So here's my latest brain burp: a new hall of fame devoted to sports fans, those abused, disgusted but completely devoted loyalists who won't give up on their teams no matter what. There have to be about 10 of us left, so the time to move is now, before the number drops to just you and me.
I'd place the Fans Hall of Fame across from Staples Center. Any team or league could sponsor an exhibit, but the broadcasters would have a big presence too, greats like Red Barber, Bob Uecker and that kid Scully who shows so much promise.
I'd make it free. There'd be peanuts on the floor and a refreshment stand (tavern) with a wax figure of Harry Caray tending bar. On the jukebox, you could press a button and hear Bill Murray sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Or hear Chick Hearn go on and on about Jell-O.
Certainly, there'd be a Jack Nicholson wing. For Lakers fans, ol' blue eyes is our symbol, our spiritual leader, our Dalai Lama.
He is the best sixth man the NBA has ever seen, the oddest weapon in a very odd league. He should get an Oscar nod just for what he says to Ron Artest.
Nicholson doesn't return my calls, or those of any other scribe, though he'll talk to the obnoxious Jim Gray on occasion. That's a line I won't cross, the obnoxious one, though I've noticed more and more that it's the obnoxious among us who seem to thrive -- the Donald Trumps, the Paula Abduls, the real housewives of wherever county.
Remember the guy who won "Survivor," in part by disrobing, then later went to jail for tax evasion? There's the modern American dream at work.
Thank goodness for Nicholson, who mostly manages to keep his boxers on and whose very best work has always been on behalf of the scrappy little guy. Like Jordan Farmar, for example.
You want the truth? You couldn't handle the truth. But if we had our way, the Nicholson wing would be one of the most popular attractions in our Fans Hall of Fame.
Lord, we need a hall of fame now, as I hear more and more grumbling from fans. Once a way to escape life's crud, sports today seems to be a collection of the crud. The bad stuff spans from overwrought youth coaches to hopped-up superstars.
The new mantra: Just sin, baby.
Really, have you figured out yet how to explain Manny to your T-ball team? That's a conversation that involves cheating, banned drugs and female hormone levels. Sure, it's a "teachable moment," but if you can explain all this to a bunch of 6-year-olds, you deserve an Oscar.
Forget the whole steroids mess for one minute, and let's talk about the allegation against Alex Rodriguez in Selena Roberts' new book. According to Roberts, A-Rod used to tip off friends on opposing teams about what pitch they were about to get. How nice of him.
Baseball may be bulletproof, maybe not; we'll soon find out. I fired Commissioner Bud Selig the other day, but he keeps coming to work. If Selig were in politics, he'd have been impeached three times by now.
One friend -- I have two -- says that modern baseball fans suffer from something akin to abused wife syndrome, their deep sense of loyalty blinding them to their loved one's abhorrent behavior.
The other friend says that pro sports is losing the baby boomers.
So that makes the Fans Hall of Fame even more critical, a place to remind us why we cared in the first place.
I'd begin with a tribute to five-tool fans -- fans who can eat, eat with power, run to the restroom in under 40 seconds, throw and field.
Then there'd be a wing for the greats who gave their all to the game yet never threw a pitch: Jim Murray, Red Smith, Jason Schmidt.
There'd be a wing in honor of Steve Bartman (a living symbol of all that's gone wrong for fans) and displays for baseball's various curses: the billy goat, the Curse of the Bambino and whatever jinx/virus/voodoo afflicts the Clippers.
There could be a wing for the San Diego Chicken (no pun intended), and a wing in honor of Morganna (insert your punch line here).
Best of all, there'd be a great center hall devoted to upsets, comebacks, underdogs and assorted movie moments.
It would feature tributes to Thomson, Fisk, Gibby, Jordan and Billie Jean King. There'd be a Lou Gehrig Room, and a Cal Ripken Room.
In the Pixar Room you could play catch with a computer figurine of Joe DiMaggio.
You know, I get chills just thinking about that one. Hey, Joe, wanna see my curveball? Hey, Joe, wanna meet my kids?
Erskine also writes "Man of the House" for Saturday's Home section.