Bobby Flay; Jacksonville Ninja

The Lady Friend and I are utterly addicted to the Food Network. Unabashedly so, actually, as we have found that way more 20-somethings than we would expect are also fans; we find ourselves talking about various aspects of their programming with others while we are out at bars, which, to be guileless, always strikes me as a touch odd. Most of my friends can all agree on a few things: Mario Batali seems like a cool enough dude, Giada De Laurentiis should wear less tops, Rachael Ray has to be on coke, Morimoto is (if I may be so frank) the balls, and Bobby Flay is probably the biggest bag of d on television (and that’s saying something).

I have a growing list of qualms with Bobby Flay: His utter disregard for his viewers well being in the flaunting of his man boobs [and it’s okay to have man boobs (“moobs,” if you will) -- hell, Lord knows I’ve got a set of my own -- but if you know that you’re going to be filmed for a television program which will be broadcast to the masses, that’s probably the day you want to leave the lycra and baby tee’s in the dresser. The man’s pert nips nearly ruined my entire weekend last Sunday when it was obvious that somewhere, I couldn’t help but to think, there was a frosty eight year old missing his shirt.]; his insistence on grilling everything and making all of his food look like it came straight out of an Applebee’s commercial; the arrogance it takes to host a show where he tricks people into thinking that the Food Network will be airing a half hour show dedicated solely to them, only to cut the amount of time they are on camera down to about four minutes, make the entire show (including narration) completely and totally about yourself, and then challenge the hoodwinked commoners to a “throwdown” (why does he insist on shadow boxing the camera?) and -- from what I have gathered -- assume that they should be honored that you (the Bobby Flay!) crashed their party (truthfully, my favorite part of the show is when he arrives to a party and 90% of the crowd has no idea who he is. I really, really want one of the competing cooks to say “Who the fuck are you?” after being challenged to a “throwdown”.)

But this morning I stumbled across an article by Alissa Rowinsky entitled "The Staggering Dicketry of Bobby Flay." While this article happens to be three and a half years old, it is still able to sum up my feelings in a strikingly analogous manner [and since it is that old, I guess it is fair to surmise that Bobby Flay won’t be changing his ways (or baby tees) anytime soon. Old maestro, new tune, etc.] If you’re a fan of the Food Network (and its okay to admit it), I highly recommend.


From future groomsman and perhaps the worst blogger in the world, Josh, comes a youtube clip straight from the rough streets of Jacksonville, NC. While I was never fortunate enough to see this cat while I was living out there, I can picture it perfectly in my mind, as this type of thing, as odd as it sounds, would actually be somewhat normal in the city of Jacksonville, a town known to have ATV’s with spinning hubcaps, a strip club named “The Driftwood,” and more check cashing, insta-credit, and pawn shops than one could shake a pawned stick at. Ghetto-fabulous, to say the least.

This would be reason number 17,834,032 that I do not regret, in any way, shape, or form, leaving Jacksonville.

I do, however, miss the quasi-surf. (and I apologize for the music in this clip.)

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Were those dogtags that I saw? Perhaps that present day owner of the gay pirate painting?
AL Word up Chief, First time on your blog, just wanted to show some support. I watched Bobby Flay ruin a Gumbo a couple weeks back on the channel and it tore me up inside. Not on my Mardi Gras inivite list, he'd probly try and flash his moobs, sicko.
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