Begin the Begin

by Geoff Wolinetz
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 urinate 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 voraciously, 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.