Cheese Nachos’

Just the sight of those luxury suites stacked three stories high like beachfront condos. Just the thought of what goes on in there, a privileged few fans having long-stemmed roses delivered for the Laker game, nibbling catered maguro sashimi as Shaq clangs another free throw off the rim.

It sickens us--the rest of us, the huddled masses wedged shoulder to shoulder with our chili cheese nachos and Diet Pepsi. What in the name of God and Grantland Rice has happened to the blessed viewing of our games? Evil surely lurks at the heart of the luxury suite.

We hold this truth to be self-evident. We know it in our bones. Until we step inside one of those suites. Until we feel the carpeting underfoot. See the glow of cherrywood cabinets, the gleam of black granite counters.

We want to hate this place, to poke fun at the chairs upholstered in purple, green and gold, the geometric fabric more than faintly reminiscent of an airport cocktail lounge. But those chairs are mighty comfortable and can be moved within arm’s reach of the wet bar. The couch is suitable for pregame naps. Disdain begins to dissolve.

Luxury doesn’t come cheap--the suites lease for $197,500 to $307,500 a year--but look at what money buys. Look at Rob Blake’s face the first time the Kings’ defenseman visits the suite that was negotiated into his multimillion-dollar contract so that he could provide a nice place for his family and for the underprivileged kids a charity will bring as his guests to most games. He had no idea how nice it would be: “It’s a little more than I expected.”

Dual refrigerators and an ice maker. A VCR and fax modem. We can’t help but admire the wide-screen television and its three smaller brothers, all four screens linked to a satellite that carries a live feed of the game as well as other games across the country. Won’t that be useful when the Clippers fall 20 points behind the San Antonio Spurs in the third quarter?

Best of all, the suites open onto a balcony that juts into the bowl of the arena, into the heat of the action. Two rows of stadium-style seats are made to look just like the ones in the common sections--our sections--above and below. Except these seats are softer and wider, and a server brings the dessert cart.

Imagine biting into a chocolate eclair as Bruce Springsteen croons the first lines of “Thunder Road.” The screen door slams. Mary’s dress waves. Admiration gives way to outright envy.

There is, perhaps, consolation for those of us in Section 332, the ones who climb to the last row and do so, like true mountaineers, without the assistance of oxygen. As we settle, breathless, into our seat--our 2 1/2-inches-narrower-than-their-seat seat--we take solace in knowing that even suite-holders must occasionally leave their cushy environs to use the rest-room.

Honest. Three-hundred-thousand dollars doesn’t buy so much as a urinal. Seems that toilets take up space, and the arena designers weren’t about to let basic human functions preclude even one of their 160 revenue-producing suites. Even so, the “public” restrooms on this very private level are adorned with porcelain tile and stainless steel partitions, delicate sconce lighting and even more of that black granite.

We have lived in apartments not half as nice.

Maybe that’s why Pat Sajak sounds apologetic when asked about kicking his shoes off and stretching out in the suite he shares with a major bank. “I’m not extravagant in other ways,” the game-show host insists. “I own a moderate number of pants.”

What the heck, Pat. This is L.A. If you got it, flaunt it.