25 June 2011
this appointment with disappointment
separate lives. river splits the two, the two versions of ourselves. you know.
over there all verdant where a canopy of contentment stands over manicured yards and money raining down all timely and whatnot. a rive gauche for the accomplished who sleep sweetly and love deeply and things are straight and teeth perfect and none need hindsight. a life we think better that actually exists.
makes me think of
these separate lives. of ours. well mine. from the ole here now. not just about means or money or status, but the disconnect of knowing and faith, from still hoping and just dreaming. my feet banked with acceptance rather than disappointment. still swinging for dimly lit, rippling dreams, still reaching and learning.
makes me realize finally
that over there begins, you know, over here.
23 April 2011
How to blow through $100million ... and still come out ahead
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McCourts in happier times |
L.A. Dodgers Owner Frank McCourt: Same Problems as Mere Mortals
If the rich really do lead different lives, as the old saw goes, then it follows that the super-rich should lead extraordinarily different lives. As a 4th generation Californian, born in San Diego, but reared in Los Angeles, my allegiance lies with the Los Angeles Lakers and the L.A Dodgers. Enter Frank McCourt, owner of the Dodgers, he the great equalizer between the rich and the average everyman. He the great shrinker of the delta that is the gulf betwixt those with some number followed by six zeros in their bank accounts, and those of us who sometimes have no zeros to speak of, save for the two after the decimal point. The monied and the financially maimed, viz., Frank and me.
In general, the well-heeled have more second homes, more and certainly nicer cars (why not throw in a private jet while we’re at it), and absolutely they travel a great deal more, especially to exotic, foreign lands, than the average American (the private jet comes in handy). But, in many ways the rich and uber-wealthy are exactly like their less wealthy counterparts.
If his life is any indication, Dodgers owner Frank McCourt is living proof that the rich have the exact same problems that the rest of us average folks encounter on any given day. They divorce like the rest of us --but in much grander style and scale and with far more publicity, of course. They have money problems (which, granted, must be measured on the Richter scale) like us. And, they sometimes run businesses into the ground like the rest of us mere mortals.
The McCourt's (Frank and his wife Jamie are divorcing after a 30-year marriage) have admitted to siphoning off $100 million from the Dodgers organization to fund their lavish lifestyle over the last seven years. To see how much wife Jamie McCourt has been granted in spousal support, click the link below:
Jamie McCourt was recently granted temporary spousal support of almost $700k per month from her husband Frank to maintain her lifestyle. Frank not only has personal financial stress with their eight homes around the world, and the spousal support to wifey, but business as well.
Frank McCourt, it has been recently revealed, has been juggling the books to keep the lights on, including the newly installed parking lot light at Dodgers stadium (after a recent attack against a San Francisco Giants fan). Besides the Dodgers players’ $105 million payroll, the Dodgers organization now has the former LAPD chief and a former mayoral candidate on salary, and a fleet of attorneys on standby. He recently secured a $30million bridge loan from Fox (News Corp) which precipitated the commissioner of Major League Baseball Bud Selig to take over running the team until the McCourt's divorce is finalized, and the team is set aright financially once again, which most likely means the end of the Frank McCourt’s ownership of team Dodgers.
But, don’t feel too bad for Frank McCourt for too long. The team, which was purchased by the McCourt's when it was valued around $400 million, today, many predict, the Dodgers would fetch almost a billion dollars should it be sold-off by the MLB to the highest bidder. Also helping increase that value further north is a recent agreement for $3billion between Fox and the Dodgers for a 20-year broadcast rights contract. The super rich lead extraordinarily different lives, and like a cat with a diamond studded collar, land on their feet in luxury style.
Lest I be accused of promoting some sort of schadenfreude against the Dodgers or Frank McCourt (LuxeMont's headquarters (which I founded almost 20 yrs ago) is in San Diego, after all, and they do have season tickets to the Padres), not so. We believe healthy competition is a good thing, and having an arch nemesis in baseball keeps one young with a purpose, eternally battling to win the division pennant. Besides, as stated, I bleed Dodgers blue.
The super rich lead extraordinarily different lives, and like the cat with a diamond-studded collar that slips off the veranda in Palm Beach, they land on their feet in luxury style. But I repeat myself.
.
.
30 March 2011
Brankton Walks Austin (Part 10)
Having already stuffed a sweater and folded purple checked collared shirt into his bag, Brankton found that t-shirt and khakis still proved an unequal match for the afternoon heat. He looked down from the grassy hillside and felt the coolness coming up from the spring. Though the sunlight remained strong and the temps were still in the low 90’s, a coolness nonetheless hung around the springs. Brankton wanted to jump into the clear water as much as he wanted to do anything in his life.
Three perspiring coeds lying nearby on large towels on the grass wasted away an afternoon as only college sophomores with graduation and the real world seemingly a lifetime away could. Assuming like most sunbathing beauties that their oiled bodies, skimpy bikinis, and Saturday night plans were the center of the known universe, they spoke loudly to each other as if Brankton were not there in front of them with one of his size-12 Puma’s resting on the metal railing.
“He is not going to be there. He texted Marci that his parents were in town and he had to hang with them,” said the blonde coed with the smallest bikini and matching modesty.
“Sure, just like Tommy’s parents were in town except he was out running that game behind your back,” the slightly overweight redheaded roomie chimed in with her jealousy issues and a habit of rubbing her roommates’ troubles into open wounds while feigning concern. “Is that the new excuse these a-holes use when running around? Their parents are in town? You gotta be kidding me!” The two looked at each other over gossip and fashion magazines whilst lying on their bellies, two tuchases reaching skyward pulled skimpy swatches of cloth with the letters “UT” into ever-reddening clefts.
“Only a desperate woman would fall for such nonsense,” said the hottest of the lot sitting in her low profile chair between them and the least to worry about such infidelities, or so the brunette mistakenly thought. She was the only one staring at the flickering water through cheap convenience store sunglasses. “Besides, I’m looking at this fine brother comin’ up at us right now.” The three adjusted perspectives in their usual move and shared a lusty distraction.
Brankton watched the three looking down as a muscled blur came into their view. Water shed off the shoulders and baby dreds of the swimmer as it also did his red lifeguard trunks soaking the concrete walkway that shuttled its shivering revelers to and fro an inclined lawn and chilly spring feeding the pool from deep underground rivers.
“Damn, I think I want to have his baby,” said the hottie in a now pronounced southern accent as she continued her kibitzing. “MmmHmm,” the others added in unison.
Brankton did not remember college women this aggressive. He turned to see who owned the wet calloused feet slapping against the concrete with such gusto.
“Hey, what’s up?!” Nelson waived in the general direction of Brankton and the young women. Brankton looked awkwardly at the man-child that now stood dripping before him; all at once he felt out of place.
“Hi,” all three women responded to Nelson. Brankton turned around looking at them and then back to Nelson.
“What are you doing here?” asked Nelson completely ignoring an opportunity to chat up three female students from the University of Texas at Austin. The girls stared slack-jawed laughing at their mistake and all wheeled around onto their towels, grabbing magazines in which to bury faces.
“Well, uh, this is my last stop of the day before the hotel,” said Brankton not sure how to stand or where to look. Nelson began again up the walk. “C’mon, I’m over here.”
“Okay, well” said Brankton gesticulating with hands, thumb and finger toward the pool. “I wanted to, uh” and then just gave up trying to speak to Nelson’s long, swimmer’s back.
“Dude, you’re like setting records with your Austin pilgrimage. You’re like Chaucer and his Canterbury Tales, except not, because you’re a Jew and all,” said Nelson over his shoulder. Nelson finally grabbed his chair which was in the shade of a baby oak, and pulled a towel out of the bag.
“You like Chaucer?” said Brankton.
“Let’s just say I’m glad I read him.” said Nelson. “So, you’re definitely going to go for a swim? Alright! You got some trunks in that bag?”
“Actually, no,” said Brankton. “I heard some people, well, at our breakfast this morning. You guys were talking about some festival and I overheard someone talking about Barton Springs. I decided to come here instead of going to my ex’s house.”
“No sh*t,” said Nelson. “Yeah, well, that was me telling Jackie not to forget that she had to drop me off here before she headed back home to get ready for tonight.” Nelson stood up and dried off. He pulled another towel out and threw it to Brankton. The three co-eds had a bird’s eye view of Nelson stripping down to his Speedos. He tossed his swim trunks to Brankton, hitting him in the face with a wet splat. Brankton pulled them down and just groaned.
“Sorry about that.”
“Yeah, no worries, kid,” said Brankton. He hesitated.
“You know you want to get in there, so suck it up, man, drop trou’ and slip those on,” said Nelson. “They’re clean, trust me. I had these Speedos on underneath. You’re good to go, man.”
Brankton stood and looked around before walking to the edge of the high-dive. The place seemed deserted. He bounced once then twice and launched himself into the deep end. He was not prepared for how cold it was, nor was he prepared for how much cooler the water was 10 feet down. It was almost painful and surprising to hit contrasting thermal so quickly. He swam and kicked as fast as he could to get to the surface. For a moment he panicked, but now was swimming across the pool with purpose. It took him almost ten minutes to realize his body was not going to acclimate to the coldness; he'd have to take a break.
He found a spot on the concrete to lie down. Brankton was exhausted. Before falling asleep in the sun with one foot in the cool water, he noticed a tall and tan hunk with shoulders Atlas would envy walking with three coeds toward the pool.
.
He found a spot on the concrete to lie down. Brankton was exhausted. Before falling asleep in the sun with one foot in the cool water, he noticed a tall and tan hunk with shoulders Atlas would envy walking with three coeds toward the pool.
.
23 March 2011
Brankton Walks Austin (Part 9)
Twelve new members of Temple Beth Selah were in attendance for the afternoon meal. Included in this get-to-know-ya soiree were two sleeping baby girls presently tucked away in orange and red strollers respectively, each of which could be converted into DOT-approved car seats or Austin-appreciated and Sierra Club-endorsed baby carrier backpacks. Three rosy-cheeked young brothers (3, 5 and 6) with yarmulkes falling off their skulls as they wrestled each other to the floor alternated tactics between harmless punches and hugs and kisses, all of which elicited laughter and tears that dried quickly in the Texas sunlight. Brankton envied the brothers’ warmth and affection for each other. Their mother, the one gently and rhythmically shaking the red stroller, looked to be about 22 years old. She looked like she could be in school at UT with Nelson or his rude little friend Jackie. Maybe she was.
The monthly new member's bbq menu offered the usual heart-stopping murderer's row lineup of tri-tip steak and chicken slathered in a tangy bbq sauce that only UT alumnae football players were privy to know. A generous heaping of freshly cut summer fruit including kiwi, mango and a pomegranate, grilled heirloom tomatoes with a pesto marinate, and a Caesar salad with warm, cubed chicken breast that made one weak in the knees were also stacked high-n-deep along side the main course.
He was surprised to find an appetite still hiding in the recesses of his thorax in spite of the painful knowledge that he was being pushed out after a relatively short tenure with NBC Universal. It mattered little that Marcus Spilka, massive prick, little man, no-talent-hack -- always had been -- was behind his now imminent departure. Once the gears or wheels of the rumor mill were set to spinning, their inertia was tough to abate. Brankton remembered what Mark Twain had said about a lie getting halfway around the world before the truth had a chance to put its pants on. Until he heard otherwise, officially, though, Brankton determined to sign Jack Mann before he left Austin. Getting even with Spilka was the furthest thing from his mind, though survival mode was kicking in. Besides, the network would be on the hook for two more year’s worth of salary, and maybe he could land another gig before his demise was reported in Variety or the Reporter.
The app on his iPhone told Brankton that there were still several hours before sunset. The wind out his sails, he paid his respects to the first Jewish cowboy he’d ever met as he headed out. “I’m going to take off. Really nice meeting you.” Brankton tried to offer a strong, athletic handshake, and was met with the same. “Again, I’m sorry for my, uh, language earlier,” Brankton looked down. “Kind of a bad day.”
“Please, no explanations necessary. And, you’re welcome. It’s not just a Texas thing, Brankton, the hospitality.” The Rebbe walked him down the drive. “It’s nice to know you, bud. Where do they have you staying the night?”
Brankton looked at the ex-linebacker and wondered when, if ever, he had been called "bud" before. Sounded like something out of Leave it to Beaver or Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and it was something he didn't want to be called again. He hoped the longish pause and one raised eyebrow conveyed this to the Rabbi. “I’m over at the Delano," Brankton eventually said putting a hand in his pocket, fishing around for car keys, before he realized he still had a walk ahead of him. "Hear good things about it?” said Brankton a bit annoyed for having forgotten he didn't have his rental car yet.
“Yeah, no, it’s actually a very nice place. Been in Austin forever. You’ll do fine there. Great bar,” said the Rabbi. And he meant it too, as if he knew a thing or two about single malt Scotch. "Come visit next time you're in town, Brankton."
Brankton waived to the Rebbe and put his headphones on, sizing up the man as he walked Lavaca Street toward Barton Springs. Calloused hands and a Talmudist; the two didn't usually go together. Still athletic build and southern twang intact. Black wife? Sharp mind. Ramrod posture. It was becoming more apparent to Brankton exactly how badass Texas Jews truly were. Or, maybe it was just the folks in Rabbi Yauch's congregation that intimidated him somewhat -- even the wrasslin' kids were a mystery to him.
Finally making it to "Lady Bird" Trail, Brankton veered to the right and began his final approach to Barton Springs, the freshwater spring bubbling up from the aquifer that runs underneath much of Austin. It had been an important part of Austin for decades. Many senior citizens swam there daily, and youngsters (including Robert Redford, whom Brankton had met skiing in Deer Valley) learned to swim there each year. When Brankton arrived to the side of the river, it shone brilliantly with an expansive shoreline and not as many people as he had imagined would be there. If only he had some swimming trunks.
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