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Loath though I am to join this particular pile-on -- writing about Randy Moss is sports journalism's default, the equivalent of asking, "Is Mary-Kate too thin?" -- I cannot let Moss' words of Thursday go unobserved.

The exchange, on the subject of his $10,000 fine by the NFL, courtesy of KARE-TV in Minneapolis-St. Paul, captured outside the Vikings' practice facility, unalloyed in its brilliant contempt.

Reporter: "Write the check yet, Randy?"

Moss: "When you're rich, you don't write checks."

Reporter: "If you don't write checks, how do you pay these guys?"

Moss: "Straight cash, homey."

Reporter: "Randy, are you upset about the fine?"

Moss: "No, cause it ain't s---. Ain't nothing but 10 grand. What's 10 grand to me?"

Abler minds than mine already have dissected Moss' faux moon during last Sunday's win at Green Bay, but the above exchange has caused still more vitriol to be hurled in his direction. (My favorite critique: Mark Schlereth's, on SportsCenter, which included the assertion that "An idiot is going to say exactly what an idiot is going to say." In my younger, more affected days, I would have called this a tautology.)

Yet for some reason, Moss's attitude here really appeals to me. Perhaps it is monetary affinity. Though not rich, I empathize with his policy against writing checks. When I bought coffee at Dunkin' Donuts this morning, I paid the $1.79 bill with -- you guessed it -- straight cash, homey, two big bills peeled off my gangsta roll. Like Jadakiss says, you know why they made the new $20s --'cause I got all the old ones.

I'm not breaking any argumentative ground when I suggest that the NFL's action against Moss, and the hand-wringing that has attended him all week, is completely disingenuous: the league thrives on this discipline-and-punish pas de deux, the increasingly juvenile behavior of its players met with public contempt and private glee.

Like the NBA, the NFL is evolving into a personality-driven business, and scandal, whether actual (Kobe Bryant's) or ersatz (Moss') has become a shorthand for identity; controversy, even when wholly prefabricated by Manhattan television executives, supplants news.

This is why I love Moss' response: it banishes to triviality the league's position, underscores that what we're watching is farce, and crude farce at that. And really, what is 10 grand to Moss? Does anybody doubt that this boost in his public profile translates, materially, into at least 20 times what he was fined?

Almost a relapse

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Regular readers of this blog (Hi, Grandma. No, they can't make my hair look shorter in the mug shot.) will recall that I've sworn off sports for the winter, and my closest moment to a relapse came Christmas Day, at Grandma's apartment, as the motley Habib-Kassar clan plowed through my mother's ham and my uncle's couscous.

This was, of course, the Lakers-Heat throwdown, and a small part of me -- the vestigial fan, the trace of the guy who watched three seasons of Knicks games at a Pizzeria Uno's, because he didn't have cable -- was interested. But my cousin Chris, ever vigilant, kept me on the wagon.

A painful moment came when, with my back to the TV set, I heard a half-dozen whoops as Shaq rejected Kobe in the game's opening minutes. This was the glowing, amber mug with a finger of foam set down before the 12-stepper, and almost prompted me to wheel around for the replay. Chris reminded me that I'd be sorry if I did, and so I gritted my teeth and chewed some more ham. An unsatisfying asceticism. The binge is coming soon.

Talkin' Tilt

Tilt premiered last night on ESPN. Not so good. And I'm the ideal viewer, too. Two lines of dialogue that should tell you all you need to know:

(By the generic, moon-faced blonde in the track suit): "I was 2,000 to the good and I was fixin' to go on a run before he came whistlin' over." OK, you've read Super/System and grasp that the genius of Brunson's style is his cowboy pidgin, but this Wild West caricature isn't selling.

(By the tough-looking black guy, in a room full of other tough-looking black guys): "No string bets here, bitch." How do I know he's so tough? Because he said "bitch." That's somebody you don't want to fool with, because he's liable to call you one, too.