Not last night but some previous night, I dreamed I was in NYC, and that Bobby Flay and I were buddies. He and I and some other people were having lunch family-style at a long table on the sidewalk. Bobby was seated to my left, wearing nothing from the waist up but an undershirt. Across the table there was a barechested teenage boy. He had a $10 bill in his hand: he was offering to give Bobby $10 for the undershirt. Bobby started to take the undershirt off, but I stopped him, and told him that nobody wanted to see either him or this kid barechested, especially not when we were eating, and that he had some clean white T-shirts in a drawer just a few seconds' walk away. Bobby went and got one of those T-shirts and tossed it to the boy and declined to take the 10 bucks, and everybody ooh'ed and ahh'ed about how generous it was of the multimillionaire Flay not to take what was probably all the money this poor kid had in exchange for a T-shirt. (Everybody but me. I didn't ooh and ahh. On the contrary, I was thinking that people were entirely too quick to treat Bobby like a saint. If it hadn't been for my suggestion Bobby would've taken $10 for an undershirt that was probably a little funky, and then sat there at the table barechested, making us all sick. As it was, I was a little disgusted by Bobby sitting next to me with his chest hair spilling out of that undershirt.)
No comments:
Post a Comment