Sunday, December 17, 2006

My sisters in town, doing touristy things. I'm showing her the city and am strongly interested in dinner at Benihana's: the Japanese place where they ninja cook right at your table. My nephew runs off to the bathroom while we inquire about seating for four. It'll be about two hours, so we're in the lobby, awaiting my nephews return, to go to somewhere more convenient.

And then in a moment of complete surrealism, "Mr. Flav, your table is ready." I look over to see the waitress saying this and I see a giant clock stand up from the bar area and swagger through the lobby. I'll confess that I'm completely racist, and this could have been any black guy with a clock around his neck. But the way he tilts his head, and that grill of a smile he has, and the Public Enemy performance in Seattle earlier that day in which I heard he made an appearance. Holy shit, I just say Flavor Flav.

Outside, I'm explaining who we encountered to my sister; this digresses into a music history lesson about the foundations of rap music. I don't even like the guy, let alone watch his TV shows or listen to his music, yet I'm outside reliving the encounter in my mind. I start to wonder what he's talking about with the other people at his table. What's he ordering? Who's in is entourage? How does he like his Houjicha? Probably just like his women, hot and dark!

So yeah, I know Flavor, or 'Willy D.' as I call him. This gives me free access to any of the trendy late night clubs, and a license to ride any cast off hos that come my way. Stand back, bitches, Rory Fresh is in town.