I can't decide if I like helicopters or not.

So, a little while back I mentioned this dude Imaginationn, a cognac roller with a posse who I often see down at Hidden Hills. We're kinda familiar, I'll comment on the new bespoke options for the Maserati Quattroporte, he'll clip us a couple Cohibas, you know the style. Anyhow, last weekend I'm down at the clubhouse tryin' to find which pocket of my bag I put my keys in (truth be told, I was pretty smoked up on the Jamaican tumbleweed, so it's a good thing I didn't find 'em), when I notice that a certain area of the parking lot is cordoned off and a few security dudes are at the perimeters. The cords weren't around my car, so I knew they hadn't seen me burning that bowl off the 15th and eating that sneaked-in salami sandwich, which made me feel like celebrating with some Chateauneuf-du-Pape at the clubhouse while my memory cleared.

So there I am, havin' not only gone in for the wine but also nibbling on some juicy porterhouse with merchant potatoes, when the whole place starts to get this subtle rattle. Like when you're ridin' in a car that gets a flat, and you think a helicopter is above you? Only this time, it really was a huey. I went outside to see what foreign dignitary or oil executive might have been touchin' down in my back yard, and slipped a couple of my slick new "name-only" business cards in my pocket (you know, the kind where you hand-write a personal, private number on the card based on the recipient).

By the time I get out there, a little crowd has formed around the landed huey and who is gettin' out of the pilot's seat but Imaginationn. Damn. That is a hell of classy move. We're talkin' next-level, here. Any chud with a couple hundred bucks can pull up in a rented Rolls, but landin' your own chopper? Stone-cold unquestionable. Oh, and before you ask: his logo, two roses making love to a clock, is on the tail. (It's kind of hard to describe. There's no penetration, or motion lines, but the idea comes across real clear.)

Right away, I know how to play it. It's his first time landin' his bird here, and he's gonna be high on the rush. I get back into the clubhouse dining room before he can see me. Before long he wanders in by his lonesome, and I glance up from my magazine and steak.

"That your bird I heard outside?" I ask.

"Mm-hmmm," he replies. "Real smooth. Lovin' it. Best investment I ever made."

"Maybe we take it out later and you help me look for my drive on thirteen," I say, smooth as day. (The tee shot on the 13th hole is along this huge ravine, and what with my hook lately, I been sendin' a lotta balls down that way, and a lot of people are familiar with my problem, which is becoming something of a local phenomenon.)

"You got it," he says, flyin' his classic handset hand jive sign. He walks off to the bar and orders a neat Herradura and some chicken goujons. Dude's style is live. I never would have thought to pair those two, but I immediately realize that the lime-chipotle relish the club serves with the crispy golden goujons matches perfectly with the tequila. Every movement of his is a statement of proof that the dude has polish seven layers deep. The dude has lacquer.

Since I'm the only other dude in the dining room he comes and sits opposite me at the table. No "may I," just an understanding between gentlemen that to have sat at any other table would have been a social abomination. Pretty soon he's offerin' to take me up in his ride and we go. He talks the talk and gets me a date at the dealership in Tempe. I'm jazzed. But now that I'm home, I'm...I'm of two minds about it. I won't kid you.

One the one hand, helicopters are fabulous. They are like the pedestrians of the plane world, all able to land anywhere, at any small resort or rooftop party. The helicopter is basically your ticket to any gig in the world, 'cause who is gonna turn away the guy that shows up in a half-mil piece of equipment. Everyone wants to know that man.

On the other hand, if a helicopter's engine goes out, you don't just float there like Mickey Mouse, all unaware that he's just walked off a cliff. A helicopter does not glide to a delicate stop. You are stone cold tuna-can meat, perhaps on fire for several minutes after crashing, your lips and ears doing that Raiders of the Lost Arc covenant-opening thing.

So, at this point, I really want to consider the copter, but for some reason I have developed this itchy phobia about them. I'm not really a phobia person, but it's like a gear in my head is sticking. Normally I'd just have the thing delivered, but something is telling me, "stay away." I don't know. I need to think about this. I shouldn't just buy a helicopter because Imaginationn got one. A helicopter is serious.