You Won't Disturb Aubrey McClendon: He'll Be in His Room Masturbating
Following the discovery phase of the upcoming trial between the Sonics and the City of Seattle is a little like watching the old Saturday Night Live skit, "Sincere Guy Stu." In the skit, Dan (Phil Hartman) and Leslie (Jan Hooks) return from a date only to have their amorous intentions unwittingly thwarted by Hartman's naive roommate, Stu (Joe Montana). The gimmick is that the viewer is privy to the thoughts of each character--to the anger behind the courteous words of Hartman and Brooks and the sincerity of Montana's declared intention to pleasure himself in his quarters.
Similarly, recent pre-trial depositions have given us e-mails in which ownership group leader Bennett fawns over NBA commissioner David Stern and declares himself "a man possessed" by his determination to move the team; Bennett's public relations man Brent Gooden quips, "Stern should take note and get us out of Dodge ASAP"; and--my favorite--co-owner Aubrey McLendon apologizes for publicly stating that the group intended to move the team by sending Bennett this myspace-esque mea culpa:
"Oh no. Just read this. Have I caused a problem for you. I am so sorry. The truth is we did buy it with the hope of moving to Oklahoma City."
McLendon is clearly the Stu of this saga.
What baffles is not the duplicity of Bennett or the simplicity of McClendon, but rather the group's collective willingness to put this stuff in writing, especially with the specter of litigation forever lurking between here and Oklahoma City. Was it a generational issue, a failure to comprehend the implications of technologies they began using relatively late in life? Was it hubris, fueled by their perceived BFF-ness with Stern? Was it a misguided notion that, like their fellow oil-barons in the White House, they could get away with making the messages disappear? (Silly rabbit--those tricks are for publicly paid elected officials sworn to uphold the Constitution!)
One imagines the citizens of Oklahoma City shaking their heads and cringing as they read the embarrassing missives. If only--they muse--Bennett and his boys could have kept their gloating to the phone or the in-person conversation! The Okies may still get their team, but this self-sabotage makes it needlessly difficult.
I'm reminded of former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, whose promising political career was cut short by his weakness for high-end call girls, and whose supporters were likely similarly frustrated and flummoxed. But more than Spitzer, I'm reminded of one of his former interns, a friend of mine named Craig.
Craig and I attended law school together and played on the same intramural flag football team. I recall us sitting side-by-side and lacing up our cleats on a rainy Friday at the East River Park in New York City. Like many of the participants, I was hung over and not thrilled to be playing in the cold, wet weather. But Craig finished his double-knots, turned to me, and said, "You know what? I wouldn't trade any one of you guys for any teammate in the fucking world." Then he charged the field like William Wallace, clapping his hands maniacally and shouting, "Let's fucking go!"
It was comical and strangely touching, but more than anything, it was a glimpse of the intensity he would bring to other endeavors. When Craig got his summer gig with Attorney General Spitzer's office, he was tasked with reading through e-mails, hoping to find the one piece of incriminating evidence that would prove insurance industry malfeasance. He read through correspondence about copy toner, infidelities, shoe-shopping--every triviality and banality a hundred overpaid monkeys with a hundred keyboards could come up with. But in the end, his tired eyes found their target--the solicitation of a false bid--and Craig sprinted down the hallways of Spitzer's offices waving a copy of the e-mail over his head, trumpeting his discovery.
David Stern: You fear that the city will exact a "pound of flesh" from the team or the league for this attempted move. With the recent e-mails, make it five. Clayton Bennett: You fear that David Stern will not requite your man crush. Your ill-advised e-mails won't help. Aubrey McClendon: You fear gay marriage. I don't know what to say to that.
But all of you are missing the real threat, your nemesis, your apocalypse, the caffeinated private eye who will practically live in your electronic laundry until that incriminating slip turns up. His name is Craig. There are thousands of him. He's the reason you don't write these things down.
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