Yes, I really do read the articles

My parents dropped in for a visit last weekend, which means two things. First, my laundry got done. Second, I spent a considerable bit of time escorting them around so they could snag bits of Princeton memorabilia (i.e. official Quad pens and paper napkins with the Princeton shield on them). It might sound boring to you, but to my parents, these are important life lessons.

My parents were looking for an excuse for just such an excursion on the way back from brunch when we came up on Frist, and they forcefully suggested that I check my mailbox. That was really just a cover for my dad to sneak into Café Viv to steal some sugar packets with the Princeton Tiger emblazoned on them.

My mom accompanied me to my mailbox where, lo and behold, I had two issues of Sports Illustrated waiting for me.

"Yippee!" one might say.

I didn't.

One of them had a shimmering LeBron James standing, hands on hips, alone on the cover with the words "Best Ever?" typed suggestively over his bottom half, while a quote from José Canseco's mega book deal teased me from the top of the cover.

Sweet! That's half a yippee, for the layman.

The other issue was almost three times as thick — 222 pages to 82; I checked. It was this year's SI swimsuit issue, and it had Carolyn Murphy on the cover with a bikini draped suggestively over her top half, while a woman with nothing but Zach Thomas' jersey painted on teased me from the top of the cover. Let me make it clear: I was in no way disappointed by receiving a magazine full of mostly naked women without having to make up an alias. But,I was still a little more amped by the prospect of reading about Bron-Bron than by looking at pictures of painted cancans.

My mom didn't exactly shout "Yippee!" either, but she seemed a lot more into it than I was.

She jumped on that issue like Fossilman jumps on a pile of doughnuts. While I was checking out what Rick Reilly had to say about Julio Franco in the Bron-Bron issue, she was tsk-tsking the babes inside the 222-pager, with occasional breaks to glare at me as if I had neglected one of her life lessons by allowing such an issue to breach my mailbox. Hey, I wasn't the one who wanted to check the mail.

Soon enough, though, my dad returned with the precious sugar packets. As we walked away, my mom made sure I put the swimsuit issue underneath Bron-Bron, lest I ogle Murphy instead of talking to them. I suppose they thought I wouldn't learn any important life lessons from the SI swimsuit issue.

No sooner had my parents left than my girlfriend came over and felt the apparently enormous gravitational pull of the swimsuit issue. She was sucked over to my coffee table — where I had left it, unopened — like it was a black hole with diamonds inside.

Get the best of the ‘Prince’ delivered straight to your inbox. Subscribe now »

She flipped through it, just as engrossed as my mother, stopping only for the occasional dirty look and snide remark at me for even having it.

She didn't understand why it even existed. What do swimsuits have to do with sports?

The answer, of course, is nothing. That's why I cared more about LeBron in his own jersey than seeing Bridget Hall in nothing but a literally painted-on Eddie George jersey (p. 80, for anyone who's wondering). That's not to say I don't enjoy checking out the models. Painted-on clothes are pretty awesome.

Back to my paint, er, point. Here's how I see the swimsuit issue: a fun diversion for a couple of minutes once a year, but essentially something that gets in the way of the real issue that comes with it. Plus, it gets me in trouble without the fun of doing something worth getting in trouble for. If I have to get in trouble, I'd at least like to get something out of it — say, a book deal, like José Canseco. Now there's a life lesson worth learning. Thank goodness for that 82-pager.