Fruit Salad

2003-07-09T14:15:00.000-07:00

Inside the Actor's Studio

My acting credentials are well-known. If you need convincing, please go to the library and pick up the nearest copy of Pickle This! In addition to being one of the finer works to be produced about travelling theater company's, it details my time on the road with an intrepid group of actors. We had some fine times on the road, ingesting hallucinogenics and performing "Hamlet" in the nude. There was one time Jack Lemmon and I put rollers into Walter Matthau's hair. When he woke up the next morning, he had an Afro. Jack Lemmon and I laughed and laughed. I mean no offense to Jack Lemmon. Jack Lemmon is a dear friend of mine. I remember my days as a writer for the hit TV series Room 222. I'd just finished this one episode where I had Pete Dixon telling Cleon to focus on his studies instead of beating up the white kids. Jack Lemmon swung by the set. He had been filming The Out-of-Towners on a nearby lot. Jack Lemmon and I took turns flicking the stagehands behind the ears. Then, we got so liquored up we could see and made passionate love to the housekeeping staff of the Beverly Hills Hotel. In the morning, we'd drive to the Gold Coast and urinate on the statues. He was a good friend and I miss him dearly.

It was my appearance on Inside the Actor's Studio that had me waxing nostalgic about my glory days in TV and cinema. Here now, my answers to the questionnaire made famous by the great Bernard Pivot as administered to me by James Lipton:

JL: What is your favorite word?

GW: Zanzibar

JL: What is you least favorite word?

GW: Pudding

JL: What turns you on?

GW: There is a moment on a summer’s day, when it’s just about to rain. The air gets this heavy feel to it and if you breathe in, your nostrils and lungs will fill with the smell of something that can only be described as the closest one can come to heaven right here on Earth. Also, miniature golf.

JL: (laughs) Nicely done. What turns you off?

GW: When someone kicks you in the nuts so hard that you vomit.

JL: That is a turn-off. What sound or noise do you love?

GW: If you listen closely on a summer’s night, you can spy in on the sounds of love. If you hone your aural acuity, you will hear the mellifluous tones of two rabid raccoons, engaged in fierce sexual congress. It is awe-inspiring and truly beautiful.

JL: What sound or noise do you hate?

GW: I hate the sound of “Cancciones A Mi Padre,” by Linda Ronstadt

JL: What is your favorite curse word?

GW: Assbite.

JL: Interesting.

GW: I like to use it when I’m taunting the hoboes down at the rail yard.

JL: Well played. What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?

GW: I always wanted to be a waiter/ess at Lucky Chang’s. I’ve had many an application turned down there.

JL: What profession would you not like to participate in?

GW: School nurse. My school nurse used to whip my ass with a length of surgical tubing when I went to her office complaining of stomach cramps.

JL: Finally, if Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

GW: “I’m glad you are here. I can finally retire.”

2003-04-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

Results

Recently, and in accordance with the court's ruling, I was subjected to a rigorous psychological examination. The examination, conducted by the Bellevue Hospital facility, was a three day procedure set to evaluate my mental competentcies in several areas. Dr. Alexander Wolinetz, my brother, conducted the examination. I know what you are thinking. How could my parents possibly have produced more progeny after the genius that is simply known as "Wolinetz" was born unto the Earth? This is a valid question, but I assure you that we are related. Upon receiving his Ph.D in Psychiatric Medicine from Harvard Medical school, Dr. Wolinetz traveled the world as a roving psychiatric instructor, often teaching people that were not qualified and did not want to receive the training he offered. Upon returning to the United States, he honed his skills with that raving lunatic Liza Minnelli. I mean no offense to Liza Minnelli. Liza Minnelli is a dear friend of mine. In the days before she married a homosexual producer, Liza Minnelli and I would wonder the set of Arthur and try to set Dudley Moore's hair on fire with a crude melange of turpentine, vodka and triple sec. This mixture also made for a delicious after-dinner cocktail, provided you were a non-smoker. Liza Minnelli would board her father's yacht and make obscene gestures at the tourists of the Mexican Riviera. I miss those days.

My examination was trying. It took much energy to subject myself to the vagaries of the psychiatric community. My brother was of no help. He insisted that I run on a treadmill while undergoing the examination, which I found to be excessive during a routine Rohrshak test. In any event, upon conclusion of the exam, I was presented with the results. Here now for your enjoyment, the results of this exam:

-- Mr. Wolinetz, when returning home to his residence, will come in at 2:00 AM, don a Burger King crown and scream at residents of the house including the dogs, cats and birds, asking “Who’s da king?” His superiority complex could prove dangerous. Do not issue him the concealed assault rifle license that he has applied for.

-- Mr. Wolinetz demands that 13-year old Jewish kids invite him to their Bar Mitzvahs, threatening that he'll eat their yarmulkes if snubbed. These threats have been realized on several occasions, most notably the March 15, 2002 Weinstein Bar Mitzvah that made headlines all over the nation. These bizarre eating habits point to a borderline psychotic love of cheap velvet and pornography.

-- Although Mr. Wolinetz claims that he sees many movies, he rarely goes to the cinema. Instead, he hires homeless people to act out pivotal scenes from the films of Billy Bardy. When he does attend the cinema, he complains about the movie. No matter the genre, he compares the films to "that bastard Adam Sandler’s movies" He cites “Billy Madison” and “Happy Gilmore” most frequently. He also claims to have several digitally enhanced versions of "The Godfather," "Gone With The Wind" and "One Flew Over The Cookoo's Nest" all with Mr. Sandler in the lead. Mr. Wolinetz displays a shocking, almost perverse, obsession with Adam Sandler. The restraining order should be extended to 500 feet. Also, I'd like to see that version of "The Godfather."

-- He runs cockfights fights in his Upper West Side apartment, but is too cheap to use roosters. The battles are instead fought by jumbo prawns purchased bulk from Red Lobster. Mr. Wolinetz consumes the losers of these fights live, in front of a mortified audience. Advise the Red Lobster company to cease this transaction at once. Also, this consumption of live seafood is almost textbook. Mr. Wolinetz has a clear penchant for beastiality.

During his stay, Mr. wolinetz has had sexual intercourse with 5 of the staff nurses. He has an almost animal magnetism. Post coitus, these women provide a similar recounting of the episode, describing a "dark, musky scent" and "the blinding light of passion." I am bewildered by the psychiatric ramifications of this information. In all my years of training, I have never seen such a phenomenon. It is the advice of this professional that Mr. Wolinetz be confined to his home for a period of two weeks, during which he not be allowed to go near the food processor, blender, really anything sharp at all. He should be considered a danger to society.

2003-04-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

Perhaps There Is Life On This Planet

I have returned, albeit briefly, to my desk job at this Somewhat Less Major Media Company. It is April now, though the weather hardly portrays the month that I have come to know over my years here. The harsh wintery air blows viciously and I seek cover to avoid mussing my hair. I am gently reminded of time that Audrey Hepburn and I spent time on location during her Charade shoot. I mean no offense to Audrey Hepburn. Audrey Hepburn is a dear friend of mine. It was winter in the Alps and the ski conditions were phenomenal. The beautiful vista and the metamphetimines had me ready to hit the slopes. Audrey Hepburn and I spent three glorious days together, making love like Abominable Snowpeople up on high. Audrey Hepburn and I visited the Swiss coffee shops and dispensed advice free of charge to the locals. Audrey Hepburn spoke 4 languages and translated for me as I waxed philosophical regarding life, music, lovemaking and Cheetos. Audrey Hepburn and I were a magical couple and though we were never married, I continue to love her with all my heart. I digress.

I headed eagerly toward my subway stop, happily anticipating the free Internet and coffee that awaited me at SLMMC. I was distractedly dreaming of the copious amounts of pornography that I could view online. I enjoy pronography very much, but what I enjoy most is when they cut out the face of a starlet, such as my ex-wife Renee Zellweger, and paste it to another body, thereby giving the illusion of nudity. There are some clever folks at these sites. Back to the matter, I was walking along to the stop and I bumped into an attractive young female. She was immediately enraptured by my startling good looks. Our eyes met. I apologized profusely for my ineptitude, a lack of grace which I normally do not display. The woman coyly smiled at me.

"Are you Wolinetz?"
"I am."
"I recognized you from your picture on the book jacket of Let's Go Indonesia. I toured there last summer."
"We have much to talk about."

But talking is not what I do best. Making love is. Well, getting myself into hallucinogenically-inspired predicaments is what I do best. Making love is a close second. Work would wait for a few hours. For now, I have discovered a kindred spirit in my Upper West Side neighborhood. We had love to make and things to speak about. Memories to share and moments to laugh about. Perhaps, there is life on this planet.

2003-03-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

A Time To Laugh, A Time To Cry

The coming week will be a difficult one. For next week, I was to have celebrated, along with millions of others, the birthday of a dear friend who passed away some weeks ago. I am to spend the weekend sadder than that slack-jawed idiot Gary Busey in a women's prison with a fistful of pardons. I mean no offense to Gary Busey. Gary Busey is a dear friend of mine. When Gary Busey came to your door with four grams of peyote and some Bartles and Jaymes, you knew that there was good times ahead. Often times, we'd smoke peyote and then wind up in the parking lot of the Circle K some six months later. It would only be through newspaper clippings that my ex-wife Diane Lane would save that we would come to discover that our adventure included a nude romp through "Six Flags Wild America", hitting the jackpot on the Wheel of Fortune slot machine at Caesar's Palace Las Vegas, arguing fervently against the death penalty on This Week With David Brinkley, arguing fervently for the death penalty on Meet The Press and a shotgun (later annulled) dual wedding with Cindy Williams and Penny Marshall. I digress.

My dear friend Fred Rogers, known to legions of children as Mr. Rogers, passed away recently. It was to be his 75th birthday on March 20th. His death touched me in a deep and profound way. The vagaries of my life seem insignificant in the wake of his passing. He was a truly special and meaningful part of my life. Here now, the eulogy that I read at his funeral:

We deeply mourn the passing for Fred Rogers today at the age of 74. He spent his entire adult life bringing joy in to the hearts of youngsters nationwide with his show, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. His messages were presented clearly to young people in his easy laid back manner. To commemorate his life, I present one of the many original songs that Rogers produced in the nearly 35 years that he presented his show on public television.

There Are Many Ways To Say I Love You

There are many ways to say I love you
There are many ways to say I care about you
Many ways, many ways
Many ways to say I love you

There’s the singing way to say I love you
There’s the singing something someone really likes to hear
The singing way, the singing way
The singing way to say I love you

Cleaning up a room can say I love you
Hanging up a coat before you’re asked to
Drawing special pictures for the holidays
And making plays

You’ll find so many ways to say I love you
You’ll find so many ways to understand what love is
Many ways, many ways
Many ways to say I love you

Singing, cleaning, drawing, being understanding
Love you

© 1970 Fred M. Rogers

Mr. Rogers let us remember that things were simpler once. They can be simple again. There are so many ways to say I love you, Mr. Rogers. I hope this does the trick.

2003-02-25T06:43:00.000-08:00

A Star Is Born

The sun shines brightly on this crisp winter morning. It is cold but not arctic and I can walk without the gloves that were a gift to me from former Screen Actors Guild president Richard Masur. I mean no offense to Richard Masur. Richard Masur is a dear friend of mine. I remember when, in days that have long since gone by, Richard Masur and I would visit Studio 54 and gain admittance with my world renown and his afro. While at the studio, Richard Masur would gaze longingly at Grace Jones as I was off in the basement, ingesting enough Aphetamines to kill a small Latino family. Richard Masur would then rip off a "Tango Hustle" that you'd sell your mother to be able to do, amid raucous cheering from an admiring crowd. Richard Masur would visit the "One Day At A Time" set and throw Chesse Doodles at a stoned, slack-jawed Mackenzie Phillips. If you do not know of the seminal 1970s half-hour sitcom, "One Day At A Time", do yourself a favor and watch one of the most poignant television shows of the 20th century. You will not regret it. I digress.

I am reminded of all this, as I look at my gloves, the gift of a dear friend upon the birth of my daughter. I remember it as though it were yesterday. Fighting ravaged French Indochina and I, the intrepid journalist, hopped a flight to Burma (it will always be Burma to me) as soon as I could to meet with UN Secretary General U Thant at his request. Mr. Thant was a slight man with fiery eyes that looked deep into your soul. I could tell immediately that he recognized my prowess as an international uniter of men. He was wise. We spoke at length about a great deal of world issues and played "Chase the Zebra" in his backyard. They are fast critters. Don't let the stripes fool you. I knew that my time with the Secretary General was well spent. I admired him greatly, for his wife was gorgeous and he was not. This is a feat greater than the settling of wars, an ugly dude scoring a hot lady.

While in Burma, I befriended a nubile young Asian woman. We dined on the local delicacies and we indulged in absinthe. Afterward, we met in passionate sexual congress for several hours and though I really didn't want to stick around, I managed to summon up the courage to remain by her side for another 30 minutes. She looked deep into me with probing dark eyes.

"Wolinetz, I am with child."
"I know."
"It is yours."
"I know."

I got up and left. In nine months, I returned to witness the birth of my child. My young Burmese concubine was a warrior, defeating the pain of her labor with copious epidurals. When all was said and done, I was a father. I reached to my face, like a man reaching to his face, and brushed a single tear from my cheek. The nurse cleaned my daughter and handed her to me. She was beautiful. There was now a woman on the planet that I loved platonically.

"What will you name her?" I was the nurse.
"Welcome. Welcome to the world, U Wolinetz."

2003-02-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

Appeal To The U.S. Government

White House
c/o J.E. Carter, Jr.
1600 Pennsylvania Ave. NW
Washington, D.C. 20500

February 6, 1977

Dear Mr. President,

First, let me congratulate you on your ascension to the presidency of the United States. As you know from my many letters to your campaign headquarters, I am a fervent supporter of you and your party. I cannot vote (I was convicted of a felony) but you must know that were I allowed to participate in the electoral process, my vote would have certainly gone your way. Both my ex-wife Farrah Fawcett and I are extremely enthusiastic about the great changes that your presidency promise to bring. I mean no offense to Farrah Fawcett. Farrah Fawcett is a dear friend of mine. In the halcyon days of our wedded bliss, we would make sweet love like sea otters on the hood of a 1974 Chevy Nova. After that, we'd go to the house of Lee Majors and ingest enough horse tranquilizers to kill, well, a horse. It is no wonder that my dear sweet Farrah and he are married now. He is, after all, the Six Million Dollar Man. I assure you, that show isn't simply fiction. Many, many of the episodes that they produce are exact replicas of the life that he leads. Also, Farrah Fawcett is a dirty, dirty tramp. I digress.

In any event, I have a simple request for you. I would like to request that you grant me diplomatic immunity. I know that this is not a decision to be rendered lightly but I do ask that you consider the finer points of the case that I am about to present. Here for you, 12 reasons that I should be granted diplomatic immunity:

1. The three kilos of cocaine stacked on my living room table aren’t going to sit there forever.
2. My life as an asbestos magnate, living on my 150-foot yacht in tax-free splendor just 4 miles off of the coast of Florida isn’t as splendid or luxurious as the description might imply. For instance, when I demand fresh tail, my houseboy Ralph must take the helicopter and ferry women in from Cocoa Beach.
3. I really have to pee.
4. I really shouldn’t have to fake my own death … again.
5. A lifetime of fraud and malfeasance isn’t something to be proud of. I understand that now. I promise I’ll stop paying radio stations to play the hit singles of my boy band.
6. I’m tired of getting calls from your creditors, offering me “0% APR for the first year to transfer my unsecured debt.” What the hell is unsecured debt?
7. I’ve been looking for an hour and I can’t find a goddamn parking spot. (New York City only)
8. These gallons and gallons of oil pouring out of my tanker and into the environmentally sensitive habitats of small marine creatures could be put to better use, like processing it into gasoline that pollutes our atmosphere and destroys our ozone layer in the form of toxic Sport Utility Vehicle exhaust and emissions.
9. Life is too short to be granted diplomatic immunity in an insignificant country like Belize, Lesotho or France.
10. My mere presence in any country has a small but significant impact on the Gross National Product of said nation. In fact, just last year, the GNP of the Netherlands increased 1.2% due to my presence. Given the current economic state of the U.S., I believe you need all of the help you can get.
11. You drive us wild; we'll drive you crazy. You keep on shoutin', you keep on shoutin'. I wanna rock and roll all nite and party every day.
12. Russia has been bugging me to get them more information about your government.

I trust you will find this evidence most compelling.

Thank you in advance for your consideration,

Geoffrey Aloysius Wolinetz

cc: Vice President Walter Mondale
Secretary of State Cyrus Vance

2003-02-04T12:27:00.000-08:00

You Like Me, You Really Like Me

The public thirsts for knowledge of me. With all that I provide for them of my exploits, it is still not enough. They demand more. My life has been analyzed several hundred times. Different angles, slants and points of view provide innumerable new insights into my enigmatic personality. When I was a brash young scholar, I took to writing my autobiography. Since my life sees more action than Eddie Murphy in a Portuguese cathouse, I had to write my life story in several volumes. I mean no offense to Eddie Murphy. Eddie Murphy is a dear friend of mine. In those loopy younger days spent in the Roosevelt section of Queens, Eddie Murphy and I would join the children frolicking in the powerful spray of the fire hydrants. After our subsequent arrests for indecent exposure, we'd use our phone call to ask Tim Kazurinsky if his refrigerator was running. At night, Eddie Murphy and I would mix common household chemicals into a powerful aphrodisiac and hunt down some loose women. Our lovemaking sessions would last deep into the night, while the women would watch. Wolinetz loves all people equally and he can't help but get a little bit on you. I digress.

I have regaled you with pieces of my most famous autobiographical volume, Camels Have Two Humps. Here now, is page 37 of my autobiography, Wolinetz: Macho Donkey Writer Man (translated from English to Japanese and back to English):

As small child, I had a small place of living with many family members who indulged little in the ways of materialism. The children of the school would make fun of Geoff. They were all well oiled and coddled by parents who were lined with the rich opulence of squid ink and the strong entrails of the meaty gazelle girded their loins. They all had buffalo dung. Geoff had no buffalo dung. The children would laugh.

Geoff entered 7th grade Geography Bee. Competition was stiff and children of competition were brainy as great monkfish. Geoff has fear? A thousand times no! Geoff was fierce like lion. I pressed on with studies and made foolish American children look fat, lazy and boorish. I emerged from cloud of dust with victory blue ribbon. Geoff’s parents beamed with pride for number one son, dragon powerful ruler of geography.

My parent support was great, like that of the powerful ox. Many times, Geoff’s parents sacrificed personal pleasure for the advancement of my living. My father imparted many impressive pieces of advice to the product of his loins. “The mule is stubborn,” the exalted man who produced me said, “and he lives with gonorrhea.” There is much of him in me.

Geoff never has fear. For I knew that good things come to those who are true to the ways of Ho Lu, Grand Emperor of the Wong Dynasty. If I kept working on the textbook of school studies, I would soon be off to do what my destiny calls for. I would found small company of television and produce shows of great magnitude. Entertainment for the masses would be the great joy of Geoff’s life.

2003-02-03T15:42:00.000-08:00

It Will Always Be Burma To Me

In the deep days of my puissant youth, I was an accomplished stage actor. As I have detailed in Pickle This!, my presence on the stage is not only commanding, it is also at times commanded. I was 4 when I had done my first Othello and 6 when I had done my first Lear. At the age of 8, I tackled the role later made famous by Mel Gibson. I mean no offense to Mel Gibson. Mel Gibson is a dear friend of mine. In the days when we roamed the scorching Australian countryside, Mel Gibson and I would stalk and kill wild boars for sport, consuming all but the tusks. We'd take the extraneous tusks and throw them at the boorish elitists that sat in the boxes at the Sydney Opera House. At dawn, Mel Gibson and I would wander the beaches and urinate on the jellyfish. There's nothing quite like the site of a peed on jellyfish. You can hear their muffled shrieks, as they absorb the uric acid. Mel Gibson and I would laugh and laugh. Also, we were drunk. But I digress.

The role of which I speak is, of course Hamlet, the melancholy Dane. And I am reminded of those days of wonderfully performed Shakespeare, as I am on the floor of a Burmese prison. I think it is called Myanmar now. I will have to ask Cuban Bob when I get home. I am naked, but that is just for fun. It is dark here, so very dark. There are noises in the distance but no one has come for me in hours. I write in my journal by the light that seeps in through the food hole. The light is milky white and blunted, much like the albino Burmese woman that I had sex with last night. She was passionate and stern, all at once demanding my touch then smacking me across the face. I basked in the warmth of her body and I woke up here. She was a villainous she-devil. I loved her deeply.

Footsteps. I am not scared. I have been in prisons far worse than here. I lived in Dayton, OH for a year.

"Wolinetz!"
"I am."
"Wolinetz, we have been looking for you for some time. I see that you were easily brought to us by our 'Burmese White'"
"My weakness for flesh is no secret. What do you want from me?"

The voice which had been disembodied was revealed to belong to a surly Burmese man with a wont for blood. He raised his hand to me and unleashed a vicious slap that moistened my eyes and shot pain through my head. I fell to my elbow and checked my nose for blood. There was none. I rule. The man helped me to my feet and stood before him. He had an ingrating presence, much like my ex-wife Carmen Electra's parents.

He opened the door to my cell and I was thrust out the door. I was on stage. Thousands cheered my arrival. I waved to the adoring folks that had likely paid good money to see me. I would demand a cut of this money, of course, as well as some opium to hold me until I got back to the States. I turned to my captor and he nodded. He did not need to say anything. They had come to see me perform as the melancholy Dane. Where be your jibes now? Your flashes of merriment? They be here, amongst the people of Burma. For the moment, anyway.

2002-10-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

You Cannot Love All The People All The Time

Those of you that know and follow my work, follow me or just know of the depth of my talent in all arenas of my life know that I am full of love for all creatures. My Mammalia Mayhem Volumes certainly exhibit this. However, even the most talented, most good looking, most well hung people in the world are not appreciated by some people. Even nearly perfect people, such as myself, have someone they do not get along with. For instance, novelist and long time Wolinetz confidante Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. has a long running feud with Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. I mean no offense to Kurt Vonnegut, Jr Kurt Vonnegut, Jr is a dear friend of mine. Back in the grass roots days of the 1960s, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. and I were idealists, heavy handed in our criticism of drug dealers for not supplying the most potent of their stock. We would wonder the Negro streets of Schenectady, NY looking for an angry fix. When we found it, we'd wonder the Oriental streets of Utica, NY looking for an angry Chinese guy. Early in the morning, we'd watch the sun rise over the mighty Hudson River, coming down off our unwaivering high. We'd watch the toliers make their way to the textile mills and the steel factories. The steam whistle would scream out loud, calling all from miles around to report to their posts. We'd make our way slowly to the gates and scream, "And the sign says anybody caught trespassing will be shot on sight!" I digress.

However, while Kurt Vonnegut, Jr and Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. fought over the use of "Jr." in their names, my conflict with my long time nemesis is much more deeply rooted. This is a long running fued, one which neither face to face meeting nor apologies could ever resolve. I have long denied the existence of this highly publicized feud. Here now the breaking point that pushed this relationship beyond the point of reconciliation. Here now, the transcript from a phone call with the Columbia House Music Club on March 14, 1997:

"Wolinetz: Hello?
Columbia House Music Club: Good afternoon, sir. May I speak with Geoff Wolinetz?
W: Speaking.
CHMC: Hello, Mr. Wolinetz. First, may I say it's an honor to be speaking with someone of your stature.
W. That's correct.
CHMC: The reason for this call today is to remind you that you have an outstanding balance of $172.31 that is 3 months past due.
W: I see. And what is the source of this alleged outstanding balance?
CHMC: Well, sir, it appears that you ordered fifteen copies of "Middle of Nowhere" by Hanson.
W: They are very talented young men.
CHMC: (awkward pause) Yes, they are.
W: I enjoy the song "MMMBop" most.
CHMC: I'm sure you do, sir.
W: (singing) "MMMBop..."
CHMC: Sir?
W: (singing) "MMMBop..."
CHMC: SIR?
W: (singing) "MMMBop..."
CHMC: MR. WOLINETZ!!!
W: Well, there's no need to get hostile.
CHMC: Sir, you owe us $172.31.
W: That is patently ridiculous. I have settled my debt with you, and my debt to society, I might add.
CHMC: Sir, you owe us $172.31. You need to pay us $172.31.
W: Now listen here, young man. I have paid this money. No one will take Hanson from me, do you read me? I will fight you tooth and nail. I will fight you to the death. These boys have worked too hard to have some lackey from the processing department ruin it for them and their friends. Now, I suggest that you hang up this phone before I have Cuban Bob urinate on your shrubs.
CHMC: This is not over, Wolinetz. (hangs up)"

We haven't spoken since, though I do receive a letter in the form of an invoice from them periodically. I suspect it may be them reaching out to me. I can not reciprocate. The wounds just run too deep.

2002-10-08T13:48:00.000-07:00

Letter Of Resignation

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep/But I've got promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep." -- Robert Frost

It is not easy bidding adieu to the major media company for which I spent the better part of my adult life toiling endlessly, with very frequent breaks. The atmosphere here makes Afghanistan look like Ed Begley's place in Zuma Beach. I mean no offense to Ed Begley . Ed Begley is a dear friend of mine. In the halcyon days of the filming of St. Elsewhere, Ed Begley and I would steal the hypodermic needles from the set and play darts on/with Howie Mandel's ass. Ed Begley and I would whisk away to Arizona at a moment's notice and run 4-on-4 with the Phoenix Suns and then run 2-on-1 with the Phoenix Suns' cheerleaders. In the hazy aftermath of unmitigated sexual congress, the cheerleaders would dip Ed Begley's hand into a dish of warm water and watch him urinate in his pants. It would provide hours of entertainment for both myself and the young women who comprised the most limber of professional basektball's cheerleading squads. I digress.

There are many to thank, far too many to name in this passage. Yet, I would be remiss if I did not dispense some thank yous and some good wishes. As such, I prostrate myself before you and beg your forgiveness, if I do leave you out of this list.

To my friends at NASCAR.com -- Gentlemen, I bid you extremely good luck. Your efforts to bring sweaty men making 800 left turns over the course of 4 hours to the masses are both noble and not unnoticed. Perhaps, one day, this sport will rise from the ashes of the trailer parks and become the Phoenix of a major professional American sport. On the other hand, the cogniscenti of this great land may relegate you to the gin mills and sweat pits of the South. I leave it to you to decide which is more likely.

To Shah, my friend who runs the convenience store downstairs -- I am most sad about saying goodbye to you, dear friend. You have provided me with endless granola and candy bars, cans of tasty beverages and Lotto tickets, all at relatively reasonable prices, well within the budgetary constraints of the worker bees of this company and building as a whole. You are a gentle and kind man. I will miss you dear friend.

To my boss -- Our disagreements number many. Upon my departure, let me say this: I dislike you intensely, with the fire of a thousand suns. I believe that to be an understatement. Your supervisory skills are of the worst kind, your management level exceeds "mircomanagement" and you are not a handsome gentleman. If management skills were state size, you would be Rhode Island. I bid you good day, sir.

Finally, I know you all to be aware of my genius, it is difficult not to be. My ex-wife Jayne Mansfield used to say the same thing. "Wolinetz, your writing alone makes life worth living. I love every inch of your rippling physique and generous package." Though she was my ex-wife at the time, I wept over her death. I'll never forget the last thing she said to me. "Wolinetz, love them. They love you."

I love you, dear friends. Keep in touch.

Humbly,
Geoffrey Aloysius Wolinetz
gwolinetz@yahoo.com

2002-09-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

Only Time

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months and soon, I have lost all track of time. It has been some time since I have regaled you with tales of my life, accomplished as it is. In the time of my abscene, I have accomplished much. My new novel, Dishwallapalooza, about my time touring with the seminal rock band of 1995 hits bookstores in early November. It is a comprehensive work, more than 1500 pages long. As my sometime sexual partner Kevin Bacon once said to me, "Wolinetz, you may be hung like a horse and have the sexual prowess of a lion in heat, but give the people what they want. You are a wise and sagely man, share with them." I mean no offense to Kevin Bacon . Kevin Bacon is a dear friend of mine. I recall with great pleasure those days of the early 1980s, when both Kevin Bacon and I were struggling to make it in the field of commercial acting. We were both at a tryout for a Wendy's commercial when this woman approached us and asked us if we'd like to party a little. 10 hours later, we found ourselves naked and forlorn, with little memory of the night beofre and the lady nowhere in sight. 3 months later, we were still struggling and "Where's The Beef?" was sweeping the nation, starring none other than the woman who'd drugged us, made love to us and left us for dead. I never regretted one minute of it.

As you know by now, I am an activist. I cannot help but reach out to the masses with my undying love and support, in return for debasing sexual favors and a virtually endless supply of narcotics. This is what has consumed my time over the last months. I accepted an invitation to an Indonesian island, where the residents participate in activities such as consuming frightening amounts of speed then performing A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen and folding cloth napkins into swans for formal dinners. This was a farm of degenerates, psychopaths and full-blown whackos, my kind of people. We spent afternoons in experimental sexual positions and evenings quaffing absinthe. I was asked to speak at our end of camp banquet and Hawaiian themed barbecue called, "Lai You, Lai Me." Here now, my remarks:

"Friends, I have been asked to speak to you here at our closing ceremonies, and I have deigned to do so, albeit briefly. I have greatly enjoyed my time here among you lunatics and hope that I will someday be able to return again as your guest. You have extended your arms and welcomed me as your drug buddy, your sexual partner and your brother. I appreciate it and I love you all deeply, especially you Tiffany [Johnson].

We have had good times these past weeks. Who could forget Lenny [Millstein]'s bad acid trip and his proclamation that he was 'hotter than a Billy Goat in heat'? Or the time that Sally [Callow] went apeshit and urinated in our water supply? These were times my dear friends. I, too, participated in a few exercises that both boggle the mind and betray Newtonian physics, like the time John [Fox] and I took quaaludes and gave that chimpanzee a bath. These are memories that I will treasure.

In closing, I know that I am a wildly famous, attractive, sexually engaging and staggeringly personable and brilliant man. At times, my reputation proceeds me. You have taken the time to get to know me. It's like my 6th wife, Tiffani Amber Thiessen, once told me, "Wolinetz, you have a certain something that I can't put my finger on and it makes you the most incredible person I've ever met. Understand that only time will show your true brilliance." Only time, my friends, only time indeed."

2002-07-22T06:57:00.000-07:00

Out Of My Cold Dead Hands

The hot breeze whips through the tall buildings of the ctiy that never sleeps. I weave in and out of the worker bees on their way to their dull jobs to complement their dull lives and am quickly reminded of something the Lovin' Spoonful once said, "And, babe, don't you know it's a pity the days can't be like the nights in the summer in the city." I mean no offense to John Sebastian. John Sebastian is a dear friend of mine. John Sebastian is not only a great wordsmith but an expert badminton player. John Sebastian and I would wander the streets of Haight/Ashbury during the Summer of Love and try to freak out the acid heads by screaming, "The pigs!! Oh god help us, the pigs are tearing the flesh off our bones!!!!" We got many an acid head to jump off a building that way. John Sebastian and I would run rum across the border and, in a vain attempt to avoid the federales, put on fake moustaches and woolen panchos. I digress.

I am on my way to work at my major media company, deigning to honor them with my presence on this deplorable Monday. Outside, the sun begins to bake the streets, making it hotter than a snake's ass in wagon rot. I suspect that today will rather uncomfortable for those who toil outside for a living. I respect these manual laborers a great deal. Thay are the thread that keeps this country going. In my days as a Communist advocate for labor rights, I would often address the unions of these brave men. Here now, an excerpt from a speech that I gave to the United Brotherhood of Garbagemen Local 347, New York, NY on August 3, 1957:

"Friends, comrades, welcome. I thank you deeply for the opportunity to address you all in this forum today. Gentlemen, you toil endlessly and tirelessly for a city of ungrateful people. You, like our brethren the mail carriers, are stopped by neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night. Heat can not prevent you from removing the detritus of those residents of this fair city. Yet, when you stop your truck in the street for trash removal, are you not honked by a line of cars? How ungrateful and impatient can they be? When you go to clean the streets, are some cars not polite enough to move for the appointed time? This time does not change weekly. They know. They just do not respect you, do not respect the work that you do.

I empathize with your plight. Though I grew up wealthy, well taken care of and loved, many of you did not. In fact, I presume many of you have not been loved for your entire lives. Many of you possess poorly developed intellects and flat brows. Many of you are set back in the evolutionary scale. It is OK. I am here to love you. The great and passionate Wolinetz loves all men, except Roy Cohn. Come friends, join me in this call to arms. I ask you to throw down your lined gloves and work boots, shed your green sanitation sweatshirts and fight the good fight. I am here to represent you, to work for you, with you. I ask you to join me. We can not, will not fail.

Thus, fair men of the UBG Local 347, let us strike. For it will be from my cold dead hands that they have to pry this manifesto, 'We come as one, united in our cause.' STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE!"

The men of UBG Local 347 applauded loudly that day and on August 4, set out to strike against the city of New York. Eventually our demands were met. I was elected their leader, but by this time had abandoned the Communist Party after a weekend bender Vegas with Dean and Sammy. Those memories ring clear through my mind. Rest easy, Sam Gompers, we fight on!

2002-07-19T07:08:00.000-07:00

Begin The Begin

My life story is a long and lustrous one to tell, much like Hunter Tylo's hair on that Pantene commercial. The intricate details of my youth are not often paid attention to, and while obviously exceptional, lack the certain je non seis quoi that my later years illustrate so superbly. However, my youth does contain certain events that are germane to my development as a person, auteur, photographer, male prostitute and love god. I was extremely lucky to mature in the presence of many remarkable people, including the sultan who I have mentioned in my earlier works. My parents went to great lengths to expose me to all sectors of the world, as they were inclined to recognize my remarkable potential very early on. It is clear in my thinly veiled autobiography, Camels Have Two Humps, that these influences were to play havoc with my disturbed and fragile psyche over the course of my life and provide me with a most formidable nemesis: myself. I am reminded now of something that Harry Truman once told me over cigars and brandy. We were in his study, at the old house in Independence, MO, and he said to me, "Wolinetz, the only man who can stop your unmitigated progress through life and the world are your inner demons. Answer them with callous defiance. Submit to your lusts for booze, hookers and blow, but never, never let your demons get the best of your talent. You are the world's only hope." I mean no offense to Harry Truman. Harry Truman is a dear friend of mine. When he'd have me up to Camp David for the weekend, my ex-wife Jayne Mansfield and I would fuck like rabbits in the President and Mrs. Truman's bed. Harry Truman always insisted that I sleep in his bed. When at the White House, I'd take a walk through the Rose Garden and urinat on the flowers. Harry Truman would laugh and the Secret Service tackled me. We would reminisce about the days when Harry Truman and I would shoot critters from the porch of his old house. Those were the days indeed. I digress.

In the days of my puissant youth, I would frolic across the huge spread of land we had in Montana and bathe nude in the creek that ran across our property. Mother would cook up the vittles and we'd dine voraciuosly, Father exhausted from a day of teaching rudimentary vegetable picking skills to a series of inept and brutally stupid migrant workers. At one meal, Father raised his hand to mother. It was the first time I'd ever seen them fight. Little did I know that Father was a happy drunk, who would often come home stoned to the bejesus and ready to giggle uncontrollably when he heard the word "thermometer." I guess that's what fathers do. There was fun too, the days he'd take me fishing for chickens. There were the times we'd drive to town and try to pick Mary Jo Futterman's corset off by the strings. I miss father sometimes.

Next time, I will regale you with an excerpt from my new book, You Have No Marbles And Other Stories, stories all calling back to my youth, to those days of virility and tripe. Join me, friends, join me.

2002-07-18T06:44:00.000-07:00

Dust In The Wind

The etherial words from a rock group known only as Kansas. Other than rocking the strings off of their guitars with their seminal hit, "Carry On Wayward Son," Kansas addresses the ephemeral nature of our existence in their classic, "Dust In The Wind." How could these men, Kerry, Steve, Phil and the other boys, produce such a wonderfully incisive piece of work? Especially when you take into account that they grew up in Kansas. It seems to me this was the most clever thing to come out of Kansas since Bob Dole . I mean no offense to Bob Dole. Bob Dole is a dear friend of mine. Despite being decades my senior, Bob Dole and I would sit on the faded wooden porch of his Kansas home and shake our fists at the passing teenagers. "You youngsters are going to ruin this country," we'd shout, all crotchety and affected. Afterwards, we'd huff gasoline fumes and run around completely naked, telling his wife Eilzabeth that we were going crazy like a "Chinaman at an opium festival." For fun, I'd take Bob Dole's pen from his injured hand and start screaming, "I'm Bob Dole. No one tells Bob Dole how to run things. Bob Dole has a small penis." Oh, we had a lot of fun. I digress.

Another dear friend of mine was my maternal grandfather, Eazy-E. Here now, my eulogy to one of my role models and best friends growing up, Grandpa E.

"Dear friends, thank you all for coming. This is the way Grandpa E would have wanted it, his compatriots from N.W.A in the house, his peeps from Ruthless Records in the house, all of his brothers, sisters, children and bitches here to honor him in this most upsetting time. While it may have seemed as though Grandpa E supported the negative lifestyle he espoused in his "gangsta rap," he was no animal, no criminal. Grandpa E sought to educate the public, to rail off against the dangers of growing up in the ghetto. And Grandpa E knew all of that. Sure, he sold drugs to school children, carried concealed weapons, spent a lot of time before judges and had seven children wiuth six different women, but that was just Grandpa E being Grandpa E. He had an interminable spirit and that may be what I miss most about him.

I remember this one time, Grandpa E and I had just finished pulling a couple of wicked tubes of this really good shit and we were just sitting around, drinking 40s and talking. We did that a lot. We used to have these huge philosophical debates. One of them he turned into a song called, "Gangsta Gangsta," off of 1988s Straight Outta Compton. "Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin 'It's not about a salary, it's all about reality' - KRS One Gangsta, Gangsta! That's what they're yellin 'Hopin you sophisticated motherfuckers hear what I have to say.' Do you sophisticated motherfuckers hear what I have to say?

Anyway, I hope you all remember Grandpa E fondly. I have the legacy through family, my many half-uncles and aunts, cousins and my mama. As for me personally, I choose to remember the good times, the endless supply of free drugs and by these words, "Wolinetz, you one talented SOB, just like your Grandpa E. Use that shit right. Don't take advantage of nothin', or no one. You one of the good ones." RIP Grandpa E. Mourn you 'till I join you. Peace out."

2002-07-17T06:26:00.000-07:00

Correspondence

In the late 1970s, I enjoyed a brief rise to fame as photographer of the stars. With my reputation as an immortal wordsmith already cemented, I sought to expand my talent and scope as an internationally appreciated personality. Naturally, photography followed, I dealt mostly in grotesques and most notably with Julie Newmar of "Catwoman" fame. Don't get me wrong. I mean no offense to Julie Newmar . Julie Newmar is a dear friend of mine. During her days as Catwoman, Julie Newmar would smother me with her ample bosom and allow me to vibrate my lips against them, making a sound much like this "brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttttttttt." Julie Newmar and I would drive around in the Batmobile, making lewd gestures at the elderly, all the while ingesting a potent mixture of Vicodin and wine coolers. When the sun set over the cascading hills of the Dakotas, we would ride horses bareback and take turns blowing the cattle. Those were the days. I digress.

As a photographer of the stars, I came in contact with a great deal of people. Here now, a portion of my correspondence with Angie Dickinson of Police Woman!:

June 23, 1977

Ms. Dickinson,

You are undoubtedly familiar with my work, as I am yours. I am a big fan of your television program Police Woman!. My ex-wife, Dyan Cannon, and I would watch your show regularly until we had a series of ugly, confrontational shouting matches that led to our untimely splitting and my untimely loss of the third toe on my right foot. I am now attempting to make my way as a photographer of the stars. If you would be so kind to allow me, I would love to capture your image for the upcoming edition of Hustler magazine. I've been encouraged to inform you that all photographs are tastfully done. Larry (Flynt) would not allow otherwise.

I look forward to your response.

Humbly
Geoffrey Aloysius Wolinetz

July 3, 1977

Mr. Wolinetz,

Thank you for your kind note and kind words about my show. I would like to reciprocate those words and take it one step further. I attended you recent exhibition "Anatomy Of My Penis" and was very impressed with your work, as well as your package. You are a man of extreme virility, no doubt, and I would love to engage in sexual congress with you at some point in the very near future. Perhaps you would like to escort me to the upcoming Dean Martin Celebrity Roast of Don Rickles. It should be a good time. Plus, it's fun to stick toothpicks up Dean's nose when he passes out drunk.

As for your offer, I would love to sit for a photo session, you name the time and place.

And please, call me Angie.
Angie

July 17, 1977

Angie,

Thank you for your kind note. Your offer has been accepted as well. I would love to attend the roast, as well as engage in a long session of lovemaking with you. I assure you, you will find it difficult to be pleased with another man following our time together. As for the photo shoot, how's next Thursday?

Humbly,
GAW

Angie Dickinson and I engaged in a brief but torrid affair and the pictures that we shot were deemed to risque for Hustler. Typical.

2002-07-16T07:24:00.000-07:00

And The Beat Goes On

Ah, yes. Those all too prophetic words off the pen of the late Sonny Bono and out of the mouth of his lovely (albeit now scary) ex-wife Cherilyn LaPierre (aka Cher). I say the beat goes on because despite all efforts to prevent time from marching on, it does. Except of course for me. My immortal words, transcribed with painstacking accuracy, will allow me to live well past the 150-200 years that I expect to live. You may or may not know this but that most phenomenal of all actors, Clint Howard, is actually 207 years old. How, you ask me, does Clint Howard maintain his body and form despite being over two centuries old? The answer is simple: volume. I mean no offense to Clint Howard. Clint Howard is a dear friend of mine. Clint Howard and I ran an illegal off-shore gambling operation for nearly two years. Living in tax free splendor 3 miles off of the coast of Florida, we made our living from games of chance, the ample vig that we charged allowing us to spend generously on blow and hookers. Clint Howardand I would skip stones off of the top deck of our 95 foot yacht. We'd make prank calls to his brother Ron and ask him if he had Prince Albert in a can, then laugh hysterically when he told us that he did. Back in the days of the late 1990s, Clint Howardand I would hang upside down from the monkey bars at the children's zoo. Clint Howardwould often be mistaken for an actual monkey, and event which he thoroghly enjoyed because he'd then be allowed to masturbate. I digress.

However, the beat which I speak of is not life. of course. It is the band Journey. I was allowed to travel with the band during their "Frontiers" tour in Summer of 1983. Here now the transcript of my opening speech at the Market Square Arena, Indianapolis, IN, July 16, 1983:

"Any way you want it. Chilling and phophetic words from the band that will proceed my appearance here tonight. Even before Steve and the boys put pen to paper and wrote that masterpiece, I tried to live my life by those very words. Though their exact prhaseology may not have come to me, that is the reason that I am credited in their liner notes. Ladies and gentleman, if you are in fact worthy of those titles, scared of the fate that may become you is no way to live your life. Of course you are scared, day to day life for you people must be at the very least, upsetting and disturbed. The reality in which I live and the reality in which you live are vastly different places. I awake in the morning and ask my houseboy, Ralph, to fetch my slippers. You likely wake up to the screaming of children and have to face another day in your pathetic lives.

Fear not, people of Indianapolis. It is fitting that I address you today in the hometown of one of America's greatest living authors. I believe that Kurt Vonnegut, Jr himself put it best when he said to me, 'Wolinetz, you are gifted and that is good. But remember, the people out there are notlike you. They are God fearing. Many of them do not have basic cable television. They eat Cream of Wheat and think that the black guy is Uncle Ben. Coddle them. Love them. Their adulation and love will pay dividends. And if not, you could probably get away with killing a few of them.' This is true. I probably could. But Kurt makes a good point and that is this: You need someone like me to point things out to you. And that's cool. I've lived my life blessed with the gift of insight and am happy to give you all the help you need.

Well, I've rambled on for a bit. So let me sum up. You are pathetic fcreatures and need my help to survive. I am happy to do it. Any way you want it. Any way you want it indeed. Ladies and gentleman, America's greatest rock and roll band, JOURNEY!"

2002-07-15T07:51:00.000-07:00

Today I Play Hooky

A curse on you, major media company. Today I take advantage of my "sick" days. Today I stay home, despite having no major malady to concern myself with. My right knee, no longer throbbing and swollen, bends at my command. My head aches not. My loins do, but for other reasons entirely. Today, I am free to spend the day as I wish. The people call this a three day weekend. I call it "Wolinetz's Day of Fun."

You see, fun is that one thing which eludes definition. For instnace, you may think it's fun to watch a hamster fun around his whell for 6 to 8 hours a day. You may lkike to watch him run and run, in a futile search to gain ground, all the while knowing that the poor little bastard won't gain an inch. He'll just keep running and running until his little legs finally give out on him. For me, I may think it's fun to participate in an orgy with August Busch III, Janet Reno, Verne Troyer the midget from Austin Powers and Christina Applegate. I mean no offense to Christina Applegate. Christina Applegate is a dear friend of mine. I remember one morning, I went to visit Christina Applegate on the set of "Married ... With Children." Christina Applegate and I would huff airplane glue and then persuade the window washers to let us do their job. After work, we'd walk along the beaches of Malibu and make love like Sea Otters until dawn. As a side note, if you ever meet Ed O'Neill, ask him to do his impression of Ted McGinley on crack. It's hilarious. Again, I digress.

Today, in search of more conventional fun, I will go where the day takes me. Perhaps I will end up at the Gap. Perhaps I will end up selling newspapers with Ashwan, my friend who sits in front of the subway. Maybe, just maybe, I'll stay in my underwear all day and pick the little fuzzies off of the couch in the living room of my spacious 3 bedroom Upper West Side apartment. The day is mine. Life is mine. I'll never forget what George Carlin once said to me. "Wolinetz," he said, "I've seen a lot of people in my time, but you are the handsomest motherfucker I have ever laid eyes on. Now let's go out and rustle ourselves up some snappers." He has a point. I am handsome. So will do whatever it is that I want with my day off. And to the major media company, footing the bill for my time off, I have but one thing to say. No, make that nothing to say. This day is mine.

2002-07-12T06:43:00.000-07:00

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls ...

"For whom the bell tolls? Why, dear sir, it tolls for thee." This is what I am told as I disembark from my small twin propellor plane in Agua Del Piedro, Spain. It is here that I have arrived for the sole purpose of finding a brief respite from the pressures of my daily life. Alongside me are Cuban Bob, my allegiant man-servant, and Ralph, my houseboy. Yet as soon as I get off the plane, I realize that there is no place on Earth, on this wonderful blue-green planet, that I can be truly alone. The people of Agua Del Piedro had been alerted to my pending arrival somehow and they waited at their meager airport with wine, cheese and women. The band that had been hastily assembled played selected pieces from Gordon Lightfoot. A humble yet proud looking man approached me as I reached the bottom step.
"Please, Wolinetz, address our people. We get so few visitors. Your arrival was predicted by the swelling of the bull's testicles."
"What is your name, senor?"
"I am Juan Epstein," he replied with zeal.
"Juan Epstein, your words have moved me," I told this spokesman, "I will address your unwashed masses, as if they were my own."
He kissed my hand repeatedly, "Oh, thank you, Wolinetz, thank you."
I asked Cuban Bob to get the bags and had Ralph carry me piggyback to the makeshift podium that had been set up. The band pIayed "If You Could Read My Mind," and I spoke briefly yet eloquently.
"People of Agua Del Piedro, thank you for your warm and glorious reception. As a citizen of the world, I am proud to come to your beautiful village to take a but a brief sojourn from my hectic life, perhaps to impregnate some of your young women as well."
A mighty cheer arose from the crowd, led by a small boy who identified himself by wearing a t-shirt that said, "Fuck the Cows."
"I am reminded now of something that my ex-wife, Natalie Wood, once told me, 'Wolinetz,' she said, 'I am unworthy of you. Each night, before we make sweet, passionate love for 5 to 6 hours, I thank the heavens that you were delivered to me.' This is true. I mean no offense to Natalie Wood. Natalie Wood is a dear friend of mine. In the West Side Story days of the early 1960s, Natalie Wood and I would take off for Monte Carlo at a moment's notice. There we would dine with Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly. The Prince was a randy fellow and told dirty joke after dirty joke. We'd spend the evening playing strip poker. As I am an expert poker player, it was usually the good Prince who wound up completely nude, with but a well placed sock. Natalie Wood and I would dine at a Medieval Times restaurant. What can I say? The woman loved to eat with her hands. I digress. Good people of Agua Del Piedro, thank you for your hospitality. I'll be sure to write of you favorably. Ralph, take me away."
With that, Ralph removed me from the throng of cheering Spaniards. I knew then that the people of Agua Del Piedro had embraced me, and I them.

2002-07-11T06:41:00.000-07:00

The Real World Awaits

Of course, I speak not of the transcendent reality series started by MTV some 11 years ago which I spoke feverishly and fervently for at a benefit for the Museum of Television and Radio. (RIP Pedro, mourn you 'till I join you). I speak of that world outside of university, the world which we enter with wonderment and excitement at the conclusion of our stay in school. I speak of the days of ones early 20s, those days which I have long since left behind me, those days which abandoned me like Ted Danson after the police busted up our pornographic film ring. I mean no offense to Ted Danson. Ted Danson is a dear friend of mine. In the early 1980s, Ted Danson and I would bring young women into our co-op that we purchased for a very reasonable price at an estate auction for Orson Welles. We would ask them to ride the wild boar we kept in our guest room. This was nothing of a sexual nature, I assure you. At times, we'd take off to Tijuana, where we'd purchase a bottle of tequila for a nickel and lick it off the bartender's chest. The bartender, a portly Mexican man named Cesar Chavez (like the migrant worker activist), would then take a piece of loose concrete and smash us over the head. I digress.

When I speak of the real world, I refer to a commencement speech that I gave not long ago at the pretigious Murray State University. This speech, given May 18, 1992, sought to give insight to how I make my way, day to day, through this topsy-turvy place we call life. Here now the transcript of that address:

"Thank you, President Kurth, and thanks to your wife Betty as well. That was one hell of a meal last night. Dean Wormer, Vice Presidents Denton and Bailey, thank you also. May your britches be clean and your drawers unsolied.
To the graduating class of 1992, I have always been told that a good speaker should start with a good joke, you know, loosen up the crowd. So here goes. A polar bear walks into a bar and says to the bartender, 'I'd like a gin .................... and tonic.' The bartenders says, 'What's with the huge pause?' Polar bear says, 'Fuck if I know, I've always had 'em.' (As a side note, this is really more of an aural joke than a visual one. Feel free to tell it as well. It is wildly funny.)
This, class of '92, is what I ask you to remember. The world is full of people who will tell you that the way you behave is incorrect. People will tell you that the way you do things is wrong. Your first and only commitment in this world is yourself. If someone asks you why you are the way you are, 'Fuck if I know, I've always had 'em.' As the one of the greatest writers, poets and lovemakers that this world has ever known, I have a huge responsibility to share with the world my keen insight and my wonderful gifts. Many of you, I suspect, are not talented at all. Many of you are probably not employed as of yet. I'd imagine some of you need help tying your shoes in the morning. This makes no difference. I am here to tell you that you need not be intelligent, have good personal hygiene or driving skills. You need not be able to get every spot when shaving or or even be generally physically attractive at all. You may have loose moral practices or even poor grammar. All of this is excusable if you remember this one very important thing. Eventually, you are going to die. It will likely be a long horrible death also. You probably won't have any loved ones, since you are a generally repulsive human being, so you got that going for you.
As I said, my responsibility to the world is huge. I have known many great people in this lifetime. Just two days ago, I was partying in the Oakland area mansion of MC Hammer. The way that man spends money and lavishes gifts on his friends and family, I suspect he will never be destitute. He will always have the love of his peers and family. Plus, the man makes some good music, am I right? Anyway, Hammer takes me aside and says, 'Wolinetz, I've been around the world, from London to the Bay. It's 'Hammer', 'Go Hammer', 'MC Hammer', 'Yo, Hammer'. The rest can go away. You understand what I'm saying? You can't touch this.' I told him that I did indeed understand. I also have been around the world, as it were, from London to the Bay. I have seen people do things that you only think happen in movies. One time, I saw I guy take a crap on the streets of Munich. This world is a great and glorious place. Live each day to the fullest, Class of '92. There is much to see and do.
So, graduates, my advice to you is simple, take nothing for granted. You will likely live defeatist lives. You will likely be unhappy and unsuccessful. Vote in this election. No one wants Bush around much longer. So help me Buddha, if I lose another dime in the market, I'm going to throttle that 'Wouldn't be prudent' bastard. Wear sunscreen. Punch the next person you see for good luck. Don't spend more than 10 bucks for sunglasses. You can never have too many white t-shirts. Don't eat your vegetables. Have as much sexual intercourse as you possibly can and try to have anal sex at least once. When you see a celebrity, gawk at him/her and make him/her feel as uncomfortable as possible. See the Grateful Dead and Nirvana in concert because their lead singers will both be dead in less than 5 years. Finally, read my books. I am insightful, witty and unbelievebaly good looking. Both the Scared Tit and Let's Go Indonesia on on bookshelves now.
Thank you for pretending to listen."

2002-07-10T07:24:00.000-07:00

Critics, Shmritics

I think the Chicago Chronicle once called me, "extraneous and not quite sane." I recall that the Washington Post called my writing, "jubilant and puissant." I read that the Los Angeles Times mentioned, "Wolinetz has the extraordinary gift of being able to make the totally incomprehensible even more so." And, if I am not mistaken, the New York Times Book Review was noted, "Wolinetz ... has ... the ... biggest ... set ... of ... balls." Despite being worthless, bottom-feeding despicable characters, they possess a certain amount of charm in their work. After all, a novelist with the worldwide acclaim and impact that I've had has a certain responsibility to his critics. Right? Wrong. I'm here to tell you critics, shmritics. These so-called critics, these supposed guardians of literary genius, have long aligned against me, jealous of my talent. I can not help this.

Claire Danes once told me, basking in the warm afterglow of monkey-like sexual congress, "There will be those who are jealous of your enormous talent, emphasis on the enormous. Do not heed their catcalls, their envious sneers. Pay no attention to their invidious efforts to minimize you. It is the work that matters, it is about the art. Now, hop back on. Mama's ready for another ride." I mean no offense to Claire Danes. Claire Danes is a dear friend of mine. Claire Danes and I used to steal Kate Beckinsale's hair clips on the set of Brokedown Palace and use them to make funny faces. We'd tour Hong Kong under the influence and make exaggerated, overt sexual overtures to the organ grinders. We would join my friend Craig for cotton candy. Claire Danes and I would smoke hashish and then jump on the back of chicken trucks. Then she'd push me off and leave me for dead. Our relationship was tumultuous and passionate. Once more, I digress.

When the critics lashed out against my wonderful mission to maintain the most memorable mammals of the planet, 1971's Mammalia Mayhem Volume One: The History of the Aardvark, that was the last straw. The following is a letter addressed to the literary community, published in the May 21, 1972 issue of Harper's Bazaar:

"To the "guardians of literature",

When undertaking a task as grandiose as the one that I have undertaken, you are likely to encounter some opposition. Some fueled by a distaste for common literary practice, some fueled by envy, still others fueled by having a crab planted so far up their ass, hemorroids have ceased to be a concern. I suspect that many of you bombastic simpletons fall into one of these categories, most probably the latter. Your categorical and uninhibited dismantling of my book, Mammalia Mayhem Volume One: The History of the Aardvark , is among some of the most careless ever produced. I cite two prominent rumors floating around about me.

With regards to the widely published notion that I have sex with German Shephards: This is an outrage. My simple comment was merely, 'I like dogs.' Your reckless and irresponsible journalism has put my pending engagement to noted animal lover Betty White in serious jeopardy. With reagrds to the ludicrous assertion that my writing is some how co-opted from other sources, I am angered virtually beyond speech. I'm out of order? You are out of order. This whole courtroom is out of order. I hope, gentlemen, that you could be a little more selective in that which you choose to publish. My work stands alone as the greatest single achievement among the people reading this note. I should hope, 'guardians of the written word', that you would be able to tell the difference.

Good day to you.

Humbly,
Geoffrey Aloysius Wolinetz

2002-07-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

Cheese, Glorious Cheese

As I've stated many times over, I am a man of extreme empathy. As I have no serious personal problems other than my numerous run-ins with the law and my on again, off again bouts with venereal disease, it is easy for me to appeal to the masses. When I was approached about writing a book to champion the cause of mental retardation, I leapt at the chance. After all, who would be better to chronicle a life filled with obstacles better than a man with little to no trouble in his unbelievably decadent and shallow life? I submit that no one would be. It's like Paul Lynde always said to me, "Wolinetz, you show me a gay man from Guatemala and I'll show you a tropical fruit." I do not mean to insult Paul Lynde. Paul Lynde is a dear friend of mine. In the late 1970s, we'd spend hours out by his Beverly Hills pool, ingesting quaaludes and pitching pennies. Paul Lynde could pitch a mean penny but he was a gentleman about it. In those days of the late 1970s, Paul Lynde and I would put on our paisley jackets and giggle at the hookers on Hollywood Blvd. Well, he would giggle. I would have sex with them. We'd hit the set of Hollywood Squares and take turns kicking Peter Marshall in the nuts. I digress.

I spent some time in Kentucky researching the atmosphere and the inbreds. I wove a delightful little tale of a mentally retarded woman. Inventor, lover, Senator, she made her way through life with a innocent innocence. As you may or may not know, this was adapted into a movie starring Cuba Gooding, Jr called "Snow Dogs." I removed my name from the project after a lengthy battle with Cuba as to who would get to scream, "SHOW ME THE MONEY!!" each morning. An excerpt from Cheese of Kentucky:

"Mama said it wasn't possible but I just chewed the gum, didn't matter none to me if it floated or not. But when Mama told me to spit my gum out at the dinner table, I did it. And when it just hung there in the air, over the table, Mama let out a scream that coulda woke the dead. I thought she's gonna right pass out. So, I took the gum out the air and put it in the garbage can. When I come back to the dinner table, Mama had that look on her face. The one she always got when I told her about the walrus that lived in my closet. He has tusks.
'Chile, now don't joke with yo' mama. How'd you go and do that?'
'I told you mama, it just floats. I put summa them soap bubbles you gave me in with the chewing gum.'
'You ain't messin' with me, Sue Ann Betty Sue Turner-McCoy?'
'Nome.' And I wasn't. I thought it'd be right hilarious to have my gum float like it did. So I mixed them bubbles in there and then it happened. The gum jus' hung there, like it were on a string or somethin'
Mama just put some dinner on my plate and didn't say a word. I jus' ate quitely. Collard greens was my favorite and even though we was dirt po', Mama always managed to serve some almost every night. I looked up at Mama. She was eatin' real quiet, mosly jus' pickin' at her food.
'Mama, ain't you hungry?' I asked her. I sure was hungry. I was so hungry I could eat the table too.
'No, chile. Not so hungry tonight.' I looked at Mama's face and I could tell. She wanted to go check the closet for walruses. I didn't blame her. The dang walrus eats more'n he's worth ..."

2002-07-09T06:05:00.000-07:00

Those Were The Salad Days, Although These Are Good Too

I woke up this morning, in my spacious three bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, groggy from a night of alcohol soaked sleep. I was reminded of my younger days, those days that I spent in an off-off-Broadway Theater troupe. I worked as their "gofer," there to fetch their coffee, their bagels, their morning fare, their fuzzy bunny slippers. Often, I was persuaded to join their sexual games. "Pass The Dildo," "Hot Dildo," and "Where Have You Gone, Sweet Dildo?" were among their favorites. I gained valuable insight and experience in the life of a creative genius. I was the right hand man of our director, Luke "No Balls" Johnson. No Balls had a knack for developing young talent and he saw something in me. No Balls took me under his wing and we spent a glorious year together touring the country with our troupe. Among the no talent actors in my troupe were John Cassavettes, Sir Laurence Olivier, Tony Randall and Billy Dee Williams. I remember remarking to myself that Olivier had potential. I often wonder what became of him. He must be dead by now.

I am reminded of something that the stunning Lauren Bacall told me while we were engaged in our steamy 2 year affair. She looked deeply in to my eyes and said, "True genius knows no bounds. Be a slave to your talent. It will not mislead you. Now get out of my house, you cocksucker." We had a love-hate relationship. In any event, I chronicled these salad days in my novel Pickle This!. Once again, I refer you to Froot Salad, Josh Abraham's wonderful critical analysis of my work, for a summary of my body of work. An exceprt from Pickle This!:

"We boarded the bus, our heads sunken and our loins silenced. Another night of miserable crowds, poor lighting, oppressive heat and no money had finally gotten the best of our youthful vigor. We were no match for the heartache that road brought. I turned to Billy Dee Williams, seeking the large smile and bottle of Colt 45 that generally accompanied the long bus ride to the next city. The well was dry.
'I done got none left, Rev," Billy Dee said to me, slipping out of the stage voice he used.
Billy Dee's comment spoke volumes. I gazed around the bus and I could feel my heart break inside my chest. Indeed, the whole troupe had none left. But what could I do? There was but one answer. It would be a bold move, for I was merely their bagel/coffee/slipper fetcher. However, I recalled my days in Arabia. The sultan had told me to follow my talent. To not be afraid. He had told me that his penis was 12 inches long. I could not submit to the misery that enveloped the bus like an envelope. I would spend all night working on it, but Mr. Pucker's Pickle Problems would be ready for the stage tomorrow ...
... I informed the cast and crew that there would be no need for them to prepare this evening. I was giving them the night off. I left them for the stage with this impassioned speech:
'Friends, I love you all very much, and I hope that I have been able to spread a little bit of my love to each of you, as I am so very capable in that arena of my life. Tonight, I give my heart and my passion to the stage. It is my one-man show. I have poured my heart on to these pages. I dedicate it to you, my friends. For it is you that have shown me so much over the past 6 months that we have spent together. I have brought you bagels, this is true. Now I bring you the life blood which flows through the cockles of my heart. I ask you merely to gaze longingly on my Herculean form, bask in the glory of my ability, relent to the will of my song. It is true that I am more talented than you but do not forget, you are all gifted, especially you Billy Dee. Now I am off. Wish me well, my friends.'
The cheers from my troupe swelled. No Balls beamed with pride. And I, I was about to unveil my masterpiece to the world. Well, Dubuque, Iowa anyway ..."

Those were the salad days, although these are good too.

2002-07-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

Monday Morning Lament

Once again, another Monday morning besieges my semi-consciousness, like the semi-colon besieges the work of an inexperienced journalist. My hazy, polluted head seeks to reclaim its legendary lucidity from a weekend of malaise. I gaze at the bookshelf, off to the left of my desk at this major media company, and scan my body of work. (For an abridged summary and description, please see Josh Abraham's magnificent site, Froot Salad) As the most prolific author named Wolinetz, I have a huge cross to bear. In my autobiographical piece, Camels Have Two Humps, I explain the nature of my drive to success. For those of you unfamiliar with that work, it's a summary of my holidays on the Arabian peninsula as waterboy for a sultan with 100 wives. An excerpt:

"It is hot today. Like yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. The sultan demands Gatorade. I sense that he is a demanding man. I only provide water. This is not good enough and he has me flogged. They tell me he is mad from syphillis, but I am not convinced. Why does this "madman" keep me around? I provide water, as well as powerful tantric sex, to many of his wives. They are satisfied and demand that I continue to satiate their unquenchable thirst. I tell them that I am here for the sultan. The sultan needs me to tend to his water needs. I have learned at the tender age of 14 that my virility is both a blessing and a curse. The sultan calls me to his room.
'Wolinetz, have you come with the Gatorade?' He wears a diaper.
'Sultan, I provide only water. If you would like ...'
'Silence!' He throws a serving platter at me, which I avoid easily, as he is nearly blind from the syphillis. 'Wolinetz, change my diaper.'
I do as I am instructed with great effort, as the sultan, a hefty man before, has become bloated with the 3rd stage of his venereal disease.
'Wolinetz, your father is a great friend of mine. I have done him a favor by bringing you here. Milk the elephant when pigs fly through dusk.' Was he mad? Or was that code?
"Thank you, Sultan.' I bowed.
'Your talent knows no boundaries. Remember you must be a servant to your talent. Let it guide you. My penis is 12 inches long.'
'Thank you, Sultan.'
He dismissed me and began to gnaw on the leg of his bed. It was then I knew. My talent was a blessing, one that I could not ignore, like I'd ignored the early signs of the syphillis I'd contracted that summer. It was then I knew. Camels have two humps."

My memories of the Sultan are strong, like when he'd latch on to your leg and start humping. There was nothing you could do, you just had to let him ride it out.

2002-07-03T08:34:00.000-07:00

"Hold me closer, Tony Danza." Tony Danza by Elton John

It is a difficult task to upset me so deeply that I become enraged. In fact, many people approach me daily to about my openmindedness and acceptance of those who are clearly inferior to me. They are correct. I am remarkably tolerant of the people and dogs that I run into daily. As a writer of great talent and superb ability, I feel it my duty to do what I can to soothe their mind with my euphonious words and the sweet inhale of the magical marijuana. You might find yourself asking what is it that makes me so angry? What, you say, has awakened the slumber giant within me that I call my ire? What is it that has my inner being all wound up like a Chinese prosititute?

I'll tell you. While I sat behind my computer last night, feasting my eyes on the wide array of pornographic sites, I was shacked, outraged, dismayed to find that there is no Tony Danza Fan Club. There were many fan sites, but no "club" as it were. I was mortified. How could no one think to honor the genius that is Tony Danza? To truly know the man, you must recongize his genius, you must soak in the virility of his man, you must hear him bellow, "Angela! Samantha! Mona!" For Buddha's sake, even that no talent hack Tom Hanks has a fan club. Do not misinterpret me. I do not mean to insult Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks is a dear friend of mine. I recall the days that I spent as an assistant writer on that most hilarious and poignant of comedies, Bosom Buddies. Tom Hanks and I would spend hours laughing and gorging ourselves on the free spread that was offered to cast and crew. We'd take Cheerios, throw them at the back of Donna Dixon's head and then duck behind the director's chair. In the spring, we'd frolic in the pasture of greener acres. Those were the salad days. Once again, I digress.

I ask you, friends, to show your support for Tony Danza. He deserves the international acclaim that an internet based fan club would provide for him. Please, indulge me. I am willing to make the sacrifice. If you'd like to make passionate love under the pal moonlight, I must do what needs to be done. I will not, however, be held accountable to the life altering change you will go through after indulging in the my flesh. Pease, friends, love Tony Danza!

2002-07-02T13:11:00.000-07:00

E-mail from my adoring fans:

Subj: Fruit Salad's latest post is incredibly offensive.
Date: Tue, 2 Jul 2002 11:40:27 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: 'James Durbin'
To: gwol4020@aol.com
Cc:
Sent from the Internet (Details)

Truly disgusting, the vile way in which Mr Wohlinetz attempts to corrupt his reader with sexual double entendres and racial humor. It is as if he suffers from a dyspeptic diarrhea of the mind, spewing filth from his orifice like a sewage pipe into a stream upriver from a children's
playground.

Observe, in the first sentence, the depravity of a corporate automaton.

The bright sun penetrates the hazy New York day.

Obsessed with penile verbs, the sentence speaks with rhymes and words that elicit religious imagery and mortal sin, setting the stage for a Freudian dream of sex-mother-child. "The bright sun (an obvious reference to son, as in male child) penetrates (a'hem) the hazy New York Day.

New York as we all know, is the Big Apple, as in the original sin and the perfidy of Eve. How duplicit is the author? His subconscious tells us
all. Big Apple Day. B..A..D. He knows what he does is wrong.

The look and feel of the summer sky

He could as easily say the "lustful gaze" and the "sensuous touch." His obsession with the senses proves his disassociation with godliness and the
lewdness inherent in "The Fall from Grace." remind me all too vividly of my grandmother's cataracts and I shudder, despite the heat.

Oedipal fantasies of impregnating your mother and having her bear your child are more fit for Greek tragedy than a summer's walk in the park. Here he wishes to turn his mother into a grandmother, and the dirtiness, the murky fate that awaits him (signified by cataracts), makes him "shudder" in pleasure, despite the"heat" that awaits him in the fiery depths. He also manages a sideswipe at the Asian community with his double use of the word, "cataracts," an obvious reference to a joke about Asians
not able to pronounce an "ell" sound, and this driving "Rincons, and Cadaracs." One would assume his poor experience in rub and tug parlors, getting soapies from underage Thai girls has driven him from polite society.

The mercury reads 98. Well, not so much the "mercury" as the clock at Uncle Louie's Savings, Loan & Critters.

Here he mocks us with his education, referencing Greek culture under a Roman guise. Mercury of course is Hermes, the God Of Commerce and Critters.

Sweat glistens off of my body and I am naked. Emotionally naked, that is.

Now he mocks Tully, vainly decrying his sexual impotence with burning visions of his glistening, nakedness, only to throw in the caveat that his personality is stripped bare for Greg to see, not his manhood.

I rub my eyes in disbelief, much like a cartoon character who has seen Bugs Bunny masquerading as a lady bunny,

The next jibe is unclear - is he trying to tell us that Drag Queens are funny, popular, or acceptable?

although my eyes do not pop out of my head. As I gaze lazily across the street, I am shocked into action. I rise from the lawn chair that I have set up on the sidewalk and move slowly across the street, my gait trammeled by the immobilizing brace that I sport.

Here he jokes about people with lazy eyes and corneal problems, then proceeds to poke fun at the mentally slow. Why doesn't he ask what's better than winning a medal in the Special Olympics?

Mr Wohlinetz, while clever in his phrases, then goes on to blatantly steal a scene from the popular children's show, SpongeBob SquarePants, apparently copying verbatim his day in the park with Lesbians, Ice Cream and Kim Novak from episode #87, " SpongeBob spooges in Times Square, pants, a trip to New York."

In short, sir, I am disgusted. In being caught up in debunking your so-called, story, I have indeed soiled myself, without the itinerant intergalactic communication promised and also copied from popular culture, (Amazing Stores, vol iii, "Dropping some kids off on the curb, talking to aliens, drinking a Bud," p.62).

I demand an apology, in the form of a 14 foot statue of Doug's ass, entirely created from Nilla wafers and adorned with nose hair from an unmated Giant Panda.

Good Day Sir.

2002-07-02T08:12:00.000-07:00

The bright sun penetrates the hazy New York day. The look and feel of the summer sky remind me all too vividly of my grandmother's cataracts and I shudder, despite the heat. The mercury reads 98. Well, not so much the "mercury" as the clock at Uncle Louie's Savings, Loan & Critters. Sweat glistens off of my body and I am naked. Emotionally naked, that is. I rub my eyes in disbelief, much like a cartoon character who has seen Bugs Bunny masquerading as a lady bunny, although my eyes do not pop out of my head. As I gaze lazily across the street, I am shocked into action. I rise from the lawn chair that I have set up on the sidewalk and move slowly across the street, my gait trammeled by the immobilizing brace that I sport.

After stopping for a quick Red Bull to replenish my depleted energy supply, I make my way to Central Park, that most central of parks, to view the wide cast of characters that patrols the inner circle of lunacy. My first encounter is with a man who sports a scraggly beard. His face is swathed in dirt. He informed me that a one-armed Guatemalan named Carl is going to furnish my apartment free of charge. I informed him that he had soiled his pants. He told me that this was not what had happened. The soiling of his pants allowed him to receive messages from the Zerphlag galaxy. I told him that shit could not function in that capacity and bid him good day.

My next encounter was with a woman who kept offering sexual favors. This is not out of the ordinary for me, as I frequently spend days receiving and relenting to such demands. This woman looked remarkably familiar. I scanned the recesses of my mind and decided she looked like a young Kim Novak. I do not mean to insult Kim Novak. She is a dear friend of mine and a very exciting woman. Kim Novak and I used to stroll the beaches of the French Riviera, drinking the finest wines and laughing at the Maurice Chevalier-like accents of the locals.. It was there that we would frolic, sometimes nude, for hours upon hours. In the salad days of the late 1960's, Kim Novak and I would spend hours ingesting LSD then laughing at the seagulls. Later, when she spent time on the prime time soap opera Falcon Crest, we would reall those days of grandeur. We lived the high life and then some. I have no regrets. Once more, I digress.

My day in the park nearly complete, I join in a pick up softball game on the side of the Lesbian Jewelers and we defeat our mortal foes, the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. President Edwin D. Hill struck out on a 3-2 changeup to end the game. I purchase drugs from the ice cream man, fruit from the drug pusher and ice cream from the fruit guy. Sated and intoxicated, I return home, pleased with my adventures in the park.

2002-07-01T07:35:00.000-07:00

I sit, once again at my behind my desk at a major media company, my face tender and red from the penetrating ultraviolet rays of that star which functions as our giver of life, and I am morose. No, not morose. I am plaintive. I am plainitve because yesterday, as I sat at my dining room table pounding the keys of my Gateway EV 500 computer which I purchased via the Internet at a very reasonable price, I was struck with the television sounds that floated melodically into my all-too-sagely ears. For on the television, was the 1993 Daniel Stern directed classic, Rookie of the Year. In this film, 12 year old Henry Rowengartner (portrayed by the astounding Thomas Ian Nicholas) recovers from an arm injury with the ability to throw a baseball at remarkable speed. He is recruited by the evil nephew of the owner of his beloved Chicago Cubs to pitch in the Major Leagues. Naturally, hilarity ensues. It is an hysterical romp. If you have not seen this film, do yourself a favor and purchase the greatest sports related film in the history of the world.

Rookie of the Year always reminds me of my brief yet successful stint as a Major League baseball player. In the days of my puissant youth, I displayed my clear superiority on the Elysian fields of my heroes. Then, as now, I was a finely tuned specimen. My arms bulged with rippling strength, like the legs of a Siamese whore that could latch on and give you the roll of your lifetime. My legs were as firm and taut as the breasts of Kirsten Dunst. I mean no offense to Kirsten Dunst. She is a dear friend of mine and a wonderful lady. She attended the worldwide premiere of my critically acclaimed pornographic documentary, Sexual Coma. You can read all about it in my new book, How Kirsten Dunst Attended My Worldwide Movie Premiere, available in bookstores this fall. Once again, I digress.

I played the game of baseball with a voracious hunger, like a wolverine devouring a gazelle in the heartlands of the African continent. Offers for my services abounded, as did the offers for women, booze, parties and nightlife. Ultimately, I chose to play for the Montreal Expos, due in part to their mascot YouppI!, with whom I had a brief but illicit affair. Additionally, Les Expos would provide me with ample opportunity to show off my skill as they were generally considered the laughingstock of the National League. Not to mention my proficence in all of the Romance languages would allow me to dazzle the French Canadian women. I chose to pitch, since the National League mandated that pitchers bat for themselves. My debut was a stunning success, as I scattered 4 hits over 7 1/3 innings, striking out 11 and walking none. I also went 3 for 4 that day with two doubles and a home run. My presence in the clubhouse was positive as well. By early August, my beloved Les Expos sat atop the Natioanl League's East Division, due in large part to my tremendous ability. In the dugout, I saw Larry Walker and John Wetteland perform the "Naked Tango," that is, they danced the tango completely naked. In my penultimate start, I came within two outs of performing pitching's most indomitable feat a perfect game. Ultimately, I was given my outright release my management, as they refused to relent to my "unreasonable demands." To supplement the bucket of animal crackers I received each week, I demanded that I be allowed to masturbate on the mural of Rusty Staub prior to each game, in an homage to Le Grand Orange. 55,000 people watched my final start, a 6-1 win against the Cincinnati Reds. My career had come to an end, for the time being, but I would be back.

It was a glorious trip to that most major of leagues. My memories will last a lifetime, like so many lifelong memories do. Thank you, Daniel Stern. Thank you, indeed.

2002-06-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2002-06-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2002-06-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2002-06-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

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!

2002-06-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

"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!