Dear Padma Lakshmi,
I know that you are beautiful, I know that you are a fine cook, and you love 70s music, and that you are a fine hostess of
a reality show that I almost enjoy. You are exotic, you are very eloquent and I believe every word you say. When you talk about
growing up in New York in the 70s, I feel a strange kinship with you, as I spent almost 6 hours of my life in New York in the 1970s. I still write about it. You have a scar. Your scar is sexy. I'll give you that. I have a couple of sexy scars, too. One is on my right leg and one is on my right leg. It may sound like they're both in the same place, but you see...they're not. Both were created as I was doing mundane things. The one on my thigh occured when I was taking out the trash. The other when I was jumping on stage to be a rock star. I have to tell you though, I don't love you. When I was listening to you on the radio talk about the "lubricating" effect of "Let's Get It On." I'm down with that, but seriously, I'm in a long-term relationship. Thankfully, it's not with Salman Rushdie, but we all make mistakes, right. No, I'm in love with a beautiful woman and we have a family together. Not that you're not a beautiful woman, and not that your words and my thoughts have not generated a strange kinship...they have. I just can't be a part of your world right now, you see, although the way you work with spices, that's pretty rockin'.
Truly Yours,
Robbie Ryan
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