Another look at Geraldo's Diary:
Jan. 3 -- Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of . . . aw, hell. We all know the answer to that one. Geraldo's nose is looking especially good today, amigos. Finely chiseled yet manly. Prominent yet not overwhelming. Then again, for what I paid, it should open garage doors and double as a reading lamp.
Jan. 10 -- Message on my desk says that a Yitzhak Shamir called. Hmmm, Shamir, Shamir . . . is that the guy who used to play on "Falcon Crest?"
Jan. 19 -- Liz Taylor wants me. Ran into her at a party at Le Cirque. She was with her new husband, Larry Fortensky, who looks like a roadie for Iron Maiden.
"Sweetie, go powder your nose," Liz told him, pressing a $100 bill into his hand. Then she dragged me into a nearby linen closet. We made mad passionate love for an hour. God help me, but I stole a couple of tablecloths.
Jan. 27 -- Uh-oh. Just found two new laugh lines near the corners of my mouth. Bummer. Wonder if you could smooth them down yourself with some industrial-grade sandpaper? Just thinking out loud. It could save a few bucks.
Feb. 4 -- Well, we hyped it and hyped it. On today's "Geraldo!" (in front of a studio audience, no less) the doctors will liposuction a tiny amount of fat from my perfectly shaped rear end and inject it into my massive forehead to smooth a few wrinkles.
Who's on "Donahue," a couple of Scientologists? Snicker, snicker. Yo, Phil, only way you top these ratings is with a live sex-change operation.
Feb. 10 -- I see where Streisand might win an Oscar for "The Prince of Tides." Hey, you know who could really act? The babe who played Mary Ann on "Gilligan's Island." And I'm not saying that just 'cause she's hot for me.
Feb. 16 -- This came to me in the gym this morning while staring at myself in the floor-length mirror: How about a show on the old "Star Trek" gang? Has that been done yet? We fly 'em all in: Kirk, Spock, Bones, McCoy, Scotty, even that babe Uhura, the one who couldn't keep her hands off me at Maxim's.
Maybe Spock can do that Vulcan "live-long-and-prosper" sign. You talk about ratings! Oprah'll throw herself off a building.
Feb. 22 -- Is it me or are New York taxi drivers even more surly than usual? Some guy named Abdullah (whatever happened to cabbies named Benny?) picked me up at 7th and 86th, drove me 15 blocks and had the nerve to charge $3.50! Plus he wanted a tip! But I got even. I took one of his floor mats.
Feb. 26 -- Bumped into Norman Mailer (literally) at a PEN/Faulkner awards party. God, he's a nasty drunk! Insisted I have an autographed copy of his new book "Harlot's Ghost." I'm using it for a doorstop in my office. How long is that baby, 1,300-some pages? No, thanks. I'll wait 'til it comes out on video.
Feb. 28 -- ABC has approached me about opening Grant's Tomb for a special. My first question was: Grant who? With my luck, there'll be nothing there but a skull and some old bones. At least when we broke into Capone's vault, I managed to make off with that wristwatch.
March 1 -- Paula Zahn wants me. She said the party scene at the Winter Olympics in Albertville was a drag. All Tim McCarver wanted to do was drink wine with the crew and tell old Ralph Kiner stories. Apparently there was no cable over there, either, so you couldn't catch "Get Smart."
March 2 -- If this is too off-the-wall, just tell me. Instead of running back and forth to the dermatologist, why couldn't you use a 6-inch variable-speed bench grinder to get rid of those old acne scars? Sears has 'em for $56.99. Sounds like a steal to me.
March 3 -- Just called People magazine to suggest they do a cover story on me. Strange . . . no one picked up the phone. You'd think somebody would be there at 3 a.m. Well, never mind. "Wagon Train" is coming on, anyway.
March 7 -- Been thinking of calling myself Gerald from now on. Geraldo sounds too, I don't know . . . ethnic. Now, Gerald . . . Gerald sounds totally hip and urbane. Gerald Rivera. Hey, that's not bad! Or how about . . . Gerald Rivers?! Or Jerry Rivers?!
Jerry Rivers! That's it! That is such a cool . . . no, wait a minute. That's what I called myself in the '60s. Maybe Johnny Rivers.
March 10 -- Got into it with some punk at Mortimer's. I'm loading up on the free spread at Happy Hour when this loud-mouth accuses me of stuffing Buffalo wings in the pockets of my trench coat. So I picked him up and threw him through a window. Then three of his friends jumped me with switchblades. I laid the first hoodlum out flat with a karate chop to the windpipe, then rammed the other two into a metal railing by their lapels.
Unless that was all a dream.