A Mill Yon Lit Ill Pee, Says

It has been widely reported that some of the elements in my recently published and best-selling memoir, "A Time for Pancakes", were fabricated.

Before I address those accusations, I would first like to thanks the legions of devoted "Tony Danza Book Club" members who have made my book a success.  Some have purchased four or even five copies apiece, saying they leave copies behind in public places so others will stumble upon it and discover the emotional truth contained therein.

To be frank and to the point, I must say that most of the charges leveled against this important and groundbreaking personal examination of the heart's darkest places, while containing perhaps a kernal of truth, are mostly just the minor semantic arguments of jealous pedants.

For example, I write in ATP (as its followers have come to lovingly refer to it), that at age 15 I was living as a runaway on the streets of Bombay, selling my body to German tourists for nothing more than a sip of old bongwater.

Now, several "news" outlets "investigating" the "facts" behind my autobiography have suggested that I spent the summer of my 15th year at my family's home in the Hamptons, before returning to St. Hubbins Prep school in Vermont for the Fall.

This is splitting hairs.  The fact is, I was in absolute Hell that year.  While I may have sublimated some of the more horrific facts in order to cope, the underlying universal truth of my despair and hopelessness remain.

While I do not have the space here to address all the rest of the emotionally false statements my detractors have made, I will deal with one more.  One that strikes very close to home...

They say that my name isn't Basil Valentine, that it is a pseudonym I stole from the classical writers of alchemical texts and mystic tomes.

To those accusers, I say that my lawyers have advised me to stop writing anything more about the subject.


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Sent from my wireless

Fashion Prisoner

Mrs. Valentine is watching her third consecutive hour of "Project Runway" on Bravo.

I am trapped in the house... In the same room with the TV.

If for some reason this show kills me, please put on my headstone "He died as he lived: unsure if organza is a type of fabric or color of fabric."
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Sent from my wireless

Accentuate the Positive

The world is a dark place, full of misery, despair and evil. That said, it can also be quite a hoot.

While there are so many people and things to be upbeat about, Parade magazine chooses to continue its annual salute to negativity:














I say, why highlight the world's worst dictators? How about the world's best dictators, why not throw some accolades their way?

Being a dictator is a 24 hour a day, 365 days a year job. And the guys on Parade's list are simply not cut out for it. So there is no point in lavishing such attention on them. Its all they want anyway. Just ignore them and maybe they'll go away.

But who I really feel bad for are the hard-working, get-things-done dictators who aren't in it for the celebrity. Sure, they have the ninja death squads, dozens of hot babes lounging around their heavily fortified compound, and several covert weapon-development facilities... but its all about getting the job done.

A country isn't going to be ruled by an iron fist all by itself while their despot is out doing a cover spread with Annie Leibovitz for Vanity Fair.

You're going to catch more flies with honey then you will with vinegar, Parade magazine. Think about it.


P.S. Nice to be back.