It's Only a Game

“You look like hell,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“No, seriously, you don’t look well at all. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. Just fine.”

I didn’t feel fine at all. I felt like you do when you’re waiting in the dentist office before you get a new crown. I felt like those kids in Bora Bora must feel when they have to jump off that hundred foot bamboo tower for the first time, just to prove their manhood. I felt like Roger Clemens must have felt choosing which necktie to wear before the Congressional hearing. I felt like a guy getting interrogated by his girlfriend, which I was.

Had I been caught with an expensive hooker? No, that was Elliot Spitzer, not me (whew!).

Was I suffering from a liquidity crisis? Nope, Bear Stearns.

Was my booze stash dangerously low? A glance to the liquor cabinet revealed a bottle each of Balvenie, Elijah Craig, Eagle Rare, and Zaya. All good there.

It was basketball. Had to be. Settling down in my favorite chair, lighting a nice maduro, clicking on the flat screen. There it was. Kansas (my alma mater) and Texas. This game was important—it would determine who received a coveted #1 seed in the NCAA tournament. And here I was, nervous, tense, worked up.

I know in my head it’s just a game. But somewhere deeper, somewhere down at some primordial gut level left over from caveman days when we hunted mastodons, somewhere in the Enterprise transporter room when you’re about to get beamed to the parallel, evil universe, somewhere in a netherworld baseball game where Casey comes to bat a million times and always strikes out, somewhere I knew, simply knew, that it was more than a game.

You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve been there. And you know there’s no cure.

Well, Kansas managed to win. And they got that #1 seed in the NCAA. But nothing’s really resolved, because now it just starts all over again. Sixty-four teams over three weekends. The office pools. The upsets. The botched calls. The tourney.

Yes, you’ll fill out your brackets. Probably two, one you do with your brain, trying so hard to be objective, calculating, smart; the other with your heart, against all odds, your team going all the way, grabbing the big prize at the biggest of dances. And you’ll be worried sick about both of those brackets.

Sweat? Sure, you’ll sweat. You’ll sweat about the money you put down. You’ll sweat that your girlfriend might actually make better picks than you. You’ll sweat because, godammit, it’s basketball and you still remember the left handed hook shot you knocked down when you were 13 playing on Tim Gryzbcnicki’s driveway and you knew you were the Wilt Chamberlain of the neighborhood.

Scream? You bet you’ll scream. You’ll be hoarse from yelling at refs, coaches, players, your girlfriend. You know with certainty that if you scream loud enough, that that 2 guard will nail the trifecta and take the game into overtime.

Cry? Bet you won’t admit it, but you’ll cry too. I remember being at the ’88 Duke—Kansas game, the vaunted Danny Ferry/Danny Manning matchup, double overtime, and Duke won it. I cried for my team that night. Yes, my girlfriend thinks I’m sick, too.

So here we are again, in a few days tipping off a peculiar version of Madness that haunts our March. You’ll sweat, scream, cry, all in the name of ten college kids running around on a 90 foot rectangle. You’ll study the matchups, fill out and refill out those brackets. You’ll smile, you’ll stomp, you’ll question coaching strategy, you’ll marvel at the airborne artistry.

“Please, try to calm down. You know it’s only a game,” she said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I replied, “It’s only a game.”

But I knew better.

Good Lovin' Gone Expensive

Enough. Enough with how he should have known better. Enough with what a hypocrite he is. Enough with his resignation. Enough with Elliot Spitzer.

What about the real story here? The story no one will talk about, the story you won’t read in the New York Times? That’s right, we’re talking about the question everyone is thinking but no one will ask.

What kind of sex and how much of it did Elliot Spitzer get for $4,300?

Admit it. You knew he’d resign. You knew his wife would stand by his side at the press conference. You knew every enemy he ever had would be partying today. What you didn’t know, was just how good was the sex for “Client 9”?

Sparing no expense, Critical Cloud located two of the most authoritative experts in this field to ask them, “was it good for Elliot?”

El Greco: We’re here today with two of the most authoritative experts in the field of hookers, Dr. Seymour Kuntz, and the infamous “Client 10”. Thank you, gentlemen, for joining us today. Dr. Kuntz, let’s start with you. $4,300 is a lot of money. Is it really that good? Is it worth it?

Seymour Kuntz: Like I should know about high priced ladies? Spending that kind of dough is a lot of mishegas, if you ask me. Why should the Lord give Spitzer a right hand, if he won’t use it, that’s what I want to know?

Client 10: I never really was a client of the Emperor Club, I was just calling in to get a price check and see what time they closed. And I had a 10% off coupon from the SF Bay Guardian, but the Club said they had moved all their advertising to SF Weekly.

eG: So what’s the most you ever paid for sex?

C10: $200. It was the best oral I ever got. Unfortunately, when I moved my contacts over to my new Blackberry, I lost her phone number.

SK: Oy, I’ve been paying all my life! First the honeymoon, then the mortgage, two cars, college education for the kids, let me tell you about paying for sex! You expected free shtupping?

eG: Seriously, now, what exactly do you get for this kind of money? Does anything go?

C10: Nah, it’s no better than the garden variety hooker, trust me. These high priced chicks expect five star hotels, expensive French champagne, nice limousines, you know, first class all the way. For a couple of hours, you get totally hosed.

SK: I have been urging the Consumer Affairs Council, the Better Business Bureau, all these organizations to look into these outrageous pricing schemes. That’s because you simply don’t get anything more with “Rolls Royce” hooker than you do with a “Kia”. Can’t William Shatner and Priceline.com do something to bring down the cost? Why should our powerful elected officials be forced to pay extravagant rates?

There you have it. The governor of New York haplessly victimized by overpriced sex. Someday, our lawmakers will take action and rein in this unscrupulous activity. Until that time, shop wisely, compare prices, get recommendations, and remember, it’s your money. Don’t be an Elliot and overpay.

Basic Brown

He was Da Mayor. His Williness. I caught up with Willie Lewis Brown, Jr. and talked about his new book, Basic Brown. Read about it at Fog City Journal.