The Tony Danza Debacle

Hello there everyone.  I am alive!  I did not join the circus nor did I fall in with a band of gypsies, contrary to what my father might think.  I wish I was a gypsy.  I would be cursing the shit out of everyone and everything.  I already do that, I know, but what weight does it carry when I am just an ordinary woman?  Sigh.  Screw my parents for not giving me away to a travelling hippie camp or something when I was born.

So, not to beat around the bush or anything but I have a very good friend named John.   John is the type of friend that is there for life.  You know like when gangsters say that they are 'in it' for life?  I believe them when they say that, but I bet gangsters have never dealt with my poop shute during a bout of lactose intolerance.  John has many times, because he is a good friend like that.  One you want on your team because he makes you laugh so hard you feel like you can't breath.  Or, you feel like you need to poop.  Whatever happens first.

Anyway, John.  Let me tell you a little story that solidified a friendship that was already destined for greatness.  I mean really, we pee on the phone together.  If that isn't great, I don't know what is.

A year ago I went down to John's 'hood to hang out.  His 'hood looks different from mine.  Where I nod at the working ladies on the corner every night, the ladies in his neighbourhood don't need to work because their men do it for them.  And they do it very well.  So even though we have our choice of rich people malls, we decide to head to the much loved and favoured Value Village.  Just to browse the aisles for any old man vests that still smell like vanilla smoke from a wooden pipe.  What? You don't do that?  We do.  So while we are perusing the wonderful selection of high-waisted pants circa 1981, John spots a picture in a frame from over 3000 meters away.  He bolts for it as if it is the hottest commodity to come our way since cheesecake and pizza, and I find it hard to believe that ANYTHING is better than cheesecake.  He comes back my way proudly waving a picture that I am sure he still holds so dear to his little heart.  It is a picture of Tony Danza.  In a frame.  It is signed by the Who's The Boss? legend, and it's inscription reads,  "The gang at the Scratch Cafe- wish I was there with you.  My best, Tony Danza".  I have never seen anyone so ecstatic in my entire life.  I mean I understood why.  He was holding a SIGNED picture of Tony Danza.  I know right?  Amazing.

John decides he needs this particular photo to grace the walls of his non-existent kitchen.  You know, for when he gets one of those one day.  I am curious, so I ask him if he will name his kitchen The Scratch Cafe?  He looks at me with disdain and rolls his eyes.  Because a picture of Tony Danza makes MUCH more sense when it comes to kitchens.  So we march up to the counter and ask how much it is.  The girl at the register unceremoniously rips off the back of the frame and tells us around her wad of gum that it costs twelve dollars.  Woah.  That seems a bit steep, even for us high rollers.  John begins to look like a caged bird.  A little anxious.  I tell him I will buy it for him if he can't afford that extreme amount.  He asks how much it would cost without the frame.  The girl blinks once and says "Twelve bucks".  And then she asks who the guy is.  John and I both gasp and our hands whip to our hearts.  "What?  You don't know who TONY DANZA is?  You know, Who's The Boss?  Eh-oh, oh-eh?".  We pump our fists in the air.  She just shrugs and blows a bubble.  It pops, along with John's view of a decent world, where people live in happiness and harmony.  

So he decides he needs to think about it.  He wants to go and drive around and waste twelve dollars in gas to have a good think session.  But he does not want anyone else to see the photo while he is gone, and perhaps engage in a bidding war over it.  So he goes and hides it behind a wall, in the old ladies' sewing section of the store.  Behind a wall people.  Because he knows if an old lady were to find it, there is no way she would be mobile enough to take down the wall to get to it.  He is a thinker like that.

So we drive around, and I convince him to let me buy it for him, as a house-warming present for his non-existent house.  He is so happy that I take a picture of him holding the framed photo, proudly displaying it for all to see.  I am a great friend I know.  I hope he knows that's all he is getting.  Even when he one day actually buys a house, I will gently lead him to his kitchen that will NOT be called The Scratch Cafe, and I will point at my priceless gift and remind him of the trials and tribulations we went through to obtain it.  Or, maybe I will frame the photo I took of the photo, and give that to him instead.  

I am a thinker LIKE THAT.

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