A delicious concoction of tasty morsels of thought, epiphany and general anger management

 
As I sit here once again behind my desk at a major media company, my injured right knee emits a dull throb as it has for the last 8 days. I pray for relief and it comes in the form of a Winnie the Pooh jigsaw puzzle. I attached as a link not a picture of the puzzle, which depicts a hungry and desperate Winnie attempting to knock down a bees' nest as angry bees circle the hive, but rather a black and white picture of Winnie. I implore you to gaze longingly at his rotund form. Color him. Do not be afraid.

My friend Jackie dressed as Winnie the Pooh last year for Halloween. I have the picture on the wall of my office. Halloween is my favorite of all holidays. It is both festive and haunting, spooky yet bacchanalian. I had a party at my spacious 3 bedroom Upper West Side apartment for last Halloween. Camile Paglia attended. I was, however, confounded by her costume. She came completely naked with but a lemon tied around her waist, explaining that she was a "Sour Puss." I mean no offense. Camile Paglia is a dear friend of mine. She delighted my partygoers with her delicious impersonation of William F. Buckley Jr.. She is a splendid and marvelous woman.

I sit here and ponder my future at this major media company. I know it will not be long before I grab someone by their fat oppressor head and scream, "I will not continue to be transgendered by your evil hate company. I will collect my things and leave as soon as I receive my check for unpaid vacation days." It will not bother them, for I am just a meaningless cog in their poorly oiled machine, not to mention that they probably will not know who I am. Press on, major media company, and watch your stock continue to plummet. It will not be long, friends, the revolution is nigh.

And no one's getting fat, except Mama Cass. And Winnie the Pooh.

posted by G.Wo at 11:49 AM

 
I Am Going To Die Alone -- a spiritual essay

"Call you me fair? That fair again unsay." (A Midsummer Night's Dream Act I, Scene 1)

I am going to die alone. Most active, virile, puissant men of roughly my age and build seem to be pairing off, without incident or consequence. However, I apparently have something as instinctly revolting as Juliette Lewis about me. I mean to make no offense toward Juliette Lewis. Juliette Lewis is a dear friend of mine. Still, she is a haggardly looking woman. She both sickens and intrigues me at once. At this very moment, I feel a slight tingle in my loins, but I digress.

Where does one meet these women? The women with whom so many men seem to be pairing off? I began my search by consulting The Complete Idiot's Guide To Dating. Despite Mei-Ling from Australia's stern warnings on Amazon.com, I pressed forward. I was sure that as a complete idiot, this book would do me well. The book cites that approaching women and using several "pick-up" lines would work. However, saying things such as "Baby, your daddy must have been at Pearl Harbor 'cause you da BOMB!" didn't seem to make sense. If this woman's father was at Pearl Harbor, he wouldn't have been doing the bombing, he'd have been the victim. Plus, "Baby, your daddy must have been a Japanese fight pilot during World War II ..." didn't have the same push behind it. Clearly, my intellect was not sophisticated enough for this book of advice.

I took the night to get unbelievably intoxicated with several of my neighbors at a local refueling station called the "Gas 'n' Sip." Asking these gentlemen didn't seem to help either, as their advice was facetious and pointed. They noted that they hung out at the Gas 'n' Sip without women "by choice, man, by choice." I left them there to return home and call the one person who I knew would be able to help me, Tony Hawk. Tony was not home. I left a message, imploring him for insight into my quandary. How can I avoid dying alone, Tony? You are the only one who can help, I screamed into the phone like a man screaming into the phone.

He returned my call later in the day. He wasn't the famous Tony Hawk, just some guy I found in the phone book named Tony Hawk. I think he's a Native American fellow. We are meeting for drinks next week. Thus ends my quest for peace of mind. I am comfortable with it. I am going to die alone. Perhaps my new friend Tony Hawk will attend the funeral.

posted by G.Wo at 7:24 AM

 
A letter I wrote to a psychopath who yelled at Kathy for mistakenly calling him by the wrong name. The man's e-mail says Marc, yet his name is Steve.

From: "Pierre Cavanaugh"
To: marc@tamart.com
Cc:
Subject: Hello Marc
Date: Fri, 19 Apr 2002 09:19:44 -0500

Marc,

I am writing you in response to your e-mail of April 4th of this year. I love your idea an wish to pursue it further. However, I do have some things I'd like to mention to you before we begin business together.

For starters, I look exactly like George Washington. My resemblance to the former president is absolutely striking. I've tried everything to avoid people from recognizing me but to no avail. I've tried growing a goatee, dying my hair red, a mohawk, nothing has worked. It's quite trying on my wife (she's a very patient lady). Imagine having people come up to you and ask you to sign their dollar bills everywhere you go. It can be extremely taxing.

Secondly, everywhere I go, I travel with my own personal toboggan. It's bright red and has yellow handles. It's approximately 48 inches long and 18 inches wide. It's slick bottom allows me to travel down snow hills at great speeds. During the summer months, I carry it as a reminder to those who have passed in toboggan accidents (a larger number than you think!). Hopefully, this will not be an issue if we ever go on trips together. It fits comfortably in the trunk of most mid-size sedans. I have travelled on the airlines with it as well. I just need to purchase two seats, one for me and one for my toboggan.

I hope that these are not obstacles to us doing business together. I look forward to your response, as does the missus. She's a very
feisty lady.

Regards,
Pierre Cavanaugh


Marc (or Steve)'s response:

From: marc@tamart.com
To: "Pierre Cavanaugh"
Cc:
Subject: Re: Hello Marc
Date: Fri, 19 Apr 2002 09:19:44 -0500

I do not wish to do business with someone who carries a tobaggan.


Now I ask the sane people of the world: Please e-mail Marc (or Steve) as often as possible. He clearly deserves it.


posted by G.Wo at 1:54 PM

 
People ask me all the time, "Geoff, as a smart, sophisticated, funny, deliciously handsome, well-read, well-spoken man, why would you choose fruit salad? Why not something more complicated, something that more represents the true nature of your being?" I have often asked myself this question, though in the form of an answer, much like Jeopardy!. The answer (or question) is simple. Fruit salad is not only tasty and nutritious, it provides a deep and seductive metaphor for the world in which we live. The succulent cantaloupe may well represent the touch of a Chilean hooker. The sweet honeydew perhaps a symbol for the homeless woman who lives in the recessed doorway of the Rite-Aid across the street. The purple grapes, ripe and juicy, could be the fleshy fruit embodiment of a woman's tender breasts. My friends, we are all fruit salad in our own way. Certain things go together, certain things don't. When mixed together, the only way to find out is to taste. So, my friends, dig into the fruit salad of life! The thing I hear most often (second to "Did you eat paint chips as a child?") is "When will all of your finely crafted narratives be available in print? If the Internet somehow ceases to exist, how will I educate my children about you?" The answer sadly is it's tough to say. Tomorrow, I will provide you with the plot outline to my newest novel, entitled "Fountain and Fairfax." The title, derived from a song by the Afghan Whigs, is a fictional intersection at which two fated people meet for a brief moment. Let that whet your appetites, dear friends!

posted by G.Wo at 12:57 PM

 
"And on that note, let's cue the music ..."

As I sit here behind my desk at a major media company, my right leg laying prostrate in an immoblizing brace due to a knee injury incurred a week prior, I can not help but laugh. Are there not more mobile pursuits? Is there not more to life than watching "Match Game 78" on the Game Show Network? I submit that there may not be. It is difficult to imagine anything more satisfying than watching Charles Nelson Reilly laugh voraciously into the camera and provide the answer to "Dumb Dora is so dumb. (How dumb is she?) To keep her hair in place, instead of using hair spray, she used spray (blank)." Charles Nelson Reilly is a dear friend of mine. I do not wish to hurt his tender feelings, nor to I wish to make light of his incisive intellect. I do, however, have to take issue. I do not think that "varnish" is the definitive answer in this instance. As I lay in my bed, rightleg elevated, I scream into the twilight air "Paint! Say 'paint'!" Alas, my screams go unheeded, echoing off of the walls of my spacious 3 bedroom aparment on the Upper West Side like so many echoes. For this episode has taken place nearly 25 years ago, when I was but a colt, as opposed to the stallion I am today.

Friends, I look foward to the days hence, to sharing more insight and perhaps a wicked phat bong hit with you. Do not fear, young squires, for I shall return. Oh me! Oh life!

posted by G.Wo at 10:55 AM