My name is Jeff Pearlman. I am an author. Two of my books have made the New York Times best-seller’s list. Surely, my life must be soooooooooooo exciting. What’s it like in the Yankee clubhouse? Do you think Tony Romo can come back and lead Dallas to the playoffs? What’s it like writing about sports? Being given a front-row seat to history in the making?
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
It’s 1:13 am. In six hours I’ll be waking up with my kids. As I write this, I am sitting in the New Rochelle McDonald’s, sipping a hot chocolate while trying to wrap up the second chapter of my latest book. Thing is due really, really soon, and I’m buggin’.
Anyhow, acknowledging that I’m not a celebrity, I always feel this way about celebrity. We all think Madonna, Travis McCoy, Oprah, Derek Jeter, Kanye West, Barack Obama must lead this amazing, dazzling, dreamy lives packed with action and adventure. Yet, come day’s end, there’s only so much action and adventure readily available. Humans are staggeringly limited in what we can do. How many more parties does Lindsay Lohan have to attend before she realizes it’s all inane? How many more ‘Improve Your Life In Six Steps’ episodes can Oprah host before he head, literally, falls off her neck and explodes? We all poop, we all sleep, we all die.
Clearly, I’m exhausted.
