Nov. 4: A house party on Nowolipki, in Warsaw
It was 2:30 a.m., and I just got back in Warsaw after a 7-hour bus ride from Krakow. I was exhausted, but I had to meet up with Nick, who would give me keys to his apartment so I could grab my stuff and catch my flight back to London, which was in three and a half hours.
Nick was indisposed. He was busy being the top of a drunken body pile on someone’s bed. I waited outside in the corridor.
A dude approached me. “Please, say hi to me,” he said. I obliged.
“I am big fan,” he said, Borat-like. “He is big fan too,” he continued, referring to a friend, who appeared presently before me, smiling eagerly.
Great. Here we go. Who could they be a big fan of? Jackie Chan? Or Jet Li, maybe. I waited for the moment of revelation.
“We are big fans … of Bobby Lee!” he exclaimed. “You know Bobby Lee? From Mad TV?”
I pretended I didn’t. I couldn’t let him assume that the first Asian guy he ran into somewhere in Warsaw would know Bobby Lee, and assume correctly, and then get away with it. He did.
I admitted I knew Bobby Lee. At this point whether or not he (or I) meant know him personally is beside the point. All Asians exist on a continuum, a yellow brick road, that leads inevitably, inexorably to Bobby Lee. In a way, if you think about it hard enough, and consume enough alcohol, I am Bobby Lee.
“You are the closest thing we have to Bobby Lee,” the guy added. His friend nodded in agreement. Case in point.
I may never stop laughing at this. And of course I will, later on today, listen to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”
Can’t wait to meet up in Paris.