i'm going to miss art shell

i'll miss art shell and that stoic gaze toward the horizon. think back to that game against baltimore when aaron brooks fumbled two snaps out of the gate, muffing it and giving the ball over to the ravens. remember shell on the sidelines?

Ahh, there it is: that piercing stare, through mount davis and the bart station, past east alameda. tell me, art, what where you thinking? about the lasagna cassarole after the game? about brady quinn or jamarcus russell? (for the record, the raiders better draft the latter--motherfuckerz a g.) ah, poor art shell.

in other sports news, the kings blew the biggest game of the season thus far last night, and it wasn't coach musselman's fault. nope. there were a few blown assignments on d at the end of the game (bibby), a few unwise corner threes (garcia), some missed free throws (bibby, martin) and corliss couldn't finish all night long--finish asshole!

Up by four with six seconds left. OK, guys, now let's blow this sucker.

but the most fucked up part of the evening was when this dude, who I shall refer to as monsieur target, called. i'm moving, so i was packing up my house when my portable rings and this dude calls, target, who i haven't heard from since september. he's a nut. anyway, he's like "hey man, you still live on 48th street" and i'm like "yeah, sure, why." "well, cos i'm right outside your front door."

WTF?!

A little bit of background: this guys insane. he calls my brother about twice a year and shows up at his house uninvited in sf. he has no ladies skills to speak of whatsoever. he's crude. he's crass. he comes waltzing into my apartment like he's high on speed. then he says, "i'm going to invite my buddy over," proceeds to dial his buddy when the doorbell rings: you guessed it--there's his buddy standing outside my front door.

ok, i'm thinking, what the hell. these guys are my brother's friends. funniest thing is, his buddy was this guy i ran into around 3pm on new year's eve and outside a bar and he's like "FFT, you son of a bitch. long time no see" and chatted me up for a few minutes and i had no clue who the hell he was.

so yeah, i went to club 2me with target and buddy. i learned a lot from those nutz. here's a sample of the best of monsieur target:

• working at target, where mr. target works, is the best job ever. he especially likes the "everyday problem-solving challenges."
• in three years, he wants to manage his own store, save up hella $$$ then open a bar.
• a store manager at target earns $230,000 a year
• beck's the information is the best album of the past six years
• on new years, or whenever at a bar, it's better to just get a pint and fill it with champagne and then top it off with oj than to have a traditional mimosa
• mike bibby's strategy of cross-court passes to the 'open' guy in three-point territory is idiotic (this i happen to agree with)
• etc etc etc

so yeah, the kings blew their lead. then lost it in overtime. mr. target is a fucking nutcase. people leave me crazy but amusing but still kinda crazy messages. my house is a mess. i'm moving. i'm tired. i'm on deadline. i quit coffee and cigarettes (again). i have to go see my evangelical father for his birthday tonight. what the fuck is next.

sometimes i wish i was like art shell. i wish i could look past the nightmare, past the unbelievable--like lamont jordan dropping screen passes, giving up on the ball and watching the other team scoop it up and run it in for a touchdown--my 10-yard stare piercing through all the bullshit like a litter scoop sifting catnip.

in conclusion, i found a small booklet of poems and writings from 2002-03 and some of them were really interesting. i'm going to post a few throughout next week. bye bye.