Great coach (900 wins), but here’s another case where it’s OK to speak ill of the dead, as some obits did. He was best summed up by a sportswriter who said he “was not just an asshole, but the asshole’s asshole.”

As former Michigan State coach Jud Heathcote said of Knight, “Bob is a self-made man. This relieves God of a tremendous responsibility. With his intelligence and charisma, Bob could have been anyone he wanted to be. Why he chose himself, that’s a great mystery.”

There are many great Bobby Knight stories, but I think my favorite is when he was ejected from a Pan-Am game by throwing a tantrum over some call while his team was ahead by 35 points. The crowd was chanting “Loco. Loco.” Before that tournament was over he had been arrested for assaulting a police officer. (He was eventually convicted, but was spared jail time.) You’ve heard of “The Ugly American”? Bobby was the template.

Damn, I love fashion! It’s such a great pretext to get women naked. I think I’m going to buy a long scarf and a crooked white hat and start telling hot chicks I’m a designer.

If that fails, I’ll ditch the scarf and tell them I’m an indie producer and I need naked chicks for my next Sundance entry.

Either that or I’ll tell them I’m Leon Redbone. No hot chick would know he’s dead.

Wait a sec. No hot chick would know he was ever alive in the first place.

OK, back to my original plan of telling them I’m an artist specializing in nude paintings. I hope they never ask to see the finished works.


Time for one of my digressions.

I was in a club in Denmark about 35 years ago when one of the Danish girls asked me to come back to her place so she could paint me. Thinking I was pretty easy on the eyes, I had visions of my image hanging in an important museum, surrounded by admiring onlookers with their cameras.

Some time later, I was dancing with her girlfriend and asked whether I would be working with a great painter.

The answer was, “Oh, yes, she has painted some of the best barns in Denmark.”

And thus my conceited illusions dissipated. Instead of reclining on a divan while she created an image of me that would soon hang next to Manet’s Olympia on the wall of the Musée d’Orsay, I would actually be standing still while she sprayed me with dark red paint from a Wagner Power Painter.

Or maybe she intended to paint images ON me, like the urban street artists do with train cars. Or maybe she was going to lock me in her basement and go total Jigsaw. I don’t know. I never did find out exactly what she had in mind because I ultimately declined the invitation. That tiny blonde woman was as sexy as can be, but she scared the crap out of me, and as you may know if you have read my novel, I am a total coward.

Nah, I’m just fuckin’ witcha, but that would have been a boss move because Alba was dressed as Britney. I’m not at all sure what Britney is supposed to be, and she seems to think it was Christmas, not Halloween.

But … pokies.

I’m OK with any holiday she wants to celebrate. If she is interested, I’ll even try to get her interested in Salieri Day or Giant Pink Japanese Penis Day.

Just as long as she doesn’t drive to the party.