So we went to the Hornets game Sunday evening and it was very, very good.

We parked at the New Orleans Center and walked over to the arena. It was about fifteen minutes before tipoff, and the lines into the building were long and moving slow.

"Wait a second, Sonya," I said, "I bet club patrons have their own entrance!"

And they did. Instead of standing in line with hundreds of people, we got in a line with maybe six people in front of us.

Sweet!

We got inside and I asked an usher how we could get to our seats.

"Take this private elevator, sir," she said, pointing to an elevator, "and show your ticket to the elevator conductor. She'll tell you what floor to get off on."

Oh, yeah.

We got off the elevator on the appropriate floor and followed the signs to our section. I wanted a hot dog. Sonya wanted nachos. We walked through the club lounge, where ceasar salads, sushi, pasta and other chi-chi foods were available.

"Where's, like, the concession stand?" I muttered to Sonya.

"You may have to go among the common people to get a hot dog," she guessed.

"Yeah. Let's find our seat first, then I'll go get some food."

The usher sent us down the stairs...and down...and down...to the fifth row. There was one more actual row of seats, then two rows of floor seats and the media tables in front of us. Both team benches were on our side of the floor, to our left and right.

Our seats were center court - with their own armrests and drink holders! Incredible!

And that wasn't the best part.

Sitting on both of our seats were menus. A waiter came by to take our orders and we had our food before the National Anthem.

The Hornets lost to San Antonio, 92-90. But who cares? Luxury! Pampering! The joys of the better class!

From now on I'm not going anywhere where I don't get my own entrance and a waiter.