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Dear Honorary Mayor of Hollywood by Geoff Wolinetz

Upcoming Titles from Y.P.R. Books: Travel

The Persistance of Memory

Where God Lies by Nick Jezarian

Reminiscing by Geoff Wolinetz

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July 30, 2003

Dear Honorary Mayor of Hollywood

30 July 2003

Office of the Honorable Johnny Grant
9800 Sunset Drive
Hollywood, CA 90028

To the Honorable Honorary Mayor Grant,

I write you this letter in desperation. I have tried to appeal to anyone who will listen but no one wants to act. You see, as we speak, there is an insidious presence in Hollywood that threatens the very foundation on which your fine city is built. I speak not of the many hookers and drug dealers that roam the Sunset Strip across from Mann's Chinese Theater at any given time. If it were up to me, these activities would not even be illegal. No, I speak of a far more dangerous and immediate problem: Ashton Kutcher.

From 2000's Dude, Where's My Car? to the impending release of 2004's Seriously, Dude, Where's My Car?, Mr. Kutcher's work systematically seeks out other films, infiltrates them, and releases a viscous liquid best described as "gooey," thereby destroying the film for viewing. In my home laboratory, I've conducted several experiments that will prove this theory. In fact, I placed a copy of 2002's Just Married next to a copy of Henry Fonda's film 12 Angry Men. Within five minutes, the Just Married DVD had taken a hold of the Fonda film and rendered it totally useless. This is the threat to which I refer.

The mastermind behind this foul plot is none other than Mr. Kutcher himself. Though he comes off as so stupid that he needs someone to ties his shoes for him, this is merely a façade. Mr. Kutcher is a devious criminal, capable of God only knows how many more film atrocities. His résumé already includes such fiendish titles as My Boss's Daughter (starring his devilish female counterpart Tara Reid) and Texas Rangers. Mr. Kutcher is only 25. I cannot even begin to speculate what other heinous cinematic crimes this man has in him. He must be stopped.

That is why I turn to you, Mr. Mayor. Though your title is merely that of a symbolic figurehead, I am hoping that you can perhaps wield some of your cinematic influence and help me in my quest to rid Hollywood of this invidious presence. His mere existence undermines the legitimate actors that you have working in your fine city, quality film stars such as Jason Biggs, Freddie Prinze Jr., and Mr. Kutcher's Dude, Where's My Car? co-star, Seann William Scott.

Help us, Johnny Grant. You're our only hope.

Geoff Wolinetz

July 21, 2003

Upcoming Titles from Y.P.R. Books: Travel

Don't Drink the Water: A Guide to Everywhere Outside the United States

England for Just Under $180 A Day

Italy from Heel to Toe
(Get it? It looks Like a Boot!)

I Left My Heart in Saudi Arabia, Along with My Hands When I Forgot to Pay for a Piece of Fruit

We Speak Dutch in Holland a.k.a. the Netherlands.
Confused? Drink This Magic Tea!

Cheap Jokes about France

The Don't Go to Africa Series:
Stay Away from Cameroon

Le'ts Go Back Home!

Beer and Dry Heat:
I Flew 32 Hours for Australia?

Kevin Brennan's Guide to Locust St., Manchester, N.H.

Oktoberfest, Carnivale, Running of the Bulls, and 25 Other Places to Get Shit-Faced

Dinner at 4 and Bedtime at 7:
A Local's Guide to Palm Beach

Tobago: Trinidad's Little Bitch

The Idiot's Guide to Places Michener Wrote About

You Can't Get American-Style Chinese Food in China, Just Gross Things that Smell Funky

How Many Countries Named Guinea Are There?

What's Up with Burkina Faso, Anyway?

You Want To Swim Where?

Vacation Destinations by The National Association of Catholic Missionaries

Namibia Fever!

Jose Melendez's Insider's Tour of Oaxaca

Laos Go Laos!

Bangkok: It's Not Just Dirty Hookers and Seedy Underbelly Anymore!

Spain's Ugly, Retarded Cousin

Dude, Where's My Passport?: Lost in the Dark Continent

Not All Estonian Women Have Beards

Don't Balk at the Balkans!

Where I Love To Go and Why My Mother Says I Shouldn't Go There

Rio de Jeneiro: Hot Topless Babes 2 Hot 4 TV!

17 Ways to Take Advantage of a Norwegian

Thailand: Try Not to Get Arrested Here, 'Cause It's Really a Lot Worse Than Those Movies

Pygmys, Watusi, and Other Tribes Your Shouldn't Provoke

S.A.R.S. on the Road: China, Taiwan, and Toronto

Cape Horn-y: Gettin' It On in South Africa

Fiji: We're Not Sure Where It Is But It's Really Hot Here

Hey, That's My Fez: Morrocco!

Did Somebody Say "Suriname"?

Gee, Your State Smells Terrific: New Jersey

Nepal: Sherpa THIS!

Zimbabwe. Try To Say It Without Laughing. Go On. Try.

Botwana Girl Wants!

Qatar: Now It's "Cutter"

Georgia. No, Not the State. The Breakaway Soviet Republic Constantly on the Verge of Civil War. Yes. Come Here. It's Not as Cold as You Think.

July 17, 2003

The Persistance of Memory

First of all, I’ll admit, I was a little extreme back when we first met. I knew you liked good food and beer and literature so I memorized the entire “Restaurant and Bar” section of The New York Eyewitness Travel Guide. I walked around saying things like, “You can get almost any alcoholic drink you fancy in New York bars; the most popular drink is ice-cold beer.” I sounded like a tour guide, and not the sexy kind of “I’m so hot and stifled under this uniform take it off of me” kind of tour guide. Maybe I was more like a part-time waitress, snappish and uninformed. I read things like The Czech Black Book on my lunch break because I thought I would sound smart if I could recite pieces of a letter written to Ludvik Svoboda, former President of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic: “The occupation organs have so far failed in gaining the support and population. This failure heightens their nervousness.” I was wrong. Worse, I began to lie in bed at night thinking of the same word, over and over: Dubcek, Dubcek, Dubcek, then began to fear that I would say it out loud, that I would say it loud in some place quiet.

God, I hope I was nice to you last night. I hope I said something fun and good- natured and hopeful. I probably didn’t though, did I? I probably said “Dubcek.” Did I say it three times in a row? I was probably some kind of shit-faced, fuckhead about it all. I hope I wasn’t shit-faced. But I probably was. Fucked-up as Cooter Brown is what I was. I know it. But it’s not my fault. Some good-looking guy is always leaving me something “Hecho en Mexico” on my desk. And what am I? A saint? I have to drink it. If you don’t drink the Hecho offered to you by good-looking guys, then the mean gods of fire and non-redemption send you nothing but uglies for the next six months. But that’s not your fault. There you were, a good-looking short guy from Philly trying to be nice to me. And what do I do? I shoot you down. Just like that. I’m such a shithead. I probably gave you some condescending blow-off, or even worse, gave you some nondescript, polite, limp-wristed finger wave and a “So happy to have met you, so happy to have met you...”

I can’t help it. I’m from Alabama by way of Mississippi, or is it the other way around? I know, you could give a shit. You’re busy pouring your heart out on paper; you’re a goddamned poet; your writing is haunted by the echo of a woman, of a woman and carrots. I’ll bet she was a beautiful woman. I’ll bet you still kick yourself in the head every morning for fucking that shit up. That’s deep. I love that shit: women and carrots. Nothing better. Not that I’m a homo or anything. No way. I really love men, deep men that have the nerve to tell the fucking toaster to fuck off. My toaster is always getting my shit too, that’s one thing we have in common. Not that we have chicks in common or anything. Okay, there was that one hot chick at summer camp, but every girl has a summer-camp story. Me having a homo summer-camp story doesn’t make me special or anything. I’m just too in love with myself, that’s my problem. Who am I, anyway? What do I have to be in love with? Nothing.

So, anyway, I’m sorry. I really am. I wasn’t myself. I was the Diana of Central Park; I was an unmarried goddess; young women left their dolls at my altar; in the depths of the woods I could hear the baying of the hounds and the cries of the nymphs as they hunted the stag. I sought the advice of Bishops and ballet dancers; in my dreams they married and danced Swan Lake in front of an audience of mounted police. I laughed when a drug dealer robbed you, laughed at your six-dollar haircut, told you I was a Christian, told you I could go to war and still love my enemy. I was harmonious, like Stan Musial batting a ball, or Allie Reynolds winding up for the pitch: just as the drumming of the rain, just as the feet of a thousand soldiers marching.

But that’s all too poetic, isn’t it? That’s too fucked up and poetic. What kind of a girl compares herself to Diana? I’m fucked up right now, aren’t I? Yes. Shit. Goddamn it all to hell. I’m sorry. I’ve watched too much television today. It was that Mathew Perry movie that did it. That guy always pushes me over the edge, reminds me of a guy I used to know in Mississippi. A walking Gap ad, that guy. Don’t get me started. You know, that Mathew Perry would be a hot guy if he weren’t so tall. But, okay. Now I really have to apologize. I mean, who the fuck gets fucked up to write an apology letter? I’m a shit, but I’m sort of good looking in that squirrelly kind of way. Does that count for something? Do you know how you write a word and it looks weird? Like it’s not spelled right? Like squirrel. Squirrel is that kind of word for me. I’ve looked it up in Webster’s twice already. I know I’ve spelled it correctly, but it just looks wrong. I could stare at it all day.

July 07, 2003

Where God Lies

A Play in One Act

Bill: Holy shit, is that a photo shoot with God?
John 3:14: Yeah, a spread too.
Bill: Is he lying spread-eagle on a map of the Middle East?
John 3:14: I think so.
Bill: Wicked.
John 3:14: Yeah, I never realized he was so hairy.
Bill: And hung.
John 3:14: And hung, too. Yes.
Bill: What magazine is that?
John 3:14: Details.
Bill: Word.

July 02, 2003


Do you remember, my love? To me, it's as if it were only yesterday. Our youth. We were young then, nary a care in the world. I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on you. Do you remember, my dear? I didn't think that you would. With all of the Quaaludes that you had ingested, you couldn't have picked me out of a line up. Don't fret, my peach. I remember. Let me remind you.

It was a grand summer day, one of the finest of the season. The sun was shining brightly; the birds were chirping in the sky. It was as if the heavens had aligned to allow us to come together on this spectacular day. I had caught a bum urinating on the wheel rims of my 1974 El Camino and I'd beaten him within an inch of his life. It was clear that he was drunk but, to be fair, even drunk everyone knows not to take a wiz on the rims of the Camino. It's a sin.

I reported to the job that morning, ready to focus only on work. Once I stepped into the room though, all of that became a distant memory. I saw you across the room. You were chugging a bottle of Jack Daniels in a race against some other guy. I only had eyes for you. You finished the bottle, emitted a belch that registered on the Richter scale and threw the empty bottle against the wall. It shattered into a great many pieces. Your glassy eyes turned to me, looked at me, through me. My heart began to beat as quickly as a drum, but that may have been the crystal meth.

I was wary approaching you. Would you rebuff me? I prayed that you would accept me. I'd never seen you around here before. Were you new? Were you nailing one of the members of the band? Several members of the band? All of the members in the band? I didn't know, couldn't know. I walked toward you slowly. My mind raced and I had trouble focusing, though that could have been the gasoline fumes I'd huffed. Will she or won't she?

When I stood next to you, you turned to me with your ice blue eyes. Look at how blue they were. They reminded me of the clear blue lakes of the Rocky Mountains. I had been there once, on a mushroom trip. The icy water looked as clear as glass, reflecting the surrounding natural beauty in its surface. I saw all of that in your eyes. Also, they were the color of Viagra.

I told you that I had some Viagra and that if you wanted, we could go back to one of the dressing rooms and hump like rabbits. You said cool. We turned to go and I knew. I knew that you were the woman that I'd spend the rest of my life with. Or, at the very least, for the next 4–6 hours.