Let me tell you a little bit about Harold. Harold showed up all unassuming and polite. I was probably one of the first people to talk to him because I'm like that. He said his name was Harold and he was working in the galley. I said my name was Corey and I was the Ice god. That was that.
Then breakfast time comes rolling around and friggin Bobby Flay is in the kitchen. Full on white lab coat or whatever it is that they call it when a chef wears it. Hell, he mighta even had a hat, just kinda collapsed off to the side like the bakers in Bugs Bunny. This guy made crepes, or thin little pancakes if you're Ricky Bobby. He whipped up individual omelets. It was a sight. And a taste I guess too.
The food on the boat was just fantasgreat with Ricardo and his Puerto Rican turkeys and whatnot. But breakfast was just breakfast. Pancakes and scrambled eggs with some potatoes. Nah. Not with this guy. Went to town. Announced his presence with authority. But he had no jokes.
And it's funny. I know a few standups. They aren't usually the life of the party kinda guys. But they are funny on stage. Wonder why that is? Because it's just a job? Like you didn't often see me hitting or throwing things in the baseball days, but we weren't on the field. It would seem that with comedy, the field is life, right? Always working on your craft and all that? Seeing if jokes play or don't? I don't know. It's probably just the hurt talking because I love some jokes and feel like if you've got 'em, better flaunt 'em.
But that isn't the way it works. I am not mad at Harold. I just feel like we could have gotten weak, and when I say we I mean me. He laughed at me plenty. But we probably weren't laughing at the same time. I forget which one of my girlfriends got me with that one. But it got me. That's it. Our galley guy was a foul comedian and had me thinking he was some diligent pastry chef.