "[Kyle Farnsworth] threw Thome a fastball down the middle, he did. Gave up a long, three-run, (eventually) game-losing home run, he also did. And Royals manager Trey Hillman? He sat on his hands and watched it happen. That's what he did."

Rany Jazayerli: "Hillman is getting no slack with me this year. He cost us this game, plain and simple. He cost us a two-game swing in the standings with a divisional rival. The odds that the outcome of this game – the outcome of Hillman's decision – keeps the Royals out of the postseason are something like 1%. Think about that: it's still Opening Day, and there's a one-in-a-hundred shot that the Royals just blew the division."

Joe Posnanski: "I think it's fair to say that Trey has not yet figured out how he will use the bullpen - and that's probably not a good thing since, as far as I can tell, these games count in the standings."

John Madden: Rather than come up with yet another remembrance of John Madden — who, first off, isn't actually dead, and second, I've already done that — I thought I would reflect on his career in the most useful way possible: A grand history of his video game. (Remember, he was the one who insisted it be 11-on-11 in the first place.) By the end, you couldn't tell the difference between video Madden and real Madden, which is why he should be on the game forever, in the same way Bob Sheppard should announce hitters forever at Yankee Stadium, even after he has died. This wouldn't be that hard, right? Just get every popular announcer in the world right now — and there have to be some, right? — say every name in the phone book, making sure all future generations are covered. Hell, they make enough money.

Peter King. You have to hand it to Peter King: It takes guts for a guy so often lampooned by the Internets — though, I suspect, with more love than afforded Rick Reilly — to sign up for Twitter. (Blame Oprah!) He's willing to get his hands dirty: He's even following me! Perhaps wisely, he's keeping his early Tweets focused entirely on football, and, all told, I'd have to think he's worth checking out closely during the draft. But it's Peter: It's only a matter of time until we start seeing 140-character tidbits about the guy farting next to him on an airplane, field hockey teams and the ribs over at the Shake Shack. Which is fine. You must give the masses what they desire.

J.E. Skeets, It's virtually impossible to give everybody's NBA-obsessed Canadian enough love, but I'm gonna try to pile on nevertheless. The grand Basketball Jones podcast — and I don't know how to do one of those links that send you to iTunes, so just go here — is relentlessly entertaining every day of the year and elevates into angelic status come playoff time. (Love to Tas Melas too, of course.) Plus, their theme song is by Phoenix, whose appearance on "Saturday Night Live" a couple of weeks ago absolutely tore the place apart and pretty much secures their spot as this summer's soundtrack. (Laugh, smile, dance, while all your jobs disappear! Wee!) Skeets can say he was into Phoenix before it was cool to be into Phoenix, though, because he's not an asshole, he probably won't. SKEETS.

Stephen A. Smith. The first real "ambitious" project I ever did for Deadspin — assuming you don't count the retroactively lame guide to ESPN anchor speakers fees I ran on the site's first day ever, back on September 8, 2005 — was my field trip to "Quite Frankly With Stephen A. Smith. Stephen A. was an obvious target for the site in the early days, because he was so overhyped (ESPN PR got him a feature story in Sports Illustrated! Really!) despite no major accomplishments and, to my view, no actual fans. The show, predictably, was a disaster, but I always felt Stephen A. improved once the spotlight on him dimmed, and, QUITE FRANKLY, I even liked his blog. All told, I'm sure it was worth it for him: He got paid a boatload of money, was invited to some Allen Iverson parties and made a fan in Kevin Love. I'm honestly gonna miss the lug.

Matt Taibbi. I know everyone's desperate for another Hunter S. Thompson, but I've never quite understood why people are so eager to bestow it onto Matt Taibbi, least of all the author himself. (Note: I have a history with Mr. Taibbi.) The guy can write, sure, I guess, though I think people are just desperate for someone writing about politics somewhere other than a blog to say the words "puke," "dildo" and "retarded." But mostly, honestly, I find him, in the wake of this economic clusterphooey, to be the opposite side of Glenn Beck, stirring up mock populist outrage for the sake of empty rhetoric. (To be sure, Taibbi's empty rhetoric is more entertaining, and considerably more sane, empty rhetoric.) Take, for example, Taibbi's enjoyable but shockingly dunderheaded column for Men's Journal about Brian Cashman, which basically tries to connect AIG to ... well, to Brian Cashman. I had started on a big takedown of this piece on the Tumblr site, but once I realized ShysterBall had already done it, and far better than I would have, I just gave up. Highlight: "At least there is one small bit of value to this article: I now know that if I want to get published in Men's Journal, all I need to do is drop bombs for 15-20 paragraphs and froth at the mouth a little. Wait, a lot." You can make a fine career out of it, actually.

Chien-Ming Wang. When a former sterling starter all of a sudden turns into a pumpkin in Pittsburgh, they just call him Zach Duke and move on with their day. In New York, when it's Chien-Ming Wang, he turns into a creature of intense fascination and curiosity. Witness these remarks about Wang in the wake of his 34.50 ERA.

*** "There are adjustments he has to make. We really believe he's capable of doing it but we've got to help him." — Joe Girardi.

*** "He's got a lot of work to do to get his numbers to where they would be normally." — David Cone.

*** "He's going to pitch, he's going to get confidence, and he's going to get better." — Yankees pitching coach Dave Eiland, whoever that is.

*** "I watch video, everything's the same as last season." — Chien-Ming Wang. (To be fair, it appears these are the only nine English words he knows.)

Marc Carig of the Newark Star-Ledger said it was like watching Tim Wakefield pitch if he couldn't throw his knuckleball. That's just kind of like watching a regular person pitch, isn't it? Like you or I? In case you ever wondered what would happen if you started three baseball games ... this is what would happen.

Vince Young. There's something wonderful about the word "hoopla." It has a great old-timey feel, like a way they'd describe a wicked googly, or an Civil War re-enactment. ("Come, kids! There's hoopla out there! Hoopla!") I even love the definition: "bustling excitement or activity; commotion; hullabaloo; to-do. sensational publicity; ballyhoo." Who wouldn't want to be a part of something that has the words "hullabaloo," "to-do" and "ballyhoo" in it. It sounds like a word you'd use when trying to sell a monorail. Anyway, Vince Young is promising no more "hoopla," and the fact that he used that word, in particular, kind of makes me love him all over again. "Watch out for the hoopla, kid!" Wait ... he doesn't think "hoopla" is a tequila brand, does he? He might.

Back in June 2002, I knew something had happened to Jack Buck when I woke up to his voice on my clock radio. Jack had been suffering from Parkinson's for a while, and he'd looked particularly frail the last time I'd seen him, during his 9/11 poem just days after the attacks.

New York radio was playing his call of Ozzie Smith's home run in the 1985 NLCS — the "Go Crazy, Folks!" home run off Tom Niedenfuer — and I knew that had to mean he was gone. In my remembrance of him later that day, I noted that I'd probably heard Jack Buck's voice more than any other human's voice on earth. I suspect that's still true, seven years later. It'll probably still be true 30 years from now.

I thought about that when Harry Kalas died yesterday, when Daulerio went through what I did seven years ago. (His remembrance was particularly well done.) It was sad, of course, to lose someone you've been attached to for so long, but with distance and time, you realize that you've lost something different than just a person: You've lost an attachment to something that will never, ever be mended, or even replicated.

There aren't many broadcasters like Buck and Kalas left. Vin Scully seems to be it, yes? Marty Brennaman, maybe? Ernie Harwell, if he were still doing games? They are relics of a more permanent era, when people really did have one job for 50 years and couldn't be happier about it. (And back when people listened to the radio, the one station they could get, only if they happened to be on a hill.) That doesn't happen anymore, in any field. The people who have been doing this for so long, whether they're a broadcaster, or a newsman, or just the guy who does your taxes, are the last of their breed. We are a transient society, constantly moving, looking for the next thing, never sitting still for too long. There isn't much constancy. This makes for a more vibrant, exciting life. (Theoretically, anyway.) But it also casts darkness on all our institutions: When nothing lasts for too long, those things have lost value. We appreciate them more ... but we find ourselves mourning them less when they're gone. There's always something else.

That's what we lost when Jack Buck, and Harry Kalas, and Phil Rizzuto, and Harry Caray, left us. That what we lose when newspapers close. There's always a new thing. Harry Kalas was one of the last of his breed. Not just because he was a beloved broadcaster. But because he cared enough to stick around so long. People don't do that anymore. For better or worse.

Nick Adenhart. Like everyone, I was as saddened by the tragic death of the Angels starter as you can be by the death of someone whom you've never met and had no strong opinions about. (Like any baseball-obsessed son, the stuff about his dad just wrecked me.) But life goes on, as it must, because if it didn't, this column would be a lot shorter. More specifically: Fantasy baseball goes on, and considering fantasy baseball is the ultimate dispassionate, players-are-not-human activity, I found it fascinating to see how fantasy owners handled Adenhart over the weekend. I'm not sure I'm getting the straight scoop, though: ESPN doesn't list Adenhart among its most dropped players, nor does CBS Sportsline (which isn't called Sportsline anymore, yet I'll always refer to it that way) and Fantasy Baseball Geeks doesn't mention him either. Am I an asshole for waiving him on Friday? I don't think waiving Nick Adenhart from my fantasy team is any more of an insult to him personally than waiving Jose Guillen is to him. I probably shouldn't be writing this.

Usain Bolt. I'm pretty proud to live in a world where this headline marks a legitimate Associated Press story: "Report: Bolt tried weed as a kid." Holy crap! And he hasn't overdosed since then??? Another highlight: "Bild said one of its reporters met Bolt at a disco in Kingston, Jamaica, and that the sprinter drank Guinness mixed with Red Bull." What kind of message is this sending to children? (By the way, sorry I copied a whole sentence there, AP. Don't sue me!) I have no idea why anyone would want to be an Olympian. Your earning potential is capped, people walk behind you to catch and test spare urine and people freak out if you say you smoked pot 15 years ago. Whose life would you rather have: Usain Bolt's, or Matt Stairs'?

Angel Cabrera. Speaking of smoking things, it took me a while, but I finally found a subplot from a golf tournament that interests me: Our new Masters champions is trying to quit smoking. (Hey, it's golf. Slim pickings.) Amusingly, he decided to quit because he was afraid the public would think he was "out of shape" if they saw him smoking between holes. Hey, no offense, Angel, but I'm afraid the jig is up on that one. Besides, that is the exact opposite of how smoking works: You smoke so you appear to be in better shape than you actually are. That's how models, cokeheads and bloggers have been doing it for years. This is yet another way that President Obama puts us all to shame, by the way: The man smokes (Marlboro Reds, even!) and still makes it to his 6 a.m. workout every day. Oh, and runs the country. Honestly, though: I think that's a stupid looking dog. Sorry, I do.

Jody Hill. As someone who's as big a fan of "Eastbound and Down" as anybody — and hey, it's coming back next year! — I was downright crushed by how obnoxious and disappointing I found Observe and Report to be. (Hill is the film's director, and co-creator of the show.) I won't get into aggressive detail — though you can read my review here — but there's a little part of me that wonders if Paul Blart: Mall Cop, which I haven't seen, might actually be better. It's at least more honest and less hostile to its audience. I've been calling it the Funny Games of comedy, and a few days after seeing it, I think that's exactly right. I suspect Hill would be proud of that designation. He shouldn't be. Plus, I always appreciate a good Danny McBride cameo, but this movie has his worst one.

LeBron James. I've said it before, but since I write for New York, I have to keep saying it: Why in the world would LeBron James ever want to play for the Knicks? Ignore for a moment that the Knicks still have a long way to go toward being competitive. (Even though they're inching closer! Baby steps!) Have you seen this Cavaliers team? ESPN's Chris Sheridan points out they have few holes anymore, and I keep waiting for an epic Free Darko the-world-is-melting-all-around-us ode to LeBron. (They're podcast regulars now, by the way.) And as for the supposed marketing opportunities of New York ... is their a corporation on earth that's thinking of using LeBron James as their product's spokesperson right now, but just needs more people to find out about him first? He's LeBron James! I'm salivating over a Cavaliers-Lakers final. Aren't you?

Denny Neagle. It's awfully nice to have Denny Neagle back. The notion of libidinous former athletes scoping our ladies on Facebook is too delicious to comprehend: It's the closest thing to a real-life Dugout as we'll ever come across. And, in case you've forgotten, Neagle has a history of questionable decisions involving women. The woman in the picture right there? Yes, he paid for her. I always enjoyed that story because it showed the difference between "soliciting" a prostitute and "patronizing" one. From the district attorney in that case: "[patronizing] actually fits the crime even better - it refers to the completed act." Got it!

Rob Neyer. Nobody gives him nearly enough credit for it, in my opinion, but I think Rob Neyer might be one of the important figures in 21st century sports journalism. I don't know about you, but the first time I'd ever even heard of Bill James was in one of Neyer's old ESPNet SportsZone columns. He's actually been writing for that site since 1996. That's 13 years! Nate Silver, Michael Lewis and Billy Beane might be the ultimate big names in sabermetrics and advanced baseball analysis, but a lot of us heard about it through Neyer first. Bill Simmons was a bartender when Neyer started. I was a junior in college. Elvis Andrus was seven years old. Anyway, I enjoy Neyer's new-ish site on ESPN — I guess this means the contract negotiations went all right — but man, oh man, that name. The site is called SweetSpot by Rob Neyer. Rob Neyer's Sweet Spot. That'll bring in the pageviews! By the way, speaking of terrible names. do you realize Deadspin was almost called benchrider.com? I was the one fighting for that. Thank you, Nick Denton and Lockhart Steele, for overruling me.

Todd Palin.. Absolutely epic piece about Sarah Palin's worse half in this month's Esquire. The snowmobilin' hockey dad seems like a rather amazing guy, actually. He's ended up with the craziest life possible, which was the exact opposite of his plan: "All I ever wanted to do growing up was be a commercial fisherman," he says. "Fish in the summer and play in the winter." You know, if it weren't so freaking cold, that wouldn't necessarily be a terrible plan. The story ends with the line, "He doesn't mind riding in the snow dust." And he comes across great in it. It almost makes me want to grow a goatee. (Note: I could not grow a goatee if I wanted to.)

Barry Zito. Forgive my juvenelia, though I'm sure you're used to it right now, but I'm still giggling about Barry Zito's snotrocket. (Great band name! Actually, everyone always says things are great band names that are not, in fact, great band names. Barry Zito's snotrocket is one of those, I suspect. I was listening to Damon Lindelof's and Carlton Cuse's LOST podcast the other day, though, and they got a letter from a guy who has a LOST tribute band. The band's name is Sonic Weapon Fence. That is a great band name. I bet Sonic Weapon Fence fucking rocks.) I'm surprised that no one has started a Tumblr yet exclusively featuring athletes shooting stuff out of their nose, mouth or ears. Oh, don't look at me like that. You'd all read it.

Ron Zook. Another example of why it's more fun to live in the land of make-believe? Ron Zook has a Twitter, and it's not nearly as much fun as a Fake Ron Zook Twitter would have been. I think Zook only has a Twitter because someone told him it's what the kids are doing — which they're not, for what it's worth — and Zook was like, "The kids do it! A recruit might do it! BAD! ASS! I'm on it!" Sadly, he's pretty dull so far. I do like this one, though: "About to head out to speak to students at the UI law school. Probably going to hit on topics like agents, contracts, etc." Kind of love that Ron Zook is speaking at the Illinois law school. Sounds about right.

One of the most nonsensical constructs of sports journalism is the notion that your reporter is supposed to be "impartial." I think this is some sort of misguided offshoot of political journalism. There, if you are "biased" against a candidate or party, at least theoretically, you could somehow skew coverage and public perception to fit your own agenda. I don't think this happens, but I suppose it's possible.

In sports, we have actual winners and losers, real, live, official contests that help us decide who is successful and who is not. If I were covering the Chicago Cubs, I could write whatever I wanted to about them, and it would not change the results of their games. (Unless I screamed my stories in their ear when they were trying to hit or something, though I have a feeling someone would eventually stop me from doing that.) Yet we go on, pretending that our reporters have no personalities of their own, that they are mere robots here, that they weren't once kids with their own rooting interests, their own posters on their bedroom walls. Hey, everyone: Peter King grew up cheering for the Giants. How can we ever trust him again?

I think this is shifting, though, and I think it's a good thing. Though I have to remind myself of it. For New York, I regularly write about the Mets, a team I've always kind of liked, even before I had any professional reason to write about them. They've had some historic run-ins with the Cardinals, though, and, as I've discovered, many Mets fans are loathe to forget them. Well, at least the Mets fans who comment on New York's site.

Last week, I wrote two separate pieces on the Mets. The first looked at the Mets' roster, and the second at the whole National League. I thought it was fair enough, I suppose, though I'll confess that Fernando Tatis could set off a dirty bomb at a Woody Allen retrospective and I'd still love him. But the comments were all, "Hey, St. Louis boy, go home!"

A sampling:

The perma tourist picks the Cardinals. Shocker.

Priceless.

And:

Manny Ramirez led all outfielders in slugging last year you asshat. Shouldn't you be writing for St. Louis Magazine? With all the media downsizing, how have you made it this far?

And:

Probably should have made the teaser a little less deceptive if all you were planning on writing was a Cardinals fluff piece.

I think this is progress: We have gone from being angry with writers for perceived biases to being angry at them for real ones. (Even if the biases aren't really there.) In journ school — what few classes I attended, anyway — we were told to hide any allegiances we had, which is faker than the truth they were trying to teach us to find. The perception would have been that a writer about the local team was secretly "in the tank" for the local nine, and, frankly, they probably were. (Even if they'd never admit it.) Now the complaints are that the writer isn't biased enough: Why is a writer for New York not a Mets fan? I think this is good. I think this is a sign matters are going in the right direction.

I'll confess to being a "perma tourist," though. I live in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, the area of town where the major danger you face on a daily basis involves dodging rogue Bugaboos. A couple of years ago, my parents came to visit, and during a rain delay of a Cards-Mets game, we struck up a conversation with two Mets fans. They were as friendly as almost every other Mets fan I've ever known, which is to say, pretty friendly. The following conversation ensued:

Sally Leitch (wearing a bright red Cardinals jacket and socks that featured blinking lights in the shape of the birds on the bat): So, where are you guys from?

Guy No. 1 (in unmistakable fuhgeddaboudit accent): We're from Bensonhurst. Brooklyn.

(Note to non-New Yorkers: Bensonhurst is where real New Yorkers grew up, and live.)

Sally Leitch: Oh! Will lives in Brooklyn!

Me: No, Mom, please ... don't ...

Guy No. 2: Oh, yeah? Where you from?

Me (hiding under my scorebook): Uh ... Cobble Hill.

Guy No. 1 (snickering): Yeah, real nice there. You into yoga? Drive one of them hybrids?

They were really nice guys. I totally deserved that, though. I've lived here for almost 10 years, and let's face it: I'm not kidding anybody.

Tyler Hansbrough. It seems only fitting that Psycho T and company would finally get that national title they've been plugging away at, but it's a shame it had to happen so quickly, and suddenly. More than any other sport, it seems, a college basketball game can just get away from you early, immediately, irretrievably. Last night's game had ended by the third commercial break, and there are few sounds more depressing than 70,000 people who, 10 minutes earlier, had been screaming as if their whole world depended on this game — which, despite what Jim Nantz and company would like to tell you, it didn't — and are now dead silent. I really think there should be a word for tens of thousands of people shocked into quiet by the implosion of their home team. Like Yankee Stadium during Game 7 in 2004. Is there a term for that? Are there other examples coming to mind? It's an awful vacuum of a sound.

Michael Jordan. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty obsessed with finding out which jersey Jordan's going to wear when he's inducted into the Hall. I still think it would be awesome if he wore the throwback Bullets jersey, the one they put on him with just a few games left in his final season just because the Wizards needed to sell a bit more merchandise before he retired for good. (Considering what he did to that franchise, it's difficult to say they hadn't earned the right.) I still have NBA Live 03, which features Jordan on the Wizards, and I busted it out a couple years ago, just to remind myself of that team. Do you remember who else they had on the roster? Brian Cardinal, Christian Laettner, Jerry Stackhouse, Larry Hughes and ... well, Charles Oakley, of course. What a miserable idea that truly was. It's gonna be sad when Tiger Woods does this in 25 years.

Eric Karabell. I only recently started listening to podcasts, mostly because baseball is starting, and, come late March, I'm so excited for baseball that I would literally listen to a man reciting types of baseball equipment ("Donut." "Catcher's Mitt." "Protective Cup.") So it was with considerable surprise and delight to learn that I truly enjoyed the ESPN Baseball Today podcast with Karabell and curmudgeonly crank Peter Pascarelli. Since Matthew Berry came and muscled his way into Top ESPN TV Fantasy Guy — that Berry, with his Hollywood gloss and glitz, ruining everything — Karabell has dropped down the roster, and that's a shame: The guy's legitimately smart about baseball, in that nerdy, Never Actually Met A Player kind of way. Pascarelli is less charming, but still entertaining, and, even though I suspect after every show they take off their headphones and leave the room through opposite doors, not speaking until the next day, I kind of love the two of them together. (Though they need to wake up earlier: The podcast isn't typically posted until the early afternoon, Eastern Time.) Each of them actually knows what they're talking about: It's amazing, but that actually makes a difference! Plus, you know, they both picked the Cardinals to make the World Series, which is kind of amazing. (As did Berry! I spot a trend!) Though Pascarelli, hilariously, forgot his own picks when on the show, and submitted about four different predictions in four different places. (Professionals!) I was excited about that fact until about 7:30 yesterday evening. (Motte! Dammit!) Speaking of podcasts ... you are welcome for stepping aside for Michael Silver on Drew's podcast last week. The guy has a million things to talk about and he doesn't sound like Andy Dick.

Clark Kellogg. I feel like the worst kind of wishy-washy "pundit" saying this, but it's time to face facts: I miss Billy Packer. (I know. I know!) Kellogg, surprisingly, has brought almost nothing to the broadcast, and, as John Ryan pointed out, both he and Nantz just danced around the impending hammer-toss on Connecticut and Jim Calhoun over the weekend. Packer would have been an asshole about it, but he would have harped on the issue and given us all something to bitch about all weekend. Kellogg is barely there: Sometimes it feels like Nantz is doing these broadcasts by himself and, hoo boy, is that ever a terrifying concept. I'm beginning to think that everyone I loathed growing up — Packer, Bob Knight — is going to start to make more sense as I get older. And that sucks. If I write a, "Come on, guys, Berman is hilarious!" column in the next year, I'm begging someone to put me down, before I strike again.

Tony La Russa. Lost in the FERVOR about the genius' love of his iPhone was that Mr. Three Nights In August actually batted the pitcher ninth yesterday! (The lineup also featured leadoff man Brendan Ryan, third baseman Brian Barden and cleanup hitter Khalil Greene. Yep.) The Cardinals have only six guys left from the 2006 championship team (Pujols, Carpenter, Molina, Wainwright, Josh Kinney and Chris Duncan), and I think every other guy plays seven different positions. Tony La Russa loves to Manage!, and man, is he going to be doing a lot of that this year. By July, when Joe Thurston is catching David Freese's knuckleballs, La Russa is just going to burst into flames. I don't know what's going to happen with the Cardinals' this year, but man, it's going to be entertaining.

Kyle Orton. It's worth noting that the Broncos said the key — the key! — to the Jay Cutler trade was how much they liked the way Orton looked on film. What an amazing run it has been for the neckbeard after the last two years. Remember, when we had our original Orton photos from October 2005, he was the Bears' starter, and then he lost the job to the Sex Cannon, who, after that travesty in the Super Bowl, lost the job again. (Thought project: What would have happened to the Bears had Orton played ball-control offense that game, rather than Grossman's "Hey, let's see where this lands! Wee!" insanity? Could the Bears have won the Super Bowl behind Kyle Orton? What a planet we would live in!) Now, Orton, a Hall-of-Famer, I remind you, is a franchise quarterback! There's hope for Matt Leinart yet.

Josh Pastner. Much of the talk about Memphis' new head coach, Pastner, is that he's young: He's 31. I think the real story is that he's clearly insane. In a positive, kid-you-know-at-the-age-of-12-is-going-to-own-you-someday insane. Pastner actually had his own scouting service at the age of 13; his dad had to explain this fact to recruiters interested in subscribing to it. He's also, if you remember Arizona's national championship season, the walk-on freshman who was jumping around and dancing like an idiot. (You can see this a few times in this video.) He graduated in three years and got his Master's in four, all while studying under Lute Olson and training to be a coach. And here he is, taking over for John Calipari at Memphis. At 31. Another reminder how much the rest of us have wasted our lives.

Michael Schur. Why was last week's 10 Humans column so weak? Well, because I'm a lousy writer, yes, but also because I wrote it on a Virgin America flight to Los Angeles, which meant I spent most of my time playing DOOM. (They actually have DOOM on Virgin America flights. I love playing it while sitting next to a child. "See, Louie, I'm blasting the zombies' heads off with my shotgun. Here, you try! Hey, stop crying.") I was in Los Angeles to write a magazine story about "Parks and Recreation," that new Amy Poehler show that debuts Thursday. I'd have to think Deadspin readers would like this show because it's staffed predominantly by Fire Joe Morgan writers. Schur/Mose Schrute/Ken Tremendous is the co-creator, and Junior, a.k.a. Alan Yang, is on staff as well. Though if the show collapses — and I highly, highly doubt it will — they might have time to return to FJM, so, no matter what, we all win.

Brent Spiner. You probably won't believe me when I say this, but I never watched an episode of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" and am therefore not quite sure who Brent Spiner is. But he pulled a rather amusing stunt last week on his Twitter page, pretending to have a breakdown and spending time inside the "Betty White Center." (The gimmick was that he was just trying to jumpstart his acting career, which, all told, probably isn't the worst idea.) He really seemed to be enjoying himself, and his little riffs reminded me of Dave Eggers' old magazine, Might, and the time they faked Adam Rich's death to comment on the practice of magazine's cashing in on celebrities' deaths to sell magazines. (Might also did this to sell magazines.) Now that I'm thinking about it, Might seems almost quaint now, a relic from a time when satirizing magazines and celebrity culture seemed like the most earth-shattering thing you could do. Ah. Might. If you've never read it, buy their anthology here.

Nick Swisher. Another magazine story from the last couple of weeks: My massive feature on the Yankees, which was a Will Leitch special: 5,000 words with, like, four quotes from people who are not Will Leitch. My favorite parts: Reggie Jackson's sphincter exploding when he saw the A-Rod Details photos, and the whirling dervish of empty energy that is Nick Swisher. If the Yankees get off to a good start this year, you're going to read about 50,000 stories concerning Swisher's "loosening up of the Yankees clubhouse," and while I can't tell you whether that's true or not (thank God), I can say that Swisher's going to do everything in his power to make sure those stories happen. Nick Swisher is a moderately interesting athlete, which is to say, he waves his hands when he talks and chases beat reporters around the locker room. Which is not all that interesting, really, but, after spending a week in Tampa, I can tell you it's slim pickings around there. Swisher is proof that there are still amphetamines in baseball: By mid-May, I suspect he'll be dry humping Mariano Rivera's leg. Which probably won't go over well. Nice guy, though, and he should really be starting over Xavier Nady.

It can be difficult to keep your optimism during times such as these. The world economy is imploding, everyone's terrified for their jobs and now other countries are embracing their leaders accused of war crimes. Sure, baseball's starting — and the MLB At Bat iPhone application is AWESOME this year, said the douche — but it's terrifying out there.

Well, sorry guys, but I'm about to make it worse: Someone just told me about the Conficker virus that's supposed to attack the Internet tomorrow. What's the Conficker virus? Here's Slate's Farhad Manjoo:

Conficker is far from the Internet's first serious malware attack. But it is perhaps the most well-thought-out and technically cunning ever to hit it big. The word worm conjures up something ugly, inelegant, even dumb. Conficker is anything but-it's the Bugatti of worms, every element exquisitely crafted to advance a single goal: in this case, total control of your machine. To read the security reports documenting Conficker's technical details is to be at once astonished and impressed by its professor Moriarty-type planning. The C variant, for instance, includes a subroutine that claws back at any efforts to remove it. It disables Windows services that patch your machine, prevents your computer from loading up into "safe mode" (a key way to fight nasty malware), and continually scans for and shuts down any security programs that might pose a threat-including the most commonly used Conficker-removal programs.

Holy crap, they're shutting down the Internet tomorrow! Man, I better make this final column worth it. (Note: Final column will not, in fact, be worth it.) Are we sure this isn't just some complicated plan to save newspapers? I always thought the Internet Finally Turning Against Us stories were just the plots of Shia Labeouf and Keanu Reeves movies, but it appears the day is finally upon us. I hope you enjoyed your grammatically challenged cats, your chocolate rains, your 2 Girls 1 Cup, your Chuck Norris facts, your Ron Paul. I hope we will look back at these times with hope in our hearts. It really was a great ride everybody, wasn't it? It was all worth every minute.

Skip Bayless. I'm writing this column on a Virgin America flight from New York to Los Angeles, and some guy in front of me is watching "First And 10," a show, I'm actually rather proud to admit, I have not watched since I sat through those 24 Straight Hours Of ESPN for the book. ("First And 10" started out as a spinoff from "Cold Pizza," which is completely crazy. If I may get my Fake Rick Reilly on for a moment, that's like spinning off a show from "Cop Rock!") Anyway, because I can't hear what he's saying, I'm watching Bayless gesticulate like mad on this guy's little television, and it's completely hypnotic. If you just watch Skip Bayless without sound, the experience transforms itself into some sort of performance art: The Wiry, Shifty Man, A Study In Excess Motion. It makes you wonder how our culture evolved to the point that this man was deemed worthy and valued enough to be put on television. And that's when you can't hear what he's saying. It's enough to make you start questioning man's ultimate purpose in the universe. I am dead serious about this: Set your DVR to record "First And 10" before you leave for work tomorrow, and then, when you get home, light a joint and watch it with the sound off. It will be a transcendental experience: You won't be able to look away, and down down down the rabbit hole you will go. Ride the bus, tune in, drop out.

Oh, by the way: Is it just me, or is Jemele Hill getting really hot?

John Calipari. I dunno: I think I would have stayed in Memphis. I'm not sure there's a better job in sports than coaching Memphis. All you have to do is recruit a bunch of blue-chippers, teach them three or four defensive plays, stretch your legs for a bit and then sit back and watch your team destroy SMU, Rice and Central Florida for four months. And at the end, they give you a No. 2 seed! If you then lose in the tournament, you can just say, "Well, we didn't have enough quality competition during the season" and do the same thing next year. Being a college basketball coach has to be a miserable enough job, with all the alumni glad-handing, convincing meal-ticket parents that you really, really do care about their son, really, and having to dodge Andy Katz's phone calls. Why would you want to give all that up to go live in Kentucky, where everyone expects you to win the national championship every year? John Calipari once gave me some career advice, so the least I can do is give him some myself: Stay in Memphis! They have better food there, anyway.

Tom Elliott. I spent Sunday afternoon at Citi Field. It's a lovely place, almost too nice: It's like they've built a neighborhood stadium that happens to sit in the middle of a neighborhood with nothing but nasty chop shops and urban blight. It was like that before, of course, but now you can see it. It's still a nice stadium, though, and I enjoyed watching St. John's and Georgetown's college teams play there. They're so cute at that age, even if you should never, ever have to hear the PING of an aluminum bat at a Major League Baseball stadium. I marked who hit the first home run and who scored the first run in Citi Field history, and I am proud to report that the kid who knocked the first base hit at the new park is ... a Deadspin reader! Yep, Tom Elliott, Georgetown shortstop, knocked a single in bottom half of the first inning, and the next morning, he emailed me. "I play for the Georgetown University baseball team and I could have sworn as we were walking out to the field today I saw you walking around under the stadium. I yelled your name and then I yelled 'Yo deadspin' but i guess you didn't hear it." Hopefully Tom will forgive me not answering to the name of the Web site I used to run — and also not hearing him — but I am incredibly encouraged and hopeful that the future professional athletes will have been reading Deadspin while in college. You need something to do during class while the team managers take notes for you, and let's hope Deadspin continues to provide that distraction for years to come. Bully for you, Tom Elliott, even if your picture makes you look more like a yachter than a baseball player. By the way; Elliott is a Phillies fan.

Gus Johnson. OK, I'm gonna just come out and say it: I think Gus Johnson has worn out his welcome with me. What started out as legitimate enthusiasm and child-like exuberance is beginning to feel like schtick. Schtick is fine, of course: I am not sure why Bill Raftery is yelling "Onions" so often, but I still kind of love it. But Raftery's got a base level of college basketball expertise. I'm not sure Johnson does: I think, honestly, that he's just waiting for a reason to start screaming because he's had so many people telling him that's why they love him. It is one thing to add to the thrill of a moment by sounding like an actual fan of the sport rather than a smugly unimpressed automatron (witness the last three years of Joe Buck). It is another to actually sound disappointed because you're not going to be able to scream as much as you would like. If Johnson is broadcasting a 12-point win, rather than a last-second jumper, he brings nothing to the broadcast. The reason we associate Johnson with great tournament moments is because his screams seem like audible personifications of the endorphins of an amazing game: My brain was whirring with Johnson Gutteral Utterances while watching the end of the Villanova-Pittsburgh game. But most games aren't like that. And when Johnson doesn't have anything to scream about … let's face it, gang, he's a pretty lousy announcer.

Andy Murray. As you might remember from my tenure as "editor" of this site, hockey is not exactly my strong suit. To say the least. And in general, like any sports fan, I find it annoying when a team I've been cheering for all year makes the playoffs, a bunch of people pop in out of nowhere and start rooting for them like they cared the whole time. It's a sin, really: It's against the whole spirit of everything. All that said: GO ST. LOUIS BLUES! Playoff hockey is legitimately thrilling when you have a rooting interest, and I've decided that if the Blues — who, according to my cursory glance at the Post-Dispatch Web site, have struggled with injuries and inability to score all season — end up making the playoffs, I'm dusting off my 15-year-old St. Louis Blues jersey and becoming The Super Duper No. 1 Blues Fan! Yeah! I'll watch Slap Shot to get myself fired up and make sure I support all the moves of ... let's see here ... come on Wikipedia ... Andy Murray, head coach of the St. Louis Blues! I love these guys! I've suffered with them so long!

Michael Oher. Because I don't want to get in yet ANOTHER argument with Drew about the Draft, I won't reiterate how much my eyes glaze over every time someone starts talking about the NFL Draft. (For the record, though, I'll say this: If you happen to find yourself with a Sporting News column, I highly advise you against ever implying that it's a little creepy to watch 20-year-olds in run sprints and lift weights in their undergarments, particularly in a column that has your email address attached. Sporting News readers really, really like the NFL Draft, apparently.) I would like to talk about Mississippi offensive tackle Michael Oher, whose "stock" has been "rising," whatever the hell that means. Oher, of course, is the focus of Michael Lewis' book "The Blind Side," where he's portrayed as a good-hearted, slightly dim kid who has had a tough life and just happens to have the exact right body type to be a franchise-changing left tackle. He ends up being "adopted" by a family of Ole Miss boosters, who help him get his grades in order so he can dominate for the Bulldogs Rebels. Here's what I've never understood about this book: Doesn't Michael Lewis know that family is just using Oher in a weird, obsessive way that completely lacks any sort of emotional perspective? I mean, Lewis almost makes the family look heroic, though, obviously they wouldn't give two shits about Michael Oher, let alone let him live in their home, if he weren't going to make the Mississippi Bulldogs Rebels football team better. Lewis paints the family like this altruistic brood who just wants to help out this kid who's had a hard life. Is he serious? The point of Lewis' book seems to be that Oher is a human being who has been turned into a product … but he somehow ignores the blatant opportunism of that family, just staring at him. Lewis is a wonderful writer and extremely smart: He must have seen through that family, right? Is the whole book an in-joke at their expense? I love "Moneyball" but honestly, "The Blind Side " absolutely drives me crazy. I still have no idea what Lewis was getting at there. But hey! Michael Oher! Stock rising!

Bob Saget. They're giving Bob Saget another sitcom. I have to say, I thought Saget's sitcom days were over after "The Aristocrats," when he told the most disgusting, repulsive version of the world's most disgusting, repulsive joke, or in his standup special, in which he seemed to imply that he had slept with both the Olson twins. I thought that was kind of the point: That Bob Saget, flush with sitcom cash, could feel free to tear apart his supposed clean-cut image and just start tearing the world apart. Incest? Excremental frotterism? Octogeneraian beastiality? Bring it on! And now he's back as sitcom dad, which feels like cheating. Also: A show about a family buying a house and moving out to the suburbs? TIMELY! And I have now officially given more thought to the career of Bob Saget than any other human being, and this includes Bob Saget. You have betrayed me, Saget!

Eddie Vedder. It seems unfair to single out Vedder here, since he's just the dude who sings, but even as someone who immediately turns all pretend music snob on anyone who claims Pearl Jam was even on the same planet as Nirvana, I'm loving the Brendan O'Brien remix of "Ten" that just came out. He's turned up the guitars, and the album, for the first time, sounds like the producer had some clue of what he was doing. (Now, can we get one of these for Metallica's "And Justice For All ..." please? Sometimes, kids, bass is good.) It's been a good week for Pearl Jam, the band that people in their mid-30s like Daulerio and Bill Simmons (not exactly in his mid-30s, but whatever) can talk themselves into thinking are the Rolling Stones. The band's working on a new album and, most important, they've even got indie rappers covering "Why Go" in rather amazing fashions? Plus, if you ever wanted to pick up a sad still-single late '30s girl who drinks heavily so they don't have to ask where it all went wrong, there is nothing, nothing better than a Pearl Jam concert. (Ed. note: Eat me.)

Dontrelle Willis. A few years ago, when Dontrelle Willis was just the smiling, happy kid with the crazy leg kick, he was arrested and charged with public urination and a DUI. Everything has gone downhill, fast, after that, and it really is a shame: He was an absolute joy to watch. Plus, I love the idea that you can put a guy on the DL because he's just all of a sudden terrible and you're paying him a ridiculous amount of money. Anxiety disorder will work, sure. Can you put all of Tigers management on the DL for that? (Even Dontrelle doesn't know what it means.) I think we all hope Dontrelle can get his act together. Can somebody teach him the knuckleball?

Tiger Woods. As if one cue, right after Reilly's monthly oh, yeah, when he tries, he's actually good column openly wondering whether or not Tiger can really come all the way back, Woods wins a tournament and gives Andy North an erection all over again. I can't think of an athlete, not even Jordan, who makes middle-aged white men wax more rhapsodic than Tiger Woods. I think it's because to them, being the best in the world at golf is just about the best thing a human being could do. And you know what? I still root for Tiger Woods to win every tournament too. When he wins, it turns Lying Around On Sunday Not Doing Anything into Being A Party To History ... and you don't even have to move! I'd rather him win than any of the other guys, and not just because I don't know any other golfers other than Phil Mickelson and John Daly, the world's only interesting golfer. But man: If it ever turns out that Tiger used steroids, the media planet will spontaneously combust. It'll be like a supernova during an eclipse: It'll turn everyone into that movie Blindness. It'll be good for XM Satellite Radio stock, anyway.

There has been a lot of talk this week about Mike Piazza, from Murray "their attempt to introduce these new-age statistics into the game threatens to undermine most fans' enjoyment of baseball and the human factor therein" Chass' not-a-blog!-post about the catcher's back acne (which Daulerio already knew all about) and rumblings that Jeff Pearlman's new book about Roger Clemens contains allegations about Piazza.

I've always liked Mike Piazza, and not only because I saw one of his 18 at-bats with the Marlins. But when you're doing a ranking of '90s players who were rumored to be involved with steroids, he'd easily be in the top 10. (If you're doing a ranking of '90s players who were rumored to be gay, he's a solid third, behind Roberto Alomar and Bruce Chen.) I've read Pearlman's book, which actually hits newsstands tomorrow, and I can confirm the section about Piazza using steroids is in there.

In fact: I have it right here. Let's quote!

As the hundreds of major league ballplayers who turned to performance-enhancing drugs throughout the 1990s did their absolute best to keep the media at arm's length, Piazza took the opposite approach. According to several sources, when the subject of performance enhancing was broached with reporters he especially trusted, Piazza fessed up. "Sure, I use," he told one. "But in limited doses, and not all that often." (Piazza has denied using performance-enhancing drugs, but there has always been speculation.) Whether or not it was Piazza's intent, the tactic was brilliant: By letting the media know, of the record, Piazza made the information that much harder to report. Writers saw his bulging muscles, his acne-covered back. They certainly heard the under-the-breath comments from other major league players, some who considered Piazza's success to be 100 percent chemically delivered. "He's a guy who did it, and everybody knows it," says Reggie Jefferson, the longtime major league first baseman. "It's amazing how all these names, like Roger Clemens, are brought up, yet Mike Piazza goes untouched."

"A 12," he says. "Maybe a 13."

So, there you go. By the way, I had forgotten that Reggie Jefferson quit baseball because the 1999 Red Sox left him off their playoff roster.

And now you know what Pearlman reports about Piazza in his book. You should buy it. It's good. Now I assume we're all done promoting it on Deadspin, yes? That's all you get, Pearlman.

Darren Davis. I share Spud's and FanIQ's fascination with Wonderlic scores. In every other sport, we have to just guess and assume the tragic lack of education provided to our professional athletes. In the NFL, they make them take a test! Vince Young's 6 — later upgraded to a 15, which, you know, isn't much better when you consider it was his second try — is the most famous score, but former Iowa State running back Darren Davis has the record with a 4. (They sure do teach 'em up in Ames.) Because the Wonderlic company — an actual company — is so proprietary about their test, you can't take a sample one online, though there are some reasonable facsimiles. I'm a little afraid to take it, myself, in the same way I'm afraid to click on one of those ads and learn that I have a lower IQ than Patrick Dempsey or something.

Lazar Hayward. In the wake of that crazy Missouri-Marquette game, more people are talking about Kim English than Lazar Hayward this week, and that's probably for the best. After all, Hayward's just a 22-year-old, and there's no need to drag a kid like that through the mud. But man: It's difficult to come up with a worse way to be a goat in an NCAA Tournament game that stepping on the end line when you're just trying to throw the ball inbounds to tie the game. (It's Hayward's relative good fortune that it was only in the second round. In the Final Four, he'd be remembered forever.) It's one thing to miss a free throw to lose a game, or to dribble off your foot out of bounds. To be so overwhelmed by the moment than you forget you have to stay out of bounds, that's something that'll stick in your brain for a while. Imagine if Dan Orlovsky had ran out of his own end zone in the last minutes of a playoff game. Lazar Hayward should probably average 24 points a game next year, just to make sure I'm the only one who will still remember.

Chris Kramer: OK, OK, so maybe the Big Ten didn't end up with four teams in the Sweet 16. But hey, two's not bad! That's as many as the ACC has! (And they had a chance at three, maybe even four.) That said, the conference did just enough to annoy everybody over the first two days of the tournament: They didn't do as well as the conference's defenders (like me) were hoping, and they didn't completely crap out the way everyone else was. Because the NCAA Tournament doesn't have quite enough villains for my taste, allow me to introduce you to Chris Kramer, the very epitome of the guy you hate when he's not on your team. (The Illini version of this was Lucas Johnson.) Kramer is a defensive pest, a cocky asshole, a taunter of opposing fans (the highlight of my Orange Krush sojourn was Kramer telling us to fuck ourselves — and, to top it all off, has an attractive, obnoxious camera hog mother. He's the perfect college basketball bad guy. Enjoy him this Thursday night.

Tracy McGrady. Remember when everyone thought Tracy McGrady was a tragic hero, a noble warrior against whom the sporting fates had conspired? The great Free Darko wept openly: "McGrady is the dismal mirror image of this: the emptiness and pain of his career are much bigger than quibbles over his game or teammates. If there's no reassurance to be found, it's because the ballad of Tracy McGrady is immune to sports. See him on the streets, and you'd probably try to hug him. And on some level, I'm sure he'd appreciate it." Lots has changed in two years! Now McGrady is the selfish jerk who left his team in the lurch to go under the knife — it's up for debate whether he desperately needed it or was doing the indefensible — and then watched his team take off without him. Since McGrady was declared out for the season, the Rockets are 27-9 and have passed the Spurs in the standings. How far has McGrady fallen? He's turned Ron Artest into a hero! Though, to be fair: The Rockets are using different math than the rest of us. (See what I did there? I just pulled a Murray Chass on the NBA. It's fun! So much easier than actually researching anything!)

Joe Morgan. Sunday night's USA-Japan World Baseball Classic was the first ESPN baseball game I'd watched since last November, which meant it was the first time I'd dealt with a world that had Joe Morgan in it, but not Fire Joe Morgan. It was pretty rough. Morgan's already in midseason form — my favorite was when he said, because he Played The Game, he had a superhuman ability to recognize speed — and I found myself obsessively reloading FJM, thinking that, dammit, screw the new TV show, we need Ken Tremendous back. Are we all going to be able to handle a full season of ESPN baseball coverage without FJM around? It was sad in November, but now that the game is back, it's really starting to sink in: FJM is really gone.

Lute Olson. Considering the circumstances of Olson's departure from Arizona back in October — in which his doctor publicly speculated that Olson's bizarre behavior over the previous year might have been because of a stroke, causing "personality changes" — it's rather remarkable that Arizona has made it to the Sweet 16. (Though the future NBA players help.) They still have an interim coach, Russ Pennell, who said Olson called him after the second-round win. "He said, 'Well, we had it in the bag all the time.' And then he started laughing." I hope the laughing was not of the maniacal variety. By the way, if you wanted to know why people who aren't bloggers hate bloggers, here's a possible reason: Google "Lute Olson." The first three entries are his Wikipedia page, his official site and an ESPN story reporting his retirement. The fourth? Lute Olson: Still A Dirty Old Man." This is why no one over the age of 70 should be introduced to Google. By the way, I suspect this is why I was getting notes from Vince Papale three years after I wrote a post about him.

Kenny Powers. Count me among the faithful masses: I absolutely adored "Eastbound and Down," which ended its first (and probably only) season Sunday night. Danny McBride might not be able to simulate throwing a pitch to save his life — he has the patented "shot put like a girl" technique — but he sure is freaking funny, and his show has a little more heart to it than you might suspect. Powers, for all his arrogance and lack of self-awareness, is not actually a terrible person; I love it when he screams apologies at people. (Think of him as Michael Scott on steroids. And I mean literally on steroids.) McBride's awfully busy these days, as is his show's co-creator, director Jody Hill, whose Observe & Report is wowing people and pissing them off in equal measure. (Variety loved it, and my friend Tim definitively does not.) So the show might or might not return. I'm begging it to. It's a baseball show that knows nothing about baseball ... and, honesty, thank God for that. You know what show knew a little about baseball? Fucking Arli$$. Remember: "There is one vision that gives me constant happiness: Your two enormous breasts."

Curt Schilling. One of my favorite old pieces from when I was writing the daily baseball column for the Times was this column about Schilling after his excellent performance in Game 2 of the 2007 World Series. It ended up being his final game, after his blog retirement yesterday. I love the post because it was heartfelt, corny and even got in a Rick Reilly-ism ("To say I've been blessed would be like calling Refrigerator Perry 'a bit overweight.'") Even though Schilling was as relentlessly self-promoting as any athlete I've ever come across, you forgave him, because he did it in a real, old-fashioned way, wooing sportswriters and other media folk, pulling cheesy PR stunts, telling whomever he was in front of whatever they wanted to hear, as opposed to letting some fancy agency or representative pull the same shit, but in a more cool, efficient way. Schilling was completely full of crap, but that was kind of what made him great, and unique. And — lest you forget — he was as great a big-game pitcher as I can remember. I really will miss the big lug. I just hope Corbin Bernsen plays him in the movie, and that the Cubs don't get tempted to call him in July.

Stacy Dean Stephens. A couple of weeks ago, one of my favorite little-known blogs was shut down. Diary of a Police Officer, an anonymous blog by "Officer Gary" that explained, from a policeman's perspective, what kind of madness and pathos they see every day. You don't see many cops online, and they're such a large part of our lives that it's a shame so few outside the cop circle are privy to their daily existence. (I am getting so old: I've gone from "Beautiful As A Rock In A Cop's Face" to "Hug A Cop!" in about eight years.) Anyway, Officer Gary's supervisor made him shut down the blog, so we are, again, shut out to that world. The best I can come up with today: This badass police car, which has "a 300-horsepower clean diesel engine, flashing lights visible from all angles, an ergonomic cockpit, an onboard computer with voice command and instant license plate recognition and integrated shotgun mounts." Sweet! I want that! (Stephens is one of the co-founders of the company.) My favorite part of the story:

Perhaps most popular among cops is the rear compartment, which is sealed off from the front and made entirely of seamless, washable plastic, with drain plugs in the floor.

"Numerous times I've had less than pleasant experience" with prisoners vomiting or relieving themselves in the back seat, said Stephens, a former Texas police officer.

God it must suck to be a cop. The car freaking rules, though.

Mark Zuckerberg. The 23-year-old founder of Facebook is a billionaire, but he's been taking extreme heat over the last couple of weeks for futzing with Facebook's design, making it more like Twitter and less like ... well, whatever it was before. You might think that Facebook is just some way to check in on ex-girlfriends and people whose careers you planned on surpassing in college. Nope! It's changing the world! Either it's about to reconstruct the world of finance in its own image, or it's ruining what was once a piece of organic beauty! Lots of people think a lot about this. I have no idea of the answer. I just wish people would stop writing on my wall, or more specifically, that my mom would stop writing on Daulerio's. That makes me deeply uncomfortable.

Two years ago, I wrote a piece for the sadly defunct PLAY Magazine about mathemeticians trying to crack the NCAA Tournament code. They didn't have much more luck at it than you or I did: Ultimately, they said the best predictions are made, amusingly, by Vegas odds. It's Wisdom Of Crowds at its best: Individually we know nothing, collectively, we know something, though it's still not that much more than nothing.

My favorite tip, though, came from a man named Brad Carlin, a professor of biostatistics at the University of Minnesota. He said, essentially, you're better off not watching games at all. "The best handicappers are people who don't watch games," Carlin told me. "The brain is one of the least effective predictive machines we have." That is to say: We bring our own biases, and if we watched, say, Minnesota play well a couple of times, we're going to think they're better than they actually are.

I break this rule all the time. Particularly as the lone Big Ten defender left. I think the Big Ten is a far better conference than anyone gives it credit for — don't think it's ruining basketball as we know it — and I therefore overrate them every tournament. This year is no different: I have Michigan State in the Final Four, Purdue in the Elite Eight and the conference going 6-1 in the first round. (Michigan's the only team I have losing; I have Illinois falling to Gonzaga in the second round.)

The fun part of the predicting the NCAA Tournament is making bold predictions about teams that, by definition, you know absolutely nothing about. North Dakota State is a hot upset candidate this week, though I guarantee you not a single person has watched them play all year. And that's the irony: According to the experts, this makes you a better predictor. To be ignorant is to have no biases at all. No wonder sportswriters are always boasting how unbiased they are.

Pittsburgh's winning this whole thing, by the way. I saw them play a couple times, and I vaguely remember some highlights on "SportsCenter." So I know.

Geno Auriemma. Like most of you, I'm sure, I haven't watched any women's college basketball this year — I should therefore kill in the brackets — so it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I realized that what was happening with the Connecticut women's team. It is worth positing that this might be the single most dominant team in organized top-level sports over the last 25 years. Connecticut is 33-0 and have won by an average of 31 points a game. In the Big East Championship Game, they beat Louisville, supposedly the No. 5 team in the country, 75-36. It's like playing a video game on the rookie mode, but actually running a whole season that way without stopping because you're bored. Are there only 12 good players in women's college basketball and they all play for Connecticut? How does this happen? I think I'd really enjoy a women's college basketball steroid scandal, actually. By the way, at this point, I note my favorite factoid about Geno Auriemma: He said, just a couple of years ago, that he'd love to be a men's coach, but he can't get anyone to offer him a job. Can that possibly be true? On either side?

Jay Bilas. Watching Jay Bilas — an analyst I once loved, thanks mostly to his inspired, Bill Raftery-esque elation during the Illinois-Arizona Elite Eight game back in 2005 — turn into a Billy Packer-like grouchy crank over the last couple of years has been a thoroughly depressing experience. My guess: It started happening during the Duke lacrosse case. I think it legitimately turned Bilas — who took a lot of heat for defending the team before anyone else was — into someone who discovered that he hated everyone in the media, and most of the planet. (That case would do it.) Only this current incarnation of Bilas could turn Dick Vitale into a poor, doddering victim like he did on ESPN's telecast Sunday. Whoever you think is right in that scenario — and I think it's Vitale — Bilas went after him with a sniggering, mocking, oh-you-foolish-old-man vigor that was unmistakable in its smug dismissiveness. Ladies and gentlemen, your next Billy Packer. Shame, too: I loved Bilas in that Dolph Lundgren movie. "I come in peace ... you go in PIECES!"

Todd Bozeman. One of the fun human-interest stories — I love that we live in a journalism world where you have to designate stories as "human-interest" — of the NCAA Tournament involves Morgan State coach Todd Bozeman, who was essentially banned from coaching for eight years after paying players while at California. (Oh, also making "lewd" phone calls to a Cal undergrad. During his time in the wilderness, he served as a scout for the Vancouver Grizzlies. He obviously did a great job!) I'm not sure why this is something to be celebrated, but that's not why I love Todd Bozeman stories. I love Todd Bozeman stories because, while coaching Morgan State a couple of years ago, Bozeman threatened and "shook" a restaurant worker near the Longwood campus for giving his players sandwiches with ham and turkey. "I ain't scared of you country bumpkins. I want my . . . money back!" he screamed. Todd Bozeman does not like your pork or your poultry. Keep that in mind when filling out your pool sheets.

Lenny Dykstra. About a year or so ago, when Lenny Dykstra was showing up on HBO's "Real Sports" and telling the world he was a genius stockpicker, my old magazine asked me to write a story about him. I had no luck getting a hold of any of his people, and, in fact, had a hard time finding much proof that the magazine's staff existed at all. Therefore it wasn't surprising to see just how mercurial of a boss he turned out to be. (Of all the quotes in the Dykstra GQ story, the "spearchuckers" line is getting the play, but I'm fond of this exchange:

"I don't wear jewelry, except for this," he says. "It's the best in the world-costs sixty-five grand."

It's a nice watch-a Patek Philippe-but I have no idea what it has to do with Lenny's magazine or my qualifications for a job there. I just nod, and he goes on.

"You see, Kevin, The Players Club is not just a magazine. It's an actual club of players helping players. Do you want to be a part of the Players Club?"

Woo-hoo! Lenny Dykstra is Literal Man!)

I know this will seem a shock to hear, but it turns out, Lenny Dykstra — the wobbling, drunken, clearly-just-a-couple-steps-from-oblivion guy we've seen on our televisions — is not actually a genius at the market. Why did we think he was? Who was it that vouched for him? Oh, yeah: Jim Cramer! Of course! "He is one of the great ones in this business," Cramer said. Yep. He said that.

Davey Johnson. I thought Davey Johnson was supposed to be the "serious" World Baseball Classic manager. Do you realize, late in the United States' "win" over the Netherlands, he was going to put Ted Lilly in left field? Why, you ask? Todd Verducci had the scoop: Johnson "liked the way [Lilly] went after foul balls." Indeed! In the last week, Chipper Jones, Dustin Pedroia, Matt Lindstrom and Ryan Braun were all injured in the WBC, and I'm sure every team in baseball with a guy playing for the USA is begging them to lose tonight so everyone can come back home. It's like having guys under fire overseas. Johnson, for some reason, thought he was going to reverse this, stop the "embarrassment" of 2006's sixth-place finish. But a sixth-place finish is fine! We don't care! Did you see how few people were at this game? We're America! We don't even know other countries exist! (Until they pull their investments out of our country, anyway.) Please: Bring the troops home, Davey. Though keep Ted Lilly in left field: He's a Cub.

Harold Maxwell. It's important to remember, in this wintry economic climate, that the truly important research studies in the field of science are still taking place. I'd like to personally thank Harold Maxwell for teaching us about the sad, disfigured souls who sneeze when they have an orgasm. Some people, the study discovered, sneeze merely when they're feeling a little tinkle in their winkle, but others go the whole hog, blasting phlegm and saliva across the room as their own personal money shot. Good to know! From now on, I am going to assume the rest of humanity has this condition, thus guaranteeing me endless moments of private amusement when I offer random people tissues after they sneeze. It's the little things in life that get you through.

The Mighty MJD. Hey, suck on it, Joe Lunardi, Jerry Palm, whoever it is who did the projections for SI.com. (I assume Seth Davis saved his good stuff for CBS. They pay more.) There was one bracketologist who got every single team nailed, 65 out of 65, and that person was The Mighty MJD. Yeah! Suck it, rest of earth! I look forward to MJD taking over Lunardi's job on ESPN next year, where he will co-host a Bracketology 101 program with the elusive Muff Stubble Girl.

Kige Ramsey. We haven't heard from our old pal Kige in a while, though I guess he's still doing videos. Even though he wears Kentucky Wildcats garb in all his on-spot reporting for YouTube Sports, he's actually a student at Western Kentucky ... hated foe of my beloved Illini! Even though a little part of me worries whether or not Kige is gonna be able to stay up late enough for the 9:55 ET start Thursday night, I've decided to personally call him out right now. If Illinois wins, he has to shave his head and break up with Nicole Richie. If Western Kentucky wins, I will hit myself in the face with a cookie sheet. Though, as mental penance for what I did to Daulerio, I do that every day anyway.

Le Anne Schreiber. By the end, ESPN had buried her so low down on the page that no one would have noticed this, but everyone's crush-worthy ESPN ombudswoman has hung up her red pencil. In her last column, she wrote, "When I cast my mind back over two years of mail, searching for that taproot, the first word that came to mind was "arrogance." That wasn't the word most frequently used by fans, but accusations of arrogance were implicit in the many complaints I received about specific anchors who imposed their personalities on the news, announcers who elevated their own chatter over the game at hand, commentators who leapt to the absolute in a single shout, columnists who heaped scorn on minor sports or minor markets, and the relentless corporate "me, me, me" of multiplatform cross-promotion." Which is probably why her last column was down at the bottom of the page, next to the Bassmaster Elite Series and the National Ski and Snowboard Hall of Fame. We'll miss you. Suggestion for next ombudsperson hire: Mike Freeman! Or me. I'd do it!

Isiah Thomas. Wondering what Isiah has been up to? He is, after all, still on the Knicks' payroll, playing his own little AIG guy as the executive Madison Square Garden pays to stay away from the team. Well, he hasn't tried to kill himself again: He's actually scouting and helping the team prepare for the NBA Draft. Part of me thinks this is a good idea — drafting is the one managerial role he ever showed any proficiency at — and the other part makes me worry that he shouldn't be left alone on the road for that long. Best part of the Associated Press story about the incident: He was in Las Vegas last week filming a television appearance with Bob Knight and Billy Packer. Boy, now there's a party.

The most depressing thing I've read all week? This post by Anil Dash. Basically, he was traveling for a couple of weeks, away from the Web, TV, whatever, and he asked his readers, "What did I miss?" The response was chilling.

The overwhelming consensus? I didn't miss anything.. There were some funny and/or amusing replies in there, of course, (you're a clever bunch!) but for the most part, I was kind of disturbed at how few things that are truly significant happen in any given two-week period. There were the usual bevy of internet memes, some fussing over, of all things, a policy change at Facebook, and a couple of pop-culture items of note.
...

So, it's not exactly the most profound observation, and I'm far from the first to make it, but it's worth noting again: There isn't that much going on. While the constant flow of information is entertaining and addictive, it is, by overwhelming consensus, primarily filled with bits that are of little to no value. I'm recording this as much for my own future reference as for anyone else's.

I thought about this when I was reading this Slate piece about Twitter, which points out that even though it might be exciting when something big happens that makes Twitter look prescient, very rarely does anything big happen. This does not bother me about the Internet. It bothers me about life.

As we get older, we have so few moments of real consequence that we usually don't even notice them until they're long gone. I swear to God, 67 percent of conversations at parties in the last year have gone exactly like this:

Me: How's it going?
Other Person: Good, good.
Me: What's been going on? Haven't seen you in a while.
Other Person: Same shit.
Me:: Yeah, me too.

We have entered the Same Shit stage of our lives. I used to get this from my friends who married early, or had children young. Now I get it from everyone, and I give it to everyone. I might have to accept that the person I am now is the exact same person I will be 30 years from now. Same Shit. Happens to everybody.

You might say the Internet exacerbates the problem. I would argue that it distracts us from it. In the last two hours, I have seen Cats That Look Like Wilford Brimley, perused pictures of drunk/dead stuffed animals, enjoyed a Lego Camcorder and discovered retro Mac iPhone applications. Did any of this have a tangible effect on my life? Will I remember any of them by the time I finish this paragraph? No. But it sure did make the last two hours go faster.

So: Thanks, Internet. You continue to be the motorized walkway easing our brisk glide toward death. It's so much easier than actually walking there ourselves.

Frank Caliendo. It is telling that in the world of actual entertainment, Frank Caliendo is a guy who can't keep a show on the air. In the world of sports, he is the Funniest Human Being Alive. I know, I like to think I'm fancy pants entertainment writer guy, fine, but honestly, our sports media is entirely to blame for Frank Caliendo. The rest of earth thinks he's a fat Rich Little, but, man, Terry Bradshaw and John Saunders just think he's uproarious! I would say that Caliendo is destined to just host the ESPYs every year, but honestly? Look at the ESPY hosts. He's not even qualified to do that! By the way, take a look at that ESPY Wikipedia page. It's enormous, and deep, and awfully well researched. (There's intricate detail on how voting works for the Best Outdoor Sportsman ESPY.) Anybody who claims that sports bloggers have too much time on their hands should look at the people who diligently update the Wikipedia pages for the ESPY Awards. I cannot fathom of a more pointless activity. We must document what happened for future generations!

Vladimir Guerrero. So, this Saturday, I'm heading out to Tampa for a week to write a story about the Yankees for the magazine. I'm pretty much assuming nobody's going to tell me anything interesting. They don't tell the beat guys anything interesting, and those guys are there all the time. I somehow doubt your average Yankee is going to say, "Well, I know Mark Feinsand has been working his butt off every day out here for a month ... but I think I'll just spill my guts to this new dude who just popped in for a few days!" And as if I wasn't worried enough, now athletes have another reason to shut up: The possibility of costing themselves millions of dollars by accidentally revealing their actual age. I'm trying to think of something I could say in casual conversation that would cost me millions of dollars. I don't think there's anything. I find it vaguely disconcerting that not only will I never be a millionaire, I'll never even have the opportunity to foolishly cost myself millions of dollars.

John Hart. Guess what? More MLB Network shilling! Of all the "new" analysts on the network, my favorite is without question John Hart, former general manager for the Texas Rangers. His continued excellence is proof positive of the theory that fans' ability to tolerate a baseball analyst and retain insights is indirectly proportional to the number of seasons said analyst spent in the major leagues. (Hart never played in the pros.) And, because this will amuse only me, here is how I'd rank the MLB Network's analysts:

1. Hart
2. Joe Magrane (it's amazing how much he looks like Bruce Campbell)
3. Harold Reynolds (a little sycophantic and Joe Morgan-clubby, but unlike Morgan, he actually seems to like baseball. Makes a difference)
4. Mitch Williams (not only buddies with Daulerio's dad, but also surprisingly alert and sane. There's hope for Kenny Powers yet!)
5. Dan Plesac (seems smart, but actually picked the Astros to finish second in the NL Central)
6. Barry Larkin (it's funny how everything in baseball today somehow relates to the mid-90s Cincinnati Reds)
7. Billy Ripken (the only reason he's on TV is because he kind of looks like his brother. Fuck Face!)

Tom Izzo. Considering trashing the Big Ten is the fun college hoops rage these days, allow me a humble retort. I've been watching the Big Ten all season, and it's pleasing to watch actual defense in a basketball game. Isn't the lack of defense what people who (dumbly) dislike the NBA always cite? I saw some of those mid-major conference championship games, and they certainly don't play any defense in there. Imagine what the NBA would be like if no one could score, but they kept shooting like crazy anyway. Illinois is the worst supposed "offender" — they'll never, ever live that 33-point game against Penn State down — but the Big Ten is full of teams with average scorers and vastly above average defenders. And coaches, of which Izzo is the best. (Even if, sorry Dash, I never quite understand why he has decided East Lansing is the best city on earth.) It's not like people watch college basketball for the amazing athleticism anyway. Isn't good coaching and solid fundamentals the reason college basketball is thought to be better by so many? Well, the Big Ten has been outstanding in both those all season. Every few years, the Big Ten stuns everybody by putting four or five teams in the Sweet 16. I bet this is that year.

Dan Leone. I'm of two minds on whether or not the Eagles were justified in firing the part-time stadium employee. On one hand, the Eagles should probably relax, particularly when a firing like that guarantees terrible press once people find out about it, which they inevitably do. On the other hand: In this economy, it's probably not wise to do anything that might even slightly upset your employee, considering they're just looking for an excuse to can your ass. (I assume, in three years, by the way, Leone's job will actually be filled by Brian Dawkins.) Not everyone can be Bill Simmons, you know, and thrive under the iron fist of an oppressor. By the way, kudos to the Philadelphia Inquirer for coming up with a new way to shoot the Guy At A Laptop Photo. He's actually holding his keyboard. Clever!

Joe Lunardi. This is the time of year when everyone loves to stomp on ESPN Bracketologist Joe Lunardi. It will be particularly amusing to watch him get screamed at by Jay Bilas and Bob Knight all week for Never Playing The Game; getting yelled at is pretty much 47 percent of Lunardi's job description. I think Lunardi gets a bum rap. In the world of baseball, Nate Silver is lionized for using statistical analysis and past results to predict the future. In the world of college basketball, Joe Lunardi is called a pencil dick for being a desk jockey with the temerity not to include Maryland and Providence. Everyone always asks how Lunardi got the job of Bracketologist. Wanna know how? Because he actually put in the time and effort to study this stuff. (For many years.) Trust me, I don't care how well Digger Phelps can draw up the pick-and-roll — and, all told, I suspect he doesn't do it all that well — Joe Lunardi has a much better idea of who's going to make the tournament than anyone else you'll see on ESPN's set this week. Plus, you know, he's just chillin'.

Terrell Owens. Because of The Lady, I make a yearly trip to a Buffalo Bills game, and I have to say: I'm looking for it more now than I could have anticipated. Think about it: Is there any team in organized football that Terrell Owens could have signed with that you would have preferred more than Buffalo? I hate Terrell Owens, and I was excited to see him go here. Buffalo desperately, profoundly needs something to get excited about, and Terrell Owens is just the prescription. If he's great, Buffalo has an identity again, something to rally around, someone for everyone to talk about and get angry at. If he's terrible, Buffalo will be unified, and overpowering, in its malevolence. Buffalo hasn't been relevant enough to cheer against lately, to have gravitas, to put some meat on its bones. Terrell Owens provides them that. I still hope he somehow hurts himself. But if he were going to redeem himself anywhere, it would have to be here. Admit it: If Terrell Owens can bring a Super Bowl title to Buffalo — which of course he isn't going to do, but still ... if — you'd re-evaluate him a little bit, wouldn't you? I would.

Billy Packer. We're nine days from the beginning of the Tournament, and no matter what you think about him — and considering only Bayless and Mariotti finished lower than him in Deadspin's Media Approval Ratings, I think you've made yourself quite clear — it'll be strange not to hear his patented nasally outrage this March. I imagine him sitting alone in his den — actually, he'd probably be in his garage, woodworking and growling at cars that drive by — flicking the lights on ...and off ... and on ... and off. In case you were wondering, he hasn't died. In fact, he has a crazy idea: Turning the NBA into a four-on-four league. Hey, times are tough all over. Everybody's cutting back.

David Paterson. I thought living in Illinois would give me all the gubernatorial drama one human could handle, but, alas, New York's getting almost as good. As hilariously documented by my colleague Chris Smith, the state of New York is being run by incompetent blind guy who seems almost proud of the fact that he doesn't know what he's doing. At first, I thought the cracks about him being blind were over the top and a bit unnecessary. I now realize that his blindness is not only entertaining, but also part of the problem. But hey: He's upfront about his drug use and marital difficulties! That's so much more important than actually having a clue as to what's going on. We can bring Spitzer back, yes? Give that guy a different concubine an hour, whatever works.

Rick Reilly. I'm going to keep linking to the Fake Rick Reilly Twitter until someone finally just asks Reilly about it. (My favorite from the last few days: "Sunny Yang's parents didn't understand. They were born in North Korea. What did THEY know about wakeboarding?") I suspect his reaction will be similar to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch's Joe Strauss. Even though famed columnist Bernie Miklasz — along with half the sports staff — is on Twitter, Strauss, when confronted with the technology, unleashed this gem: "Only twits Twitter." Good one! Reilly himself would be proud.

(UPDATE: It appears someone HAS shown it to Reilly. The account has been suspended. More updates to come, I'm sure.)

In Stephen King's "On Writing" — the only real book about writing I've actually found helpful, which is probably why I'm more a typist than a writer — he describes three types of writers. At the bottom are the bad ones, or, as King puts it, "found on the staff of your local newspaper, on the racks at your local bookstore, and at poetry readings on Open Mike Night." In the middle are most of us, including himself. He says his basic premise is that "if you're a bad writer, no one can help you become a good one, or even a competent one. If you're good and want to be great ... fuhgeddaboudit." The idea is that you can become better, but you can't become a genius.

Which, considering how he describes the great ones, is a relief. "They are geniuses, divine accidents, gifted in a way which is beyond our ability to understand, let alone attain. Shit, most geniuses aren't able to understand themselves, and many of them live miserable lives, realizing (at least on some level) that they are nothing but fortunate freaks, the intellectual version of runway models who just happen to be born with the right cheekbones and with breasts which fit the image of an age."

I just finished reading the New Yorker's epic profile of David Foster Wallace, and I will say this: I have never been happier to reside in the Blissful Mediocre. DFW was so good that it wasn't enough to say something no one had said before; he forced himself to try to invent an entirely new way of saying it. That's the type of thing that will drive a man mad. It's hard enough to even make sense, let alone try to change the fashion in which humans communicate, avoid saying something any other person has ever said and the way they said it. Christ. It makes my brain bleed just thinking about it. David Foster Wallace was the guy fromPi, only with words instead of numbers. (Though he was into numbers too.)

There are many, many times I'm pleased not to be very smart. Reading that story was definitely one of them. Thank God I'm a hack!

Jim Bowden. I'm proud to report than I saw Jim Bowden's last game as Washington Nationals general manager, and considering Corey Patterson was batting cleanup, I'd say I had a rather representative sample. I'll still miss the guy. You have to love a man who so lacks self-awareness and is so non-self-conscious that he gleefully rode a Segway around training camp. This Washington Post story sums up most of his genius, but for my money, you can't beat his and his girlfriend's dual DUI and domestic abuse arrests a couple of years ago. The world of baseball is a little more boring without him, and a lot safer.

Maurice Clarett. Even though it has apparently been around a while, Maurice Clarett's blog was new to me and probably most of you. I've been pretty blown away by it, and found it so fascinating that I went back to see just how mean I was to Clarett on this site back when he was in the news. I was relieved to note that I wasn't too bad, mainly because it was clear from the get-go that this was a case of mental illness more than it was one of pure malice. (Though this PhotoShop wasn't very nice.) It's worth noting that the guy writes better than most Wordpress bloggers I've seen. I'm glad he's getting some help; I'd forgotten about this old YouTube video from the Draft Combine. The man never did play again after the National Championship Game. Now he's fighting the real enemy: Blog commenters. Those people ARE ANIMALS!

Jay Cutler. Forgive me if I have a difficult time mustering up much sympathy for Jay Cutler. So far, all that has been confirmed is that someone called the Broncos to ask if Cutler would be available in trade. They may have said yes, they may have said no, but that's pretty far from We Are Trying To Trade Jay Cutler. (Now, of course, our friends at PFT are linking him to the Vikings. By the way, I'd love to see Philip Rivers play for the Vikings someday, just to see how Drew would handle it.) And it looks like Cutler's the one who wanted to be traded anyway. The media in Denver's gonna be all over him, right? Let's see what the main columnist over there has to say: "When somebody calls about Jay, Kid Mac or the X-Man should hang up. And the face of your franchise should not be treated like ground beef." I don't think I understood a single world of that paragraph. Is it a talk radio media column? Kid Mac! The X-Man!

Barney Frank. Our one openly gay Congressman is opening up the back door (ahem!) to legal online gambling, as long as it's taxed by the government, because if the government taxes something, that makes it totally OK! I personally would love the Cabinet office of Line Setting. May I nominate William Bennett for Secretary? (UPDATE: Sorry, Rep. Polis!)

Rex Grossman. Obviously, it's impossible to blame the Bears or their fans for doing backflips to see Sexy Rexy finally leaving town. But there's legitimate sadness too in recognizing that the Bears will now be just another boring team with a boring quarterback running boring plays. (No offense, Kyle, of course.) I can't put it better than Spencer Hall: "You probably like your airline pilots and heart surgeons sober, too, you pack of tiptoeing nervous nellies. Hate on, safety freaks. Rex is leaving town, and he's doing it on a flaming train full of bikini-clad hotties with the devil's breath at his back, and he's not using the brakes until he hits something full of money and victory." In a perfect world, Rex would quarterback every Arena League team.

Matthew Leach. Like anyone who grew up thinking writing for a newspaper would be the most double-plus neato way to make a living, I was saddened by the closing of the Rocky Mountain News this week. (I read Dave Cullen's upcoming Columbine, which documents how much the RMN owned the Post in coverage of the tragedy.) The next journalism model — what a reality show that would be, by the way — hasn't been figured out yet, and, sadly for RMN, it didn't get here in time. I do know what the next model of sports beat reporting is, though, and it's best personified by Leach (the St. Louis Cardinals beat reporter for STLCardinals.com) and Derrick Goold of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Throughout spring training, they've been filing regular stories throughout each game — readers could check out quotes from Chris Carpenter's first spring start by the fourth inning — and both Leach and Goold have active Twitter pages with updates, musings and responses to followers. If you are watching a Cardinals game on TV (or even in the stadium), you can ask one of the top two beat reporters covering the team a question and get a response, specific to you (but for the world to see), during the game. Isn't this how a team should be covered? Remember when journalists used to be impossible to contact? Accountability, interaction and constant news. Heck, not even Mitch Albom would be against this, right? (Other team's reporters are doing this too, of course, but I don't update their feeds every 15 minutes.) Leach and Goold are showing off a new way of covering baseball, and I hope everyone remembers how great they were when they're inevitably laid off and sold into Chinese labor camps, like the rest of us, in 16 months.

Andy Rooney. As I've mentioned before, I own every book Andy Rooney has ever written and pretty much just adore the guy. I've forgiven that awful baseball column, the sleeping through the Super Bowl, even, yes, the infamous Kurt Cobain commentary. ("His jeans clearly weren't ripped from doing any real work! Like during the Depression!") I've always though the man had the right to talk about whatever he wanted at the end of "60 Minutes" — which, because I'm also 94 years old, I still watch every week — because, every once in a while, he'd fire off something great, and eternal. Or at least in my mind. But man, after this week's segment, I have to, finally, say that maybe it's time for Andy to go. Listen, we've all had that moment when, the day before something is due, we've panicked and thrown something together halfass at the last minute. (Like, for example, this column.) But Rooney's commentary this week was ... well, it was literally just a bunch of words strung together, seemingly at random. What was the point of this one again? Time is passing? There are months? Sometimes it's cold and sometimes it isn't? I know it's easy to laugh at him, but it just makes me sad. Next time he sets up for another segment in his office, someone should just not tell him the cameras not running. This causes me no joy. And yes: I'm aware the rest of you have thought this for about 20 years.

Curt Schilling. Johnny 38 Pitches has openly asked the Cubs to court him, which makes sense, because national reporters will need someone to pop in and be the go-to questions-about-The-"Curse" guy. Lou Piniella is too busy, Ryan Theriot is too boring and Carlos Marmol is too Latino. If I were a Cubs fan, I'd be awfully excited about my chances. Nobody's better at Futurespotting a global media opportunity than Curt Schilling. If he wants to play for you, it means you're about to get a ton of airtime.

Ichiro Suzuki. So I finally reached the Mariners chapter of Baseball Prospectus 2009, and man, are they ever down on Ichiro. Understandably, of course: He's a single hitter with little power, aging wheels and a walk phobia. But good old PECOTA actually has him batting .292 this year! With three homers and 20 stolen bases! Sheesh, those are Cesar Izturis numbers! That can't be right, can it? I don't think I'm ready to be old enough to live in a world where Ichiro is batting under .300. I wonder what his interpreter has to say about this.

Norm Van Lier. I never had an NBA team growing up, but because I went to the University of Illinois during the Bulls' dynasty, I watched a lot of their games during a formative (read: stoned) time. My favorite part of every televised game was Norm Van Lier, who died Thursday. (David Aldridge has a great tribute.) He wasn't the smoothest analyst, or the most self-aware, but he was also Norm, cranky, brittle and waiting for you to stop talking so he could start, (Here's a good example.) Norm Van Lier never quite seemed aware he was on television, which is the foundation of many a great television personality. (You really should have seen this guy the day after Scottie Pippen's refusal to re-enter the game during the 1994 playoffs.) The Sun-Times said his funeral was attended by Congressmen and homeless men. That sounds about right. He was the Bulls' Harry Caray, except more lucid, more interesting and more angry. We'll all miss him.

For the first time in my life, I'm heading to spring training this year. Twice, actually. I'm pretty much destined to be disappointed.

This Friday, I'm heading to Jupiter to see my Cardinals (and Chris Carpenter, whose arm is totally not going to fall off) "play" the Nationals, the first spring training trip for both me and Bryan Leitch. I fully expect Dad to wear the same tanktop all weekend. Then, in a couple of weeks, I'm all business baby, heading to Steinbrenner Field for a story for New York. The first trip, I'll enjoy sunshine and warmth and the bathing glow of Cardinals Red. The second, I'll be interviewing a naked C.C. Sabathia — lookin' good! — and trying to find something new to say about one of the most overexposed entities on earth. (I'm making a habit out of this.) I can't imagine which will be more fun.

I'm not really sure what to do at spring training. I have a fear I'm just going to watch a bunch of guys jogging and playing long toss. The appeal, now that I take a closer look at it, is proximity to the players (something I don't care about), a relaxed atmosphere for games that don't really count (which takes half the fun out of the game) and sunshine (which sounds pleasant, I'll confess). It's not like I'm going to be asking players for autographs or screaming obscenities at Adam Dunn, as tempting as that last option might be. (I'm gonna leave Elijah Dukes alone, I think. Seems wise.) Other than sneaking in Ankiel's locker and leaving some azaleas, I'm not sure how I'm going to keep myself occupied. They sell beer at spring training games, right? They'd have to at least sell daiquiris or something. Absinthe, maybe? Nothing like sitting in the stands with your pops and sucking down some Monkey Glands.

This aimless rambling and throat-clearing is my halfass way of introducing my new "column" here on Deadspin, "The Ten Humans Of The Week." I missed dropping by and brain hemorrhaging on a weekly basis, so, you know, here we are. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't, but hey, it's Tuesday, nobody ever works on a Tuesday anyway. (Mondays, Wednesday afternoons and Thursday afternoons are for working. The rest of the time, it's all Brazzers, all the time. Go America!) I'm just going to pick 10 humans from the last week, and talk about them for a paragraph. It's pretty simple, and, all told, eminently skippable. It's my strength. Lest I just yammer on about Woody Allen and the guy from Band Of Horses every week, I'm limiting myself to only one non-sports-related person a week. To start anyway. I'm sure that'll last about a month, tops.

THE TEN HUMANS OF THE WEEK

Charles Barkley. Drunk driving is bad. We can all agree on this, yes? No one here is advocating drunk driving. To be clear.

All right then.

Charles Barkley, in his statement about being sentence to five days in jail for his DUI: "I think that a DUI is unacceptable. That can't happen and I've got to challenge other people, not just celebrities or jocks. You have to really think before getting behind the wheel after you've been drinking."

Charles Barkley, during the DUI arrest: "You want the truth? I was gonna drive around the corner and get a blow job. She gave me a blow job a week ago and it was the best I'd ever had in my life."

As the saying goes ... I know you shouldn't go out drinking all the time, Charles ... but you're a whole lot more fun when you do.

Johnny Damon. It's worth remembering that Johnny Damon (along with Xavier Nady, as if anyone cares about Xavier Nady) isn't actually broke: He just had his credit cards frozen after he was indirectly linked with disgraced adviser R. Allan Stanford. But can you imagine anything worse you could do to a professional athlete than freeze his credit cards? When's the last time Johnny Damon actually touched an actual bill? Assuming he's not a make-it-rainer, by the way. Also worth noting: In a world where this exists, no one should ever, ever make fun of Rod Blagojevich's hair again. That's the absolute worst attempt at hiding male pattern baldness I've ever seen.

Jerry Lewis. Count me among those completely disappointed by the fact that Jerry Lewis didn't do something crazy Sunday night. Because he's batshit insane, and has been so for about 60 years. For enlightenment, I recommend Shawn Levy's biography of Lewis, along with The Trouble With Jerry, in which disability rights groups make their case against Lewis as an empty fundraiser who actually has contempt for his "kids" and just wants his own glory. My favorite is when he calls kids with MD "half a person." Wait, that's not true. Here's my favorite:

In October 2008, while speaking with a journalist from Channel Ten News in Australia, Lewis was asked "What do you think of cricket?" His response was, "Oh cricket is a fag's game! What are you, nuts?" Lewis then proceeded to flounce about, using camp, effeminate gestures, pretending to hold a bat with a limp wrist, squealing in a high pitched voice "Ah! The ball is coming towards me!"

HEY, LAAAAADYYYYYY!

Rick Reilly. It's almost cute, really, how Reilly still wants to keep this blogs vs. mainstream journalists junk going while (most of) the rest of the world has moved on. (The exception of late has been Mitch Albom, of course, whose "I GOT A MASTERS IN JOURNALISM FROM COLUMBIA!" rant on ESPN Radio is the sports journalism equivalent of "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!") I hope he keeps it going: It's like watching Axl Rose standing outside Best Buy wondering why no one stands in line to buy records anymore. At least he has discovered Twitter!

Bud Selig: So I was watching The MLB Network — and honestly, I'm just about the worst shill for that network; this is now the fourth publication in which I've gratuitously kissed their ass — and they were showing highlights from the 1982 World Series. That was the season the Brewers played the Cardinals, and was the first season I ever watched baseball. On the program, we saw the Brewers clinching the American League pennant, and they cut to then-owner Bud Selig ... and he was smoking a cigarette! (And wearing a Members Only jacket, it seemed.) I had no idea Bud Selig ever smoked. It looked like one of those cigarello things too, with the brown paper like he wrapped it himself. For some reason, the fact that Bud Selig was smoking in his seats while his Brewers went to the World Series for the first (and only) time is one of my favorite facts about him. That must be how he stays so thin and virile.

Nate Silver. OK, who else is enjoying the Nate Silver backlash? All right, maybe it's a little early to call it a backlash, but after he bonked two of the top six Academy Awards, it's becoming increasingly clear that, goddammit, Nate Silver has not in fact come from the future. Pi is not about his life. To paraphrase Keith Olbermann in the preface to the new Baseball Prospectus book, he is not Biff Tannen. Because, from all accounts, everyone likes Nate Silver, I'm trying to start a backlash. Let's see ... who out there would hate Nate Silver ... let's go with BP's Joe Sheehan! Yeah! Joe SHEEHAN is the head writer dog at BP! Not you, Nate Silver, with your annoying political moonlighting! Joe Sheehan is the head honcho around here. Hey, look, they're gonna fight down by the creek at 4:30 today!

Emmitt Smith. Oh, admit it: You'll miss him in flantabulously inlandish fashionians. Ishkabibble! I'd take him over Favre, that's for goddamned sure. OK, well, I'll accept Favre on NFL Countdown only if he refuses to do the show unless they let him spend the whole time sitting on a tractor.

Kurt Warner. At some point, the Buzzsaw and Warner are going to come together and figure out a one-year contract, because no one else wants him and the Buzzsaw probably can't live without him. (A little part of me thinks they'd start Brian St. Pierre over Matt Leinart, if forced.) I'm incredibly excited: After everything fell exactly perfect last year, I can't wait for the Buzzsaw to spend $11 million on our tiny-handed concussed hero to get knocked cold in Week 2 and then decide he's better off tending to his 84 children. At least they're not all named George Foreman.

Bruce Weber: I had the good fortune of sitting in the student section of a recent Illini home game for a Sporting News column next week, and good Lord, Bruce Weber screams like a duck the whole freaking game. I have no idea how that man can possibly speak during the 22 hours of the day when his team isn't playing. Maybe the silence is why he can keep up such a gripping Web site.

Ron Wechsler. He's a VP over at ESPN, and he has a Twitter. (Clearly, not a GRADUATE OF COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY!) His "Tweets" — as the kids say — are pretty entertaining (I, too, would enjoy Kenny Mayne a lot more if he used Auto Tune), off the cuff and destined to get himself in trouble at some point. By the way, if you're looking for a job at ESPN, you're going to have to wait until at least September 2010. That's the year Bill Simmons' contract expires, so, you know, if those guys don't GET OFF HIS JOCK HE'S AN ARTIST SO OPPRESSED, there might be at least one opening. Expect a pay cut, though.