Is this all because I was caught masturbating as a kid? I think not—I refuse the trauma. The world's best restaurant is closing and I’ve never even been there or heard of it. I’m learning the personalities of the Board members and they each have their own problems. There’s a point I'm trying to make, but I’m on vacation.

Zoning out at the Hornets game and Charlotte doesn’t love the team. I’m here for slam dunks, but the DJ won’t quit and I can’t hear the players' sneakers squeaking. He’s playing “It’s Raining Men,” my mother’s favorite song. He’s playing the “1812 Overture.” He’s playing every song called, “Money,” and there are  a lot. 

There is a man–though one is tempted to say “child”–absolutely losing it over a fried chicken sandwich in the concourse. He did not get his way, or his way did not come fast enough. The world, we learn, revolves around him. How surprising! Here, we thought it spun about us. I have this look I can give that means something like “drop dead,” and I do give it to him. It’s two days after Christmas and you can tell that some of the people in this stadium just learned that Santa Claus isn’t real.

On the train ride home, everyone is comparing designer shoes. The passengers are looking good and experiencing fidelity. This is, to some degree, what it’s all about. Be honest: do you watch the game or the scoreboard?