1. Friday, October 4, 2002

    something suddenly came up and not only could i not go to the art opening 

    but i also missed out on the peaches + they will know us by the trail of the deal + queens of the stone age triple bill and i’ll also miss hanging out with meesh and simone at the standard with its upside down sign.

    this hardly ever happens to me. especially in the month of libra. the month of love, fairness, and beautiful magic.

    speaking of … how about those angels?

    welch asked me to do a photo essay about his team and i could and i would use a bunch of lyman bostock and rod carew and bobby grich pictures, not forgetting my man bobby bonds, but the angels dont need it and my carpal is cilling me.

    a pretty sexy girl said that if i get the gig that im gonna try to grab next week she’ll find out where i live and do the christina aguilera dance for me.

    i told her that i didnt know if i could handle that.

    im just a man.

    and here i am writing you super deep undercover fighting the good fight thinking about how the rocket fizzled in new york how petitte and now mussina were tamed and how the angels are going to knock out the boys from the bronx in less than twenty four hours.

    some people are soulmates. some team own others. the angels own the yankees. i wouldnta believed it till i seen it, but look at them, they couldnt care less about these big name arms, or even jeff weaver or el duque. theyre not intimidated by giambi or jeter. these angels actually seem inspired by the crazy rally monkeys and never say die.

    totally inspiring.

    made me pick up the phone and propose a good dozen times to my exgirlfriend chris.

    “you know we’re meant for each other, baby.”

    no, no we’re not.

    “just you and me, baby. let me ruin your life till death do we part.”

    no thank you. but thank you.

    shes got a nasty flu. had to cancel her trip to frisco where she was gonna be in a wedding.

    “why dont you call your boyfriend to bring you over some oj and some soup?”

    who?

    “bro.”

    oh him, he’s just a booty call boy. you cant ask your booty call to help you when youre sick. thats what a boyfriend does. she laughed, but it was interrupted by a cough. but she finished it off with a “silly.”

    then she explained that booty calls also dont help you move, they dont go to formal events with you, and they also dont stroll the aisles of target along side you.

    i really do love that girl.

    she asked me if the pitchers ever get “in trouble” with the manager after he takes them out of the game.

    i told her that i wanted to get her in trouble.

    she denied me for the twentieth time in the phone call and i finally let her go.

    no movement in the stakeout target.

    it was going to be a long long friday night.