Prince Naseem Hamed.

I talk to everyone. Absolutely, positively everyone. It’s a part of being a Son of Stan Pearlman—a requirement to make goofy-yet-well-intentioned comments.

So here I am, sitting in Starbucks, researching the next book, losing my mind beneath a pile of boredom. The woman next to me (SEE PICTURE), mid-20s, is eating sushi from what I can only assume to be a nearby market. I, meanwhile, am eating an egg salad sandwich from a carton. I say to her, “Man, life isn’t fair. You’ve got sushi, I’ve got a 17-week old egg salad sandwich.” Does she laugh? No. Nod? No. Cringe? No. She fucking ignores me, as if I’m some dweeb trying to hit on her—as opposed to some dweeb with a loving wife and two kids who merely feels the need to crack corny jokes/lame comments to everyone.

This offends me. Without people like myself (and my father), how would we know what’s actually funny in this world? Just like we need .200 hitters to have .350 hitters, we need tremendously unfunny people like myself to set the stage for Chris Rock, Dane Cook, etc. I am, in a sense, providing a service. The next time you tell a joke that falls flat, say, “Well, at least it wasn’t as lame as Jeff Pearlman’s egg salad comment.”

Man, f-ing egg salad.

Just had a really awkward moment. Was in Panera, where I’d write more often if the damned internet worked. Anyhow, I’ve become friendly with one of the waiters, who I hadn’t seen in several weeks. He said, “Heeeey, how’s it going?” and stuck out his hand. He went pound, I went handshake. Then he went handshake, I went pound. Finally, we settled for the I-grab-his-fist-with-my-hand-while-smiling-awkwardly-before-slowly-backing-away. Needless to say, it wasn’t good.

In case there are any people out there who think sportswriters are cool, well, get a life.

The guy on the far left is named Tres Fromme. Back in college he was a pretty balsy guy—head of the gay student union on a campus where 99.9% weren’t especially open-minded about such things. I didn’t get his courage at the time, but now—looking back—I do.

So he and his co-workers at Mesa Design win Coolest People Ever. (admittedly, they don’t look so cool. But, hey, neither do I).

I write for ESPN.com, and very much enjoy it. Buy why, oh why, does this company continue to employ Skip Bayless?

Seriously, I don’t get it.

Bayless has a lengthy history of being an attention-seeking anus. I document this quite extensively in my upcoming Cowboys biography—especially when Bayless outs Troy Aikman in his book, “Hell Bent,” even though the Dallas QB apparently was not, ahem, gay.

But, really, why let truth, decency, integrity, honor and justice stand in the way of being an attention-seeking loudmouth? Why be righteous when you can scream out an opinion—personal beliefs be damned—and have people take notice? Why do the right thing, when doing the wrong thing pays the bills?

Here’s the latest example—an absolutely, positively pathetic moment in TV journalism that, in my opinion, warrants someone at ESPN asking the question, “Do we really want this man representing our product?”

Ask anyone who knows me—I hate ripping other journalists. Hate it. But, from my vantage point, Bayless no longer qualifies.

A couple of days ago my wife came to a horrid realization: The dried pig’s ear our new dog Norma has been chewing on is, factually, a dried pig’s ear. She sorta thought they just called it a pig’s ear, but that it was really some sort of hardened plaster (or something). Then, about an hour ago, she cried out, “The pig’s ear has hair on it!!!!!!” Which, literally, it does. Nasty.

On a related note, I am beginning to seriously wonder whether the Pittsburgh Pirates have been gnawing on too many pig’s ears. The Xavier Nady•Damasco Marte-for-four-so-so-minor-leaguers was one of the most lopsided deals I’ve seen in a looooong time. I mean, truly pathetic on the part of the Pirates. Here you are, a cruddy team out of the pennant race, featuring an excellent lefty reliever and a slugging corner outfielder/first baseman (having the best season of his career, by the way). Both men have manageable contracts, both men are highly coveted—and you receive a single top-flight prospect!?

Snort. Snort.

I absolutely, positively promise any/all readers that I will not turn this blog into a personal love-fest. I loathe writers who brag; who think they’re God’s gifts to the literary world and who believe that what we do is—of all things—important.

That said, I got my first real review today for “Boys Will Be Boys,” and I’m psyched. From a writer’s standpoint, it’s not that reviews provide a sense of self-worth or make you feel extra-special or anything like that. I mean, you either feel good about what you’ve accomplished, or you don’t, and no review (be it The New York Times or the Pennywhistle Press) should impact that sense. However, we’re also human, and kind words are appreciated, just as mean words (and they’ll certainly come in droves) hurt.

So here’s the review, straight outta Compton (well, Publishers Weekly):

Sal Fasano.

Indians catcher—and my favorite ballplayer.

Just returned from the standout BBQ of Ari and Alison Zarchan—friends, neighbors, proud Rotarians. Big thumbs up to the chicken (crispy, as I like it), the macaroni salad (Alison’s specialty) and the fruit salad (I had at least five bowls).

I absolutely love summer BBQs. They really capture the season—the equivalent of sleigh riding in winter or jumping in a big pile of leaves come fall. They also usually result in some quirky discussions, one of which I was graced with this afternoon:

Spent much time speaking with two singles in their mid-to-late 30s who bemoaned (to be polite) the solo life of professional New York City women. As a guy who is married with two kids (and, ahem, a friggin’ dog who just dropped something proper on the kitchen floor), I found the talk sort of painful, in that, well, life ain’t fair. As my picture surely indicates, I’m nothing special. I can’t dress, my left eyelid is a bit lazy, I wear deodorant every, oh, third day, my gas stinks, I’m clumsy, etc (My wife will be happy to fill in the rest). So why am I so damn lucky, while these wonderful, smart, successful, attractive women have to go through the bullshit motions of eHarmony and JDate (Oy) and Eight at Eight, only to find themselves frustrated by the lack of decent options (I will sum up the one woman’s Eight at Eight experience as so: One of the men began performing magic tricks.)?

I suppose, in a sense, the answer is relatively simple: Guys (myself included) are scum. Once we reach our mid-30s, we don’t want to be reminded of the fact that we’re getting old. So those of us who are single start prowling the local colleges and hip coffee shops, seeking out the 20-something gal with the ill-advised-yet-undeniably-sexy tattoo above her ass crack (aka: The Tramp Stamp). We don’t seek out women with professionalism or 401K plans or (God forbid) maturity and decency, because how can she compete with the Ponce de Leon-inspired Fountain of Youth we all crave? We want fake blondes with fake breasts who shake their booties to Yung Joc (even if we don’t know who that is). In many ways, we want something that doesn’t exist. But we’re men—dumb, immature, blinded by fantasy. So we make poor decisions.

Anyhow, that’s my damnation lecture of the day. But if you’re a single guy in New York City with all his teeth, decent breath and a good heart, today I met two wonderful women who are probably over your heads.

But I’m willing to work the hookup …

Mike Lupica. Who speaks very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very,very, very, very, very, very, very, very loudly (but is quite short).

The man.