Hold me closer, Tony Danza

This past week, I was in New York for work:


That's me in CNN's headquarters, at the Time Warner Center. It was pretty damn exciting.

But CNN isn't what I wanted to tell you about. What I wanted to tell you was the fact that I met this guy, y'all!



And we had a 20-minute conversation, a highlight of which was hearing about his boyhood involvement in a rollerskating - rollerskating! - gang called "The Shade Brigade." Allow me to explain.

So my colleagues and I are at a book launch in New York for one of our authors. The party is at Robert DeNiro's newly-opened Italian restaurant Ago, in Greenwich Village. My work buddy and I had been tromping around New York all day visiting producers, agents, and publishers, and had literally just changed into cocktail dresses in a bar down the street. (Let's not talk about my hair.) We approached Ago's private back room, where a dark, medallion-ed gentleman was guarding the door. After brief introductions, we were let in.

"Remember: there are two confirmed mafiosi here tonight," said my work friend. "Look for the pinky rings."

I did. I spotted Chuck Zito instead -- close, but no cigar.

Now, I've always considered myself so-so at cocktail parties. I prefer to strike a balance between full-on "working the room" (an expression I hate anyway) and cornering one unlucky soul in the corner. The trick, I think, is to find a couple of things you have in common with a new person, and go from there. So a gorgeous woman named Jerry and I started chatting - Jerry, among other things, shares a mutual love for H&M and thick-hair products - when I asked her how she knew the author.

"Oh, he's friends with my cousin Tony," said Jerry, gesturing to a gray-haired man standing about 10 feet away from us. And then, with the good-natured tone of someone who's used to performing this small charity for strangers, and no longer considers it pushy or off-putting, asks: "Do you wanna meet Tony?"

Over walks Tony Danza. He's smaller than you remember. He looks past me as Jerry introduces us, already starting a new conversation with someone else halfway across the room. I smile, Tony leaves, and Jerry and I resume talking about shopping.

I think with most famous-people encounters, that's where it ends. But wait.

My stupid high heels are killing my feet, so I get another drink and trip over to a long, wooden table in the corner of the room. Our author is seated there among displayed copies of his new book, shaking hands with several close friends and family members. There's only one seat left: I pull up next to Tony.

"So how do you know Phil?" I ask. (Phil's our author.)

"Well, we was kids togetha, ya know. Grew up wit dis guy. Used ta ride around on rolla-skates, wit shades on our faces - we was The Shade Brigade."

This charms me to the core, since I know our author grew up next door to the Mob. I get a visual of Tony Soprano on rollerskates - priceless, right?

"If your mom was anything like mine," I said, "she made you wear the elbow pads, the wrist guards, the knee pads - totally dorky. Your mom?"

And then, we were off and running. Tony asks how long I've been married. "Newlyweds!" he cheers. I told Tony about R., and the fact that he's a teacher. "I wanna go back an' be a teacher myself," he said. And what subject? "American History." You don't say! My dad wants to go back and teach American History. "Teachers are the best people," he said. "Gotta way wit words, like my buddy Phil."

Do you have any writing projects you're working on?

"Actually, I do - a cookbook. I wrote a cookbook with my son." (And it's true, he did). "I also wanna write a book about fame. Bein' famous is so different now than it used ta be."

I nod "knowingly." It sure is, isn't it?

Twice, people try to take our picture. And twice, he refuses. I wonder why? Oh well. I resist the urge to ask for a photo myself, and also to ask him who in fact was the boss - him, or Angela? Thinking better of it, I excuse myself for another drink instead. "Hey, nice to meet ya," said Tony. I rise and walk away, as he brushes off a stray tear. (Just kidding about that last part).

I've been wondering if Tony Danza is the type of actor to Google himself. Because if he is, surely he's seen this awesome shirt:



A shirt that I will someday buy for myself.

While we're on the subject of high school...

There are things in life you would prefer not to confess - your ugly middle name, your tendency to drive drunk, your tendency to completely forget your mother's birthday - but confess you must. Here's one from the vault.

As my buddy Jill and I were driving around last weekend, the day before her wedding, we got on the subject of makeup. Specifically, that which she would wear for the wedding. This conversation reminded me how really, really bad I was at doing my own makeup in high school, and I said so. "Yeah," she said, "you always had those WHITE eyes in pictures. That was a little weird."

Now, Jill's actually not talking about white, white eyeballs. Which can be achieved, I discovered only in my twenties, with the magic of Visine. What Jill is referring to here is the technique by which I applied undereye concealer. Like....way too much of it. You know pandas? Think the opposite of a panda.

The significance of this will become important in a minute.

Ok, so forget the normal-skinned face of me with two shining WHITE undereyes for a minute, and think about one time in high school where you were actually really happy. Shucks, proud of yourself. Lil ol' me? Getting honor roll? Playing 2nd chair in jazz band? Whatever. For me, it was something I - and most of the people around me, come to think of it - never really dreamed imaginable. I was the freaking Homecoming Queen, y'all.

I can hardly express how surprising it was that I was even on the ballot. And, I'm not trying to be obnoxiously modest here, I really do think it started out as a joke between friends. Apparently the rest of my class saw my name written on a piece of paper and thought, "wait - who? Oh her? Well, that's different. Why not."

The way homecoming worked at my school was that every year, at game halftime, the dance team performed a "novelty" routine on the football field. By "novelty" I mean 20 or so girls prancing around in animal costumes to a ridiculous pop song - in our case Rod Stewart - set to marching band music. Guess who was on dance team?

Ah...I remember it well. My special homecoming outfit tucked underneath my giant, smelly pig costume (yes you read that right. "Pig."). My proud mother on the sidelines, ready to help me strip off my hula-hoop pig body, my stupid pig head with the hole cut out for my face, and my even more stupid curly tail. I reeked. My hair, stuffed inside a tight hat of pink felt, was matted to the side of my face. I felt sorry for the girls around me.

But while the hair was a problem, guess what stayed exactly in place? The white undereye concealer!! Dark circles? Please! I may be sweaty, but so help me God, I am AWAKE.

I marched back out to join the other nominees - two cute cheerleaders in starched white uniforms, and two pretty twins who, if we're all honest, probably should have won this. I think their twinness was their only downfall - they were both so pretty, and so nice, and so perfect, that people truly couldn't decide. Oh, and the strapping Homecoming King was out there too. I think he was looking at the cheerleaders.

When my name was announced over the loudspeakers, everyone in our little circle was really shocked. But nice. After the hugs and the smiles and the "oh my God, Tolly!" from the twins and the cheerleaders, a crown was placed. A staff was handed. A cape was donned (are you snickering? Stop snickering). And finally, pictures were taken. Oh, were they taken.

Which brings me to my confession.

Those pictures haunt me every day of my life.

Why? Was it the hideously bad hair? Hair that was matted and on top of that, resembled a pyramid? Or maybe it was the outfit - oh my God, the outfit! A cardigan with flowers printed on it! What was I, six? Or how about the zits - of which I'm quite sure I had several of that day, bright and shining for all the world to see post-pig performance?

No. It actually wasn't any of those things. All of these sins are forgivable - from a certain angle (a faraway angle), the hair, the zits, the totally dumb cardigan all recede into the distance. But the one disgraceful thing about these photos was the fact that TWO CIRCLES APPEARED TO BE SHINING FROM MY FACE LIKE HEADLIGHTS. That damn undereye concealer!

Someday, I'm going to find the pictures and show them to you. You'll laugh. Or maybe you'll cry (if you're my mother). To have one of the arguably most exciting moments in my high school career ruined by my abominable skills in the cosmetic area. Oh, and this is compounded by the fact that I thought, back then, that I was really awesome at makeup. WRONG.

Some people regret the drinking or the drugs they did in high school. Guys, I commend you. (That phase didn't start for me until much later). But if you were messed up, you probably weren't caring about undereye concealer, were you? I imagine not. And thus, you spared yourself from a lifetime of humiliation, the next time mothers, or relatives, or old high school friends want to go rehashing your one standout success by hauling out those hilarious photos.

Anyway. I'm proud to say that now, I am a recovered undereye-concealer-abuser. It's been a long road. Sometimes I fall into my old ways. But today, I think you'll (literally) hardly recognize the girl who stands before you.

Bride and Prejudice

Most of you know about the vexed relationship I have with my hometown, Alamo Heights. It's this weird thing where I had a totally great high school experience, and yet I continually badmouth the high school itself. A combination of superiority and guilt rolled into one that I can never quite figure out: especially since a lot of people there - including the people I knew in high school - are really nice. (Also: artist/musician/WRITER cred is 10x stronger if you hated high school.)

But anyway, one of the reasons I'm so mean about the place is because I never take the time to visit. I mean really visit. I drive to San Antonio (the large city surrounding Alamo Heights) often, to see my folks, but it's an in-and-out affair. Straight to their house and back. I don't hit up "the old hangouts" or my "alma mater" or any other "stomping grounds" per se. I see Tom and Christi, and we do movies, dinner, or just stay home and play with the kitties. The last time I went to an Alamo Heights bar, I said hi to a girl I knew from high school, and she just turned to stare at me, like she couldn't decide if I was a person, or a unicorn, or what. Then, she wheeled back to the bartender, to giggle an order for another ridiculous appletini. I was speechless.

So I've got my reasons - there are undeniably some stupid, snobby people in Alamo Heights. Sorry guys, it's true.

Anyway, one of my best friend's weddings was in Alamo Heights this weekend. The day before, I was at home all by myself, and decided to go on a run. It was really, almost illegally, hot outside - but I was hungover and needed to flush out the toxins. I laced up my shoes and went for it.

I turned the corner onto Broadway, and jogged past several churches. I ran past the beauty store that always smelled like ammonia and vanilla inside, where I bought my first hair curlers before my first formal. I ran past the ice cream place where I celebrated my first softball victory - the only sport that I sort of excelled at. I ran past my high school, and by this point, I was really exhausted. That evil sidestitch cramp thing was creeping on, so I staggered onto campus and searched for a water fountain.

It. Was. So small.

My high school was tiny! Itty bitty! I mean, I didn't really grow after high school (and if we want to get really technical, I - heh - was my personal heaviest my senior year). But I couldn't believe how small and cute it looked. Like a pretend-school specially designed for me to come play in.

There was my cafeteria, where I ate bagels and mustard (?) almost every day. There was the football field where I endured countless painful 6am practices for dance team. (And once knocked a tuba player nearly unconscious with an accidental blow to the groin. Which was really funny.) There's a shiny new coat of blue paint. There's a freshly-ironed flag run up the flagpole. There's the teacher's lounge, there's the music building, there's the stairwell to my favorite English class.

It was like every feature and facet of the school was covered with this kinder, nostalgic blanket. For once, I didn't think about how incredibly square I was in high school, or that we were all so sheltered. I just stood there and appreciated the quaint, 1950s aura around it. I went to a place where football game attendance was cool, and where newspaper and student council were enviable organizations. The annual talent show was always massively well-attended. Pep rallies were easy to sneak out of, but for some reason, people didn't.

I realize now that not everybody had this.

The next day, my friend had her wedding at the San Antonio Country Club - the same country club where I got my first job waiting tables, the same country club where I attended several proms, etc. etc. Now it is possible - even fiendishly so - to imbue old society haunts like the Country Club with inappropriate, uncouth behavior. And after getting messy drunk with my parents, high school boyfriend, husband, childhood friends, and a handful of college buddies, I feel like I've smeared out most of the mysterious bitterness I have for the place. These stodgy institutions where I always sorta faked it 'til I made it. For once, I was myself. Not a member, just a happy (alcoholic) visitor.

It's nice to meet you, Alamo Heights.

Jury, what say you?

Wow, two posts in one day! Look at me go.

This one's a quickie. I've become a little obsessed with enlarging the very small tattoo on the back of my neck. It's a pink - magenta! - star. And I want, crave, more. Something that reaches a little down the neck, and almost onto a shoulder. Want want want.

So if you're my friend, will you please vote on a tattoo concept, below? Mind you, this will not be the tattoo I get. Merely a going-in-the-right-direction aesthetic. I am a) pretty damn girly, b) not at all interested in symbols in another language that I cannot read, c) fond of sorta whimsical things...in general. So I've picked some designs from the internet that seem to match this criteria.

#1


#2 (imagine colorful)


#3 (these are obviously wall decals, and not a tattoo - yet!)


#4


From these, I think we can at least surmise that flowers/leaves and a BIRD will be involved of some sort. Panel?

Go hide your shame

There's a really sweet woman here in the neighborhood who used to work at FreshPlus grocery story. Then, she moved across the street to be the checkout at Pronto (a gas station). For a few years now, I've called her: "Cancer Survivor." Or, on occasion, "Chemo Patient."

Now before you go getting all horrified, let me explain. Without fail, this lady always wears a scarf on her head. And not in a Nicole Richie, ooh look at me I'm-a-haute-couture-hippie way (think bandana, not Hermés). She also wears long sleeves and pants all the time, as if cold - even in summer! - and doesn't wear any makeup, ever. Plus, she just has the look of a strong, indomitable spirit. You know what I mean? Like, "child, I seen things you never should."

Now, taken together, these observations clearly do not diagnose someone with cancer. But when I first met her, my fanciful mind got to working, and...well. It was a private observation. A ridiculous jump to more absurd conclusion. And thus = "Cancer Survivor" was born.

I never really told anyone, until I told R., and now he views her with the same (perhaps unwarranted?) admiration I do. Sometimes, when we see her at Pronto, we exchange knowing looks that say, "what a courageous, unyielding soul."

(Sidenote: Cancer Survivor actually got held up at gunpoint in Pronto last summer, if you can believe it. R and I's first reaction to the news: "but she's already been through so much!")

So anyway, this pillar of a lady, this beacon of hope in a world so dark, is totally not the type to chit-chat about, oh, day-long male erections. Or so I thought.

I'm at Pronto yesterday, filling my car up with 1/10 a tank of gas or something - OPEC, can you hear me? WTF? - and walk inside to pay for it.

"Hi there, honey!" Cancer Survivor, suppressing a giggle.

"Hey! Just $10 on number 5, please."

Giggle. Sideways glance at female coworker. Giggle giggle.

"Honey, question for you. How would you react if a man, a man you knew and had been hanging out with, had an erection. For - hold on, let me tell her! -six to eight hours?"

Furrow brow, really consider it. "Run?" I offer.

"See, exactly Honey!" Turning to coworker, presumably the one with the, er, "situation."

"I would tell that man to stay indoors!" Finger is up and wagging now, scolding this invisible man with the offensive penis.

"No, 'oh WOW this is so amazing' about it! No! I would tell that man to get away from me. To get out of public, and to go hide your shame."

You can't put a price tag on sage wisdom like that.