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It Smells Like Death In Here

We have a soft-spot for Kirk Kerkorian. He flies. He owns casinos. He was married once for a month. He names his firms after his kids. He was alive during the Roosevelt administration. (The first one). So we looked the other way when he invested in General Motors. Well, until one of our friends pestered us with the fact until the denial finally melted away. But we explained that away with a wave of the hand a quick "Well, he obviously knows something about their pensions that the rest of us don't. After all, we don't have access to the books, you know," and a good, stiff martini.
Then there was the Ford thing. We know, we know. We called in sick from home for two days straight. And now? What are we supposed to do? He's lost like ten billion dollars for fuck's sake. On automotives. I mean, what the hell? It's a culture shock scene out of Austin Powers or something. Like no one told him Prince Charles was divorced. Or that automotive stocks are three deep breaths away from cardiac arrest.
Look, people. My friend Linda's parents had her grandfather, who was quite wealthy himself considering their respective backgrounds, committed because he was spending $10,000 a month on lottery tickets. That was to "preserve the estate from irreparable harm." He wasn't even 70, that guy. And he wasn't nuts. At least, I didn't think so. He just liked playing the lottery. He liked those scratch tickets, had his favorite game that he preferred, studied the odds. He even won quite a bit of his money it back. No one ever heard from him again. Ever. There was the hearing. And then he was gone. Poof.
He's probably somewhere in a "facility" with a two-word name that is supposed to say "calm safe place to drop off grandpa to die rest," but actually hints strongly at the immediate presence of the grim reaper. You know what I mean. "Shady Grove" or "Whispering Cove," or something.
Maybe he's sitting in an old wheelchair that doesn't even roll anymore (where the hell is he going to go anyhow?) with a cheap, brown blanket draped over his legs. What's with that blanket anyhow? The "lap blanket." It is always so obviously cheap. Some leftover from its third estate sale. And the "facility staff" puts it on him rain or shine. I mean, if you are trying to keep the guy alive, I'm not sure why he gets the lap blanket in August. Or maybe I have the equation backwards there.
So Linda's parents disappear grandpa into the miasma that is the "elder care" industry (with lots of overlapping ownership and redundancy elimination owing to consolidation with the "death" industry) like he's Junior Soprano for spending $25,000 over several months. Then they take possession of his high-seven-figure estate and drop most of it into what can only be called a real-estate "compound" at the height of the bubble. Now its worth a bit more than zero.
See, I'm thinking Linda's parents and Kerkorian, much as I love him, should be sitting in a broken wheelchair at "Shady Grove," with a blanket draped over them in the middle of summer.
Ok, I take it back. I'm just mad because K2 never calls me anymore.

Kerkorian Cuts Ford Stake, May Exit as $1 Billion Bet Collapses