1. Saturday, July 19, 2003

    im trying to watch death to smoochy 

    which im loving, and the phone rings, just like it rings every day, all the time.

    every fucking day, mother fucker says the voice on the other end of the line.

    clipper girls cousin

    all class

    who has taken to complimenting me at every chance she can in hopes that i will start paying attention to her instead of her cousin or any of the throngs of young ladies who throw themselves at me every waking moment of my so called life.

    every day you rock that blog and last week you did it better than ever she says

    and i hang up

    cuz who can believe a desperate girl who is finding that you cant go back after youve gone light skinned

    but we’ll always have palm springs she text pages me

    and people are asking me why im not talking about kobe.

    and you know the rule here, i dont talk about black folk who are cast in negative light

    unless i can say something good, something thought provoking, something to make them seem better than they are.

    so, how about them dodgers.

    rickey henderson, huh.

    fourty four years old and hitting home runs.

    Moneyball teaches us that the best way to watch baseball might be to not watch it too carefully, or too often. but the year that i worked for the giants, rickey was playing for the padres, and on one particularilly swirling windy fucked day at the Stick i saw rickey drop three fly balls to left and i sadly concluded that his career didnt have many seasons left.

    well, the good news is, im often wrong, as that was six seasons ago.

    so welcome back to cali, rickey.

    thanks for giving us someone watchable at chavez ravine!

    unsubscibe + bluecad + howard owens