Fruit Salad

LITERARY HUBBUB

G.W.'s FRUIT SALAD | LETTERS

BIRTHDAY CARDS TO CELEBRITIES

SUBMIT | KINDRED SPIRITS

S I R
G E O F F W O L I N E T Z ' S
F R U I T S A L A D

G.W. is an award-winning novelist and essayist, a veteran character actor, a brown belt in Tae-bo, an honorary British knight, and an accomplished trombonist. Yankee Pot Roast is very proud to host Fruit Salad, a semi-frequent bloggy account of his affairs. In addition, Y.P.R. will present some noted critics' reviews of G.W.'s posts, to further explore the Wolinetz enigma.
[Entries are posted in reverse-chronological order -- most recent up top, most distant way down bottom of the last archived page. Readers searching for a narrative are encouraged to start at the end and read backward. Readers who are comforted by the unyielding, indescriminate forces of entropy can begin at the top, or anywhere else. Ah, entropy.]
Fruit salad, a perfect complement to yankee pot roast.
Enjoy.

7/8/2002 7:43:46 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
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. 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 syphilis, 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 syphilis. '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 syphilis 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.
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7/3/2002 8:34:48 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
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 open-mindedness 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 prostitute?

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 recognize 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 pale 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 flesh. Please, friends, love Tony Danza!

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7/2/2002 8:12:35 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
Untitled
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 recall 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 pickup 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.
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7/1/2002 7:35:19 AM | Geoff Wolinetz

I sit, once again 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 plaintive 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 National 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 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.

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6/28/2002 11:49:05 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
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.

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6/28/2002 7:24:39 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
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.

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6/27/2002 12:57:51 PM | Geoff Wolinetz

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!

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6/27/2002 10:55:06 AM | Geoff Wolinetz
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 immobilizing 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, right leg 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 apartment 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 forward 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.

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