The kid above—all the kids above—is a Yale junior named Sam Tsui. He’s every person in the video (save for Kurt Schneider, standing off to the side, who did the editing), and it’s really cool.

I actually like his take of Glee’s take of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” even more.

Cool.

Earlier today, the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops urged its priests around the nation to speak out against health care legislation.

Why? Because the Democratic bills are, “seriously deficient on the issues of abortion and conscience.”

To me, this perfectly—absolutely perfectly—illustrated the glaring shortcoming of the Catholic Church in 2009: A narrow-minded focus that makes, morally, no sense.

Yes, the Church is right—the Democratic proposals do nothing to deter abortion (Of course, maybe that’s because abortion is, ahem, legal). But what’s mind numbing here is that the idea of universal, affordable health care is, at its core, an issue of morality. It’s about assuring that all people can receive the medical care they require, wealth/status be damned. Is there any way in hell that Jesus Christ—were he kickin’ it with me in Cosi—would oppose health care reform? Answer: No way.

But that’s the Catholic Church. When it comes to gay rights, it record is unapologetically pathetic. They utter “love the sinner, hate the sin” with a straight face, yet offer no protections or rights to the sinners. When it comes to women, well, what do I even need to say? When it comes to global warming—God’s planet!—the Church has no opinion. None. Nada. Zip.

I feel bad for the mindless followers; those who take every word as doctrine and confuse men for Gods. Because this is immoral—unambiguously so.

The St. Louis Cardinals have hired Mark McGwire to be the club’s hitting coach.

So what if he cheated? And cheated? And cheated? And cheated?

Here’s my column, from today’s SI.com.

Just sent an e-mail to the wrong person. Hate when that happens.

In the grand scheme, not that huge of a deal. I’m going to be in Chicago next weekend doing some research, so I decided to get a credential to the Bears game and write my SI.com column off of it. However, I sent the e-mail that was supposed to go to B.J. Schecter, my awesome SI.com editor, to the Bears’ media relations director. Again, a 1 or 2 on the 1-to-10 scale of blunders. But still sorta cruddy.

Along those lines, let’s have a book giveaway. A free autographed copy of Boys Will Be Boys to the person who has the most humiliating I-can’t-believe-I-sent-that-e-mail! story. E-mail them to me at anngold22@gmail.com, or post it in the comments section below this entry.

•••

Along those lines, I just thought of a truly humiliating story that I’ll share. Back when I was a young punk fact checker at Sports Illustrated in the mid-1990s, I rubbed a couple of co-workers wrongly—and vice versa. They weren’t bad guys, in hindsight, and neither was I. But we were all ambitious, anxious, probably a tad ornery.

Anyhow, I was single at the time, and some way or another I was trying an early version of online dating. I believe I was exchanging e-mails with a woman over AOL, and she wrote, “So what do you look like?” I didn’t really know how to answer, so I told her a former girlfriend used to say I reminded her of Tom Hanks. (neither compliment nor insult). When we were done chatting, I printed the dialogue out. But instead of landing in my office printer, the paper made it to the hallway printer.

I forgot about the whole thing until, a few hours later, the three guys walked by my office. They were all smiling. Snidely.

“Hey, Tom,” one said.

F***, I wanted to jump out the window.

Some people love late October for the leaves changing color. Others love Halloween.

I love the political junk mail.

No, actually, I don’t. I hate it. Not because it’s a complete and total waste of resources (which it is) or because it causes the good mail folks an extra-large dose of annoyance. No, I hate it because it’s stupid, and anyone who decides to vote for a particular candidate based on a 12″x5″ piece of cardboard really shouldn’t be filling out a ballot to begin with.

Today, I received a mailing from Tim Idoni, who is running to be re-elected Westchester County Clerk. I know Tim. Hell, I like Tim. He’s a good guy, and will get my vote. However, his big quote, printed in large black letters, is, MY FIRST PRIORITY IS TO PROTECT THE RESIDENTS I SERVE. Which, while a fine sentiment, is pretty obvious. What else could his first priority as county clerk be? Scoring Knicks tickets?

Then there’s the dandy from Janet DiFiore, Westchester’s district attorney, also running for re-election. I don’t know Janet, but I can tell from her mailing that she’s very important, because her postcard is even larger than Tim Idoni’s. She also has A RECORD OF EXCELLENCE! (ALL CAPS!), including WORKS AGGRESSIVELY TO COMBAT GANGS AND KEEP GUNS OFF OUR STREET. I’m guessing she’s pretty damn good, because gang activity in Westchester is down to zero percent. From, ahem, zero percent.

My favorite all all the mailings wasn’t sent by any candidate, but by the New York Republican State Committee. I only know this because, literally, it says “New York Republican State Committee” is, oh, 2-point light gray text in the bottom left corner of the left side. On the front, the card says MEET THE TAXING TEAM and NO WONDER WE PAY THE HIGHEST TAXES IN AMERICA. Then it pictures Andy Spano, who is running for Westchester County Executive.

This is sort of funny. I live in a town with beautiful streets, amazing schools, incredible diversity, remarkable services, etc … etc. Maybe we pay high taxes because, ahem, they actually go to something …

My car accident was early last Saturday morning.

Earlier today I had to go to Nick’s Towing Service in Rutherford, N.J. to get my stuff from the trunk.

Not fun.

I hadn’t seen the ol’ Mazda 6 since the accident. To recap (in better detail than before): It was pouring rain, and I was driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike. Going below the speed limit (as was pretty much everyone), I felt the steering wheel twitch, then the wheels sliding out from under the car. Suddenly I was out of control, crossing three lanes while spinning in a clockwise motion. One spin. Two spins. It … actually … felt … very … slow … like … this. I had time to think: I hope a truck doesn’t hit me. I’m going to be OK. I’m not going to die.

Then—SMASH!!!!!!!!!

The rear of the car slammed into the cement wall along the side of the road. I checked myself. Checked again. I was OK. I Was OK! Then I checked the car—ugh. Destroyed. Amazingly (and this still breaks my heart), nobody stopped to see if I was alright. Not. One. Person. Certainly, drivers witnessed what happened. But nobody stopped. Amazing.

I called 9-1-1, but as I was on the phone a state trooper showed up. He took my license and registration, cold rain pouring on our heads, the sound of cars swooshing by. He came back up to me. “Are you the Jeff Pearlman who wrote The Bad Guys Won!” he asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Great book,” he said. “Loved it.”

Now, I admit, this can’t help but sound self-indulgent, or whatever. But, until he said that, I was a mess. Sort of confused, wobbly, not 100 percent sure what happened or what I was supposed to do. But there was something grounding about his words. Not sure why.

Called my wife. Tow-truck arrived. Took a taxi home.

…

So there I was this morning, about to look at the car. My hands were glazed with sweat. Didn’t wanna see it. Had to see it. Didn’t wanna see it. Had to see it.

Saw it.

Brought along a big plastic bag. Took my son’s jigsaw puzzle, two maps, a jack, a tire gauge, two mix tapes the wife once made, a ton of CDs and a key chain.

I liked that car.

I love my life.

Last Friday I wrote this column for SI.com. It was a piece about Montana’s Bobby Hauck, a typical bully football coach who froze out the UM student newspaper when it ran stories he didn’t find especially flattering.

The reaction from Montana backers was pretty fierce. While some told me Hauck was, in their words, an ass, a thug, a jerk, a tool, most defended the man and his program—one which, within the past three years, has had 11 off-the-field incidents involving its players.

Anyhow, to Hauck’s credit (I guess), today he caved, finally allowing the student newspaper’s reporters to ask questions. He even opened his weekly press conference by noting: “There are some serious things in life and there are some things in life that are not serious. One of the things that is not serious is who is talking to whom … and the why of that. So I—because I can only speak for myself—will move forward from this date in a positive manner in terms of this press conference and the ones after our games.”

I’m glad Hauck changed his mind. It was clearly the right thing to do, and also a way to escape a very unflattering spotlight. But the whole aftermath to my column served as a reminder of how, eh, toolish college football fans generally are. For some odd reason, these people will overlook absolutely everything in the name of their team’s success. The letters I received indicated that, hey Hauck’s a winner; hey, the student newspaper overstepped a line and deserved its fate; hey, Hauck (who has a history of cursing out student reporters) is a gentleman on and off the field.

It’s weird, and sort of cult-like.

Go Griz!

I don’t believe in insisting athletes should retire. If a guy wants to hang around as long as humanly possible, collecting paychecks and perks along the way, who am I to argue? An end of an athletic career isn’t all that different to an end of life. You want the blood to keep pumping … the heart to keep ticking … the stir to keep stirring.

Nobody wants to go out.

Nobody.

That said, I hope Ken Griffey, Jr. retires.

This was not a good year for the Kid, who hit .214 with 19 home runs, 57 runs batted in and posted an on-base-plus-slugging percentage of .735. Yes, Seattle loves him, and his return home was a good thing for the city. But sometimes, like Uncle Biff, homecomings last too long. Slowly, you start hoping the guest leaves. He’s not cleaning off the plate. Or flushing the toilet. Or driving in runs.

The other day, Griffey had a bone spur removed from his left knee during arthroscopic surgery.

I’m hoping he just had knee trouble.

I’m thinking he’ll be back.

PS: On the Seattle Times website, an anonymous poster wrote: “Get your fat ass in shape or don’t come back… Your knees would be thankful if you could drop 20 lbs too.” Good God, why would anyone say such a thing? Is the man not human?

… Brendan Connolly, Princeton’s 6-foot-9 freshman center from Brentwood, Tennessee.

Back in 1994, I was hired by The Tennessean straight out of college. My first editor was Patrick Connolly, one of the nicest human beings to ever walk the planet. He and his wife Cindy had two little kids (a third, Griffin, was born later) who’d come in and waddle around the features section—Meghan, now a student at Loyola College in Chicago, and Brendan, who at the time was not even 3. (Holy s***—do I feel old …)

Anyhow, I don’t know how much playing time Brendan will get, but I can tell you this:

A. His father was an amazing human being with absolutely no athleticism, so his son becoming a Division I athlete is nothing short of a miracle.

B. His mother, Cindy, passed of breast cancer six years ago. She was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful woman, and her kids are a credit to who she was and what she believed in.

C. He’s a worthy dude to follow.

ESPN has suspended Bob Griese for a week because of an inane taco comment involving a Spanish-speaking NASAC driver named Juan-Pablo Montoya. Florida congressman Alan Grayson, a hero of this blog, is coming under fire for describing a particularly pathetic (female) lobbyist as a “K-Street Whore.”

And I am tired.

Griese made a stupid statement. No question. But is anyone at ESPN truly offended, or even slightly bothered by his words? Or are they merely concerned that so-and-so sponsor or so-and-so group will take offense and start a protest? The answer, sadly, is obvious. Again, Griese is sort of a moron. But on a 1-to-10 offensive scale, this rates about a three. Maybe a four.

As for Grayson, well, bravo. The woman he called a “whore” is Linda Robertson, an aide to Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke who has done her all to keep the economy in the hands of the rich. These days, “whore” isn’t necessarily a female-only slur. Why, just last week I called my cousin a whore. Not because he sleeps around (he doesn’t). Just because, well, it’s a handy adjective.

Point is, we all need to chill.