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Tuesday, July 2, 2002   |    Fruit Salad

Untitled Again

by Geoff Wolinetz

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.

Read the REVIEW of this Post

Geoff Wolinetz cannot be found on IMDb because the Hollywood community refuses to acknowledge the production of his seminal masterpiece Come What May, a gritty psychothriller starring a guy who kind of looks like Billy Baldwin and Erin Gray (formerly of "Silver Spoons"). If he were to be found on IMDb, his name would fall between "Geoff Witcher" and "Geoff Wood." In addition to his imaginary film career, Geoff also maintains an imaginary career as a baron of industry, is lead singer of the imaginary band Kick Ass, Falco, holds an imaginary Olympic gold medal and is an imaginary Pulitzer laureate in the field of journalism for his investigative piece on the albinos of Alaska.