Nothing Good Ever Happens in the Luxury Box

Almost never have I had “good” seats for a sporting event. There was the family friend who occasionally treated us to floor-level tickets at the Meadowlands to see the New Jersey Nets, back in the Stephon Marbury/Jason Kidd years. But now the team is in Brooklyn, and if I go to a basketball game at all, I’m in the nosebleeds. There is honor in that, I think — in saving your money for hot dogs and beers and living it up in the mostly empty section XZ670 or wherever, telling the players apart by height because you’re too far away to see much else. The view may not be great, but the space and company always are. It’s what the life of a true fan is all about.

All of which is to say that I’ve never been in one of the VIP luxury boxes that every stadium has. But I gotta say, it seems awful. Are people really jammed in there that tight? I don’t care how plush the chairs are, that’s a claustrophobic scene. A little terrarium full of stale air and overpriced cologne and the scent of whatever they’ve got on Sterno burners at the buffet… awful. I bet your sightline isn’t even that much better. Sure, you could say this is sour grapes — that I’m desperate to see a national college football championship from this elite perch where I can’t even fart comfortably — but I’m telling you, I don’t think I would last more than half an hour in this human-made hell. Fuck off.

And then, well, you have the other people to consider. Who are you going to meet in the luxury box besides a bunch of rich assholes, some of whom may even be war criminals? I guess if you’re a rich asshole yourself, there’s nobody else you relate to — so, may as well stick with the cohort. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not bothered that Ellen DeGeneres is friends with George W. Bush, or that Vince Vaughn wants to shake Trump’s hand, since I don’t watch Ellen’s show, and Vince Vaughn’s acting career is a bunch of movies with date-rape vibes (plus whatever this forthcoming “Untitled Body Swap Thriller” turns out to be). They can waste their time and surplus money however they like.

It’s just insane for any of us non-celebrities to aspire to rub elbows with shitty venture capitalists and NFL owners, all of it on video for Twitter users to roast like an hour afterward. Yeah, dude, there you are, sucking up to a baby-brained racist whose sagging husk of a body is composed entirely of scrotal flesh. Very cool. Try the nachos.

Speaking of nachos, I’m about to reveal the one way in which I respect Chris Christie, the petty and incompetent former governor of my home state, who was one of the first GOP names to embrace Trump (and then endure ritual humiliation at his hands). It’s as simple as this: He’s out there in the cheap seats, mixing it up with hecklers while carefully shielding his snacks. He’s six inches away from that Cubs Fan! Spitting mad! Fighting back! That’s how we do it in the stands, folks.

Now, maybe Christie finds himself in these beefs as a result of never being invited to the luxury box anymore, but that only makes it more relatable. One thing’s for sure: He’s not networking with fossil fuel CEOs up in that private glass tank, is he. Nope. He’s enjoying the game out in the open, come what may. The man deserves a bare minimum of respect for that. 

Yep, the would-be masters of the universe can have their stupid suites. I’m not trying to do backdoor deals with a crooked construction firm while the 40,000 people outside my skylounge-ass entitlement chamber are actually having fun. Honestly, why even be there if that’s what you’re about? Have that meeting in front of the 90-inch HDTV in your McMansion. At least that way the drinks will be cheaper. 

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Miles Klee

Miles Klee is MEL’s resident tank-top dirtbag, shitposter and meme expert. He’s also the author of the novel ‘Ivyland’ and a story collection, ‘True False.’