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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.
7/09/2003 02:15:30 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 traveling theater companies, 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 not 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?
4/25/2003 11:32:22 AM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 competencies 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 mélange 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 Rorschach 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:
4/11/2003 10:08:37 AM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 the 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 methamphetamines 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 four 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 pornography very much, but what I enjoy most is when they cut out the face of a starlet, such as my ex-wife Renée 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.
3/15/2003 01:31:15 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 & Jaymes, you knew that good times lie ahead. Often times, we'd smoke peyote and then wind up in the parking lot of the Circle K some six months later. Only through newspaper clippings saved by my ex-wife Diane Lane would we eventually 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 dual wedding (later annulled) 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 of 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
2/25/2003 06:43:15 AM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 amphetamines to kill a small Latino family. Then, amid raucous cheering from an admiring crowd, Richard Masur would rip off a "Tango Hustle" that you'd sell your mother to be able to imitate. Richard Masur would visit the "One Day At A Time" set and throw Cheese 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 (Myanmar now, but 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?" It was the nurse. "Welcome. Welcome to the world, U Wolinetz."
2/6/2003 12:32:16 PM | Geoff Wolinetz Appeal To The U.S. Government
J.E. Carter, Jr. 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. My ex-wife Farrah Fawcett and I are extremely enthusiastic about the great changes that your presidency promises 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 2/4/2003 12:27:22 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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. 2/3/2003 3:42:09 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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-upon 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, Ohio, 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 a grating 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. 10/11/2002 1:48:18 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 with whom they do not get along. 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 grassroots 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 wander the Negro streets of Schenectady, NY, looking for an angry fix. When we found it, we'd wander 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 unwavering 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 feud, one that neither face-to-face meetings 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 any chance of reconciliation. Behold, the transcript from a phone call with the Columbia House Music Club on March 14, 1997:
Wolinetz: Hello? 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 cannot reciprocate. The wounds just run too deep. 10/8/2002 1:48:37 PM | Geoff Wolinetz 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 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 basketball’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 cognoscenti 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 "micromanagement" 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, 9/24/2002 9:49:51 AM | Geoff Wolinetz Only Time Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and soon I have lost all track of time. It has been quite some time since I have regaled you with tales of my life, accomplished as it is. In the time of my absence, 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 before and the lady nowhere in sight. Three 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 wackos -- 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].Only time, my friends, only time indeed.
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