Cinderella at the Ball
Last Sunday evening, I received an email from the BossMan*, to wit:
For all your hard work on the [Henderson Account] and other projects, [Johnson] and I want you to have two Clippers tix for tomorrow night. Even if you aren’t much of a basketball fan, the seats are amazing. They are courtside (sublime – right on the court, first row), and they come with valet parking right at the Staples Center.
When I arrived at work, I saw two of these beauties sitting on my desk.
That’s right, the Los Angeles Clippers, one of three NBA teams to have never won a Championship, Conference Championship, or a Division Championship in their franchise's history has $1000 dollar tickets. $1000! $1000 is almost as much as the most expensive NY Yankee ticket money can buy! $1000 times 200 would cover the down payment for a small 1+1 on the west side! I’m not a baller in the traditional sense, but I was definitely living like one, if for only a few hours on the Monday evening of Thanksgiving week.
When the Old Lady and I arrived at the Staples Center, we pulled into a semi-private road that led to the rear entrance of the building. I pulled my aging Jeep Cherokee with 4 months of city-dirt over to the shoulder, handed off the car to the valet, and we walked 15 feet into the entrance. After receiving a complimentary program, we walked past the team’s locker rooms, the family green room, and out onto the courtside level.
I will try not to exaggerate in this post, but the experience was incredible. I felt like Cinderella at the ball. In spite of not recognizing anyone on the court, it was fascinating being up so close, and experiencing the speed and athleticism of the players. We could hear the players talk to themselves, to each other, and to the refs. The cheerleaders were close enough to give us lap dances. We were making eye contact with these giant athletes in between plays, and heckling fans taking part in TV time out contests.
And of course, the best part about attending professional sporting events in Los Angeles is people watching and star sightings. In our section, we spotted luminary Rick Moranis, we met Spike Lee’s attorney, and the Old Lady sat next to Danny Baduachue from TV's Partridge Family.
“Danny!” I said leaning forward to make eye contact in front of the Old Lady when we sat down, “I used to listen to your radio show on the LOOP in Chicago.”
“Al-RIGHT bro! That brings me waay back! I tell you – I don’t miss those winters.” He responded in his trademark scratchy voice. He looked around conspiratorially. “Hey – you want a pull?” He handed me a flask, elbow brushing against my wife’s chest, “It’s cognac. Good cognac.” I thanked him for the offer, but had no intention of risking backwash. I am not often star struck, but I have to admit it was kind of cool that an F-List celebrity with a history of addiction handed me a flask of high-end alcohol at a sporting event.
Shortly after, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a smallish black man with wire rimmed spectacles was leaning forward in his seat.
“Hello!” He said, “I am groundbreaking film director Spike Lee’s attorney. Between you and me, Danny gets drunk every game. Keep your eyes on your wife and let me know if anything actionable occurs,” he said slipping me his card. “I am supposed to be fully private, but these are tough times. Even for attorneys.”
“Indeed,” I replied eyeing his seats, a full row away from the floor, “it’s a crime they have you in the back of the bus, so to speak.”
A waiter in a tux appeared out of nowhere, white cloth draped over his arm, and handed us a menu.
“Our specialty is 100% Kobe beef hot dogs, and we have chef Yountville on loan who appears to be preparing nachos to honor the 39th year of the Clipper’s franchise.”
“Nachos? I said turning my nose up to a refined angle, “Is Yountville mad? This is what happens when quote-unquote ‘celebrity’ chefs drop acid and go on spiritual quests to spur their creative juices. Chefs select, prepare, and apply heat to food. It’s not like they are producing masterpieces of cinema that comment on the role of race relations in the United States, am I right, Spike Lee’s attorney?” I said, pointing my right elbow forward, knuckles behind my head as though winding up for tennis serve.
“Damn straight,” he responded, giving my knuckles the love and respect they deserve.
“I will not ruin this powerful appetite on one of Yountville’s egocentric and Pollackesque takes on classic American sports food…Is the Kobe beef from Japan?”
“Of course.”
“Which farm?”
“Wagyu”
“His quality has been slipping in his dotage. Rumor has it the marbling has shown signs of stress. How has the quality been?”
“Much improved, Sir. The cows were apparently picking up on news of the financial global meltdown, and so Wagyu has banned all audio devices from the ranch. The cows are much happier, and their muscles are responding to their new masseuse.”
I rubbed my chin, a wan look came over my face as I was lost in thought, “This financial devastation has been tough on us all…Even the cows,” I mused. “OK – We’ll take five. Put it on the house tab, and let a few Jacobsen Vintage No 1.s warm to cellar temps.”
“Very good, sir.”
The national anthem began playing, and all rose except for Danny Bedadouche, a fierce, if poorly informed political advocate of various left wing causes, who lit a cigarette and looked around, daring someone to ask him to stand, snuff out his smoke, or stop being such a douche bag. He sprawled out, feet nearly onto the court, and fell asleep until the horn sounded signaling the end to the first quarter. As he was waking up, Rick Moranis walked past us, and Danny snorted, “Honey – I shrunk the actor’s career! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Rick stopped, eyed the little man in front of him, and responded coldly, “The movies I have appeared in have grossed $2 Billion dollars. Look it up, asshole. Your only talent is being washed up.”
“I don’t mean to pile on, Danny” I said, leaning over, “but you sort of ruined the Adam Corolla radio show. Adam would get a rhythm going, mining a vein of comedic gold, and you would insert a non sequiter that would spoil the moment. I have to be honest, I felt terrible for Adam, and of course, all of his listeners including me.”
Danny turned bright red. I could sense something behind me, and heard a whisper, “As Spike Lee’s Attorney, I advise you to make a hasty retreat. That whole Adam Corolla thing is a real sore spot with him.”
We had seen enough, and decided to leave fashionably early, slipping behind the arguing “actors,” and toward the exit. Before leaving, I turned around to take one last look at the stadium from the unique vantage point afforded to people with more money than they know how to sensibly spend, more money even, apparently, than washed up celebrities have to burn in this economic holocaust. When I looked back, Moranis and Spike Lee were now sitting in our seats next to Danny, all toasting Jacobsens with a platter of Kobe hot dogs in front of them.
*The BossMan is no longer Indian. He is now an average looking white guy with a background in financial consulting, and an MFA in creative writing. This doesn’t stop my Indian ex-BossMan from opening my shut office door, setting down, and talking to me about his son’s latest accomplishments for up to 30 minutes at a time.
Last Sunday evening, I received an email from the BossMan*, to wit:
For all your hard work on the [Henderson Account] and other projects, [Johnson] and I want you to have two Clippers tix for tomorrow night. Even if you aren’t much of a basketball fan, the seats are amazing. They are courtside (sublime – right on the court, first row), and they come with valet parking right at the Staples Center.
When I arrived at work, I saw two of these beauties sitting on my desk.
When the Old Lady and I arrived at the Staples Center, we pulled into a semi-private road that led to the rear entrance of the building. I pulled my aging Jeep Cherokee with 4 months of city-dirt over to the shoulder, handed off the car to the valet, and we walked 15 feet into the entrance. After receiving a complimentary program, we walked past the team’s locker rooms, the family green room, and out onto the courtside level.
I will try not to exaggerate in this post, but the experience was incredible. I felt like Cinderella at the ball. In spite of not recognizing anyone on the court, it was fascinating being up so close, and experiencing the speed and athleticism of the players. We could hear the players talk to themselves, to each other, and to the refs. The cheerleaders were close enough to give us lap dances. We were making eye contact with these giant athletes in between plays, and heckling fans taking part in TV time out contests.
And of course, the best part about attending professional sporting events in Los Angeles is people watching and star sightings. In our section, we spotted luminary Rick Moranis, we met Spike Lee’s attorney, and the Old Lady sat next to Danny Baduachue from TV's Partridge Family.
“Al-RIGHT bro! That brings me waay back! I tell you – I don’t miss those winters.” He responded in his trademark scratchy voice. He looked around conspiratorially. “Hey – you want a pull?” He handed me a flask, elbow brushing against my wife’s chest, “It’s cognac. Good cognac.” I thanked him for the offer, but had no intention of risking backwash. I am not often star struck, but I have to admit it was kind of cool that an F-List celebrity with a history of addiction handed me a flask of high-end alcohol at a sporting event.
Shortly after, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a smallish black man with wire rimmed spectacles was leaning forward in his seat.
“Hello!” He said, “I am groundbreaking film director Spike Lee’s attorney. Between you and me, Danny gets drunk every game. Keep your eyes on your wife and let me know if anything actionable occurs,” he said slipping me his card. “I am supposed to be fully private, but these are tough times. Even for attorneys.”
“Indeed,” I replied eyeing his seats, a full row away from the floor, “it’s a crime they have you in the back of the bus, so to speak.”
A waiter in a tux appeared out of nowhere, white cloth draped over his arm, and handed us a menu.
“Our specialty is 100% Kobe beef hot dogs, and we have chef Yountville on loan who appears to be preparing nachos to honor the 39th year of the Clipper’s franchise.”
“Nachos? I said turning my nose up to a refined angle, “Is Yountville mad? This is what happens when quote-unquote ‘celebrity’ chefs drop acid and go on spiritual quests to spur their creative juices. Chefs select, prepare, and apply heat to food. It’s not like they are producing masterpieces of cinema that comment on the role of race relations in the United States, am I right, Spike Lee’s attorney?” I said, pointing my right elbow forward, knuckles behind my head as though winding up for tennis serve.
“Damn straight,” he responded, giving my knuckles the love and respect they deserve.
“I will not ruin this powerful appetite on one of Yountville’s egocentric and Pollackesque takes on classic American sports food…Is the Kobe beef from Japan?”
“Of course.”
“Which farm?”
“Wagyu”
“His quality has been slipping in his dotage. Rumor has it the marbling has shown signs of stress. How has the quality been?”
“Much improved, Sir. The cows were apparently picking up on news of the financial global meltdown, and so Wagyu has banned all audio devices from the ranch. The cows are much happier, and their muscles are responding to their new masseuse.”
I rubbed my chin, a wan look came over my face as I was lost in thought, “This financial devastation has been tough on us all…Even the cows,” I mused. “OK – We’ll take five. Put it on the house tab, and let a few Jacobsen Vintage No 1.s warm to cellar temps.”
“Very good, sir.”
The national anthem began playing, and all rose except for Danny Bedadouche, a fierce, if poorly informed political advocate of various left wing causes, who lit a cigarette and looked around, daring someone to ask him to stand, snuff out his smoke, or stop being such a douche bag. He sprawled out, feet nearly onto the court, and fell asleep until the horn sounded signaling the end to the first quarter. As he was waking up, Rick Moranis walked past us, and Danny snorted, “Honey – I shrunk the actor’s career! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Rick stopped, eyed the little man in front of him, and responded coldly, “The movies I have appeared in have grossed $2 Billion dollars. Look it up, asshole. Your only talent is being washed up.”
“I don’t mean to pile on, Danny” I said, leaning over, “but you sort of ruined the Adam Corolla radio show. Adam would get a rhythm going, mining a vein of comedic gold, and you would insert a non sequiter that would spoil the moment. I have to be honest, I felt terrible for Adam, and of course, all of his listeners including me.”
Danny turned bright red. I could sense something behind me, and heard a whisper, “As Spike Lee’s Attorney, I advise you to make a hasty retreat. That whole Adam Corolla thing is a real sore spot with him.”
We had seen enough, and decided to leave fashionably early, slipping behind the arguing “actors,” and toward the exit. Before leaving, I turned around to take one last look at the stadium from the unique vantage point afforded to people with more money than they know how to sensibly spend, more money even, apparently, than washed up celebrities have to burn in this economic holocaust. When I looked back, Moranis and Spike Lee were now sitting in our seats next to Danny, all toasting Jacobsens with a platter of Kobe hot dogs in front of them.
*The BossMan is no longer Indian. He is now an average looking white guy with a background in financial consulting, and an MFA in creative writing. This doesn’t stop my Indian ex-BossMan from opening my shut office door, setting down, and talking to me about his son’s latest accomplishments for up to 30 minutes at a time.
Labels: George W Bush, Los Angeles, Mezzo
posted by Mezz0 at 12:57 PM
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