What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: A Businessman Moves to Miami

July 09, 2010

A Businessman Moves to Miami

There’s this part of The Insider where Al Pacino, playing a “60 Minutes” producer and pissed that his network isn’t running an important story, turns to his boss and asks, “Are you a newsman, or are you a businessman?” The disdainful way he pronounces “businessman” makes the question about his boss’s ethics and morality. I tend to do the same thing. To me, people either try to make something (whether it’s art or homes or bridges), or they try to make money, and I have only contempt and pity for the latter.

I don’t care about LeBron James. Who wouldn’t rather live in Miami than Cleveland? I hate hot weather and douchebags, but even I would pick Miami over Cleveland. However, the distasteful way in which James made this decision re-illustrates what we already know about him. He is, above everything else, a businessman. Like Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods before him, he has built a corporation out of his athletic prowess, and switching teams only allows his business to continually grow. Miami is a bigger and more media-friendly market. Florida has no state income tax. Sounds like a solid business decision. Having an hour-long infomercial broadcast by ESPN just furthers his brand and stokes the coals of his “importance”. It allows the fawning Stuart Scott and Michael Wilbon to make this decision (which honestly, has no real bearing on anyone’s life other than James and his family) seem actually newsworthy.

So, LeBron James will move to Miami to play for the Heat. Also, the sun will rise, people will be born, people will die, and two bullshit wars will continue forever. But seriously, can LeBron and D-Wade peacefully coexist?

Yawn.

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A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.