A few hours ago I was digging through my crack-den basement when I stumbled upon an old copy of Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary. It pretty much looks like every other dictionary from back in the day—red cover, frayed pages, etc. Yet when I opened the back cover, I was greeted by a photocopy of a picture I had taped there some 15 years ago.

The image was of A. Ross Mayhew.

Back in 1986, eight years before I would hold the same position, Mayhew was editor in chief of The Review, the University of Delaware’s student newspaper. For a reason I have never known, one day he tied a rope to the ceiling of his dorm room and hung himself. He was 22-years old and, by all accounts, one helluva writer/person.

I came to know about Mayhew when I was 20 or 21, and it consumed my life. Probably because he had been where I was—running a college paper, trying to figure it all out, generally lost. Hence, I tried learning all about Mayhew; sought out people who might remember what he was like; why he killed himself; what pushed him over the edge. There were so few answers. Just sadness.

Now, when I ponder A. Ross Mayhew, I think about lost potential. He would be 45 this year. Probably married with kids. Maybe a writer, maybe a PR flack, maybe a dentist or dancer or CVS clerk. Who knows? I just wish, more than anything, that he could somehow take back that fatal decision of 23 years ago, when I’m guessing his troubles looked much larger than they actually were.

We all have our problems, and I’m sure most of us—at some point—have at least thought, “Is living worth it?” I know I have. Never to the point of truly considering suicide. But there have been dark moments … especially in my younger days, when I lacked perspective and, often, reason. I remember being in college, grades suffering, no girlfriend, little money—just down.

Then I’d find Paul Duer, Dan Monaghan and Scott Capro and we’d play midnight hoops outside Christiana Towers. Always cured my blues.

I never got to know Ross Mayhew. It’s a shame.

This is random, and has no time element. But it’s pretty funny, and 100-percent true.

During my junior year at Mahopac High School, a bunch of us started a school TV station—M-Pac TV. We taped basketball and baseball games, did play-by-play and interviews, then ran them on the school’s public access station a few hours later. It was killer fun, and after a while we started broadcasting school plays, school rock concerts, etc. We really thought we were on to something—M-Pac TV would be huge! Giant! Killer!

The year after I graduated, M-Pac TV taped a basketball game between Mahopac and someone. The tape was recycled, and had contained a pornographic film. Nobody was aware of this. Alas, when the game ended, there was a few minutes of static and then, well, lots of naked people having wild sex atop barnyard animals.

It was the end of M-Pac TV.

This is a douche bag.

His name is Paul Broun, and he is a congressman from Georgia. His phone number is (202) 225-4101. On his website, it says, “America was founded upon the Christian principles contained in the Word of God …” From there, it only gets worse.

Last Friday, during a House vote on climate change, Broun called global warming nothing but a “hoax” that has been “perpetrated out of the scientific community.” Hell, here’s the video. I can understand people questioning the speed and impact of global warming. I can understand people wondering what steps should be taken, and how. I can even understand people asking for more proof, even though, at this point, the scientific evidence is awfully clear.

But … hoax!?

I am baffled. Eternally baffled. How do Americans repeatedly elect men like Broun, who clearly lack the thought and depth to handle important issues. I’m being 100-percent serious. There are plenty of Republicans with whom I strongly disagree, but who I admire as intelligent and reasoned. The two senators from Maine, Susan Collins and Olympia Snowe. Jim Baker. George H. Bush. Chuck Hagel. Bob Dole. The late Jack Kemp. Again, I don’t agree with most of their takes—but I respect their thinking.

Just look at Broun’s website. Hell, don’t. I’ll post some of his thoughts …

• HIS THINKING FOR PROMOTING GUNS: All of our rights come from God, not from government. Our Founding Fathers understood this. They understood that the tole of government is to recognize and preserve our God-given, inalienable rights. Therefore, they wrote the Second Amendment.

• HIS PLAN FOR SOLVING ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION: I am absolutely against illegal immigration and the idea of Amnesty for illegal aliens. Illegal immigration is a crime. It is a corrupting influence on our society. It is a national security threat. It is an economic burden on American taxpayers. (* NOTE: This is the issue that really gets me. You’re against illegal immigration? Fine, so am I. Now give me a plan to solve it—not just xenophobic rantings)

• HIS ODE TO AMERICA’S GREATEST ATTRIBUTE—ITS DIVERSITY: America was founded upon the Christian principles contained in the Word of God. We must stop radical judges from legislating from the bench, destroying revered American religious traditions and religious symbols.

I don’t know Paul Broun. My guess is that, like the movie The Distinguished Gentleman, people made a mistake. They thought they were voting for Paul Brown, the NFL legend, and after it was too late realized he was dead.

I would hope that men like Mr. Broun have learned their lessons over the past few weeks: That preaching, moralistic, holier-than-thou politicians usually go down in humiliating flames. If you’re Paul Broun, you better live the perfect life.

Because karma, it is a bitch.

When I was a little kid, my favorite football player was Ricky Bell of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I’m not sure why, since back then we rarely saw the Bucs on TV in New York. I think I liked his name, Tampa’s cool orange unis and the fact that he was extremely physical.

Anyhow, Bell died at age 29 of dermatomyositis, and I was crushed. So I was thrilled a few minutes ago when I found the above clip. Both Bell and Williams look so young; no naive. Ah, yesterday …

Not sure if you heard, but Farrah Fawcett died a few days ago.

I was mildly sad about this. When I say mildly, I mean no disrespect. Of course it’s sad, because she was a human and now she no longer exists. That’s no good. But outside of a few Charlie’s Angels re-runs, I had no real connection.  My youth coincided with Michael Jackson songs, not Fawcett TV movies.

That said, here’s what I find interesting about the aftermath of Fawcett’s death at age 62:

A. I’ve now heard at least 10 people say, “It’s so sad that Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Michael Jackson, so she didn’t get her due.” I strongly disagree. Had Michael Jackson not died on the same day, Fawcett would have been a B17 obit and water cooler conversation for, oh, four seconds. That’s not to say Fawcett wasn’t good people. It’s to say not too many people really cared about her career. Now, however, because of Jackson’s death, everyone is talking about Fawcett and her slight. It’s given her death life.

B. The “It’s so sad that Farrah Fawcett died on the same day as Michael Jackson, so she didn’t get her due.” strikes me as especially stupid because, when you’re dead, your ability to read a newspaper or watch, oh, Entertainment Tonight is severely impaired. So while I understand the humanistic need to give life to everything, Farrah Fawcett is—sadly and tragically—dead. Her place in the media is, to her, insignificant.

C. That’s about it. But, I must say, I really love obituaries. I’m in no rush to have one, but I find them fascinating and historical and impressively unbiased. Today the New York Times ran a lengthy piece analyzing Michael Jackson’s dancing abilities. And while it didn’t exactly lavish praise on the so-called King of Pop, it held my attention.

As has been made clear many times, both here and at sportsjournalists.com, I have thin skin. I hate being slammed, ripped, mocked, etc.

That love, I love movie reviews that annihilate. Here, courtesy of Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, is one of the best ledes, ever …

•
“Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen” is a horrible experience of unbearable length, briefly punctuated by three or four amusing moments. One of these involves a dog-like robot humping the leg of the heroine. Such are the meager joys. If you want to save yourself the ticket price, go into the kitchen, cue up a male choir singing the music of hell, and get a kid to start banging pots and pans together. Then close your eyes and use your imagination.

The full review is here. It’s fantastic, and serves as a reminder that Ebert is far more than a TV personality. He’s a legit stud of a reviewer/writer, who knows how to pick his spots.

Here’s another one I greatly enjoyed, from Manohla Dargis of the New York Times. It’s more subtle than Ebert’s, but—in certain parts—equally scathing. I especially dug this:

You know the rest because you’ve seen (and read) it many times before. After nestling in the bountiful bosom of family and some unexpected naked slapstick with Andrew, Margaret melts. He mans the ramparts, she lowers her defenses. He thrusts, she parries. He chops wood and loses his shirt. She loses her cellphone and ditches the heels. He rescues her, scooping her out of the water after she falls from a boat. She shivers and smiles and tears up as she talks about her tragic past, revealing the sad little girl who’s long been hidden behind the cruel disguise of a sensationally successful professional adult. Ding-dong the witch is soon dead and in her place, well, here comes the bride.

I wouldn’t enjoy reviewing films, because I couldn’t spend that much time watching dog crap. But I admire the kings of the genre.

** For the record, Jordan, my 8-year-old nephew, loved the new Transformers movie, and he doesn’t even care about Meghan Fox’s eternally throbbing breasts.

Well, as predicted, my second book contest (the one where people couldn’t see the names) was significantly harder than the first. In fact, nobody got every night right. I went with two winners—Robert Eden of McKinney, Texas and Mark Clothier of Douglasville, Georgia. Mazel Tov, fellas—books en route.

And here are the answers:

In order, left to right, top row; then left to right, bottom row.

1. Mike Darr, former Padres outfielder who died in a car accident.

2. Ronald McNair, mission specialist aboard Challenger.

3. Eric Carr, former KISS drummer who died of cancer.

4. Gia Marie Carangi, model who died of AIDS-related complications.

5 . Nelson Rockefeller, 44th vice president of the United States. Died of a heart attack.

6. Bruce Lee, Martial-arts ass kicker, who died of “misadventure.”

7. Dick Schaap, famed sportswriter, who died of postoperative complications following hip replacement surgery.

8. Bon Scott, AC/DC lead singer, who died after a night of heavy drinking.

I’m obviously a little late to the table with this, but wanted to share my quick thoughts on the NBA Draft …

• Is there no sense of history? Can’t fault the Clips for taking Blake Griffin, but what in the world are the Grizzlies doing? I know … I know—it’s a weak field, etc. But you use the No. 2 pick to take Hasheem Thabeet, a “shot-blocking rebounder with limited offensive potential”!? In other words, Memphis, meet Tony Battie. This won’t go well.

• The T-Wolves draft Ricky Rubio, who has made it clear he has no interest in moving to Minneapolis. Then, to entice him, they use their next first-round pick on Jonny Flynn, another point guard!? And then—even more egregious—they try selling the fans on a speedy backcourt featuring two PGs. Please. when does this sort of thing ever work? (Note: In 1993, while I was at the University of Delaware, the Hens shifted point guard Brian Pearl to the two in order to make room for a Texas transfer, Rob Garner. The team ended up sucking pretty bad, and Pearl was never the same). Had the Wolves been wise, they would have ignored the 18-year-old Rubio and drafted Flynn and Stephen Curry. Now that’s a backcourt.

• This whole “The Wizards will challenge in the East” talk is a joke. Randy Foye and Mike Miller are nice players, but that’s about all—nice. The Wiz are still thin on the bench, and lack any sort of post dominance.

• Vince Carter? Really? The Magic think Vince Carter is the answer to getting past Cleveland? Crazy. There are two problems when it comes to Vince: A. He’s shown no ability in the clutch; B. He’s gone from being an attacker to lofting 18-foot fade-away jumpers. I don’t care if the Nets received the rights to Terry Catledge and Jerry (Ice) Reynolds—they gained by subtracting.

• The Knicks are, after a lengthy hiatus, intelligent again. They wanted to move up and get Stephen Curry. I mean, they really wanted him. But the price would have been Wilson Chandler, an impressive player who has already reached a level Curry might never attain. Should fans be excited about the additions of Darko Milicic, Jordan Hill and Toney Douglas? Probably not. But at least they didn’t do anything Ike-esque—like trading every young player and picks for Bruce Bowen and a can of soda.

• This has clearly been said before, but the Spurs adding Richard Jefferson, then drafting Pitt forward DeJuan Blair in the second round, was brilliant. I spent several years watching Jefferson here in the New York/New Jersey area, and they guy is a stud. Not a carry-a-team stud, but an unselfish slasher who plays D, can pass, rebound and get to the hole. Best of all, if he averages, oh, 15 ppg, there will be no whining. He’s the anti-Vince—and a much better all-around player.

As for Blair, even if he turns into, oh, Malik Rose, it’s a steal.

• I like Cleveland getting Shaq. Yeah, it might backfire, as it sorta did in Phoenix. But it’s worth the risk Time is short in life, and it’s even shorter in the NBA, when a prime lasts for, at best, eight or nine years. LeBron is peaking. Why not give him some help?

Was at Rich and Leigh Becker’s house the other night, cooking out in the backyard, when the conversation turned to icons. Who’s an icon? Who’s not an icon? It all stemmed from Michael Jackson—odd, yes, but an undeniable all-time icon. To be, an icon is someone who transcends; who moves people beyond their confined worlds. Or, in simpler terms, if my mother has heard of you …

So we played the game: WHICH LIVING CELEBRITIES ARE SPORTS ICONS? (Side note: I laughed aloud when Michael, Rich and Leigh’s son, asked whether Wayne Chrebet is an icon).

Here’s my take—feel free to chime in … (I’ll add as suggestions are made)

ICONS:

Muhammad Ali.

Bobby Orr.

Tiger Woods.

Arnold Palmer.

Jim Brown.

Michael Jordan.

Jack Nicklaus.

Hank Aaron.

Ernie Banks.

Willie Mays.

Sandy Koufax.

Derek Jeter.

John Wooden.

Larry Bird.

Magic Johnson.

Kareem.

Joe Namath.

John Elway.

Bill Russell.

Joe Torre.

Wayne Gretzky.

Mario Lemieux.

Dean Smith.

•

NEAR ICONS (but not quite):

Cal Ripken, Jr.

Joe Montana

Jerry Rice (calling oneself “G.O.A.T” does not an icon make)

Lawrence Taylor.

Reggie Jackson.

Shaquille O’Neal.

Dr. J.

LeBron James (waaay too young)

Jerry West.

Earl Monroe.

Rickey Henderson.

Mark Messier.

Mary Lou Retton.

Brett Favre.

Tom Brady.

Kobe Bryant.

Peyton Manning.

Michael Irvin (oddly)

•

FOR VARIOUS REASONS—NO CHANCE.

O.J. Simpson.

Barry Bonds.

Ken Griffey, Jr.

Troy Aikman.

Emmitt Smith.

Dan Marino.

Jim Kelly.

Dale Murphy.

Jim Rice.

Gary Carter.

Hosken Powell.

And here’s why …