The quandary is one we can all relate to: what to do about dinner when you're going to the Staples Center. It doesn't matter who's on the bill--Clippers, Kings, Streisand, Garth Brooks or women's tennis (Oh, wait, the WTA moved that tournament to Spain because no one went to see it in LA)--the show starts at 7:30. That means getting yourself downtown through traffic that is comically awful six nights a week. The only clear sailing on the freeways is on holidays and Sunday nights, but if your tickets are for a sporting event, then the Sunday start time is more likely 3 or 5 P.M., when, cruelly, weekend traffic can be at its worst.

Nothing whets the appetite like this color combination of iguana green and slaughterhouse red.

Last week I dragged my friend, Jacob, to his first Lakers game. I say "dragged" not because seeing the Lakers is an unpleasant affair (unless they're in one of their disjointed, sloppy-defense moods), but because, Jacob, like many of the folks your correspondent had dated since becoming single, isn't sure why watching grown men throwing any type of ball around for any reason is compelling entertainment. But having initiated many a non-believer to the grace and drama of sports through patience and expertly-scalped tickets, I had no doubt the combination of beer, Kobe and Jack Nicholson--"Oh my God, that's the back of his head!"--would make for a worthy spectacle.

Getting to the arena in time for, at best, the pre-game shoot-around, or, more realistically, just in time to snag a large Sierra Nevada from the beer kiosk as the national anthem starts and make it to my seats before the rockets red glare, means leaving the valley at 6:15. Because I am addicted to my iPhone and all its sleek, gleaming glory, I knew from Google Traffic (iPhone's most underrated feature) that the Hollywood freeway was a solid line of red all the way to downtown. That meant busting out my patented, uber-stealthy 134 to the 2 to Alvarado to the alley behind Jack in the Box to Olympic Boulevard shortcut. (And I've left out a few steps in case you're getting any ideas.)

We pulled into my top-secret, classified, I-refuse-to-pay-$10-ever free parking spot (again, don't ask) at exactly 7:19, which gave us eleven minutes to smoke a joint, make out, walk four blocks to the arena, negotiate security and get to our seats. My default walking speed is something akin to that of a tweaker with stolen goods in his pockets, so we made it to the main gate with three minutes to spare. The lines to get through security always look intimidating, but in truth, move quickly. This is because the obligatory metal detectors are set so forgivingly low that Robocop himself would barely earn a pat-down. My own cell phone didn't even set it off--and I was talking on it! From there it's a straight shot from getting your ticket zapped by the scanner brigade to the myriad food and beverage choices that skirt the lower level.

But we were pressed for time. It wasn't so much for my benefit; I wanted Jacob to have the full effect of Staples Center pageantry--from the darkened, strobe-lit introduction of, "Your Los Angeles Lakers," to standing ten men deep in the line for the urinal. Fortunately, the evening's Star Spangled Banner butcher was long-time LA Phantom and overwrought scenery-chewer Davis Gaines, who could, without breaking a sweat, unearth a staggering seven minutes out of "There once was a man from Nantucket..."

The seats I had bought from a friend were in the 200 level, which for the most part provides decent viewing of any sporting event and acceptable acoustics at concerts. The 300 level, so named because of its elevation above sea-level, sits high above three floors of skyboxes. Thus, viewing from up there is equivalent to watching a game from a seven-story window. Basketball and hockey are about as appealing as they would be watched on the screen of an iPod--well framed, but miniscule. For concerts, however, the upper section is a waste of money, unless hearing a muted version of a song that ended thirty seconds ago is your idea of a good time.

There is one and only advantage to the 300 level, the City View Grill. This outdoor patio concession area is the lone place in the building where you can purchase garlic fries--delicious, not too greasy, and when paired with a Jody Maroni sausage and a Red Hook beer, the best meal in the building. And that includes the "sumptuous spread" laid out in the suites, which I have also tried. Those buffets of chicken wings and macaroni salad manage to have that institutional feel, like you're eating in a rehab facility or a Delta Crown Room.

A seasoned Stapler knows exactly how soon to bail out of his seat before halftime in order to beat the rush, for me it is with about ninety seconds remaining in the second quarter. That's precisely enough time to catch the elevator (those giant, archaically slow escalators are strictly for the amateurs), order food and snag a choice table before the lines become impossible and the quest for seating becomes vulture-like. You also want to be done eating before the 87 remaining cigarette smokers in Los Angeles burst forth from the building and collectively exhale the purified air they've been forced to breathe for the last 24 minutes of court time. Technically outdoors, but walled on three sides, the patio gets smoky by the end of halftime, which is great news to those enjoying the other marvelous perk of the patio, the unofficial "stoners' corner", a poorly-lighted dead space wherein the medicinally-inclined can spark up a fatty, shielded behind a wall of cigarette smoke.

In Part II, I order something to eat and explain the biker chicks....Coming very soon.