There's a move afoot to name the names of the two journalists -- one a newspaper reporter, one a photographer -- and publicly shame them for their idiocy. On the surface it seems like a good idea, but just below the surface, it's a horrible, career-wrecking one. I'm just fine with these guys staying anonymous.

Well, let me rephrase that. I'm fine with these guys staying anonymous under certain conditions. Why? Because I was once in their shoes. I had no formal journalism training -- shocking, I know -- and everything I learned was from observing and, to some extent, guessing about protocol. I was never taken into a locker room and taught, "This is how you behave; this is when you talk and don't talk; this is how you approach a surly superstar; this is what you do and don't do." I just got handed my first press pass, wandered in, and figured it out as I went along.

Which led to this colossal idiocy: early on in my career, while covering a Penny Hardaway charity basketball event, I decided to start getting autographs from the players in attendance. Nobody had ever told me NOT to, I was an insane NBA freak at the time, and there was no NO AUTOGRAPHS message on my press pass (as there is now on every one, bolded and outlined). So I wandered from Nick Anderson to Dennis Scott to Nick Van Exel to Jimmy King, getting all of them to sign for me. Then I went up to Penny himself and asked him for an autograph. He looked at me like I'd just thrown up on his Nikes and said, "Not for media."

It was the first refusal of the night, and it was the last time I asked a ballplayer for an autograph. Because with a moment's reflection, I realized how monumentally stupid I'd been in asking, what a line I'd crossed. And if Twitter had been around then -- hell, if the Internet had been around then -- and if some douchey blogger had wanted to rat me out, I'd have been screwed.

On the Internet, your fuckups last forever. If the poor dumb bastards who asked Tebow for his autograph are a couple of early-twenties kids who don't know any better, this is going to torpedo their chances of getting a job in sports media for all time. Deadspin's going to plaster these guys' names, mock them for a day or so, and be done with them -- but that story will be out there forever for anyone to search on. And that's a stiff price to pay for a little hero worship.

Now, the other side of this is if the guys asking for the autograph were longtime news vets. In that case, I say throw open the curtains and let the light shine in. I'm with Farrar on this one; for as much crap as bloggers take for being unprofessional (and for not having access), this shows that not everybody with access is a cool, confident pro. Newspaper credentials don't automatically grant you a higher degree of professionalism than the stereotypical dude-in-his-mom's-basement. (Speaking of which--Ma! Can you bring me some cookies?)

Still, bottom line, let's not draw and quarter these guys. We can all make mistakes, large and small. We're all human.

Well, except Tebow. But you knew that already.

Photo courtesy of ChopTalk, a mag for which I now write, and a magazine to which all Braves fans should subscribe. Great stuff. Good times, good times.

Considering how badly Beijing kicked our collective aesthetic into the dirt with their 2008 Opening Ceremonies, I'm both enthused and a wee bit terrified. In honor of Chinese Office Day, I present the best sixteen seconds of the American version -- Dwight's blunt but effective method of CPR:

AND THE GOOGLE VAN DIDN'T EVEN STOP?!! WE ARE LIVING IN A COLD AND HEARTLESS AGE!!! THESE ARE THE END TI--

... wait, what? She faked the whole thing? Turns out little Azura Beebeejaun -- no, she's not a Star Wars character; that's her name -- was just playing with her friends, and had no idea that a Google Maps van was close by. "I’m quite chuffed I’m on the internet," she said. "It is quite funny and I can’t wait to tell my classmates when I go back to school."

"Chuffed" is just such a delightful word. And that right there is an awesome little prank.

(Via Gawker.)

That right there, friends, is the fried cheese grilled cheese sandwich. Now, look, I'm all in favor of fried cheese, and I'm usually in favor of a decent grilled cheese sammich, but this -- this is an abomination. Here, check the description from Gawker:

For a bargain-basement price of $4, Fried Cheese Melt consumers will receive "four fried mozzarella sticks and melted American cheese grilled between two slices of sourdough bread. It is served with French fries and a side of marinara sauce." To be clear: Your breaded fried cheese will now be smothered in more cheese, sandwiched in more bread, and fried again.

Frying fried cheese? We are through the gastronomic looking glass, people. This is a horror show. And this from a guy who's about to drink a Budweiser-Red Bull combination just to prove it can be done.

The daughter and I atop a hill in Sedona, Arizona, part of our monstrous series of vacation photos. Best caption wins a hearty handshake.

I sincerely hope I don't need to tell you what game that's based on. Other posters include Tron, Donkey Kong and Dig Dug. Lovely work by Think Geek, via io9.

On Tuesday, The Big Lead and its creator, Jason McIntyre, closed a deal to get itself bought for a million-dollar sum.

One million-plus bucks. For a freakin' sports blogger. This is huge, friends. HUGE.

In one move, sports blogs instantly and forevermore became legitimized. Not that we in the blogosphere weren't legitimized before -- cashing a paycheck for blogging tends to legitimize you, as do getting media access, nominations for awards and interviews on other media. But for the great mass of readers/consumers, who, when they think of bloggers at all, go with the kneejerk "geeks in their mom's basement" cliche, a check with a whole lot of zeroes in it gets their attention.

Now, you can quibble with McIntyre's motives; he apparently went into this whole blogging gig in the first place with the idea of selling out eventually. And you can quibble with his methodology; he's very much of the boobs-and-video school of blogging. His site may lack, say, the earnest wit of Leitch-era Deadspin or the nihilistic snark of Daulerio-era Deadspin -- the blog to which TBL is most often compared -- but man, you simply cannot argue with the fact that McIntyre came up with an idea, defined it, implemented it, followed through on it, and finally sold it for a million freaking dollars. That, friends, is impressive in any regard.

Am I jealous? Hell yeah, I'm jealous. Who wouldn't like a million bucks for their work? But I'm not, like, "the world is unfair!" jealous, because it's not like McIntyre didn't earn this. Whether you like it or not, the site touches a nerve and resonates with a significant segment of the sports-fan public. The New York Times estimated TBL's monthly readers at 3 million, which is ... nice. (I'm bound by Y! confidentiality agreements from saying more.) But clearly, anybody that can go from zero to three mil is doing something right somewhere.

So, congratulations to McIntyre. And congratulations to all of us in the sports blogosphere. This is a win for all of us. (Some more than others, of course.) Next time some old-school MSM'er starts complaining about these good-for-nothin' bloggers that serve no purpose in the sports world, point 'em to the TBL story. On second thought, don't. Those guys' lives are depressing enough already.

Drinks are on you in Chicago, McIntyre.

And here's the thing -- if she's good enough to miss 'em by that close, she's good enough to hit 'em if she so desires, too. Better come in from playing when Mommy tells you to, kiddies, or it's a Bowie knife to the thigh for you!

(Hat tip: @OpieRadio and Free Range Kids)

Yep, that's my new ride. Jealous?

(Thanks to Marbles reader Brian Hay for the creation.)