Jul. 19, 2006 - 3:42 p.m.

Tyler Florence Fucked My Wife

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I know, I know. It's been HOW long? What can I say. Being a celebrity is bad for one's on-line social life. Yeah, yeah. "Cry me a river" you say. But you try juggling 11 different radio stations every day, wading through piles of beseeching e-mails from star-struck trailer trash (only taking a few of them up on their offers) and spending hours sorting piles of cash into hundreds and fifties. It's hell I tell you.

It's also pretty much untrue. Except for the being on 11 stations every day part. That's true. And it has kept me pretty well shagged out these days. Add to this the fact that our motorcycle racing schedule (also called "motorcycle crashing schedule" this year) is in full bloom, and I haven't had much time to plant myself in our goat vomit green wallpapered computer room for some time. Sorry.

For what it's worth though, if you're suffering without me, I'm at least having a ball. And that's what's important.

My wife's been having a pretty good time of it also, by the way. Riding coat-tails is something women seem to take particular glee in, and NewWifey(tm) is no exception. She tags along to the various functions and personal appearances I'm sent on, and invariably makes a fool of herself (and by extension, me) reverting to her midwestern Hee-Haw roots and having loud fun. And having loud fun immediately pegs one as a foreigner at any New York function.

Recently I was asked to show my face at a taping of our mid-day food show, which is hosted by FoodTV heartthrob and kitchen god Tyler Florence. The taping was held at a snazzy downtown steakhouse, right across from the NY Stock Exchange, on a Monday night (to be aired the following day).

NewWifey(tm) was invited also.

That afternoon while getting ready, as she was braiding my nose hair, NewWifey(tm) said "You know...I think you're getting a touch of grey in the hair around your temples."

I resisted my immediate urge, which was to retort: "It took this long being married to you for it to finally show up?" and instead just mumbled something about, I dunno, genetics and the ravages of time.

She stared at my head thoughtfully for a moment. "I think I have something that can cover it up."

"Ah, honey, I don't WANT to cover it up. It's only a few strands, and -"

But it was too late. Her backside disappeared down the hall to the utility closet, where she rummaged around for a minute before straightening up holding a tapered, cylindrical container with a little brush on the end.

"I have hair dye!" she chirped.

"Hair dye?" I said. "What are we doing with hair dye in the house?"

"Well you see, Blackie, my old dog, came down with mange when he got older. I felt bad for him going out to see his friends in the neighborhood with big bald patches all over his body. So I got this dye stuff and rubbed it on his skin. It worked great - he had real short hair so it looked very natural. I don't think any of his friends could tell. I just remembered I kept the remaining bottle around all this time."

"None of his friends could tell? Honey, dogs judge each other by the quality of their assholes, not how hirsute they are. I mean, it was sweet of you and all, but..."

"Look, regardless of whether it had any effect on Blackie's social standing or not, it did make him look better. I think we should try it on you."

"I don't have mange."

"Shut up. Sit. Stay."

"Ok, but I'd better get a biscuit..."

She wrapped a towel around my neck, shook the bottle and started slathering black varnish onto the offending hairs. The applicator was like a large mascara brush. I closed my eyes and sat back.

Not a minute passed before I heard "Oops."

"Um, honey, did you just say 'oops'?"

"No! It's nothing. Just..." She started to sound exasperated "It's just that you have this damned curly Sicilian hair, and it's so hard figuring out where boundaries are when the hairs don't lie flat. Hang on, don't move. I think if I blend it lightly with the hairs further back..."

She brushed some more.

Then some more.

Then...more.

Soon I felt the applicator all the way at the back of my head. From there, it next migrated to the top of my scalp, and then the hairline at my forehead.

"Honey? I don't remember going grey there."

"I told you to shut up. No, you're not going grey there, smartass. But this stupid dye is like 4 shades darker black than your black. When I tried to blend your temples in with the rest of your hair, it just look like you had two lumps of coal stuck to the sides of your head. So I kept blending and blending, and now...well, at least it's all one color again."

I hopped up and ran to the bathroom mirror.

Oh no! I looked like I was wearing a curly patent leather helmet!

"HONEY!! I can't go out looking like this! Even bad Elvis impersonators would laugh at hair this shiny!"

"Oh hush" she said. "At least you can't see your grey any more. C'mon, we gotta get going. It's late."

Since the taping was being attended by station execs, clients, and a number of listeners who'd shelled out a fair amount for the privilege of seeing how boring radio shows really are, I was expected to look like I hadn't just crawled out from under a 1952 Hudson Hornet with a transmission leak. For once.

I sullenly donned the Funeral Suit from the back of my closet. My hair was even darker and shinier than the sateen black lapels.

We embarked from Dangerhouse in the Mighty WRX, and arrived almost exactly an hour later on the other side of the Holland Tunnel in Lower Manhattan. In the parking garage a few bocks from the restaurant I gave the toad faced attendant my keys and a detailed account of the evisceration he faced should he attempt a "Ferris Beuller" joyride.

Inside Bobby Vans it was everything you'd imagine a restaurant located across the street from the NY Stock Exchange, catering to people who's salaries were greater than the GDP of many countries, would be. Burled walnut rugs, an ivory handled maitre d, cut crystal waitresses, silver plated solid gold silverware, diamond encrusted dinner mints, cordovan leather wine glasses. Basically, oozing Class out the ass everywhere.

And the food?

Let's just say that if I ever die, and St. Peter offers the choice between 72 (very experienced) virgins or a final meal at Bobby Vans.....

I'm going with the babes. Hey I may be dead, but I'm not stupid.

But in truth, the food was as good as the decor. Maybe better. I've cooked at a lot of nice places, but if I could make a Bearnaise sauce like that I'd quit radio and make a fortune selling tiny globs of it to businessmen at 45 dollars a pop. Like they do at Bobby Vans.

So we swept through the front door into a sea of society swells. There was complimentary wine gushing from fountains, and gilded waiters constantly beseeching the crowds to try this or another gold leaf morsel.

And then NewWifey(tm) spotted Tyler Florence at the other end of the room, seated behind a table signing copies of his new book. I knew I'd lost her then and there.

Sure enough, she made a single minded Irish beeline to the back of the room, swerving neither for tuxedo'd waiter, guest, or set table. All went crashing to the side as she plowed ahead. At the foot of the dais was Tyler's girlfriend, directing people to stay behind the yellow line and make their checks out to "Cash".

NewWifey(tm) sucker punched her in the ovaries, hopped up onto the platform and sat down in an empty chair.. Tyler looked down at his girlfriend writhing on the ground and turning fuchsia, then stared at NewWifey(tm) with his mouth open.

"Ahhhh, Miss, I think -"

"Hi, I'm NewWifey(tm)! My husband is part of the morning show at the same station as you! He's not really an important part though! I love you! Oh yeah, my husband is a really good cook! He can make ANYTHING! I love you! Can I have your autograph? Can I sit here with you?"

Tyler still hadn't closed his mouth. He was looking at her like he suspected a bomb belt was about to go off.

Then she stood up, put two fingers from each hand in her mouth, and let loose with a whistle that probably had cabbies in Chicago pulling over.

"YO, TOM! GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE AND MEET TYLER! AND HURRY - I GOTTA GO PEE!"

The entire first floor went dead silent in a heartbeat. The string quartet stopped mid-bow, the wait staff ceased pressing rare dubloons into peoples' mouths, and everyone - including the other members of my radio station who were there to make sure things went just right - turned and stared at NewWifey(tm). And then at me.

I stood there like a wax figure. A wax figure with a bleeding hand. The hand bleeding because a sudden spasm blasted apart the thick crystal wine glass it had been gripping.

click...click...click...click...

The new leather soled wingtips I'd purchased just for this event echoed on the marble floor as I stiffly marched the length of Bobby Vans Restaurant to be with my little wife. After a year and a half I reached the table.

"Honey, this is Tyler Florence! He cooks too! I've been telling him how great you are in the kitchen! Probably better than him!"

Everybody in the restaurant heard this. Even the cooks in the back.

Tyler looked at me with his head cocked, one eyebrow up.

"So...you're a good cook?"

I didn't know what to say. I mean, yeah, I cooked professionally for some years. I even worked my way through the stations to become sous chef at a nice French place.

But telling Tyler Fucking Florence! "I'm a good cook" is like telling Albert Schweitzer you're a good doctor because you can get the plastic backing off a Band-Aid. He's just that far ahead of us run o' the mill kitchen gods.

For some reason all I could think to say was "...I can make eggplant." (I can, too. But still....)

Tyler stared at me for a few seconds without moving, and then said "That's great. Eggplant. Good for you. Well...it was nice to meet you."

The restaurant crowd started humming with normal conversation then, and I made to head back to my table. I stepped around Tyler's girlfriend, who was now in the sitting position rocking back and forth holding her side.

"Wait!" yelled NewWifey(tm). "I want you to take a picture of us!"

I trudged back up the platform and took the camera.

"Can I be in the picture too? I can set the camera's timer and jump into the shot."

"With hair like that? I don't think so."

She and Tyler both laughed.

I snapped the picture then went to find our assigned table. I sat there alone for the remainder of cocktail hour.

NewWifey(tm) stayed with Tyler, chatting him up and occasionally kicking his girlfriend under the table. When cocktail hour ended and he had to set up for the show, she skipped back to me with a free signed copy of his cookbook and a flushed look on her face.

"He is SO CUTE!" she squealed. "And handsome! And what a nice guy! He didn't seem very impressed that you know how to cook eggplant though. But I told him you know how to make frozen ravioli with tomato sauce too. By the way, do you use that sauce that comes in a jar? I can never remember."

"No. It's homemade."

"Oh well. If I think of it I'll tell him later."

"Thanks."

Our table, which held 8, gradually filled up. There were probably 20 other circular tables like ours in the room, and when everyone had found their place and sat down there wasn't an empty chair left.

At that point the jewel encrusted waiters started making the rounds again. Each table had 3 waiters, a water boy, and a Groom of the Stool (just in case). 8 inch diameter, 5 inch thick crab cakes were placed in front of each of us as an appetiser, and there probably wasn't more than a tablespoon of binder between them all. It was just pure essence of the sweetest, freshest crab I've ever had. When that course was done the table was cleared, new tablecloths were put on, and bowls of Cream of Platinum with Shredded Money Soup were set down.

After that the tables were cleared and changed again, and the waiters started laying down the Filet Mignon. (Oh yeah - I called one of the waiters over and said, "Pardon me, but there are no steak knives at our setting." "You don't need them, sir." he said. And he was right. Those steaks were as tender as tofu...but without the self righteous blandness.)Then the producer of the show stood up, clinked a silver napkin against her Baccarat crystal menu, and told everyone to shut up.

"Ok, here's what were gonna do" she announced. "When I raise my hands like this, I want all of you to clap and cheer as loud as you can. When I lower my arms, that means you need to chew as quietly as possible so the folks at home can hear Tyler clearly. Ok? Great. Enjoy your meal, and the show."

The theme music started up, the producer raised her Armani clad arms, and we all cheered and clapped. Her arms went down, we shut up, and Tyler started talking. Piece of cake.

Now I've done maybe 17 or 18 thousand radio shows of my own since I started in the business in the late 80's. But goddam it, this guy was doing ONLY HIS SECOND REMOTE RADIO SHOW EVER was already better than me! And he's not even a trained announcer - he's a goddam celebrity chef! Where the hell does he come off being so talented at so many things? I bet he even rides motorcycles....

So yeah, Tyler went through his whole "We're broadcasting today from world famous Bobby Vans restaurant right across from the ALMOST as famous New York Stock Exchange" (obligatory audience laughter) "and our subject today, therefor is steak. How to buy it, how to cook it, how to eat it. But first..." Here Tyler pauses as he scans the room. He continues again when he spots where I'm sitting.

"But first I'd like to introduce a very special guest, someone who knows an awful lot about cooking also, and is a part of this wonderful radio station."

I straightened my tie. They obviously wanted one of the members of the morning show up there to help carry Tyler in case he stumbled. Showtime, baby!

"Please give a big round of applause, and welcome to the microphones of WXYZ....Mrs. NewWifey(tm) Dangerspouse!"

Mrs. Dangerspouse? MRS. Dangerspouse??

NewWifey(tm) leaped up and practically kangaroo hopped the entire distance from our table to his platform in one jump. She waved to the crowd and sat down.

I don't remember anything of the next hour other than the taste of 100% Butter steak, and the sound of my wife's laughter braying out at regular 15 second intervals.

The show finally came to an end, the crowd fired a last volley of riotous applause, and dessert was served. The producer thanked us all, told us to stay as long as we wanted and enjoy the open bar, and wished us a safe limo and/or private helicopter ride home.

NewWifey(tm) stayed at the broadcasting table talking to Tyler. Tyler's girlfriend sat on the other side of him looking glum.

Fortunately I was kept busy by a number of listeners who wanted to chat with me...after they couldn't get through to Tyler. And really, the listeners were all terrific. As much as I kid around about this job, perks like getting to interact with people who want to sleep with me make it all worthwhile. I signed some autographs, had my picture taken with a few of them, got and received a few cheap feels, and drank lots of very very very good wine.

So did NewWifey(tm).

You can imagine the state she was in after all this. The equation: "Irish Babe in Constant Estrus plus Hot TV Celeb plus Alcohol" should not be a hard one for you to work out. We left Bobby Vans around 10pm, checked our car out of the garage, and an hour later arrived back at Dangerhouse. The entire time she didn't say a word, just sat with her eyes closed, cheeks still flushed, her breathing low and ragged. The only movement she evinced was a slow but constant rotation of her hips into the back of the car seat.

Predictably enough then, my key wasn't even out of the front door lock when NewWifey(tm) tackled me from behind.

"Do. Me. NOW!" she yelled, as she tore at my suit.

This confused Casey the Wonder Corgi no end, I should mention. NewWifey(tm) doesn't normally bounce up and down on my back on her knees (well actually she does, but not usually within view of him). Worried that she might be attacking his meal ticket, he came charging over barking at the top of his lungs and grabbed a hold of her sleeve, trying to pull her off me. He almost succeeded, but wifey flung the Doggy Bag stuffed with several pounds of filet mignon she'd been able to cadge from the kitchen staff at Bobby Vans before we left. He pounced and had half of it devoured before it hit the ground. He didn't bother us the rest of the night.

Back to the action....

Somehow NewWifey(tm) managed to whip a polka-dot dress, push-up bra, panties, stockings and shoes off in one blurred motion. Then she did the same to me (sans bra), flipped me onto my back and climbed aboard.

And almost immediately...she climbed back off..

Now granted, I was a little peeved at her back at Bobby Vans. But like most men, I'm inclined to grant a general pardon to any naked woman who happens to be straddling me. So I really didn't want her to stop.

"Honey? What's the matter? Don't you want to make love to me?"

She looked down at me.

"With hair like that? I don't think so."

OUCH!

I think NewWifey(tm) was able to read the pain in my eyes, even through her alcoholic haze. Looking thoughtful for a moment, she reached over and grabbed her pocketbook, pulling something out and handing it to me.

"Here. Hold this over your face."

It was the Tyler Florence cookbook.

Oh well. A lay's a lay.

I pointed Mr. Florence upwards and NewWifey(tm) re-mounted. It did the trick. Almost immediately her hips started grinding down and around, permanently imprinting my ass cheeks with the weave design of our rug. Her nails dug harder and harder into my chest, and her breath became ragged and gasping. I really wanted to take a peek at what is always a thrilling sight, but I didn't want to stop the parade by moving the book aside for even an instant.

The back cover of Tyler's book is rather spare, by the way. There's a pretty, glossy picture of some watercress and two pieces of bacon tented over half a peeled avocado, the whole thing drizzled with olive oil and what looks like grey sea salt. I think the blurry red smear in the background is some kind of red salad leaf, although I'm not sure. I studied it for a good 10 minutes while being bounced around, but I never did figure it out. Three quarters of the white plate is visible, the edge of which fades nicely into a pale blue background. In lieu of catchy copy there is merely a logrolling endorsement by fellow FoodTV titan Mario Batali (a cook I admire as much as Tyler, btw, even though I hate his stupid orange clogs and think his exhortation - to buy the olive oil for each dish you make from the same region of Italy the dish is from - to be both ridiculous and exorbitant). The ISBN number is 1-4000-5237-8, under the heading "COOKING".

You may be interested to know I typed that last paragraph from memory. If you had spent 42 AND A HALF MINUTES studying the back of a book you would have it memorised also.

42 and a half minutes? NewWifey(tm) NEVER rode me for 42 and a half minutes when it was MY face she was staring down at!

Anyway, after her 4th or 7th or 15th shuddering explosion, NewWifey(tm) finally toppled limply off to the side and immediately began to snore. No cuddles. No "Thanks Pookie!". No demand for a post-coital roast beef sandwich and a beer (her usual). Just "zzzzzzzz...ZZZZZzzz ....*queef*....zzzzzzzz...."

I let her lay there while I massaged my numb arms back to life and brushed my teeth. Casey the Wonder Corgi was taking full advantage of her insensate form and had his snout buried a full 3 inches up her butt.

I put my robe on and sat down in the computer room, where I logged on to amazon.com and ordered 12 more copies of "Eat This Book".

42 and a half minutes??

I love Tyler Florence!

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Credit Due Department:

It was the World's Most Literate Pirate(tm) who, when she'd heard I'd abandoned it a month ago halfway finished, got me to post this entry by threatening to withhold my grog ration. So even though she - like my wife - made cruel fun of my looks in this video, I'm linking to it anyway. Enjoy.

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