Tony Danza’s and My Shared Sensuality: We Explore Astrology

With all the fun we had last week dismantling your psychic abilities, I’ve decided to poke fun at astrology today, so if you’re into astrology, it was nice knowing you.  Don’t let the Capricorn kick you in the ass on the way out!

< soft sobbing >

This is what I do.  I push people away because I’m scared they won’t accept me if I gave them the chance to get to know the “real me”.  I’m afraid.  Please love me.

Actually, it’s just because I think astrology is general hokum and balderdash – but you’re free to be into it.  As I remind people all the time, I’m not the police of anything, even when you’ve run into me and I’m wearing a full SWAT team uniform and holding a riot shield.  It was for a sex thing!

I spun my Debunking Wheel this morning and it was either debunk astrology or debunk the Richard Gere gerbil myth, and I don’t feel like getting that edgy today.  I had a lot to drink (vitamins) before I went to bed late last night (9:30pm), so I’m not up for medical/sexual rodent arguments today (I am always up for those arguments).

I am a Taurus.  If you’re into astrology you’re smirking right now and saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”  If you’re not into astrology, you’re welcome to join my anti-astrology club called “Science”.

I found this thing about Tauruseseses on the internet today while I was searching for “general hokum and balderdash”.  It was on an astrology site, and it’s a little mnemonic for how to spell the word Taurus in the most complicated way or something.

Here it is:

T for trailblazing
A for ambitious
U for unwavering
R for reliable
U for understanding
S for stable

There was this crazy long description of the attributes and flaws of the Taurus right before it that was – Oh Mylanta – so freaking long.  I only made it part of the way through before I saw the word “sensual” and just stopped reading.

Know who else is a Taurus according to the article?  Saddam Hussein.  Know who else?  Hitler.  Know who else?  Tony Danza.  If “sensual” applies to me because I’m a Taurus, that means it would apply to all of them, too.

Thank god for that Tony Danza, at least.  His sensuality brings up the average for everyone else.

Honestly, though, I’m still trying to figure out, in 2019, just who exactly the boss was on “Who’s The Boss?”  It’s a real conundrum.  I mean, is the “boss” the woman who hired a male housekeeper employee, or is the “boss” the male housekeeper employee who was hired by the woman?

THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW.  IT IS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THAT THE WOMAN IS NOT THE BOSS OF THE MALE EMPLOYEE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE IS HIS EMPLOYER.  FOR REASONS HAVING TO DO WITH HOO-HAHS AND DING-DONGS SEXUAL POLITICS.

Hey, I don’t have a degree in Human Resources, mostly because I spend a lot of time trying to avoid all humans, so I’ll have to leave that one up to the court of public opinion.

What that means, basically, is that we’re all going to die having never gotten to the bottom of this debate.  This debate that could have easily been avoided altogether had they kept the original title of “A Bozz Can’t Have A Da Titz, Capisce!”

Please note in this promo photo for the show:   The only person who is, in fact, the actual boss also happens to be the only person who’s not wearing a sweatshirt that says, “I’m The Boss”.

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Uhhhhhh…

It is also clear to me that, where the figurative rubber meets the figurative road, Mona is the boss, because Tony and Angela couldn’t even figure out they had boners for each other until like a million seasons into that show.  Mona tried to get it on with Tony from the very first season because Mona knows exactly who Mona is, which makes her a BOSS.

So let’s take this Taurus mnemonic on one letter at a time to prove how wrong it is.  Like you’re doing literally anything else right now.

T for trailblazing:  This is true.  I invented the laziest grilled cheese where you spray two pieces of bread with cooking spray, put them into the toaster, then when they’re done you take them out and put a slice of cheese on them and stick them in the microwave on a paper towel for 10 seconds to melt the cheese.  No pan required.  No dishes to clean afterwards.  As we have previously discussed, you are required to put yellow mustard on all American grilled cheeses, and don’t give me any shit about it.

A for ambitious:  Please see above.  I’m going to make the mustard thing happen nationwide.  Yellow mustard adds a much needed zip!

U for unwavering:  Once I have decided that I don’t like you, it’s forever.  You should probably move away, or else find some way to live with the fact that every time you walk by me I’ll be fantasizing about you losing big on one of those Japanese game shows where they make you wear a diaper full of squid tentacles to recite the alphabet backwards and if you mess up they chop off your pinky finger.  Do you think you can handle that?  I have a fairly vivid imagination, too, so I’ll have an image of that burned in HD in my brain when I think about it.

R for reliable:  You can always count on me to not ask before taking the last mozzarella stick out of the shared basket – and yes that’s every time, Miss Manners.  I was raised with prison rules when it came to food (and pretty much everything else if we’re being honest here).  If you didn’t snatch food off a platter like a jackal tearing the leg off a zebra carcass, you were out of luck.  You’re lucky I only took the last mozzarella stick and didn’t just grab all of them out of the basket when first they arrived, lick each one of them and yell, “GUESS THEY’RE ALL MINE NOW.”

What was the next letter oh my god this is sooooooo duuuuuuuuuumb.

SCIENCE.

You’re not psychic. Not even a little.

I always think it’s weird when someone casually throws out, “I’m psychic,” the way one might throw out, “I have blue eyes.”

You know, like being psychic is a thing.  Like you are capable of literally seeing the future.

Let’s really parse that one out here.  Because it’s Monday and, believe me, I’m suffering for it.  Let’s suffer together.

I mean, do you really know what you’re saying when you tell me you’re psychic?  You are saying, out loud, with no shame, in front of other humans, in the 21st century, that you have magical powers.

No punchline.

You are telling me that you, specifically, have:

🤪 🤪 Magical Powers 🤪🤪.

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I’ve gotta tell you, it makes me think you either: (a) think very, very highly of yourself, or (b) are insane.  Or both.

You’re like a weird, old neighbor lady who’s a dead ringer for Abe Vigoda, who tells you that the only reason she lost the role in “Some Like It Hot” to Marilyn Monroe was because she came down with Mono right after her audition, and you think, “Well, maybe she looked different when she was younger?”

Then she shows you a picture of her from 1957 and then lightning crashes and a dead crow falls from the sky right onto the photo because she somehow looked even more like Abe Vigoda back then than she does now, and you’re just thinking, “Who is this woman trying to kid here?  Am I in an alternate universe?  We both know you’re making this up.”

I always feel really bad for those “Well, I am psychic” people because I know I can barely mask how much I cringe when they say it.  It takes everything I have to not say, “And why do you suppose you specifically were blessed/cursed with these magical powers?  Were you sent here by all-knowing genius aliens to change the world with your intuitive powers to prevent wars and famine?  Please.  Enlighten me as to how you wield this power for the greater good.”

No, I wouldn’t even ask that, because I already know that you’re not wielding this power for the greater good.  You’re using your psychic powers to tell your niece to try out for “America’s Got Talent” because you saw in a vision that she made it to at least the third round.

It really does just make the most sense that you, of all people, have been granted the power to see the future.  I mean, look at how much good you’re doing with it!  I’m so moved, I’m totally picturing your face right now and singing Michael Jackson’s “Man in The Mirror”.  Sha-mon!

Make that change. 😢

And while we’re on the subject, let’s talk about manifesting.  Manifesting almost makes sense to me on a practical level because if you spend enough time thinking about something, there’s a good chance you’ll actually get off your ass and do something about it.  The “doing” being the operative part of it.

If I think about grilled cheese long enough (thirty seconds), I’m eventually going to go out and get one.  But manifesting as in, “I’m just going to think about how much I want grilled cheese, paste a photo of it to a board, and then hope grilled cheese will appear at my front door?”

Yeah, there’s already a word for that.  It’s called “wishing”.  It’s the thing you tell children to do when they find a fallen eyelash or throw a penny into the fountain, because they’re too young to know that wishes aren’t really a thing.

Be happy that kid-wishes don’t come true, by the way.  If kid-wishes came true, your kids would have had you struck dead years ago that time you told them they had to put on their shoes when they didn’t want to put on their shoes.

From my observations as a child-free person, asking a small child to put on shoes is akin to asking them to co-sign a mortgage for your junkie half-sister.  They’re having NONE of it.  They would absolutely strike you down right that second if all they had to do was wish for it.

Then they would take all the blood-soaked money out of your pockets and run out the door, barefoot, to buy a metric ton of ice cream and a petting zoo for themselves and not even feel bad about it.  This is why it’s your job as a parent to teach them empathy.  God knows those jerks aren’t born with it.

Not unlike the psychic thing, if you tell me that you’re able to “manifest” things and have them suddenly appear in your life, you’re basically saying that unlike the rest of the entire world, you are so special that when you make a wish, it actually comes true.  With a straight face you’re telling me this.

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I mean, really.  You’re that special?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anyone to walk around thinking they’re a pile of crap (except Becky’s mom), but on the other hand I feel like there should be some middle ground between “I’m a pile of crap,” and “I’m so special that I have magical powers.”

But then apparently I’m in a “mood” today.  You should have seen it coming, though.  You’re psychic, after all.  Maybe you can manifest a better mood for me, or at least a grilled cheese.  I TAKE IT WITH YELLOW MUSTARD AS GOD INTENDED.  Thanks.

The Bad Corey

I used to have a special gift for finding the biggest project in the room.  The insufferable, destructive ass hat.  The one that was equal parts narcissist, emotional trainwreck, unemployable, and leather pants.

Any time a guy would walk into a party backwards, still peeing on the front porch, zip up and drop a cigarette from his mouth onto the carpet, and grind it out with the heel of his boot while yelling, “It’s not my fault you were dumb enough to put white carpet in here!” my ass hat spidey-sense would go off and the little hairs on the back of my neck would stand at attention.

Then some random girl would walk up to him, throw her drink in his face for some unrelated reason and storm out the door, and I would think, “Well, this is obviously the guy for me.”

Had I known back then that I could cut out the middle-man known as “Misplaced Hope”, I would have just walked straight up to any of these types of guys and said, “So where do I fill out an application to worship you, pay all your bills, have you steal money from me and then cheat on me with one or more of my friends?  I am accustomed to disappointment from every man I’ve ever known and, on a subconscious level that I won’t uncover for many years, your brand is as comfortable and familiar to me as a mother’s perfume is to her child.  Maybe I can fix the past by fixing YOU!”

Like so many girls who sprang forth into adolescence headfirst down a hole of despair and emotional depravity, it all started with The Bad Corey.

This may come as a big surprise to you (except not at all because hello), but in the late 80s I was all the way into The Coreys.

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That would be Corey Haim and Corey Feldman, in case you’re not familiar, and if you’re not familiar, I don’t even know where to start with you.  Maybe somebody is offering Remedial Corey classes at your local night school.  I highly suggest you bone up on this information, because it will be on the test.

Calculators are only permitted for the “Box Office” portion of The Coreys Test, where you will have to figure out how much money the “Meatballs” movie franchise lost when they cast Corey Feldman in “Meatballs 4″, a classic sequel to a sequel to a sequel, as the “hottest water-skiing instructor in town.”

I don’t know how that conversation went around the producers’ table, but I assume it started and ended with, “Let’s do this thing!  Oh god kill me now please please kill me what has my life become.” <sound of Drano being chugged>

It’s not one of the better Corey movies.  All Corey movies are graded on a curve, by the way.  It’s not fair to grade them against “other movies”, or what some people refer to as “good movies”.  It’s only fair to grade Corey movies against other Corey movies.

Were you your best Corey in this film today?

Could you have Corey-ed it up some more?

What did I learn about Corey in this movie that I didn’t already know?

I tell you what, though, and I seriously, seriously am not even remotely kidding here.  Corey Feldman should have won the goddamned Oscar for his performance as “Teddy”, the abused kid with the burned-off ear in “Stand By Me”.

When he calmly informs the junk man, who’s insulting his father for being crazy, “My father stormed the beach at Normandy,” before eventually exploding into threats and tears as the boys drag him away from the junkyard, it GUTS me.  Give it a re-watch and see if you can make it through the emotional complexity of that really terribly abused kid actually defending his abusive father without wanting to just die inside.

Yes, of course I read his autobiography, “Corey-ography”, so knowing how badly Corey Feldman was abused in real life as a kid, that scene makes me want to curl into a ball on his behalf.  That may have just been a scene in a movie, but that abused kid in that scene was very, very real.  That’s a hell of a big ask for a kid on a movie set, and I can only imagine how tapping into whatever he had to tap into to pull off that scene must have torn him to shreds.  He was just a kid, for god’s sake.  That would have hurled most adults into a 72-hour hold.

Hey dramatic departure!  Let’s lighten it up a bit, huh?

You didn’t really have a choice in the matter when it came to loving Coreys in the 80s – they were everywhere.  You would never ask a twelve year old girl if she was into The Coreys.  You just asked her which one.

Now, you would think with all my gushing over Corey Feldman in “Stand By Me”, that would mean that my Corey of choice was Corey Feldman, but you’d be wrong.  Despite being the long-haired Corey, the bad attitude Corey, and the damaged Corey, there was someone far, far, far more damaged.

Someone who seemed to be a shiny, jangly, pretty boy, who later turned out to be a bottomless pit of screaming, soul-ripping darkness.

Corey Haim, for his pretty boy face and the adorable smile that made America fall in love with him in movies like “Lucas” and “The Lost Boys”, would surprisingly end up becoming The Bad Corey.

I always liked cute Corey, sweet Corey, Corey who just wanted to take Heather Graham out on a nice date in “License to Drive”.  I liked him just fine.  But the moment The Bad Corey publicly emerged?  Goodbye to Sandra Dee.

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Tell me about it, stud.

I remember the moment it went from a “like” of Corey Haim to a “love”.  It was in the old movie theater down the street from my house, watching “Dream a Little Dream”, and my formerly sweet-faced, blonde highlighted Corey Haim, the one with the cute smile where his lip kinda curled up at the corner like Elvis (and don’t even get me started on Elvis), the Corey with the clean jeans and high-tops, appeared onscreen before me, looking like this:

sdjf

Smoking cigarettes?  Check.  Hair dyed an unnatural color?  Check.  Ludicrous clothing and accesssories?  Check.  Foul-mouthed?  Oh god.  Check.  The pasty, lifeless complexion of a person who is clearly on drugs?  (angel harp music) Check.

My Corey?

My Corey had blossomed into The Bad Corey.

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I got chiiiiiiiiiiiills, they’re multiplyin’. And I’m loooooooooooosing control-olll.  ‘Cause the power, you’re supplyin’, it’s electri-OH MY GOD LET ME SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELF.

What was that?  LET ME SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELF?

You know that’s the one, right?  That line?  That’s the one that leads so many women down that road.  “Fixing the broken guy” road.  “Giving him a reason to live” road.  “Being the one who makes him see that the love and devotion of a woman will make him stop destroying himself” road.

The alternate name for this road is, “You will spend a lot of time and money in therapy after this guy has ruined your life.  You cannot fix a broken past by breaking your future.”

I don’t know if I can adequately express to you just how much I do not recommend this road, especially when “Nice Guy Who Doesn’t Snort Prescription Diet Pills Because His Coke Dealer is in Lock-Up” roads are also nearby, and won’t cause the kind of wear-and-tear on you that will leave you stranded on the side of life’s highway with an empty wallet and a vaguely itchy crotch.

I’m not going to tell you these roads are always easy to find, sometimes you just have to get lucky, but as my therapist told me in not so many words many years ago, they’re much easier to find if you stop driving your car in circles around Sodom and Gomorrah with a bullhorn out the window shouting, “Free girlfriend, money, psychiatrist, and laundry service here!  Standards nonexistent!”

And I won’t even charge you a co-pay for that bit of counseling, sister.