When Sultans get "Occupied"

I suspect one of the reasons I can’t land my opinion pieces in more prominent media is I’m not emphatic enough.

To my critical detriment, I usually see both sides of every issue and base my decision on the opinion on whatever the last person I hear had to say.

So a guy like me is going to struggle to comprehend the Occupy Wall Street movement that started in New York and is sweeping the country, which will certainly need swept when it’s done.

I need issues brought into stark relief for me to figure out what the commotion’s all about.

Happily, Thursday gave me an edifying professional opportunity to understand.

This one pits 250 laid off hotel service employees against the Sultan of Brunei.

The latter’s one of those names I’ve never really delved into, but just instinctively understood meant vast wealth.

How vast? He’s worth 36 times more than the Queen of England. He’s the recipient of the inherited riches of 600-years of unbroken monarchy of the Southeast Asian nation on the island of Borneo.

His official name is General Haji Sir Hassan al-Bolkiah Mu’zzaddin Waddaulah, and if you think he has a lot of names you should see his garage.

Wikipedia says he owns 531 Mercedes-Benzes, 367 Ferraris, 362 Bentleys, 185 BMSs, 177 Jaguars, 160 Porsches, 130 Rolls-Royces, and 20 Lamborghinis for a total of 1,932 cars.

The numbers are precise, I guess, because he owns the Brunei Department of Motor Vehicles, too. He’s listed as the nation’s prime minister, its minister of finance and defense, its armed forces supreme commander, and police inspector general.

He’s to Brunei what Jerry Jones is to the Dallas Cowboys. He runs the whole shebang.

His opulent existence is instructive in today’s Occupy debate. He’s the kind of guy that 99 percent of the lordly 1 percent resent because he’s just got so much dough.

Life always figures out a way to give even guys like Trump someone to envy.

He came into my sphere of knowledge yesterday while I was doing this travel story that just popped up on msnbc.com.

It’s about the reopening of the historic Hotel Bel-Air, the luxurious enclave of Hollywood A-listers from Marilyn Monroe to Angelina Jolie. Oprah had her 50th birthday party there.

The hotel owner is Mr. Hassan al-Bolkiah Mu’zz-, oh, hell -- the sultan owns it.

Understand, my whole motivation for writing a story like this is to have it done on deadline, be pleasing to editors and readers and to have hotel PR folks say, gee, you seem like a friendly fellow. Why don’t you come and stay with us and see the place for yourself?

Now, for ethical reasons, I’d have to decline the offer, but it’s a comfort to know if Val ever changes the locks I could spend a night or two at one of America’s finest hotels and perhaps play footsie with the likes of Lindsay Lohan until Val cools off.

During my research I learned the hotel fired 250 union workers and timed the renovation to the expiration of the union contract in 2009.

The old employees are hoping today’s stars and other prospective guests act like Claude Rains in the 1933 classic, “The Invisible Man.”

They don’t want to see anybody there.

“We’re asking that no one eats, meets or sleeps at the Hotel Bel-Air until these employees are rehired,” says Leigh Shelton of Unite Here Local 11, representing 20,000 Southern California hospitality workers. Aligned with Occupy L.A., they’re expecting 500 protesters.

The newly renovated boutique hotel has 113 rooms.

The sultan lives in 2,152,782 square-foot palace with 290 bathrooms. If I lived there I’d have a party, would invite precisely 290 friends and assign them each their own bathroom. I think guests would enjoy that.

So this is where my understanding of the Occupy Wall Street movement achieves clarity.

It’s all just so unfair.

To his credit, the sultan bestows free health care to each of his 401,000 subjects, lousy socialist.

The union workers are asking they be given priority rehiring opportunities and fair compensation for their lost wages. The sultan could erase this public relations fiasco with what he probably considers walking around money.

Here’s what I’d do as arbitrator:

I’d order the sultan to allow each of the 250 unjustly fired employees to live for free in his bathrooms until they can find other work.

I’m sure they’re all very commodious and he’d still have 40 bathrooms all for himself.

Can't hate the Packers, but . . .

It’s been a disconcerting week for Steeler fans like me who need hearts heavy with hate for Super Bowl motivation.

Hate the Packers? It’s one of the most storied franchises in football. They shoved Brett Favre out the door when he became a recidivist jerk, a role I’m confident he’ll be fulfilling for at least the next five years.

Plus, I can’t recall meeting a single soul from Green Bay and, as a liberal, I can’t hate, disparage or kill what I do not know.

I do know dozens of darling people from Packer-mad Wisconsin. I spent a fall week there in 2008 on a glorious golf assignment. They wined and dined me with such relentless joy the Badger State vaulted to near the top of my favorite destinations.

They showed me Milwaukee. I had my picture taken with the Bronz Fonz. I reveled in burger heaven at Sobelman’s Pub & Grille. I golfed at prestigious Erin Hills and Whistling Straits. I ate the finest meals and drank free top shelf booze till the bourbon washed all the hatreds from my heart.

They did everything but offer me a free hooker.

(Prospective PR hosts take note: In order, I’d prefer redhead, blonde, bald chick, silver-haired granny.)

Ethical aside: I just spoke to Mrs. Renee Stallings Greater Latrobe High School journalism class about what I for lack of a better word call my “career.” We talked about stories, research, etc., but the class broke down when a sincere student asked me to discuss the importance of ethics.

Four days later and I still can’t quit laughing.

I was laughing so hard I was unable to mention the one relevant line I remember about the importance of ethics, one I try and share with aspiring journalists, but it applies to all professional disciplines.

“Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

That’s a line from J.R. Ewing of the show “Dallas.”

Yes, Dallas. Now there’s something that gets my hateful heart revving.

And I’m talking about the town in general and the Dallas football team in particular. The only thing I like about Dallas is “Dallas.”

The Super Bowl is being contested in the massive Dallas ego dome that is Cowboy owner Jerry Jones’s gaudy $1.2 billion tribute to himself.

My fondest wish this entire football season was the Steelers would play the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. This would have pleased Jones.

Then the Steelers and their fans could have humiliated him buy buying up three-quarters of the seats and turning Cowboy stadium into a home game for the team from Pittsburgh, which is just what Steeler fans do. You’ll see on Sunday.

Then to complete the humiliation, the Steelers would win 52-3.

Still, having the Steelers there will be plenty humiliating to Jones, and that pleases me.

I travel enough that I have a good sense of how the country regards people from Pittsburgh.

My sense is this:

They love us!

It’s true. I refer to an illustrative anecdote from The River Bar at Blackwolf Run, part of the amazing Kohler complex in Wisconsin.

I was sitting there sipping a jumbo triple Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. A group of three couples came in and we instinctively decided to be friendly.

Madison residents up for a weekend frolic, they immediately embraced me when I told them I was from Pittsburgh. A big garrulous fellow threw his beefy arm around me and said, “Man, I’ve never known anyone from Pittsburgh who wasn’t a really great guy!”

I told him he’d yet to know me after three giant glasses of bourbon.

We laughed. They could tell my friendliness would only go up as the bourbon went down.

It may be difficult for those rare individuals who’ve spied me sober to comprehend (sitings of albino rhino are more widespread), but I’m way, way more fun after three big bourbons.

In fact, the world be a happier place if guys like me were encouraged to have bourbon for breakfast.

So what am I to do?

Here’s what:

Kill ‘em, Steelers! Take no prisoners. Beat ‘em like J.R. always beat Cliff Barnes, dirty tricks and all.

Sure, it’ll make my heart heavy to know a state full of people I like and admire for their cheerful generosity will have their feelings hurt, but they’ll get over it.

I didn't drink up all their bourbon.

Cheering for a devil of an NFL celebration

Please don’t take this wrong or think me evil, but I’m rooting for a Satan worshipper to score a touchdown this weekend.

I want him to set the football down and make a demonstrative sign of gratitude to the Prince of Darkness. I’m not saying I want to see him sacrifice a virgin on the goalpost -- as if there’s one to be found at any 70,000-seat NFL colosseum.

I’d just like to see some humble gesture to show the devil that, hey, this one’s for you.

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell and the god-like men who run the NFL would have a collective fit and that would please my mischievous soul.

This will be the year I’ll remember as the one the NFL came unhinged. One week it’s fining its best players tens of thousands of dollars for hits it celebrates with commemorative DVDs. The next week it defends as just referee decisions that confound logic.

I think it is in the midst of a nervous breakdown at the realization it is about to initiate a work stoppage that will cause the game grievous harm.

And through it all they simply ooze arrogance over the league belief that it knows what’s best for America.

No where is this more apparent than in the league crackdown on excessive celebrations. It doesn’t want any one doing any dances, donning any costumes or smuggling fireworks in their jock straps.

It’s gotten so bad the officials flagged two Dallas Cowboys who merely chest bumped, a move that infuriated -- speaking of Satan -- Cowboy owner Jerry Jones.

Fifty years ago there was no such thing as excessive celebrations. Stoic midwest farm boys would score touchdowns, hand the ball to the ref, and line up for the extra point.

But America’s changed and so has the NFL.

Today many of the men scoring most of the touchdowns are urban blacks from impoverished backgrounds. Newly enriched, some of them now flash gold teeth, wear $15,000 mink coats and drive Hummers tricked out with things like hot tubs.

For them, excess is something to celebrate.

The exemplar of this is the artist formerly known as Chad Johnson. He’s paid to play wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals. But as anyone who's ever watched him knows, he’s a performance artist who plays for himself.

He changed his name to Chad Ocho Cinco (his number’s 85) and was the greatest end zone celebrant the game’s ever known.

He didn’t just dance. He performed skits. Clearly, he practiced what he’d do after he scored a touchdown as intently as he did the skills needed to score touchdowns in the first place.

My favorite was when he put the ball down and did his “Lord of the Dance” impersonation.

This gold-toothed, 6-foot-1, ebony-skinned gazelle for just a moment convinced me he was a plucky little leprechaun. It was featured on all the sports highlight shows, which was its sole purpose. 

I thought it was marvelous, but stoic midwest farm boys, the kind who now run the NFL, were outraged. 

They want flashy blacks to play football and attract that demographic, but when they score points they want them to act like pro golfers after sinking a long par putt.

Meanwhile, all this is going on while one excessive celebration is overlooked nearly every game.

Yes, it’s the “Praise Jesus!” touchdown celebration. The player scores, kneels down, head reverentially bowed and then leaps skyward to say something like, “Thank you, Lord, for allowing the defense to part long enough for me to score for your greater glory and so I can fulfill a lucrative bonus clause in my multi-million dollar contract. Now, how about that two-point conversion!”

But no official would dare flag a player for a praise Jesus celebration.

That’s why I want to see a Satan worshipper score and later inform reporters his gestures were to celebrate his dark under lord.

It would infuriate the holy rollers who run and support the NFL. They’d want to run him out of the league.

But it’s an obvious freedom of speech issue. Either you’re allowed to celebrate in your own way or you’re not. 

To be clear, I do not worship Satan or advocate others to do so. 

And it’s certainly not God I resent.

It’s all the men who act like Him. To hell with them.

The NFL sacks itself

Prediction: in five years someone is going to offer you a cushy seat to an NFL game for just $25 and you still won’t go. Neither will the diehards who paint their faces and torsos in team colors to depict their fanaticism.

In five years, it will be impossible for the most powerful enterprise in all professional sports to give away tickets to attend games in their state-of-the-art tax-payer financed stadiums.

I know this because I am one of the most privileged people in all American fandom: I am a Pittsburgh Steelers season ticket holder.

Have been for 20 years. My father held the tickets for 40 years before that. When he died, it was understood he’d hand the tickets down to me in a way other parents hand down deeds to lakeside cottages and heirloom strings of pearls.

That’s how valuable these tickets were.

But in the last 10 years, we’ve all enjoyed a technological advance that’s rendered attending a game meaningless.

It’s the high-def big screen TV.

What was once unthinkable has become fact: people would rather watch the games on TV than attend them in person.

Who can blame them?

There’s no traffic, no miserable weather, no lines at the bathroom and the only way you’re likely to encounter a vomiting drunk is if you’re reckless with the jello shots.

I have here on my desk four tickets to Sunday’s home opener against the Atlanta Falcons. Three days before kickoff and I can’t find a buyer for the four $81 seats in section 507, row JJ. 

I’ve called all the people who always say, hey, lemme know if you ever get spare tickets. I’ve sent out word in my bar full of sports nuts.

I’ve received no offers, only lame excuses.

Now, I must face the unthinkable. I might actually have to attend the game myself.

Understand, I’ve been to over 250 professional football games in my life. I’ve been going since I was 7 and have seen and done everything there is to do at an NFL game.

In fact, by many standards I could be considered one of the NFL’s most loyal fans.

Know how they reward that devotion? They screw me every chance they get.

When Pittsburgh opened the new Heinz Field in 2000, they made me and every other season ticket holder shell out for Personal Seat Licenses that line the pockets of owners that hold cities hostage with their franchises.

They’ve steadily raised my ticket prices from $46 in 2000 to $81 this year. 

They charge me $7.50 for a glass of warm beer.

For TV purposes, they hold games on Thursdays nights and holidays when people want to be home with their families.

They make me pay full price for two meaningless pre-season games.

But now the tables are turning. One of the big stories of this year will be empty seats at these palatial stadiums. It’s happening already.

People are staying home in droves and guys like me, the canaries in the mines, understand there is a significant problem. If I can’t find a buyer for my opening day seats then the league is in trouble.

And this is when the weather will be mild and enthusiasm high. Guaranteed, if the forecast had been for 22 degrees and slushy December snows and the Steelers were out of playoff contention, I wouldn’t be able to sell my tickets for less than half face value.

But what makes my prediction so salient is the NFL is about to commit one of the most egregious self-inflicted wounds in sports history. Owners are about to lock out the players in the hopes of getting a larger share of the revenue pie.

Yes, during a down economy in a sport where rookies earn $50 million signing bonuses and owners revel in $1 billion stadiums, they’re going to tell their fans, sorry, it’s not enough.

And they’re tinkering with the integrity of the already injury-riddled sport by lengthening the seasons by two games to 18. 

So, mark my words, we are about to witness the unthinkable: The mighty NFL is on the verge of an historic tumble.

Me, I lifelong fan, will still be cheering. Only instead of yelling, “Go Steelers!” as I have my whole life, I’ll be yelling, “Go Screw Yourselves!”

Because there won’t be anyone left to screw in the stadiums.