A few minutes ago I was walking through my house when I looked at a picture I never actually look at. It’s a photograph of Julia Herz, my great grandmother, who died in 1968 and—as a German immigrant to this country—probably spoke about 20 words of English.

I scanned her photo and posted it above, not because I felt a strong desire to tell her story (she helped raise my mother, and was supposedly a very kind woman), but because I just think there’s something crazy (in a Lil Wayne-sitting-next-to-Celine Dion-at-an-award-show sort of way) about posting a photograph of Julia Herz above a blog post featuring Miley Cyrus’ new video …

Though this is a tad embarrassing to admit, one of my favorite songs right now is Miley Cyrus’ Party In The USA. Great beat, great vocals, fun to run to.

Yet while listening to it today, I was thinking of the great irony. In the song, Cyrus sings about flying with a bunch of friends to Los Angeles, where she parties and has a gay ol’ time. The video follows suit—Miley dancing away with friends, waving to guys, etc. Fun, fun, fun, party, party, party.

Sadly, in real life there’s no way Miley Cyrus could enjoy herself in such a way. A. The scumbag papparazi would surely follow her limo from the airport to the hotel to the clubs. B. Every person with a camera/video phone would be following her around like dogs after gravy. I actually witnessed a similar phenomenon last month at the Pro Basketball Hall of Fame induction weekend, when a bunch of idiot fans literally trailed Jordan with their phones up in the air.

The No. 1 reason, however, that Miley Cyrus can’t live the song is that, as a teenage celebrity, she almost certainly has no life. She doesn’t attend high school, so the friends she’s paling with in the video certainly don’t exist. Her life, literally, is this: Tonight—Memphis. Tomorrow—Nashville. Wednesday—St. Louis. Thursday—Chicago. Friday—Milwaukee. In between there’ll be meetings with this handler and that handler; lunch with a rep of this potential TV show … that cinematic guy … so on and so on. I’ve seen celebrity up close, and it is waaaaaaaaaaaaay overrated.

I’m sure there are million of girls wishing they were Miley Cyrus.

And I’m equally sure that, at times, Miley Cyrus wishes she were anyone else.

PS: Can you imagine having to put up with s*** like this?

PPS: I’ve been to many parties in L.A. Factually speaking, if a woman walked in wearing cowboy boots absolutely nobody would care. They probably wouldn’t even notice.

When I was a kid, there was no better NFL player than Earl Campbell.

The Tyler Rose was an absolute beast, and if you know not whereof I speak, I strongly encourage you to check out this video. When the Houston Oilers were rolling, coach Bum Phillips would hand the ball to Campbell 25-to-40 times per game and just smile as he run over defenders and chugged his way into the end zone. Again, Campbell was fantastic.

That said, today Earl Campbell often uses a wheelchair to get around. Thanks to the pounding that is NFL life, Campbell has developed severe arthritis in his knees and has debilitating back pain. He attributes his back pain to a congenital back condition aggravated by his football career. At one point he had surgery to remove three large bone spurs.

I recently mentioned Campbell’s plight to one of his former teammates; asked him whether he thought eight years of NFL glory is worth a lifetime of pain. His response: “Absolutely.”

Personally, I think that’s insane. I loved my four years at the University of Delaware. Loved them. However, were you to give me the choice of Delaware vs. Knees, I take my knees every single time. I think most people do, too.

Either way, I feel terrible for Campbell.

I was thinking today how, when many athletes do something on the field or court, they point toward the heavens, thanking God or giving credit to a dead relative or just lovin’ good ol’ Jesus Christ.

And yet, though it is meant to be a symbol of humility, it’s actually quite arrogant—because it attempts to place a significance upon athletic achievements don’t doesn’t exist.

Imagine, for example, if every time I wrote a lead I pointed to the sky. Or if, whenever the woman at Cosi makes a particularly tasty Hummus-and-tomato sandwich, she crosses herself. What if the mailman drops to his knees every single time he delivers a letter? Or an accountant dances on sanctimonious joy when the numbers add up?

I’m not saying anything is wrong with believing. What I’m saying is that the act of religious thankfulness during a sporting event is, without question, a show—not reality. It’s says, in a literal translation, Thank God, but in truth it’s saying, “Thank God … I’m so amazing.”

And I’d also like to thank my agent …

In response to my last post on the car accident, a reader wrote, “accept the fact : a high power does exist!”

For the record, despite some of my anti-organized religion posts, I’m certainly not against faith … belief … etc. It’s a viable way of thinking, and I’d lie to say I never internally debate the merits of some sort of God.

That said, I’m sort of baffled by the religious reaction many people have to the survival of a car accident; that God’s hand had to have contributed to my existence.

To begin with, why would God have my car totaled? Why would he have me spinning on the New Jersey Turnpike? I know … I know—some would argue it’s a test of my faith, or his way of showing me he exists. But, if you think about it, that’s a pretty odd way. Why not just knock on my door? Write a letter? A fruit basket with a brief note—I’M HERE. LOVE, GOD.

Also, what about all those people who die in car accidents? God spares Jeff Pearlman but kills Mike Muuss? And Thomas Dillon? And Anthony Depula? And countless others? It makes no sense—strikes me as completely random, not proof that someone is looking out for me. Hell, nobody was looking out for Ann Goldstein, my great aunt who died at age 8.

Anyhow, just a thought.

Last night, while driving home from Newark Airport, my car crossed three lanes, spun around once or twice and slammed into a concrete barrier.

The car was totaled

I walked away unscathed.

I hate cliche—but here’s cliche. I sit here, in front of my computer, counting my blessings, holding my kids extra tight, looking at my wife with unparalleled love and appreciation, smelling the occasionally foul, oft-beautiful scent that is life.

This was the closest I’ve ever come to death, and it scared me. The old line is right—everything moves in extreme slow motion when you’re involved in something like this. As I sat spinning, wondering whether an 18-wheeler was about to end me, I heard a momentary voice say, “You’ll be OK.” I don’t think it was God or Jesus or Berenyi. I think it was me, knowing/believing/hoping that somehow it wasn’t my time.

Man.

One of the funniest, most original hip-hop songs I’ve heard in a long time …

First, to end the suspense: Steve Phillips is done.

Done in baseball.

Done in TV.

Done selling products for Amway.

Done babysitting my kids.

Done.

The ex-New York Mets GM and current (well, former) ESPN baseball analyst has, once again, inserted his penis in the slot where his brain is supposed to make deposits. In case you haven’t heard (and, by this point, who the hell hasn’t?), Phillips—a married father—was having an affair with a 22-year-old ESPN employee … who happens to be insane.

I have never cheated on my wife, and never will. However, if I accidentally break that vow and enter the dark world of infidelity, it would only be with a farm animal, because farm animals don’t talk, write letters or drive their cars into structures. Fortunately, I am not attracted to farm animals (emus, on the other hand …).

Unfortunately for Steve Phillips, he failed to follow my blueprint. His affair was with Brooke Hundley, who not only bears a striking resemblance to the late, great Sam Kinison, but believes the best way to enhance an affair’s excitement is to, egad, write a letter to the man’s wife, chat with his son on Facebook and drive her car into his house.

Of all the moves, my favorite is her letter, which includes this passage:

“I care about Steve a lot and I’ve been asking him to come clean to you about everything, from when we first slept together in St. Louis in his hotel suite (where he assured me I wouldn’t have to worry about getting pregnant since his vasectomy) to the fact that we have continued to talk, see each other and schedule meet-ups even since you found out.”

To Phillips’ credit, it sounds as if he didn’t get Brooke pregnant.

On the down side, well, his life left and his career is ruined.

Bummer.

I’m sitting here in the Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans, killing a few hours before my flight.

There was one seat available here in the little coffee shop by Concourse D. I took it. Now, I need to leave.

The man sitting next to me, roughly 35 in age, with a black cap and jeans, keeps snorting. Snorting snot.

He’ll be typing … typing … typing …

SNNNNOOOORRRRRT!!!!!

Typing … typing … typing …

SNNNNNOOOOOORRRTTTT!!!!

There are sounds I very much enjoy. Birds chirping. Waves crashing. A James Ingram solo. The echo of this man’s mucus residue, resonating through his throat, doubtlessly projecting small, microscopic snot particles my way?

Not so much.

•

On another note, Isiah Thomas is hurt. Magic Johnson says in a new book that he helped keep Thomas off the ‘92 Dream Team; that nobody wanted him and the league hated him and, more or less, he was a twerp. “I wish he would have called me,” Thomas said. “I always believed that our friendship was good and close enough that we wouldn’t have to talk about this stuff in such a public venue.”

As a human being, I despise Zeke, the man who killed the CBA, killed the Pacers, killed the Knicks, clashed with the media, etc. He is, by all accounts, a pretty bad guy; one I have little interest in. But, as a writer, I’m fascinated. Generally, the jerko**s of sports tend to hide their jerko**itude by signing a few autographs; smiling for the camera; shaking hands and kissing babies. Thomas actually did all of those things, and he’s still loathed.

That, my friends, takes talent.

This, from Andrew Sullivan’s excellent site:

One would think interracial marriage would be a non-issue for a US senator in 2009. Amanda Terkel suggests otherwise:

Although both Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal (R) and Sen. Mary Landrieu (D) have publicly condemned Justice of the Peace Keith Bardwell for refusing to issue marriage licenses to interracial couples, Sen. David Vitter (R) has stayed noticeably silent. (ThinkProgress contacted his office, but we did not receive a response.) Blogger-activist Mike Stark caught up with Vitter and asked him about his position. “Have you commented? What did you have to say about it?” asked Stark. Vitter simply smiled, stepped into the elevator, and allowed the doors to close.