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.
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.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.
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!
7/2/2002 8:12:35 AM | 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.
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.
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.
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)
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!
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.