Gramelot: James Goldstein

Dallas Mavericks v Los Angeles Lakers - Game Two

See the man in the leather with no smile on his face standing next to a woman who has probably been on your television or in the magazines stacked up on the back of your toilet. See him posing against a backdrop of greenery, hulking glass windows stretching on for a few days behind him, catching a reflection of him and another model. They stand on caramel wood floors and everything looks positively Californian in its “Oh, man, that looks pretty fun”-ness.

The man is Jimmy Goldstein, probably billionaire. Goldstein has got a ton of love in recent years, NBA Twitter having taken off the way it has, but it seems like the praise and awe showers have slowed down. He’s a given, now. He’s the NBA’s biggest fan — Stern dubbed him a super fan. He’ll be at the biggest games and he’ll be court side and he’ll be sitting next to a girl that looks like she was built in a models-that-go-to-games-with-James-Goldstein factory. We know all this. But if you’ve begun to take the lavishness of Goldstein for granted, I’d encourage you to visit his Instagram feed. It is, quite truthfully, like what I imagine Dos Equis would craft for The Most Interesting Man In The World if he were to have an Instagram, save the shark wrangling.

His Instagram description says three things:

Fashion.

Basketball.

Architecture.

He doesn’t diverge from those three points too much, with one large exception: women.

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Goldstein got an Instagram around 65 weeks ago and christened his newfound discovery with a picture of himself and Dwyane Wade. Goldstein was in all black leather, as per his going out usual, and Wade was in a red carpet red suit jacket, lapels the size of Sbarro pizza slices, a white t-shirt underneath with a picture of Goldstein on it. Apparently the shirt was made custom by Wade himself. Since then it’s been nothing but girls, beaches, actors, actresses, artists, singers, fashion shows, shiny jackets, basketball and tennis. There’s probably an internet world some five months away that features a James Goldstein Instagram Picture Generator. Put him in Paris or the Galápagos Islands or Milan or his house or somewhere in LA or any ole pristine looking beach wearing some combination of wide brimmed leather hat, leather jacket/pants/boots, tennis clothing or swim trunks. You can pick from seven different types of girls arranged and ranked according to the likelihood that they’re going to smile. There’s also a celebrity option where he can take pictures with different celebrities. From Jeff Bridges all the way to Rihanna. James don’t discriminate.

To scroll through his Instagram is to live vicariously through a man who, his actions would seem to suggest, is living life exactly how he wants to. He’s enjoying himself and his riches and the things they can offer him. Multiple times a week he’ll post a picture with someone who’s at his place for some photo shoot. And this house — it was Jackie Treehorn’s place in The Big Lebowski. My goodness, this house. Goldstein went ahead and put up a proper night club in there. It’s called Club James and the pictures make it look appropriately unreal. One of those places that could look at home and exist in any decade from the 70’s on.

It’s a life altogether foreign to me which, I’d imagine, is why it’s so fascinating. The guy will be in New York one night for a game, then in OKC the next, then Portland the next. And somehow, some way, there’s a different model with him every time. He dresses like he’s playing a trick on everyone and he walks and acts like he belongs everywhere. He’s air, or something.

You see Goldstein at an NBA game, you see a man who has his run of what he wants. He goes anywhere on the court. Security says nothing to the guy. He has no pass, no special clearance badge. His “This guy’s good” is his outfit.

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Nobody knows how Goldstein got his money. He keeps quiet about it and doesn’t divulge too much information beyond saying he had some investments that worked out. I don’t know that I care that much. He’s living easy with his spoils. I fault no man for enjoying fruit. Gram on, James. Gram on

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