Taped my appearance on the Best Damn Sports Show, which will be airing Wednesday.

Was sad, actually. Have been on the show four times. Always enjoy the experience—the host, Chris Rose, is an excellent guy; the producer, Laura Marcus, is wonderful. It gets me out to Los Angeles, a place I truly love. Yet learned today that, come June, Best Damn will be no more. Canceled. Axed. After seven seasons. Say what you want about the program—silly, inane, etc. (I hate the Hooters stuff they do, a sorta tasteless objectification of women) But they kept it loose and fast (Chris told me it’s been seven years of college), brought in a wide swath of athlete hosts from different sports and, most important (to me) gave authors a voice.

So I’m sad—and I wish the show’s crew well  …

Last October the people who lived across the street moved out. They’d lived here in Westchester, N.Y. for 40 years or so—a lovely gaggle of older folks who relocated to San Diego. There was a woman, Carmen, who was Phillipino and married to a retired character actor, Joe Lowry. His good friend David also resided in the house. David’s former companion, a painter named Edith Montlack, died in 2003. Joe’s brother, Jimmy, who is mentally impaired, also lived in the house.

Anyhow, this past weekend a realtor held a tag sale at the house to sell all the stuff Joe & Co. left behind. Although the even started at 10 am on Saturday, cars began lining up at 7:30. It reminded both the wife and I of vultures circling a dead deer—people anxious to pick at the remains. For two days there was a steady stream of cars, and finally, tonight, all had died down. That’s when we walked over, just to see how things went and to check out if any of Edith’s paintings hadn’t sold. We both thought it’d be nice to pay tribute to our departed friends by buying one of her works.

Well, we snagged a painting—but much, much more. In a somewhat mysterious move, Joe left what seems to be all of his acting keepsakes behind: Scripts, letters, photographs. We actually bought an enormous skinned drum that was used in “Apocalypse Now” for $30 (Joe worked on the movie), and I asked if I could keep his various photos and nicknacks, which were in a box in the basement. The realtor nodded—all that stuff would have been tossed.

Anyhow, it reminded me of two things:

1. What do you do with all your “important” possessions without kids?

2. “Important” possessions mean nothing. Come day’s end, Joe wanted to move to San Diego and bask in the sun. He didn’t need old pictures to remind him what he once was. He wanted a new life.

I just checked amazon.com, and my book is 615th. I’m not sure what to say about this. A few days ago I peaked at, oh, 150ish, which is pretty solid. And, truth be told, most people would be thrilled to sit at 615. But I’ve been spoiled.

Six months ago, my Cowboys book topped at 15th. That was crazy, and it set up unrealistic hopes/expectations. I’ve had two of my first three books become NYT best-seller’s, and I’ll be the first to admit 95% of that is luck and timing and subject matter. Truth is, one never knows how a book will sell—whether it’ll go on fire or merely slink off into the night. Right now, at this very moment, I’m on the fringe of both possibilities.

Thing is, there’s little I can do. I promote and promote and promote, but one can only control his book selling destiny to so far of a degree. I snagged three excerpts, Harper sent out hundreds of review copies, I’ve had insane support from my editors, friends, colleagues, etc. But, at the same time, we’re in the midst of March Madness, the economy has engulfed nearly everything in its path and Roger Clemens was sort of bumped from the back pages by Alex Rodriguez and the face-gnawing monkey. It is what it is.

But I remain proud. I feel good about this book—I really, really do. I’m not one to toot my own horn, and I won’t here. That said, I worked my tail off, and will always feel good about the effort.

* On a side note, American Idol has blown me away thus far. Here are my rankings, most likely to win down to least likely …

1. Danny Gokey—Very strong singer, plus emotional story and oodles of charisma.

2. Adam Lambert—The most talented by a huge margin, but will conservative thinkers vote for the prototype of the kid they made fun of in high school.

3. Allison Iraheta—Joyful, and only 16. But it doesn’t seem like a woman will win this year.

4. Matt Giraud—Timberlake clone is very smooth, but a wee-bit forgettable at times.

5. Kris Allen—Were Kermit a 23-year-old American Idol contestant …

6. Lil Rounds—A bit disappointing. Killer voice, but sorta meh. (Also, there’s definitely a pattern on American Idol where the African-American female belters are dismissed prematurely—and it always infuriates me)

7. Anoop Desai—Smooth voice, nice fella, but not quite good enough.

8. Scott MacIntyre—He is blind, which adds to his impressive package. But he’s pretty mediocre by comparison to the big dogs.

9. Megan Joy—Requisite blonde cutie just doesn’t have what it takes. And what’s with her two-step waddle?

I was in a Midtown Manhattan Barnes & Noble yesterday afternoon when I saw some guy start to read my Clemens book. I watched him flip through the pages, sneeze on the cover, glance through the pictures, show it to his wife …

… then leave without making the purchase.

I suppose I could have awkwarded him to death—”I wrote that, you know” or “I just read that book and it’s truly amazing!”—but that would have been historically pathetic. In fact, over the course of four books, only once before had I ever seen someone actually reading one. It was on a train from the city to New Rochelle; a young dude paging through “The Bad Guys Won!” I said, “Hey, how is that book?” He started telling me about it, the characters and theme and all. He seemed to really like it.

I said nothing about having written it. Seemed cooler that way.

I know I’m probably supposed to use this space to pimp my own wares, but I wanted to take a moment to make people aware of a wonderful new book by a good friend/college—”When March Went Mad: The Game That Transformed Basketball” by Seth Davis.

Seth is probably better known these days for his excellent work on CBS during the tournament, but he’s a very talented writer who put his all into this chronicle of the Bird-Magic collegiate rivalry.

Anyhow, Seth’s good people, and it’s an excellent book.

Thanks.

While appearing on a radio show earlier today to promote “The Rocket That Fell to Earth,” I was confronted with a question that caught me off guard: Why do you have a picture of Nell Carter on your website?

Prepared to talk all things Roger Clemens, my brain froze: Why did I have a picture of Nell Carter on my website? And then I remembered the answer.

I have a picture of Nell Carter on my website because Nell Carter, dead or alive, kicks ass. When I was but a wee boy on the tough streets of Mahopac, N.Y., she brought hope into my otherwise sad, dreary life. Once a week, I could turn on the television and hear Nell’s marvelous voice via the “Gimme a Break” theme song. (This version is even better) That alone would lift me out of the Mahopac projects and into a world of love and joy. Toss in those ragamuffin Lawrence boys and, well, I was in heaven. (Was Nell Harper a good actress? I would argue yes, but the fact that her character on “Gimme a Break” was also named Nell leads me to believe they had questions about her ability).

I would love to make my Top 10 Nell Carter Moments List, but, well, I’ve only got one: In a very special episode of “Gimme a Break,” Nell and the gang head to Tennessee for the World’s Fair (or it might have been New Orleans for Mardi Gras). Against all odds, everyone deserts the tents and various exhibits to join Nell—who played a nanny—as she leads them in a boisterous rendition of “When The Saints Go Marching In.”

Ah, Nell …

PS: What ever became of Telma Hopkins? I liked her.

Well, the book came out today. That was nice.

It was a long day. Lots of interviews, including one tonight in the XM studio and another with Gary Apple on SNY’s Sportsnite. There’s a certain rhythm to answering the same questions 200 times in a very short span, and I have yet to hit any sort of stride. I feel disjointed and off, and need to get my act together. Man, do I sound like John Maine after an outing, or what?

On the bright side, the pub has been pretty good. Four different huge sports sites have run excerpts, here, here, here and here. That’s one thing I’ve learned in doing this a few times—online excerpts trump all, because they provide an instant link to the Amazon page. You can hear a great interview while driving to work, arrive and forget about the whole thing within minutes. But that quick click is invaluable.

Speaking of invaluable, did anyone read about that horrible plane crash in Montana, where those three families were killed? I’ve been down a bit lately, and I need to snap out of it, look at my beautiful two little tykes as they sleep tonight, then wake up with a smile.

Because, with 14 slated interviews (including 1:05 with Jim Rome—a guy I really enjoy/respect), it’s gonna be an arduous day …

In 1985, I was Bar Mitzvahed at the Mt. Kisco Holiday Inn. I have spent the ensuing 24 years making fun of my parents, who actually divided the guest list into those invited to only the post-ceremony cocktail hour at the hotel bar and those invited to both the cocktail hour and the reception. To paint a clearer picture: The cocktail hour lasted, oh, an hour, and afterward half the people left, while the other half entered a large reception hall. I was only 13, so I had no clue how tacky this probably seemed to the unlucky schlubs who came bearing gifts, only to be asked to leave following two olives, a couple of chicken sticks and a watered-down vodka and cranberry.

Since that memorable day, I’ve had four other occasions that provide similar emotions: Book release one, book release two, book release three, book release four.

I am excited, nervous, anxious—all the standard emotions that come with a release. I love the positive comments, endure the negative ones, cringe at some reviews, cheer others. I want people to like the book, but not as much as I hope people don’t hate the book (I’m not sure what that actually means, but it sounds sorta thought-provoking). Mostly, I want to promote, and move on. You work so hard on these things, by the time it’s released you just want to talk about anything but Roger Clemens. Or Barry Bonds. Or the ‘86 Mets or ’90s Cowboys. Really, you want a month-long vacation to the other side of the world, to recharge and read a book or two about anything other than sports.

Over the past eight months or so, nearly all that I’ve read has related directly to Roger Clemens. Nearly every book, every magazine article, every clip, every website—all Clemens, all the time. If this sounds like whining, well, I hope it doesn’t, because I’m blessed that the good folk at Harper (ne HarperCollins) have allowed me to live my dream.

But it is exhausting.

Shalom.

Here’s a link to my upcoming promotional radio/TV/internet appearances in the coming days. I’m not saying you should care, but, well, hey.

So here’s a truly weird story, no?