1. Friday, January 18, 2002

    (1:30pm) hot-headed New England linebacker Bryan Cox 

    (fomer Bear) emailed me while I was at lunch with lines like “fool you better recognize game…” and all that stuff that thick fingered-asassins like Cox are apt to type. He even tried to get personal by suggesting that my old pal Ken Layne recently disrespected me by not mentioning me in his blog today when he talked about all of his supercool friends who write.

    “Brotha gave props to Axel, and everybody know Axel just a guitar player. Where’s the brothas on the wall?! I wanna see some brothas on the walls of Sal’s Famous!” wrote the ever-inflamed Cox.

    I responded with a hearty Whatever and flooded his mailbox with pictures of Jerry Rice’s rings and Tim Brown’s receiving records. I told him he better prepare for Tyrone Wheatley’s helmet being repeatedly slammed into Cox’s chest and becoming familiar with the back of Rich Gannon’s cleats.

    I know my friends love me and it’s hard to link to a guy who puts huge pictures of barely legal girls on the splash pages and floundering stars in his blog. It’s not the trendiest column, it’s not the prettiest, it doesnt talk about Cheeny and Ari and all those other liars and thieves and ne’er-do-wells. I dont link lots of people or articles or newpapers and from that I dont get lots of links back in return. Still, some bear with me, as they should, as they better.

    And my good pals like Ken and Matt and Amy and Ben do me the biggest stoke of all, they read and they dont make too much fun.

    Still, I’m jealous as hell that Matt and Ken have taken this 9/11 thing and perfectly surfed the wave into huge success. They have made it so that no serious warblog can not link to them or comment on their comments and they have accumulated much respect and many many readers. All deservedly so.

    You’d think two handsome young men with such a masterful way with words and real ideas about politics and international affairs could find themselves on the boob tube more than a lot of these old wanks that we’ve grown tired of, but I’m sure that day will come soon, too.

    In the meantime I’m just planning on waiting in the wings, typing on here during my 15 minute breaks, cursing the public transportation here in the city of Angels, and wondering how long Layne’s mail will pile up in my hollywood cabana until I call him over to pick it up.

    Some of this is from the summer!

    Come watch the Raiders with us, Ken. Bring Laura. Chris will be there. Jeanine may drop by too.