I bought a new pair of pants with the cash tip that Michael Jordan's ex-wife gave me: a twenty, a ten, 2 fives and 10 ones. While she and her entourage were very kind, I must say I wasn't very impressed with Jordan's mansion. The facade looks like an art deco fortress, very cold and impenetrable with pine trees arranged to block views from neighbors, windows sealed shut with bulletproof steel blinds, giant refrigerator sized air conditioning units and a putting green in front with the branded initials: MJ. It must be an illusion, I thought to myself, surely the inside is a beautiful gilded palace. I carried their bags up to the front door and peered inside; it was just like any other large suburban house: a big platitudinous yawner. Meanwhile, Bob (the 2nd driver, whom has recently been fired) was visibly impressed and vigorously snapped photos with his cellphone, wearing his ragged pin-striped suit that draped over his starveling frame.
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