1. Monday, March 4, 2002

    went to the Lakers game last night 

    from these tickets we got in this bust and they were pretty damn good seats.

    i went with this guy who ive been partnered up with for a while. the Lakers, even without Kobe, who was suspended for bitch-slapping Reggie Miller, were so dominating that Houston was never really in the game. the Lakers will win it all again, mark my words.

    so me and my bro talked about work, something i really dont like doing. i fessed up and told him that i hoped to leave the xbi by the end of the month and he seemed sorta shocked.

    “you’re the best guy we have. youre the best one ive ever seen out there,” he said.

    “it’s easy to be the best around you animals, all you ever do is shoot people.” i said.

    “but… they’re crooks.”

    it’s true, too. the people that get shot are some of the baddest people on the street. but most of us arent much better. the cops are sorta appreciative because they just cant run around and knock off these guys, and it’s not like the gangs help out any more. but it haunts me at night. i want to go to Heaven. i dont want St. Peter to say, “we gave you these superpowers and you used them to finance your love of travel, beautiful women, and courtside Laker tickets. follow the Bush’s down to Hell.”

    (although if Peter gives me any shit, I’ll say, “you dissed Jesus three times before the cock crowed, mother f’er,” to which i’m sure he’ll answer with a quick pull of the lever connected to the trap door.)

    and my partner said, “what will you do?”

    i said, “i really want to write for a living, and i think i might have a very slim chance to get a gig doing it.”

    and he said, “you could definately do that.”

    and i said, “i’m not so sure, i dont have any clips.”

    he said, “what about your site?”

    and i drank a sip of the $11 domestic beer and said, “my site– sheesh, that thing is full of landmines. they could take something so fictional and think it’s real, or something so stupid and think that im a pervert or a drug fiend or a kiler or anything. i’ve never heard of anyone getting a legitimate writing job off of their fictionalized bs website of lies.”

    he said, “Drudge has a radio show every Sunday.”

    and i turned to him and said, “there is nothing about that man or his career that i want to pattern myself after. All that guy does is link to AOL news and the Washington Post and he tells us nothing. The only thing he ever did was make himself the bathroom wall for the Republicans to scribble on when people pretended to hate Clinton. he’s not interested in news. he’s not interested in being a journalist. at least hacks write. he doesnt even write.

    and check this out, the Laker girl who was sitting on the court beneath us turned around and said, “Instapundit kicks Drudge’s ass,” and the Laker girl next to her agreed, but the best was when this guy with a yellow afro wig next to my partner asked, “who’s Drudge?”