Pow! Right Between The Eyes! Andy Nulman's Blog About Surprise

The Spin, Chapter 14: And In The End...Pandemonium!

Well, I promised you and ending and I delivered.  Hope you like it and it made the 14-week journey worthwhile.  I have lots to say about the process and the experience, but I'll leave that to next week, where we put a button on this story with its end-tying epilogue.  But until then, the end is near...only 2,000 or so words away.  Enoy!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 14:

And In The End...

Pandemonium!

“Curtis Stanfield should be arrested, not celebrated!” bellowed C.D. Rappet, head of Stop Predatory Gambling. His shouts were punctuated by a chorus of affirmative “Yeahs!” by the hundreds of picket sign-wielding followers surrounding him.  “This is the new Jackass!  But where Jackass showed acts of physical irresponsibility, The Spin is an act of social and financial irresponsibility!”

Rappet’s tirade on CNN filled the 72-inch screen in Curtis’s suite, and flooded the room in 18-speaker surround sound.

“Well, at least he called The Spin by its proper name this time,” Joey said.  “He rarely ever mentions the brand.”

 “Can I ask why we are watching this?” Curtis snapped.  “Please, turn it off.  Turn everything off!”

The Spin—not just the brand, but the physical act itself—was now less than 30 minutes away.   The tension in the room was not just palpable, but almost audible, like one of those multiple cello-and-violin soundtracks used by 1950s film directors to heighten audience anxiety.

Curtis raised his gaze from the floor and looked at himself in the massive mirror that lined a whole wall. 

“I can’t believe you managed to jam all these logos on this stupid suit.  I look like the starting grid at a NASCAR race.” 

“More like Morgan Spurlock in the Greatest Movie Ever Sold,” Kleinman said matter-of-factly.  “I did that deal.”

“At least it’s Armani,” Lisa reminded him, trying to break the tension.

“Well that changes everything, doesn’t it!” Curtis said as he paced.  “I’m sure people will overlook the tackiness of this outfit knowing its sterling pedigree!”

Nobody said anything for over two minutes before Kleinman had the guts to break the silence and state the obvious.

“Curtis, I know you’re nervous.  It’s natural.  Expected.  This has become—YOU have become!—big fucking news.  It’s like you’re getting married; you’re getting cold feet.  Trust me, I know, I’ve been there four times.”

Cue some well-needed nervous laughter from all.

“But you’re almost there,” he continued.  “A half hour to go.  Look how far you’ve come!  Right now, you’ve got just one more step to go, one last choice to make—red or black.  That’s all you have to think about.”

Curtis sighed and slumped into an oversized distressed leather couch, sounding like a free-falling stuntman hitting an airbag.  A semblance of a grin did its best to crack through his lips.

“Yup, one last choice,” he said. 

“You made your mind up on which color yet?” Kleiman asked.

“No, still up in the air,” Curtis replied.   His grin grew wider. Full ear-to-ear.  “And besides, even if I did, you know I couldn’t tell you.”

“No harm in asking!” Kleinman laughed and threw up his hands.

“But lots of harm in telling,” Joey said in mock menace, repeatedly punching his open left hand with his clenched right fist.  

Joey jumped on Curtis and hugged him.  Kleinman and Lisa stood back and breathed relief. 

“Dance time,” said Curtis as Joey pulled him from the couch.  He hitched his pants, buttoned his garish jacket, straightened his hair and did his best Chubby Checker impression.  “Come on everybody, let’s do The Spin!”

---   ---   ---   ---  

Even though the weather was a sunny 60 degrees (a good 10 degrees higher than the usual February average), those who gathered to see The Spin live at the Wynn properties were dolled up in furs and foulards. Socialites, high-rollers, local celebs and well-dressed wannabes nudged up against one another and blew air kisses to those they couldn’t reach across corridors and gaming tables. The whole scene—and indeed a scene it was—was reminiscent of glory days when multi-million-dollar prize fights were the town’s top attraction. 

The Spin, however, had eclipsed the numbers and the hype associated with boxing or UFC or even the Super Bowl.  Estimates on the North American betting line alone topped $2 billion, while guesses on international action doubled or even tripled that.  Dead presidents led to dead precedents.

All over the Wynn, the unprecedented had become the norm as well.  Since noon, roulette wheels at all tables ground to a halt, opening a five-hour window dedicated exclusively for bets on The Spin itself.  All restaurants had been turned into differing, and escalating, levels of VIP service, with The Spin beamed live within.  (Even the Sports Book section had been converted into an exclusive cigar-club arena at $250 a seat, with all screens focused on The Spin.) All staff members were dressed in either red or black, except for a handful garbed in jarring, rhythm-breaking green to pay homage to the unspeakable you-know-what. 

Curtis exited the express elevator and was met by Polly Kamins, who walked him over to where his limo was waiting.  Kleinman shook his hand and saluted.  Joey embraced him in a loud, back-slapping hug.  Lisa gave him a long kiss on each cheek, followed by what could be interpreted as a knowing wink. Curtis leapt up on the SUV’s chrome step, waved goodbye, and climbed into the back seat.  He felt like an astronaut on one of those old Apollo or Gemini missions. 

The vehicle was vast, almost as big as his suite, with just about the same amount of luxurious amenities.   It was almost embarrassing being there alone.

“Seems like a waste just to go around the block,” Curtis shouted at the driver, who may have been in another area code.

“That’s quite the trip for me,” the driver responded over the intercom system.  “Sometimes I get booked just to go from one end of a casino to the other!”

Curtis didn’t know if he was joking, but given the surreal nature of what was going on outside the limo’s tinted windows, he didn’t doubt the driver.

To his right, the Schwinn bikes were still humming.  Above him, despite the morning’s tragedy, ad-pulling single-engine planes crisscrossed in the sky like mosquitoes.  High-definition projections of his image and the Fox logo painted the Wynn’s backside walls.  And as the limo made its final left turn onto a closed-to-traffic Las Vegas Boulevard, Curtis shook his head in awe.  Polly was right. Literally. People.  As far as his eyes could see. Just people. An ocean of humanity, parted neatly in two by what seemed to be a mile of rent-a-fence. 

They cheered and shouted as he drove by.  They held signs, some hand-painted, others rudimentarily printed, saying things like “I Put My Life Savings on Red!” or “Come on Curtis! Daddy Needs a New Pair of Shoes!” or “Better Red Than Dead" or "Once You Go Black, You Never Go Back.”  They waved and jumped and tried to spin in mid air in tribute.

“Un-fucking-real,” said the driver.

The two helicopters had already gently deposited Kanye and Jay-Z on the elevated stage, and just as Curtis passed under it, surrounded by hundreds of fist-pumping teenagers, his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. 

“Strange,” he said to himself, “I thought I had turned it off.”  He looked down before turning it off for good.  It was yet another well-wisher, one of the hundreds he’d received in the past 24 hours.  But this special well-wish was particularly well-timed.

“Mr. Stanfield?” the intercom buzzed.  “We’re here.”

Curtis crouched as he made his way through the limo’s cavernous seating area to the window frame that separated him from the driver.  He reached over and handed him a $100 bill as a tip, then leaned in and whispered something in the driver’s ear that left him laughing.

“Sure thing!” the driver said.  “That’s just the way I like it!”

White-gloved Wynn valets opened up the limo’s back door, and Curtis was sucked into a vortex of crazy that stood between him and the casino’s front doors.  Mixed among the Stop Predatory Gambling disciples were more fans, but these were more fervent, even more desperate than the ones that lined the strip.  They were crying and fainting. 

“Curtis, touch my baby!” one wailed as she held out a filthy child in diapers.  “Bring my baby good luck!”

Curtis ducked behind his security detail and plowed his way into the Wynn Encore, where Cojo was waiting with his microphone. Cojo danced and feigned fawning over Curtis’s clothes, and asked a bunch of questions that Curtis thought to be somewhat  over-the-top.  He tried to answer wittily, but couldn’t concentrate over the noise, the lights, the people and the camera flashes.

Somehow, his official chaperone squad delivered him on time to the doors of the Encore Theatre, where they waited for the somewhat unfamiliar sound of Blue Oyster Cult as his cue.  At the first note, Polly herself put her hand between Curtis’s shoulders, and gave him a shove.

“Go make history!” she shouted above the din.

And what din it was.  The crowd went crazy as Curtis made his entrance and walked down the aisle toward the stage.  Sheer pandemonium. 

Climbing the lucky seven steps to his on-stage position, Curtis tried to focus on who was who in Team Red and Team Black. The smoke and the lasers and the frantic, multi-color Vari-Lites made it hard to see, but Curtis could make out the Kardashian sisters, Donald Trump, Kirstie Alley, Charlie Sheen, Joan Rivers, Sylvester Stallone and Kathy Griffin clapping along to the music.  Even though his senses were being carpet-bombed by electronic stimuli and internal emotion, he had enough composure to shake his head ever so slightly and mouth the sentiment “Oy…” as he performed the pre-determined bow to each team.

At that moment, two overhead spots erupted like volcanoes, illuminating the positions of button-pusher Muhammad Ali and the quintet of lever-pullers.

The countdown drum roll cracked the sky and caught Curtis somewhat off guard.  He actually quivered a bit as the rapid snare snaps brought all the other noise and commotion to an immediate halt. 

Curtis remained in a slight state of shell shock as the $4 million commemorative chip was brought to him.  Standing upright in a Tiffany silver box, Curtis plucked it out from its velvet pinch and rolled his thumb and forefinger over his embossed profile that adorned it. It was way heavier than he figured it was going to be.  “Good workmanship,” he thought.

The drum roll, while lasting only ten seconds, seemed to linger for an eternity in Curtis’s head. 

The anticipation was suffocating.

Heart thumping.

Cold sweating.

Finally…the sharp cymbal crash.

And as the world waited for Curtis Stanfield to reveal his “this or that” decision…he chose “the other.”

In the first unchoreographed move of the night, Curtis spun on his heels and turned his back on the two teams, the pusher, the pullers and the spinning wheel on stage. 

Then he flipped $4 million dollars worth of iconography high over his shoulder.

As the commemorative chip slowly arched its way through the air, as the audience in house and around the world gasped, as celebrities and executives looked on in bewilderment, Curtis turned his body 90 more degrees north, took 25 more steps into the wings and out a door to the theater’s loading dock.

The chip landed with a soft thud on the roulette table’s velvet layout, bounced a couple of times and spun on its axis for a bit before finally flattening out to a stop, smack-dab on the intersection of numbers 17, 18, 20 and 21.

The silence and disbelief inside the Encore Theatre held in suspended animation for a few seconds before crumbling under a pile-driver of outrage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please!”  Ryan Seacrest pleaded as he bounded across the stage trying to regain control of what had turned into mayhem.  “We’ll get to the bottom of this!  In the meantime, once again, here’s The Black Eyed Peas!”

As is usually the case in an earth-shattering moment, its catalyst becomes enveloped in a vacuum of eerie calm.  Curtis walked through the valley of the shadow of his cataclysm with uncanny poise.  As people scrambled around him, he leisurely, deliberately climbed into the limo for a scheduled pick-up he had arranged less than a half hour ago.

This time, he wasn’t left alone in the vast passenger temple.

There waiting for him was a familiar face. 

A stunning, long-haired blonde. 

One who jumped on him with glee and smothered him in wet kisses.

It was Rockwell, a little worse for the wear and tear, some bald patches where fur once was, but still the same happy-go-lucky mutt he’d always been before the accident.  He was joined in barking frolic by Shaynie, who bounded over the window frame into the back seating area like an equestrian champion.  Curtis’s Armani suit was soon covered in more dog hair than corporate logos.

“Uh, where to, Mr. Stanfield?” the intercom buzzed.

Curtis replied slowly, drawing out each syllable and slapping each consonant with a sense of fatigued liberation.  It was almost as if every word or two was its own unique sentence.

“Just drive,” he smiled. 

“And keep going. 

"Keep going.  Until we reach Sunday.”

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Next week:  THE EPIC EPLIOGUE!

The Spin, Chapter 13: At the Epicenter of the Whirlwind

Anybody out there still following this?  You've got one more week.  Too much going on in setting up Curtis and co to lay down the finishing touch.  Next week, I promise, The Spin actually takes place.  And then I take this story on its next journey.  But until then...fun times and more questions.

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 13:

At the Epicenter

of the Whirlwind

 

From the seed planted by the frustration with his monthly financial statements less than a year ago, it had all boiled down to this for Curtis Stanfield: the night before, the morning after, and The Spin itself.

The night before was nothing less than utopian.  The "Who We Are and Wow We Got Here" set-up show ran on Fox and chewed up the overnight ratings.  The timing couldn’t have been better—the nation was still reeling from a heart-stopping Super Bowl game that was decided in overtime the Sunday before, the broadcast of which Fox used to incessantly promote the hell out of its two-part The Spin special.

Curtis watched his show on giant HD screens set up in the Wynn’s Tryst nightclub amongst friends, sponsors, media and guests of the casino who gathered for what was called a private party, albeit less-than-intimate with a crush of over 1,500 people. Although originally scheduled for the Encore Theater on the other side of the property, the party was moved to these cozier confines as the theater rattled with preparatory activity for the next night’s main event.

The screening was followed by a Barnumesque ceremony where Steve Wynn himself unveiled a specially-commissioned work of art to commemorate The Spin: a 25-foot-high, steel and crystal roulette wheel that rotated vertically like a Ferris Wheel, designed by renowned large-scale sculptor Will Ryman.  The Spin’s gigantic, perpetually turning disc would become—like the brass statue of Elvis Presley a few blocks away at The Hilton—an eternal calling card outside the Encore’s front door.  To top off the evening, Curtis sipped Coppola’s Black Label Claret (Official Wine Sponsor of The Spin) from his seat on a specially constructed stage in the club and watched Green Day perform a spirited 75-minute set of their hits in his honor.

While this was the culmination of one of his earliest and most personally exciting demands, Curtis couldn’t resist looking away from the on-stage mania to sneak peeks at two folded documents tucked into his jacket’s breast pocket. 

The first was a legal agreement drafted by Sidney Tusk and signed by Miranda for a lump-sum, final financial settlement of $1.5 million.  Despite the good fight, she was only entitled to what Curtis had earned while the two were together, and this round figure finally put an end to the squabbling and mounting legal costs. 

Good thing, given the contents of the second document, which was a Final Report provided by Lisa.  It listed all 32 Official Sponsors of The Spin, ranging from both Johnnie Walker Black AND Red (Official Spirits of The Spin, both now to be mixed with Red Bull as the Official Drink of The Spin) to Verizon Wireless (Official Wireless Carrier of The Spin) to Wrigley’s Big Red (Official Chewing Gum of The Spin).  Adweek Magazine had just labeled The Spin “The marketing bonanza of the year…perhaps of the Millennium so far,” and although only February, named Team Curtis “Marketers of The Year.”  Lisa’s comprehensive six-page doc also listed spin-off, licensing and ancillary deals like TV shows, story rights, speaking engagements and the like.  Finally, most importantly, it listed the sum total of all these deals:  $11,785,000.

“How’s that for a Valentine’s Day present?” she wrote at the bottom by hand.  “Now what are you buying me?”  She overlaid her swooping cursive scribble with a fiery red lipstick imprint. 

--   --   --

Given the whirlwind at which he was at the epicenter, Curtis was racing with adrenalin and found it a little hard to get any rest that night before. 

The morning after didn’t help.

Even though ensconced in an upper-floor suite, Curtis was woken on Spin Day by the hubbub of megaphones, chants and a strange whirr coming from the ground hundreds of feet below.  Looking out his panoramic windows, he gulped when he identified the source of the vocal clamor—a massive protest by the anti-gambling lobby that surrounded the Wynn like a human moat of sign-toting screamers.  As for the machine-like hum, he rubbed his eyes at the bizarre vision of hundreds upon hundreds of lycra-clad bodies on exercise bikes.  Yup, Schwinn had carried out their PR mission/threat of hitching on to Curtis’s wagon by mounting the World’s Biggest Spin Class, and had rented out space out front of The Palazzo hotel across the street to do just so.

Of course, the red light on his phone was flashing, too.

“Didn’t want to wake you buddy, but figured you’d better know,”  Joey’s familiar voice said on the message.  “Two small planes tailing ad messages for ‘The Pull’ and ‘The Toss’ crashed in mid-air.  One pilot’s dead, the other parachuted to safety, but is in hospital with eight cracked ribs and a ruptured spleen.  Kleinman says serves ‘em right for trying to step on our event, but told me to tell you that if anyone asks, you just say how saddened you are.

“Don’t let this get to you!” he continued, amplifying his voice and injecting it with a soupcon of upbeat.  “We’re almost there!  See you at rehearsal!” 

After enjoying a half-hour multi-head, multi-directional shower (“Feels like a horizontal thunderstorm,” as Lisa described it) in his 400 square foot bathroom, Curtis left his suite, winked at the two bodyguards flanking his door, and made his way with them down a secret express elevator to meet Polly Kamins, Fox’s choice as Stage Director for The Spin’s live broadcast.  Looking like a lion with sharp feline features and flowing mane of sandy brown hair, the veteran was waiting to walk him through the detailed and precise process of putting his life on the line in front of millions of rabid viewers.

“Sorry about the planes this morning.  And the protest,” she opened.

“Thanks.  It’s awful.  And silly,” Curtis shrugged. 

“Okay, now with that behind us, I have to make sure you’re up for what’s in store.  This is going to be like the military.”

“I’m ready,” Curtis assured her with a salute.

With Joey, Lisa, Kleinman and Curtis’s star-struck parents looking on from the sidelines, Polly explained that Curtis would be snuck out of the hotel and into an SUV limousine, which would start the persistent, multi-camera coverage of his every move.  The limo would be driven around the block, then down Las Vegas Boulevard through a phalanx of fans; “Kind of like Moses parting the Red Sea,” she explained.  After passing directly under the Kanye/Jay-Z performance, the limo would pull up to the front door of the Wynn Encore.

“What about the protesters?” Curtis inquired nervously.  “How will we get rid of them?” 

“We won’t.  Darnell thinks it makes great TV.”

“You’d think that Fox set it all up themselves.”

“Wouldn’t put it past ‘em,” Polly smirked.  “Wouldn’t be the first time, either.”

With a path cleared by the combined efforts of private security and the Las Vegas police force, Curtis would then head down a sparkling red carpet (with a distinctive black stripe down the middle), where he would be met and interviewed by Steven “Cojo” Cojocaru, the madcap fashion guru who spices up celebrity entrances at the Oscars, Emmys and other high-profile showbiz events.  After an hour kibbitzing with, and commenting on, the parade of stars gathering for The Spin, Curtis would be Cojo’s closing subject.

“This segment is a big plus for your sponsors,” Polly added.  “Be ready for him though, he’s probably going to make fun of your outfit.” 

“Won’t be hard,” Curtis said under his breath. 

“After that, the cameras will follow you as you walk through the casino to the theater doors.  We’ll hold you a few seconds, and time your walk-in to coincide with the opening notes of Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘The Red and The Black’.  Then, you walk down the aisle, to the stage, bow slightly to each of the ‘teams’ on stage and, voila!  Pick your color!”

Curtis breathed a slight sigh of relief.

“Not that simple, though,” Polly cautioned.  “We’ve modified the standard roulette procedure because of the star involvement and the one-time nature of your bet.  At first, the cameras will focus in on Muhammad Ali as he presses the button to start the wheel.  Then they’ll cut to the people pulling the lever to release the ball, then cut over to you. 

"And because the ball will take about 10 seconds to slide down the tube and drop into the wheel, we want you to wait until it does before you make any move.  The whole thing will be accompanied by a drum roll, starting at Ali.  Your cue is the cymbal crash and trumpet blare that puts a button on the roll.  Once you hear that, and ONLY when you hear that, can you lay down your chip.”

And what a chip he would lay down.  Over and above the collector’s line of commemorative “The Spin” chips the Wynn properties would use exclusively for two weeks prior to the event, Curtis would be given a distinctive token, hand-crafted out of titanium, by show host Ryan Seacrest, to make his bet.  The denomination on this chip would be a record $4 million, 40 times the value of the previous most valuable chip ever, the $100,000 baccarat chip at the Paris, Las Vegas casino.  It would also mark the singular largest table wager in the history of gambling.  (While The Spin was based on Curtis’ earlier net worth of  $3,878,422.97, the Wynn group wanted a more media-friendly round number, so they fronted an additional $121,577.03, which Curtis would re-pay if he won…and be irrelevant if he lost.)

“The placing of the bet has to be timed and choreographed to the second.”  Polly was almost chiding him now.  It’s the way she always got things done—three parts excitement, one part fear, wrapped in a cloak of “been there, done that” expertise comfort.  “Don’t ever forget that we’re going out live.  Any questions?”

“Not right now,” he said although his head was swimming upstream. “Maybe later.”

“We ain’t got a lot of later left, big boy.”

Curtis looked at his watch.  It was 12:43.  The Spin was scheduled for 8:00 p.m…but 8:00 p.m. Eastern time, which made start time 5:00 p.m. Vegas time, a little more than four hours away.

The convoy of limos delivering celebrity members of Fox’s Team Red and Team Black had already stared to flow through the hotel’s stately entrance road, bringing flashes from the paparazzi, squeals from the gathered throng and even louder shouts from the protestors.

The hills were alive with the sound of mucus.  It was the cacophony of lunacy, the clatter of madness. 

Curtis rode up the express elevator thinking that in just a scant few hours, this would all be silenced. 

He hoped.

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To be CONCLUDED next week...

The Spin, Chapter 12: Deftly Planting the Conqueror's Flag

I know exactly how this is going to end, which is why the level of absurdity is ramping up even more.  Kinda tipping the direction with Curtis's introspection, but you knew that there was somewhat of a surprise ending lurking, didn't ya?  Anyway, next week we got the conclusion, followed by the epilogue that I'm still working on.  But until then, here we go!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 12:

Deftly Planting

the Conqueror's Flag

The Fox deal brought yet another member to the Team Curtis party, this time a powerful agent at CAA in Hollywood named Martin Kleinman.  Since the fateful Kimmel show walk-off moment, Curtis had been pursued by a gaggle of agents, managers and cigar-chomping shysters laying even more promises of riches and a brighter tomorrow at his feet.  Although still spiced with a sense of grandeur and hype, Kleiman was the most demure.  That and his love of animals (whether actually true or merely well-researched by his assistants) sealed the deal. 

"Everybody's so different," Curtis explained to his parents during a late-night catch-up call, echoing the words of Joe Walsh in the process. "I haven't changed.  I think.  Uh, I hope."

While ecstatic with the latest development, Lisa was certain that signing with such a stellar agency would put Joey's nose out of joint, but Joey actually welcomed another player in the mix.  He knew he was way out of his league negotiating broadcast deals and beyond, and wisely figured he'd learn a whole lot more by climbing into the backseat and handing the ultra-connected Kleinman the steering wheel...not to mention position his own future standing in Hollywood.

With The Spin, Team Curtis had successfully created, constructed and climbed Sugar Mountain, but by finessing the Fox deal, the bespectacled and prematurely-grey Kleinman deftly planted the conqueror's flag atop it.  In a format similar to that of American Idol, he pushed Fox to break The Spin into two separate, but connected, specials. 

The first would be a one-hour "Who we are and how we got here" set-up overview that would focus on Curtis and his life, the history of gambling and the nature of odds and mathematical probability. Guests would include well-known celebrity gamblers like George Clooney, Matt Damon, Tobey Maguire, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Jennifer Tilley, Celine Dion's husband Rene Angelil and Steve Wynn himself.  Less famous but equally as interesting would be Sir Earl DeMontague, a broom-mustached Brit who is the world's foremost expert on roulette as well as the brainy John Allen Paulos, a renowned professor of math at Temple University in Philadelphia and the author of eight myth-busting books on numbers and statistics. Show #1 would culminate with a push to the "real show," the live broadcast of The Spin itself, and all the bombastic brouhaha that would embrace it.

"Even more impressive," Kleinman explained at a team meeting in CAA's majestic Century City headquarters, "is that for the first time in its history, Fox is splitting the project's producing responsibility between three different divisions, Alternative Entertainment, Sports and Digital."

"Which means?" asked Joey.

"These guys don't play well with each other, even though they're in the same big sandbox," Kleinman continued through sips on a Diet Coke.  "The fact that they're coming together for you is big industry news.  It's an unprecedented one-two-three punch that mashes up the drama of a championship sporting event with the superstar puffery of a New Year's Eve show, broadcast live on TV and steroid injected via the Internet."

Said puffery would include a lengthy guest list of checkout rack magazine-level celebs plunked in plush, multi-tiered, horseshoe-shaped love seats surrounding a specially-constructed roulette wheel onstage at the Encore Theater.  The seating would be spilt in two, to signify "Team Red" and "Team Black."  Depending on The Spin's ultimate outcome, the winning "team" would benefit from a $500,000 windfall donated to five charities of their collective choice. 

The guest list would also feature six very diverse performing bands: three from "Team Black," namely The Black Eyed Peas, Black Sabbath and the Black Keys; two from "Team Red," The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Simply Red; as well as The Blue Oyster Cult (a seemingly off-color choice at first glance, but explained via the tune "The Red and The Black" from their album "Tyranny And Mutation"). Lucky fans would see it all from the theater's usual seating area directly opposite the star-studded on-stage grandstands; slightly less lucky ones would watch on giant screens set up throughout and outside the casino.

Instead of leaving the fateful spin in the hands of a seasoned croupier, the wheel itself will be set in motion by the push of a button by perhaps the most famous celebrity on earth--Muhammad Ali (whose advanced Parkinson's Disease sadly prevents him from actually spinning the wheel). As for the ball of destiny, it too will be removed from any human contact, fed instead into the spinning wheel via a Tiffany-designed sterling silver tube (official Jewelry Provider to "The Spin").  To pay homage to old and new Vegas in the process, five of the city's icons--Wayne Newton, Don Rickles, Elton John, an Elvis impersonator and a contortionist from Cirque du Soleil--will simultaneously pull the lever to release the ball and set it down the tube on its path to destiny.

To top things off, the show would open with the Kanye/Jay-Z duet performed live in front of thousands outdoors on a closed-to-traffic, two-block section of Las Vegas boulevard.  The pair would be lowered by two separate helicopters (yes, one red, one black) onto a round elevated stage balanced on the pedestrian bridge that connects the Wynn properties to the Fashion Show Mall across the street.

Yeah, just another modest Fox event...

The license fee for the spiraling extravaganza? 

"Eight whopping figures!" laughed Kleinman.  $10 million, to be exact, one of which goes right to Curtis.

"But th-th-th-that's not all folks," he continued, parodying the Porky Pig stutter that used to close all Warner Brother cartoons.  "I managed to bring 20th Century Fox, the film studio, to the table, too.  They bought the rights to Curtis' life story for another million minimum, plus a producer credit, plus a nice piece of back-end, Blu-ray and cable sales...the works!"

Lisa could hardly contain her joy, letting out a little squeal at the news.  Joey slapped a very self-conscious Curtis on the back and upped Lisa's squeak with a whoop.

"You guys have done a great job to this point," Kleinman said.  "You've got a lot on your plate between now and The Spin.  Take care of your corporate deals.  Make sure Wynn is happy.  Leave Curtis and Hollywood to me.  This is a monster."

"Frankenstein or Jeffrey Dahmer?" Curtis thought.

"Don't go tweeting this now!" Kleinman barked as Joey reached for his iPhone.  "You'll fuck everything up in half a heartbeat!  All of this is confidential. It's up to me and Fox to decide what is said when."

"No problem boss," Joey smiled.  He was sucking up and learning his place at the same time.

As the words left Joey's mouth, Curtis's own iPhone vibrated.  It was yet another text message, but for this one, he was able to look up and see the bright, smiling, impeccably made-up eyes of the person who sent it. 

Like the email from Fox, Lisa's text spoke volumes, and it spoke loudly, in only four words.

"Our tomorrow starts today ;)"

Curtis smiled back, but it was more a smile of resignation than one of confidence.  He still didn't know exactly where she was going with all this.

Later that night, after yet another round of congratulatory cocktails, celebratory meals and late-night strategic drinking sessions, Curtis opened the balcony doors in his top-floor suite, sat down to a 270-degree view of the Los Angeles environs, and took stock of his situation.

Things were crazy, but under control. 

Just not under his control.

He was indeed living the dream, but perhaps somebody else's.

His professional future--once a simple straight line--now resembled something like the root structure of a large tree.

His longtime girlfriend had left him, and was aggressively suing him for half his net worth.

One of his beloved dogs was on life support.

He was followed by wrist-whispering bodyguards in public.

He was invited to every major cultural and social event, and asked for his opinion on subjects he had little knowledge or interest in.

People talked about him, judged him, text messaged him, emailed him, tried to call him, shouted out to him in public, sponsored him, laid bets on him, put their faith in him and depended on him.

He was not just a "personality," he was an industry.

Curtis never really wanted for any of this; all he really wanted was to let a simple red or black/double or nothing choice determine his fate.  In essence, that's precisely what happened, but fate turned out to be a lot stronger a force than he could've imagined, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and tossing him headfirst into a whirlpool of mad change.

Everything was now being taken care of by others.

Everything was out of his hands.

Well, almost everything.  All that was left for Curtis Stanfield to do was choose the right color on Spin Day.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 11: Now With Turbo-Charged, Intoxicating Additive!

We're getting down to the wire, folks.  One or two more chapters after this and The Spin comes to its tumultuous climax.  This one was perhaps the most fun to write yet, despite the fact that I'm on vacation in Vail. But in between the snowboarding, the dining and drinking, there's a storythat has to be advanced. This week, we pump up the volume.

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 11:

Now With Turbo-Charged,

Intoxicating Additive!

In more ways than one, it was a good thing that Joey had accompanied Curtis on this trip. Despite the somewhat hallucinatory numbers being bandied about in the palatial penthouse boardroom of the Wynn Hotel during the finalization of his contract for The Spin, Curtis's head was adrift miles away.

Luckily, the hit-and-run driver did not kill Rockwell, but left the dog with a broken leg, a nasty head gash and some pretty harsh internal injuries.  Although currently stable in the canine version of a coma, prognosis for Rockwell's recovery was fair-to-good, which kept Curtis in Nevada instead of back home in Denver...well, at least physically.

"He'd better sharpen up," Lisa whispered to Joey during one of their many off-the-record conversations in the hours after the accident. Lisa had little use for animals, except if they were the focal point of a charity fundraiser somewhere. "There are so many interviews he has to do in L.A.  He's being treated like an A-lister. And then we're off to New York, where they're traditionally a little more cynical..."

Respecting what he was going through, the collected Wynn heavyweights cut Curtis some slack.  He left the room frequently to call the Baker Animal Hospital, to deal with the increasingly hysterical dog-walker Andrea (and her incessantly apologetic parents, who agreed to help supervise the walking of Shaynie and to keep a vigil over Rockwell at the hospital), and to deal with Sid Tusk, who was peppering him with urgent questions about Miranda. Joey was left alone to handle last-minutes questions and concerns.  Ever the shrewd operator, he took advantage of the situation and Curtis's shaky constitution by negotiating a 2.2% cut of the casino's gross take on The Spin to benefit the ASPCA...as well as a matching bonus bump for Team Curtis as well.

"If life hands you lemons, make lemonade," Joey summarized the situation as he sat down with Curtis for a relatively sombre celebratory drink at Wynn's aptly-named "Surrender" nightspot.  "And if life hands you lemonade..." he said while reaching over the bar for a bottle, "...pour some vodka into it!"

Curtis managed a smile, his first real one since landing.  True, he felt guilty hitting the road and leaving his dogs alone, but it wasn't the first time, and definitely won't be the last given all that was going on.  He knew that this type of accident could happen anytime, anywhere, to anyone.  Yeah, even to him.  Meanwhile, Joey had parlayed the incident into another win-win; based on the estimate of a $10 million betting line at the two Wynn properties alone, Curtis and downtrodden animals all over the country would each enjoy a windfall of over $200,000.

"A perfect metaphor for my life," Curtis said in response to Joey's toast. "A little sour, mostly sweet, and now new and improved with turbo-charged, intoxicating additive!"

Although he spoke the words ironically, with the sing-song overemphasis of a late-night infomercial pitchman, Curtis had no idea how prophetic his off-the-cuff remark would become.  Or how far turbo-charging can push the limits of mass intoxication.

Lisa had nothing to worry about.  The interviews in L.A. went well.  In retrospect, perhaps even too well, given what one of them inspired.  Curtis was glib, charismatic and punched way above his weight while facing the lights and pressure of network TV.  His major score was how he diffused a potentially embarrassing (and one can argue politically incorrect) situation when, after a commercial break on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, he was ambushed by two stunning models, one native-American, the other African-American, flanking his seat.

"So tell me Curtis," Kimmel gleamed, much to the delight of his uproarious audience, "The nation is buzzing about your upcoming spin, but I'm giving you the chance to choose right now--the Red or the Black?"

"Tell you what," Curtis replied confidently and instantly, as if his response was scripted and rehearsed. "I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'll take both with the promise to be unduly influenced by at least one of them!"

The audience roared even louder as he got up, took each by the arm, and made an early exit through the center curtains.  Kimmel was left speechless, and could do nothing except shrug his shoulders as he cut to commercial.  The next day, the clip was viewed by over 1,000,000 people on YouTube...including Mike Darnell at Fox.

To paraphrase Neil Armstrong, that was one small answer for a man, one giant leap for The Spin.

Turbo-charged? With that memorable moment, what was once merely viral went coast-to-coast/up-and-down mainstream, which in turn, ratcheted its contagion level to quantum viral.

Intoxicating? What was once giddy drunk was now LSD hallucinogenic.

The Spin had now become part of the international vernacular, driving up interview requests, sponsor bids and world-wide betting interest.  Cognoscenti in the gaming industry believed that the amount of money to be wagered on The Spin would no doubt set an American record (it was already on pace to easily surpass the aggregate wager spent on the Super Bowl), and many went as far as predicting that it could rival the billions bet globally on the last World Cup. Forget the mere "Red or Black?"; there were hundreds of side bets being offered at casinos, on websites and through bookies all over the world, ranging from what number the roulette ball would actually stop on, to the weather on Spin Day (as it was now officially labelled in an international copyright), to the race, age and height of the croupier who would actually spin the wheel.

The nation wasn't merely "buzzing," as Kimmel put it, they were obsessing; obsessing on Spinmania to the point of needing professional therapy.

The flow of jokes from the late-night talk show hosts was incessant but mere child's play; Sunday mornings saw serious panel show pundits put aside usual subject matters like the unravelling of Europe or the increasing Iranian nuclear threat to debate the far-reaching socio-economic ramifications of The Spin instead.  President Barack Obama himself made a brief appearance on Meet The Press, and while he praised Curtis for "resurrecting the traditional American risk-taking entrepreneurial spirit," he cautioned against "the lack of middle ground of such decision-making," before adding "Where would we be if Kennedy and Kruschev were this all-or-nothing impulsive?"  And what started tongue-in-cheekly on ABC News This Week, when George Stephanopoulos divided the electoral map into "Red or Black" states instead of the traditional "Red or Blue," quickly festered into a national compulsion, changing every day depending on a country-wide poll asking a statistically-significant sample which color they believed Curtis would lay his life saving's down upon.

The Spin even had its own, unofficial theme song, as Hip-hop superstars Kanye West and Jay-Z teamed up to pen a jackhammer back-and-forth rap tune, with Kanye singing the pugnacious "red" lines and Jay-Z handling the more mellifluous "black" parts.

Then there were the copycats.  Losing out to Wynn didn't sit well with the demanding executive suites of other massive gaming corporations, so the call went out to find other people willing to lay their lives on the line at the turn of a card (MGM Grand's "The Flip"), the roll of a pair of dice (Mandalay Resorts' "The Toss"), the outcome of a slot machine (Las Vegas Sands Group's "The Pull") or a hand of online poker (Caesars Interactive Entertainment's "The Click").  Lottery corporations in 32 states also jumped into the "me-too" pool, each launching some variation of a "one or the other"-themed instant-win scratch-off card. The whole notion of "double or nothing" trickled down to the smallest of retail outlets, where restaurants, supermarkets, clothing shops, pharmacists and even strippers offered the more daring of their customer base a version of The Spin, albeit in reverse, where the flip of a coin would result in a freebie win or a twice-the-price loss.

It was Curtis in Wonderland, with Joey as the Mad Hatter and Lisa as the Queen.  But not everything spinning down the rabbit hole was rainbow bright and peachy-keen.

The hashtag #RedorBlack was still trending daily on Twitter, but so was #RedBlackwhocares, #stopthespin and #gamblingkills.  While Curtis's personal Twitter account had over 1 million followers, nearly as popular was "The Spun," a fake-Curtis stream of commentary that included gems like "Great news!  Satan and Kraft Foods have agreed to be the co-sponsors of my soul." The Spin's official Facebook page had over 1.5 million likes, but also lurking in cyberspace were dozens on anti-Spin pages, some by goofy kids but most by anti-gambling and anti-capitalism activists (who had taken to this almost as vehemently as they did to the Occupy movement of 2011).

Darker still was a spew of menacing blackmail, complaints and stalkers.  Some claimed that they had originally conceived the concept of The Spin and that Curtis had brazenly ripped them off ("You'll be hearing from my lawyer!").  There were marriage proposals ("Spin into my arms, my darling, and we can be together forever!") and paternity suits ("She looks just like you."). There were mafia-esque demands to know what color Curtis would choose ("...or else!") and even some nasty threats on his life ("Remember, you've been warned!").  The FBI--yes, it got to that level--classified most of these of the "irritant" variety, but agreed with Lisa's earlier suggestion that Curtis be followed by an around-the-clock security detail.

There was such an continuous deluge of email, text messages, couriered envelopes and phone calls pouring into Team Curtis that Lisa and Joey (and the three-person help staff they had to hire) had a hard time dealing with it all, never mind separating the wheat from the chaff.  Which is why they almost missed the four word email from Fox Alternative Entertainment which said in most minimalist terms:

"The Spin? We're in."

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 10: Riding The Rocket!

How did you spend your New Year's Day?  Below is how I spent mine--an afternoon of about 1,800 words of bliss for me, and of twists and turns for Curtis Stanfield and co.  Enjoy and Happy New Year!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 10:

Riding The Rocket!

Back in the helium-filled, heady days of wine and roses at SnowBalls, everyone in the high-tech industry seemed to be unanimous on a common definition of “up”; they called it “Hockey Stick Growth.”  Even the bronze-skinned Silicon Valley VCs whose only exposure to ice was in a tumbler of single malt understood the metaphor: a prolonged shaft’s-length period of ground-level survival followed by a sharp, 45-degree kink of skyward expansion along the blade.  Hockey Stick Growth was the Holy Grail of every young company and their hopeful investors.

But what Curtis Stanfield was now experiencing redefined “up,” literally turning the meaning of Hockey Stick Growth on its head.  Since deciding to put all he had on one spin of the roulette wheel, Curtis enjoyed a brief period of blade-on-terra-firma stability before his life exploded straight-to-the-heavens, almost a full 90-degrees north, along a seemingly never-ending shaft of sleek carbon fiber.  As Joey used to say, and was now saying again, Curtis was “riding the rocket.”

On November 11^th, a mere two weeks after taking a week off to get his head together, Curtis decided to leave work for good.  At least temporarily.  The Spin had now become his full-time job.  Curtis Stanfield’s daily existence had taken on the feel of those clichéd movies where one’s life flashes by in a series of spiraling newspaper headlines and overlapping magazine covers, interjected with snippets of TV talkshows and news reports…the only difference being that this was actually his life, not a clichéd movie.

He closed his eyes and opened them again just to make sure.

“Would you like something else to drink?  We’ll be landing in about a half-hour.” said the perky flight attendant, silver tray in hand.

“Uh, maybe another coffee, please.  Espresso…”

“Double, with no sugar, right?”

“You got it,” he smiled.

Curtis heard the whir of the Clover single-serve machine as it ground up and pushed out his cup of steaming liquid perfection.  He was flying to Las Vegas on Steve Wynn’s private jet to sign the contract that made the Wynn Encore the much sought-after “Official Home of the Spin.”  The decision wasn’t an easy one, but despite the fact that Caesar’s was willing to top any “appearance bonus” by 15% (Wynn’s offer maxed out at $375,000), Curtis believed that “You dance with the one that brung ya,” and since Joel Fischman had called first, he felt a somewhat schoolyard friendship-like allegiance to him. 

Well that, and the fact that the hotel’s stated theme, “Life Imitating Art,” kind of spoke to the Dali-esque surrealism Curtis currently found himself living. 

Oh, and let’s not forget Wynn’s offer to displace country legend Garth Brooks from his home at the Encore Theatre for a pre-Spin private concert/party featuring Green Day, Curtis’ favorite band. (“You’re tempting fate,” Joey warned of that booking.  “The one thing that can kill this whole red or black thing are the greenies.  Who’s your second-favorite band?  Get them instead.”)

Curtis pinched the dainty porcelain Italian coffee cup between his fingers and brought it to his lips.  He looked across the aisle at Joey, who was asleep, yet twisted like a Keith Haring character in the oversized throne of an other-worldly-class airline seat.  With no access to a cellular or wi-fi signal, Joey’s connection to his Twitter feed was lost, which seemed to deprive him of all energy.  Unplugged may be a fine state for a rock band on MTV or in a cozy club, but it left Joey deflated, out of commission and ultimately silenced. At least until landing.

Which was a blessing for Curtis, who could finally find a few minutes to concentrate on the daily report prepared for him by Lisa.  She opted out of the Vegas portion of this jaunt to concentrate on finalizing the three-day media whirlwind of major talk shows and news outlets in Los Angeles (one of her shrewdest moves was convincing the Wynn organization to pay for a prominent publicist who had pumped up and placed other viral phenoms).  Working this close to her shone Lisa in a different light; beneath her frivolous and decorative veneer was a harder-working pro than Curtis could’ve ever imagined, notwithstanding her success as a money manager.  The semi-superficial schmoozer was part of the act. 

Curtis wondered if her recent come-ons were as well.  (Come to think of it, he wondered if they were even come-ons at all.)  With Miranda out of the picture—except for the lawsuit, of course—Lisa seemed to drop pretenses and jar his brain with comments like “This is just the beginning for us” and “Who knows how far we can go together?”  She had also invited him to be on her arm as her date at her firm’s star-dripping annual Christmas Charity Ball in New York, saying that “the exposure will be a good thing for both of us.”

He pulled out a clear plastic folder from his Marc Jacobs messenger bag, a good luck present his parents bought for him, spread out Lisa’s daily brief (not so much anymore as it had now grown to three pages) on the tray in front of him, and read…shaking his head slightly in disbelief with every new bold paragraph heading.

OFFICIAL CAR

I know you’re partial to BMW with your “Dance with/first-in” policy, but I’m urging you—BEGGING YOU!!!—to take the Ferrari offer. Red is their DNA, and they don’t want to lose this to the Germans.  Drive up to the casino in a 599 GTB Grand Fiorano (did you see the star mag wheels?) and it’s YOURS!!!  So is $250,000 if you do a promotional photo shoot and give them logo placement on Spin day.  And they’ll fly you to any F1 races you want to see for the next year (as their VIP guest!!!) 

OFFICIAL DRINK

Joey was right.  And this is unprecedented.  We got Red Bull AND Johnnie Walker Black.  Not just both of them, but both of them TOGETHER!!!  They’ve agreed to CO-BRAND a new mixed drink called “The HeadSpin,” basically Bull and Black shaken together like a martini.  Gotta give them logo placement on Spin day and agree to appear live in person at 10 bar promotions over six months.  But it’s worth $200,000.  EACH!!!

LOGO PLACEMENT

Good news—you’ll be wearing Armani.  They like the fact that Ferrari may—WILL!!!—be part of this…an Italian thing, I guess.  Anyway, they’ll outfit you, head-to-toe from today (actually, as of our trip to LA. when I take you to their celebrity outfitting showroom) until the end of next year, and integrate all the logo patches we need.  And they’re interested in follow-along projects, too.  $125,000 plus $10,000 EVERY TIME you mention their name on-air or in a national print story.

SPEAKING ENGAGEMENTS

Hope you’re sitting.  You said you were the mouthpiece for Snowballs, right?  You spoke at all the industry conferences and the audiences loved you, right?  Well, you’d better be able to live up to your hype, because I got you hooked up with the WASHINGTON SPEAKERS BUREAU!!!  Yeah, you and Elie Wiesel, Tony LaRussa, Arianna Huffington, Tom Peters, Dubya Bush…need I go on?  You START at $35,000 per chat, which are MAX one hour!!!  Already got three booked—National Entrepreneur’s Conference (San Francisco) and Worldwide Gaming Summit (New York) in January and CTIA (Atlanta) in the fall.  More to come!

OTHER ENDORSEMENTS

These are some of the categories we are trying to lock down.  Only categories in which we have received at least one firm offer are listed.

• Mobile Phone
• Athletic Shoe
• Breakfast Cereal
• Casual Dining Chains
• Pizza Delivery
• Luxury Watch
• SLR Camera
• Bank
• Beer
• Credit Card
• Shaving Product
• Pet Food (Can’t forget the doggies!!!)
• Airline
• Energy Snack
• Cruise Line

MISCELLANEOUS

Read these carefully, Curtis.  They are “bubbling under,” but still important.  Especially the last one!!!

1)   The WWE called.  They want you to be what they call a “guest ring announcer” at Wrestlemania XXX (roman numerals for 30; don’t get scared!)  Fee is only $20,000, but it’s post-Spin and good for our future

2)   Bodyguards.  I know we spoke of this before, but money attracts crazies.  We don’t want nothing to happen to you before The Spin.  After that, we’ll re-evaluate, ha ha.  But I found a great company; big guys, will take a bullet, and VERY discrete.  NO HEAD-BASHING, I know…

3)   Still embryonic (love that term!!!) but could be the biggest of all.  Got a call from Mike Darnell’s office at Fox.  He’s the guy in charge of, also the brains behind, all those wild reality shows there.  American Idol and evetything after!  They want to talk about the possibility of a live special the night of The Spin.  Still vague, but they’d need to work a three-way with the casino to move forward, so I guess we can—we WILL!!!—explore further once you and Joey lock things down with the Wynn-folk (love that term, don’t you?  Sounds so homey!!!)

“Mr. Stanfield?” The perky flight attendant derailed his train of thought. “Can you please put your tray up?  We’re in our final approach to McCarron Airport.”

“No problem,” Curtis said.  He didn’t even have time to digest the page labeled LOS ANGELES MEDIA PLAN but caught a glimpse of names like JAY LENO, JIMMY KIMMEL, CRAIG FERGUSON, CONAN O'BRIEN, L.A. TIMES, CNN and VARIETY in Lisa's bold caps as he shuffled his papers into their plastic sheath and tucked that into his bag’s back pocket.

“Good morning, amigo,” Joey croaked, re-assembling into a reasonable facsimile of a human being.  “How’d you sleep?” 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Curtis smiled, his head still buzzing from the report.  He was tired, but it was a good fatigue, one that came with a sense of accomplishment…although he hadn’t really done anything yet.

About ten seconds after touchdown, as was his tradition in the years criss-crossing the continent for SnowBalls, Curtis turned on his iPhone, amazingly beating Joey to the punch.  He smiled.  He only had one new message.  Such is the case without Miranda (she’ll be back, he kept thinking) and with Joey next to him.

Steve Wynn’s ground staff boarded the plan and swiftly grabbed his and Joey’s bags.  Curtis put on his sunglasses as he exited the plane and headed down the tarmac to the glistening ebony limo that awaited him.  He pumped up the phone’s volume to hear the message as he walked. 

“Uh…um…Curtis?  It’s Andrea.”

Her message was blurted out in spurts, in between gasped breaths and muffled sobs. 

“I don’t know how…to tell you this…but when I was walking the dogs on Blake Street this morning…Rockwell…Rockwell…well…Rockwell got hit by a car…”

Steve Wynn’s ground staff dropped the bags and swiftly grabbed Curtis as he fell to his knees.

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To be continued next week...