Star F**ckers
I see Tony Danza on 8th Avenue. It’s 5 a.m. on a Tuesday, and the sun is just starting to light the edges of the Park. I’m walking North toward home and bed, as he stumbles past going south, his eyes on the ground. I turn and instinctively begin to follow him. Drawn to him. I trail him for a block or two, my eyes on his beautifully trimmed hair. I watch as he crosses the street and enters LaFamiglia for a slice. I stay on my side of the dirty avenue, put my foot up on a leaky hydrant and light a square.
He eats the slice slowly, staring into space and chewing methodically. He’s clearly drunk. Halfway through the slice he adds more Parmesan. In the red neon of the “Open” sign I can see that he still keeps in great shape. He’s lean and tan; but it’s not a touristy tan. This is a slow luxurious tan; a bronzing one only receives through weeks of leisure at an exclusive tropical resort tucked away on a private island owned by the eccentric heiress to an oil and hotel fortune.
Tony Danza finishes his slice, wipes his mouth and walks out onto the quiet street. In two hours these sidewalks will be teeming with life. But now there was only Tony Danza and me. He left his greasy paper plate and the crumpled napkin on the counter. He could have thrown them in the trash 4 feet to his left, but he chose not to. He left it for the Mexicans to clean up. In this city the Mexican do everything. They cook the city’s food; Mexican as well as Chinese, Thai, Italian, and Greek. They also clean everything and deliver everything. Good people, but short. I’ve seen entire Mexican families all under 5 feet tall huddled together on the bus. It’s beautiful.
Tony Danza didn’t notice the Mexicans. They didn’t recognize him either. I guess you don’t catch a lot of Situation Comedy when you’re working 16-hour days in a meat packing plant in Brownsville, Texas.
A janitor for one of the big old pre-war buildings sprays the sidewalk with a high-powered nozzle. The mist cools the air and fills me with the promise of a new day. Tony Danza crosses the street diagonally back to my side. If I’m going to take him, now is the time. In a fair fight, he’d hurt me (he was former Golden Gloves) but with the element of surprise and his inebriation, I could stun him, and nail him with three or four clean blows.
This man made love to my former girlfriend. Five years ago she went to L.A. to audition for part on “Felicity.” While drinking late night with friends at some swank club, Danza chatted her up, got her drunk and charmed his way into her hotel room. She told me about it a year later. Her excuse: his celebrity and the novelty.
I was in love with her and devastated. Infidelity is difficult, but worse when the seducer is in the public eye. Because his face is so familiar, it wasn’t hard to create painfully vivid images of my lovely girlfriend and Tony Danza in all manner of heated scenarios. Now, the entertainer who starred in so many of my personal nightmares is weaving down the sidewalk 10 feet away.
He’s on his cell phone -perfect- I’ll come from behind; pop him in the side of the head with a bottle and run like hell. It would probably make all the newspapers: “Tony Danza Hit In Face.” I’d cut the article out and send it anonymously to my ex and her new husband. He’d surely question it and she’d reveal to him her liaison of years before. Then he, like me, would never, ever, ever, be able to watch “Who’s the Boss?” again.
I see Tony Danza on 8th Avenue. It’s 5 a.m. on a Tuesday, and the sun is just starting to light the edges of the Park. I’m walking North toward home and bed, as he stumbles past going south, his eyes on the ground. I turn and instinctively begin to follow him. Drawn to him. I trail him for a block or two, my eyes on his beautifully trimmed hair. I watch as he crosses the street and enters LaFamiglia for a slice. I stay on my side of the dirty avenue, put my foot up on a leaky hydrant and light a square.
He eats the slice slowly, staring into space and chewing methodically. He’s clearly drunk. Halfway through the slice he adds more Parmesan. In the red neon of the “Open” sign I can see that he still keeps in great shape. He’s lean and tan; but it’s not a touristy tan. This is a slow luxurious tan; a bronzing one only receives through weeks of leisure at an exclusive tropical resort tucked away on a private island owned by the eccentric heiress to an oil and hotel fortune.
Tony Danza finishes his slice, wipes his mouth and walks out onto the quiet street. In two hours these sidewalks will be teeming with life. But now there was only Tony Danza and me. He left his greasy paper plate and the crumpled napkin on the counter. He could have thrown them in the trash 4 feet to his left, but he chose not to. He left it for the Mexicans to clean up. In this city the Mexican do everything. They cook the city’s food; Mexican as well as Chinese, Thai, Italian, and Greek. They also clean everything and deliver everything. Good people, but short. I’ve seen entire Mexican families all under 5 feet tall huddled together on the bus. It’s beautiful.
Tony Danza didn’t notice the Mexicans. They didn’t recognize him either. I guess you don’t catch a lot of Situation Comedy when you’re working 16-hour days in a meat packing plant in Brownsville, Texas.
A janitor for one of the big old pre-war buildings sprays the sidewalk with a high-powered nozzle. The mist cools the air and fills me with the promise of a new day. Tony Danza crosses the street diagonally back to my side. If I’m going to take him, now is the time. In a fair fight, he’d hurt me (he was former Golden Gloves) but with the element of surprise and his inebriation, I could stun him, and nail him with three or four clean blows.
This man made love to my former girlfriend. Five years ago she went to L.A. to audition for part on “Felicity.” While drinking late night with friends at some swank club, Danza chatted her up, got her drunk and charmed his way into her hotel room. She told me about it a year later. Her excuse: his celebrity and the novelty.
I was in love with her and devastated. Infidelity is difficult, but worse when the seducer is in the public eye. Because his face is so familiar, it wasn’t hard to create painfully vivid images of my lovely girlfriend and Tony Danza in all manner of heated scenarios. Now, the entertainer who starred in so many of my personal nightmares is weaving down the sidewalk 10 feet away.
He’s on his cell phone -perfect- I’ll come from behind; pop him in the side of the head with a bottle and run like hell. It would probably make all the newspapers: “Tony Danza Hit In Face.” I’d cut the article out and send it anonymously to my ex and her new husband. He’d surely question it and she’d reveal to him her liaison of years before. Then he, like me, would never, ever, ever, be able to watch “Who’s the Boss?” again.
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