This entry comes to you SOS-style from the living room/torture chamber of my in-laws’ house. Let me paint the gruesome picture for you: I’ve been visiting/trapped here for four days, there’s only one TV, and I’m the only sports fan in the place. So instead of watching the NBA’s opening day, my choices are to stare at the 24-hour Nutcracker marathon or to hold my breath as I wish for death. That’s right, I’m Johnny from Johnny Got His Gun and the only thing missing in this hellish nightmare is James Hetfield growling in my ear.
Perhaps I should point out that I’ve hated ballet for as long as I’ve known how to hate things; it’s probably a 3-way tie between ballet, asparagus, and the Emperor from Star Wars. The walking on toes, the snapped tendons, the anorexic muscles…and those are just the females. So I’m typing this blog in a conscious effort not to look up at this grotesque freakshow parading around on the television. Darkness imprisoning me, all that I see: absolute horror.
And one other thing: I eat dinner generally around 8 PM-ish every day, and I’m guessing most people are about +/- 1 hour of that, right? So what’s the deal with serving holiday meals at 4 in the afternoon? What am I supposed to do with that timeslot? Anyway, the good news is that I’m out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.
In the meantime, what a grim little article Rick Bonnell had today in the Observer about Curtis Polk, Michael Jordan’s personal advisor/vice chairman/sleazebag. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what Bonnell was going for in this write-up, other than making us ill. Although Polk’s specific role in the organization is shadowy and vaguely sinister, we are treated to delightful little tales about his multiple private island fortresses, his golf junkets and love of cigars, his ingenious schemes for gouging us on ticket prices, and his subtle contempt for Charlotte’s apparent bandwagon fans (actual quote: “On the basketball side, it’s a little bit of a ‘show-me’ town.”) The only thing missing in the article was an appropriate ending, something like Polk in a tracksuit, lighting up a big stogie and saying, “See you at the next ballgame, suckers!”
Although Polk’s had spats in the past that I’m guessing are supposed to endear him to us, they’re mostly 1-percenter -on-1-percenter crimes, like with fellow rich asshole plutocrat Abe Pollin. Whose side am I supposed to take on that one? (Answer: the bellhop who’s polishing Polk’s monacle after each angry email he sends). Most disturbingly, we learn that some of Polk’s past clients have included guys like…Allen Iverson. Really, if you’re trying to show off your success as a financial planner, do you really want to use someone who’s currently laboring in Turkey to avoid bankruptcy as your model example? Which brings us to the elephant in the room: what sort of advice does is Polk giving to Jordan as it pertains to His Airness’s gambling? Are we just a few months away from watching MJ strap on his Jordan III’s and suiting up for Croatia?
All in all, between Rick’s article and all of this Nutcracking, it’s been a regular yuletide hellhole for yours truly. Bring on the season!