I’ve always been a big fan of self-deprecation. It’s a quality I love seeing in others, and one I try and foster within myself. Sometimes, people who are self-deprecating seem to be trying to hide something—embarrassment, discomfort, a character flaw. However, most have come across a truism that I am glad to have discovered in my older age: Truth sets one free.

Hence, I present my five lowest moments as a journalist (in reverse order):

5. In 1994, I was the cocky, mistake-prone editor of the University of Delaware student newspaper, The Review. There was a fraternity on campus known as Pika, and one of its members was being charged with rape. On a late deadline night I was typing in headlines, almost certainly with my eyes half closed and my mind dreaming of bed. Well, the paper comes out the next day, and my roommate is holding a copy. He says, “Is this headline right?” It was a quote from the Pika president reading “We still believe he is not innocent.” It was supposed to read, “We still believe he is innocent.” Ugh.

4. I was sent to San Francisco by Sports Illustrated to try and get Barry Bonds to speak to the magazine for the first time in years. It was a longshot, but I somehow got Barry to sit down and talk. Well, I’m up all night writing the damn story, and the next morning I anxiously take a call from my editor. I’ve poured my heart and soul and pen into this story, and what does he say, “Pearlman, if we wanted you to give Barry Bonds a blowjob, we woulda brought him to the streets of New York!!!!”

3. While serving as a music writer for The Tennessean in Nashville, I write a piece on how the local theatre is offering a summer concert series that is boring, lame and way too similar to the previous year’s venue. On the day it runs, the PR woman for the music venue, Starwood Ampitheatre, called The Tennessean and threatens to pull its advertising if we don’t run a follow-up. The next morning, we run a huge feature on Starwood’s inspiring lineup—and I’m demoted to the late-night cops beat.

2. I am hired by Newsday to roam New York City and write 3,000-word pieces on the vibe and essence and characters of the town. It is the best gig in the history of journalism. Within two years, they want 500-word snippets on Jessica Simpson’s hair.

1. I am 24-years old and working in The Tennessean’s feature department. I have a friend, Sheila, who always leaves her computer on at night. One evening I’m working late and no one is around. Sheila’s computer is on, and I send a message from Sheila to Sheila that reads something like, “F— off.” I think this is uproarious. The next morning I arrive at the office and everything is very quiet. Turns out Sheila had something of a stalker, and they were trying to determine whether he had been after her. The reason? A threatening note on her computer. That confession was … the … absolute … worst … thing … ever.

The image above is from a website, kidney4beth.com. Beth is a mother in my daughter Casey’s class at the nearby JCC. She is 33, and suffers from kidney disease. At some point she’s going to need a new kidney. I understand that it’d be uncommon for someone to consider donating a kidney to a stranger. But if you have any interest … well, she’s good people, she’s the mother of two young children—and her life is literally on the line. I agreed today to be tested but, again, I know her.

Anyhow, I just felt the need to share that. Sorry to be preachy …

Hank Gathers—18 years gone. Amazing how time passes.

OK, I’m throwing it down. Whoever gives the best answer to the following question wins an advanced (when I get them myself) autographed copy of Boys Will Be Boys, my ’90s Dallas Cowboys biography that comes out in September.

The question is this: Given the choice, which would you rather have:

A. Voice box.
B. Colostomy bag.

And why?

Please post your answers …

Writer’s note: As my wife, family members and friends will tell you, I live for hypothetical questions. This, to me, is the toughest of choices.

This morning I opened my laptop, checked my e-mail and received a letter from someone calling me an idiot.

Had I pissed in his soup? No.

Kicked his cat? No.

Eaten his last Oreo? No.

Of all the things, I had the audacity to insult the Pittsburgh Pirates in this column.

This is a gripe I make quite often, and I think it’s a fair one—with the SEND button just one finger away, readers fire off the most vile, most putrid, most offensive stuff to columnists. In no particular order, I’ve been called a fag, a Jew Homo, a dickhead, a motherfucker, an asswipe—all because someone disagreed with my sports opinion.

It just baffles my mind. I’ve been a sports guy since age 7 or 8, and I’ve never—absolutely never—be so furious at someone’s take that I’ve felt the need to go out of my way to demean that person. It’s nonsense, it’s hurtful—and it’ll inevitably continue.

*** Granted, I am a fag Jew Homo dickhead motherfucker asswipe. But only on TV.

By the way, two friends have started blogs. Worth checking out, if you’ve got a chance:

Jason Giambi’s Powerful Lip Fur

Dave G’s Dugout

Twiki, the robot from Buck Rogers … for getting to hang with an in-his-prime Gary Coleman.

I like and respect Hillary Clinton. But has any politician hurt herself more with a presidential run?

This, from CNN.com a few moments ago:

(CNN) – No, she’s not leaving politics, but she is still trying to retire more than $25 million of campaign debt. Sen. Hillary Clinton’s Web site is advertising a contest to win a summer “retirement dinner” with the former presidential contender. The price for a chance to win is a contribution to her creditors. “Summer is a time for simple pleasures: family vacations, baseball games, and dinner out under the stars,” Clinton’s e-mail to supporters says. “At least it is if you aren’t running for president! It sure is nice having a little more time on my hands, and I’d love to spend some of it with you.” Those interested in helping Clinton retire the debt can pay from $10 to more than $2,300 for a chance to win the dinner and “talk about whatever you’d like.” The campaign’s site doesn’t say where the winner will dine with the senator, but it mentions that round-trip transportation and the total value may run $3,000.

*

Come to think of it, I’m inspired. Anyone who deposits more than $10,000 into my Swiss bank account (account #: 3432-3212-4554-4443; ask for Sven) qualifies for a dinner with THE one and only Jeff Pearlman at his favorite restaurant! Supplies limited—act now!!

I wrote the following column about a year ago, and it never ran. Figured I’d post it here—sort of made me laugh at the time. Definitely watch the video—it’s classic. Here’s the link: The nose picker

And here’s the column …

I pick my nose.
Not all the time, really. Just when I’m watching TV. And listening to music. And playing XBox. And eating pickles. And—gimme a second—writing this column.
What can I say? Nose picking feels good. More important, it’s efficient. Why waste those precious six steps to the tissue box when I can break out the right index finger, insert here and twist?
And when there’s no place to wipe the sticky little suckers (under my car seat, in my coat pocket, on my guinea pig’s head, etc), I, uh, I, uhm, open my mouth and, uhm, well … yeah.
Salty.
I am confessing such not to bare my (booger-stuffed) soul, but to offer solidarity to a man who deserves better than the ridicule he has received of late.

If you are a sports fan, a Youtube addict or Youtube-addicted sports fan, by now you have surely watched the video of Tom Asbury, Alabama’s assistant men’s basketball coach, picking his nose and eating it during a game against LSU a few months back. The clip is—to be blunt—sort of nasty. With the camera unknowingly focused on his head, Asbury takes his left pinky, stuffs it in his right nostril, then goes straight for the mouth. Thanks to a 23-year-old Youtube poster from Olive Brach, Mississippi nicknamed Tbbaker, nearly 160,000 viewers have watched Asbury do his thing. In fact, in his 54-second posting, Tbbaker allows us to watch in real time and slow motion—background guffawing tossed in for free.
For good and for bad, this is the society we live in. Whether you’re a TV star, a fireman, a journalist, a butcher or an obscure assistant basketball coach, your humiliating moments are just a download away from being viewed worldwide. I pick my nose, my cousin picks his nose, my best friend picks his nose, Lou Piniella picks his nose (I’ve seen it)—but Tom Asbury gets caught, exposed and mocked.
Here’s the thing: It couldn’t happen to a less deserving guy. In a profession chock full o’ creeps, crooks and cons, Asbury is an honest, decent 61-year-old man who announced his retirement from coaching a few weeks ago and deserves—no, needs—to go out better. A former head coach at Pepperdine and Kansas State, Asbury is leaving the Crimson Tide sideline after four years to care for his wife, Carlie, who is battling Mesothelioma, a rare form of cancer that affects the lining of the lungs and abdominal cavity. “I couldn’t afford to spend the time that this job requires,” Asbury said upon departing. “My wife has responded well (to treatment), but you just never know with cancer.”
Sadly, this is not the first unbearable tragedy Asbury has encountered. On Sept. 12, 1993 his older daughter Stacey died of complications from anorexia nervosa, a mysterious eating disorder characterized by low body weight and body image distortion with an obsessive fear of gaining weight. Once a healthy 5-foot-8, 130 pounds, Stacey was so overcome by anorexia that, in her final hours, she weighed approximately 90 pounds. Her father watched her slow deterioration, helpless to do much of anything besides support the various hospital visits and 12-step programs. “Everything was tried,” her doctor told the Los Angeles Times at the time. “She just died anyway.”
See, this is the problem when we aim to mock; when we seek out the lowest vulnerabilities and expose them for cheap guffaws. Behind every person there is pain and suffering, or at least a story we should probably hear.
Yes, Tom Asbury did pick his nose.
But, for the sake of righteousness, let’s be honest here.
Haven’t you, too?

I am Jewish. Not overly religious, but certainly aware of my heritage and proud/saddened by what my family has endured, RE: the Holocaust/escape from Germany. I feel like I know what it means to be Jewish, and whether I go to synagogue every weekend or not (I don’t), I still bleed the blood of my religion.

That said, I am mad.

I live in a heavily populated Jewish town; send my daughter to nursery school at a Jewish Community Center and to a camp populated by many Jewish kids. What frustrates me—no, infuriates me—is the endless stream of Jewish parents driving around town in monstrous, gas-guzzling SUVs. Simply put, there is a hypocrisy here that many of my fellow Jews are surely missing: You go to synagogue and pray for Israel; you support the nation’s health with donations … with visits … with words and actions. And then, back home, you pay $75-$100 a pop to fill your God-awful vehicle with oil supplied by Middle Eastern nations that have made it their mission to destroy Israel.

Inane.

For the record, I am not one of these Jews who cheers Israel! Israel! Israel! every chance I get. The country often infuriates me with its stubborn indifference toward the welfare of the Palestinian people. There seems to be woefully little empathy, and even less support. Yes, there are many Palestinians who see Israelis and see blood. But there are many, many, many others who simply crave peace and togetherness.

I’m babbling. The point is, actions result in actions result in actions. That money spent at the pump is going somewhere … and it ain’t Disney World.

Just took my dog Norma for a walk before bed. When we got back inside, she vomited under the kitchen table. As I ran to grab a paper towel, Norma began slurping up her own vomit. At first I was repulsed—until I realized I wouldn’t have to clean it up myself.

Having a dog is disgusting. In Norma’s honor, the Top 5 most disgusting things I’ve ever witnessed:

1. Then-Mariners manager Lou Piniella smoking a cigarette, eating a hoagie, urinating and speaking with me during an interview.

2. Richie Sexson, then an Indians rookie, jingling his balls with his right hand seconds before reaching out to shake my hand.

3. Nate Newton trying to fit into a Starbucks seat in Dallas.

4. My late Grandpa Nat drinking a bowl of soup.

5. My dog drinking her vomit.