As I type the following I’m watching the Blazers/Heat tilt on ESPN, and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you there are more people in this living room than have attended the game in person. But to change the subject, almost as disturbing as Joe Jackson shilling for Taco Bell is the imagery conjured by the New York Post’s Peter Vecsey, who seems to have gulped down a big glass of Mushnick Juice for breakfast. Uninterested in LeBron James’ small measure of redemption against San Antonio last night, Poison Pete is particularly enraged by James’ recent traffic violation.

I’ve got to believe James has more than heard of Bobby Phills. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t always in trouble and wasn’t a kid when he died Jan. 12, 2000, racing recklessly following a Charlotte Hornets home practice. He had turned 31 on Dec. 20, 1999.

Phills was a great athlete and flaunted superior reflexes. He was well respected in the community, his parents were sophisticated educators, he was a devoted husband with two young children, he never had his name on a police blotter, but he was driving like a loon.

A mistake? Sure. Only that time. I doubt that makes Phills’ widow and kids feel any better. No do-overs.

Is it irony or coincidence Phills played six seasons for the Cavs? Or that the other party in his drag race, David Wesley, was a teammate of James’ last year?

Not that it figures to have any effect, but someone who loves James enough not to care about incurring his wrath needs to find pictures of the crash, complete with close-ups of Phills’ mangled limbs, body and face when pried out of his fancy sports car, and make James take a long look.