COMPLETE OH WRONSKI . . . ALL MY RELATIONS
Every damn single one of the Family Wronski has endeavored to make a unique "mark". Some on the world stage. Others, just on the spot where they were standing. Some lasting. Others, you could get it out with a little soda water and salt.
Nonetheless, all exemplars of the quintessential Wronski greatness. Which, some say, you have to be a Wronski to appreciate.
Nevertheless, here they all are. You be the judge!
Nonetheless, all exemplars of the quintessential Wronski greatness. Which, some say, you have to be a Wronski to appreciate.
Nevertheless, here they all are. You be the judge!
My Hollywood Uncle Ignatz von Wronski back in the day. (The "von" is an old family usage which most of us have dropped, the better to fit in with the hoi poloi. Even Iggy shortened it from the official "von Schlepudnick und Wronski".)
***We be needin' some Kazimir up in here.
Rich Uncle Benjamin Wronski. BenjiBoy, as he was called in the family, was what they term "Made of Money". Rich rather poorly describes his financial status. Let's just put it this way, he was the 1% of the 1%. And, truth be told, 1% of that!
He wore bling before there was "bling". He was the orginal Shiznit, before . . . He had his exclusive aftershave custom ordered from Penhaligon's London. He would never say whether in fact it was so, but it is said his aphrodisiacal scent was composed of the essence expressed from crisp new $1,000 USA gold standard notes. Got that? Gold standard! If it is true, then you know the secret of how money attracts money.
And, the ladies. On the town most evenings Uncle could reliably be seen with at least two top show girls in tow. Or, some newly arrived starlet, or two. Once, again unconfirmed as to its veracity, the story is he escorted the entire cast of the Rockettes to a lavish champagne drenched feast. Breakfast the next morning on his private yacht, circling Manhattan at daybreak. Whether anyone got any sleep; well, that's something we can only wonder about. BenjiBoy was The Man, you know. It wasn't just the moolah, hoolah. He had the kavorka, for sure. All the girls went home with diamonds and minks. It sounds like rather tall a tale; but if you knew Benji, it wasn't at all something far from the usual.
He was backgammon buddies with Nubar Sarkis Gulbenkian and Prince Ali Solomone Aga Khan. As he said, "Hobnobbing with the Euro Trash keeps me humble." It was quite the scandal when he tried to steal Rita Hayworth away from the Prince. That's just one of many stories; and maybe not even the best one.
My California Uncle Szchelekzso Wronski, seen here early in his show business career. The story goes that he was the original “Hollywood Heart Throb” and was first in line for the romantic leading role in The Sheikh. Alas, the eyeglasses were the deal breaker. We all know about what that role did for that wimp Valentino. But Uncle lived the life of The Sheikh for real. The lovely Barbara Stanwyck was reputed to have been just one of his legions of conquests. As witness in the following:
Leaving a failed film career in Hollywood, Dear Uncle became the "Sensation of the Catskills" after changing his name to Shecky. His trademark was the pants pulled up way too high and the plastic pocket protector with too many pens. And, of course, who doesn’t know even now about his signature opening line, "Heeeere's Shecky!" The lawsuit with Johnny Carson over stealing that line was settled satisfactorily. Shecky bought the hotel where he played for so many years and died on stage to a full house. Big finish, don't you think?
The longstanding discussion over who posed for the Mona Lisa should remain a perennial question. We are not going to reveal any identities. But . . . we will only give you the facts in our possession, and you can draw your own conclusions.
In the Renaissance times the Italian branch of the Wronski family was quite prominent in Florence. Their lovely ingรฉnue daughter, Bellissima Myrna Louisa Sparcalina Pellegrina Wronskoni, was spotted one afternoon out and about in the town square by none other than Mr. Leonardo da Vinci himself. The story goes that she posed for him. But whether she was the model for the famous painting, well, we can’t rightly say. Just that this is the painting that hangs in the family villa to this day. Notice the haunting, enigmatic smile. The Mediterranean facial hair.
Da Vinci was famous for his imaginative creativity. License, she said. A letter written in Myrna Louisa’s own hand survives. In it she vents her hot Italian affronted rage over a perceived slight by the mighty Leonardo. “Faccia brutta!” “Stronzo!” Let me translate the rest: “I sitta for you so longa; it colda, no fooda. And what do I see. Her! She getta all the attentione! Mama Mia! All your paintings should gathera dusta in some large, out of the way place forever! Ah!” That’s what she said.
Those Wronskoni’s. Spicy Italianne.
Let me tell you the tale of Uncle Wojzsczek Wronski. Everyone called him Woody. That nickname wasn’t from his given name Wojzsczek, but from his penchant for being quite the boychik with the ladies; a real “woodsman” if you know what I mean. Woody was a seafaring man, plying the China Trade in the late Nineteenth Century in the Tall Ships.
Once he was Shanghaied and woke up in Rangoon, only to be whisked off and left for dead in a penal colony in Macau. He escaped Papillion-style and in a lost weekend of drugs, drink, and “woodsmanship” in an obscure port city of Qingdao he met his match and fell in love. Unbeknownst to Wojzsczek, a baby boy came into the lonely world. That little bastard would grow up to become none other than the famous Charlie Chan of the movies.
Father and son were reunited at long last. Funny story, but true. Charlie Chan always got his man. He tracked his biological father down one day in his tackle shop, Woody's Woims, on City Island in the Bronx.
Still heartbroken after so many years the jilted mother sued Woody in court for breach of promise. “Your honor he promised to take me to America, Florida in fact.” In his defense Wojzsczek rebutted, “Honest your honor, I never promised to take her to Florida. All’s I said was that I wanted to go tamper with her!” That Uncle Woody, true to form every time.
I could go on but you can rent the movie and see for yourself. Wojzsczek is given a “producer” credit, if you know what I mean.
[Say the name Wojzsczek quickly tree times loudly in public and you’re sure to get some “gesundheits” and “God bless you’s”.]
My Uncle Reginald Wronski was a Doughboy in WWI. American by birth, he chose to stay on in Europe after the Armistice, settling in Italy. There he sired quite a brood with his dark beauty of an Italian wife, Gina Lola. My Cousin Salvatore—“Salski” was his nickname—was their first born and the apple of his father’s eye. An adventurous but wise lad, Salvatore excelled in school and in just about everything else too. Yet, given his Italian genetic heritage, he was always one to first follow his heart. Uncle Reginald was a forward thinking man—as are all Wronski’s — and he encouraged young Salski to march to his own drummer.
After brief failed careers, first as a gondolier in Venice and then as an oyster shucker in Trieste, Salvatore settled down in Rome. There he opened what is arguably the very first, and therefore oldest, Pizza joint in the Eternal City. Superiore Pizzaria Quondo Romanissimo, “Home of the Cheesiest Crust.” With a claim like that the Vatican soon took notice and SPQR was delivering pizzas to none other than His Holiness Himself, Pope John XXIII. (They say some of John's famous girth was on account of Uncle’s pizza.)
Cousin Salski had this gig for some time; in fact, he became fast friends with Pope John Paul II, hanging out eating pizza and drinking the Vatican’s best wine, exchanging Italian jokes. Being both of Polish descent you can understand the connection they had. Little known gossip, Pope John Paul would say to him, in Polish, "Jestem tak samotny jak Pollack w Roma" (translation: “I’m as lonely as a Pollack in Roma.”) Kind of like being as lonely as a Gentile in Miami.
Alas, it all came to an end when, as Salvatore says, “THAT German came to town.”
Today you still can find him happily flipping his thin, really thin crust pies in his original location. Look him up when you’re there. Walk one block east from the Fontana Trevi, turn left; walk half a block, then right onto a quaint mews. You can’t miss the spot. It’s got the only neon lights on the block; in fact, I believe it’s the only shop officially permitted to flash neon lights in the entire town.
If you’re there, mention me. You will have to pay for your pizza, but Cousin Salski will treat you to a big tumbler full of his own house made Chianti. Salut. (Try the pie with the kielbasa instead of pepperoni. You won’t be disappointed. Don’t, however, opt for the extra kapusta [sauerkraut] topping.)
PS It occurs to us that father and son were in fact very much alike. Like, one was a Doughboy; the other, a dough boy.
PPS Currently in this Anno 2013 we have your Pope Francis I. Not confirming, not denying, but the down low is that a certain personage resembling The Man himself has been seen in the late evening hours peddling his bicycle to Superiore Pizzaria Quondo Romanissimo from a direction that looks like he's coming from Vatican City. The tale goes on.
Billy Ray Bob Wronski. Spreading joy and laughter wherever he goes. We don’t talk much about Billy. What you see is what you get.
You've heard of Poncho Villa. Meet Uncle Poncho Wronski. He was in the early days of the 20th Century kind of what Elvis impersonators are these days. But, he was wanted in 12 states. He took the role seriously. (Sorry for the picture quality, resurrected from the family shoe box collection.)
Uncle Frank-Onsteiner Wronski MD, PhD was a scientist, working in seclusion in his mountain castle laboratory back in the early years of the 20th Century. He was an early pioneer in what is now (finally) an emerging field in Human Biology called Fascia Studies. His theory was that since the connective tissue of the body binds things together, it must also be true that it can be reworked to reintegrate the body . . . from found parts. He also dabbled in reanimation, but was unsuccessful due to unforeseen consequences.
Interesting story—funny really, but true—Mr. Mel Brooks did a bio-pic based on Uncle’s life story. Brooks intended the film to be his first foray into serious film making, but Uncle Frank’s life story was so preposterously hilarious that the movie turned out to be a comedy.
Frankie (“Skanky Frankie”) Wronski seen here outside his Broadway "office". He was what they had in mind when they coined, “Don’t mess with him, he's the Wronskain of the City!!” [Translation: One who is pimped out beyond any reasonable means; King of all pimps held in highest regard by other pimps.]
If you’ve lived in the Big Apple for a while you will no doubt recognize this iconic scene that graced the Broadway streetscape for several years. Uncle Clyde Hercule Wronski—“Smokey” to all who knew him—was a hand model by profession. He was such a heavy smoker though, that at a career turning point an art director discovered him and he became the face of Camel cigarettes; until they moved on to Joe Camel.
Blowing the smoke rings was actually Smokey’s piรจce de rรฉsistance parlour trick, and the advertising folks worked it into the billboard. They originally were entertaining having the animated billboard flick ashes onto the street. Not real ashes, but confetti ashes. With a five dollar bill falling down every so often to really get the folks on the avenue worked up. “More interactive” is what I hear they were thinking. But, smoke rings it was . . . the rest is history. Actually, HIS story; Uncle Smokey’s, that is.
Argenon (Argy) Wronski was, not to put too fine a point on it and to come right to the point (which is what he himself would want to do—the point of his needle sharp hook, that is), a pirate. Think Jamaica, rum, booty, Booty, plunder, treasure, and Booty (regarding that last item, it is reputed that he had a “Jolly Roger”).
Also, think dastardly, conniving, ruthless, cheating, bloodthirsty, unrepentant, backstabbing, philandering, unredeemable; in short, all the typical baser Wronski family traits. There are some good things deep down in those genes too; but Argy (pronounced “Ahrrrr-gy”) was the penultimate expression of those darker qualities, top of the line if you will. Most proud was he to be such a vile purveyor of villainy. He was first in the historical record to be cited as one who said “If you got it, flaunt it”. He lost his hand to a sneaky alligator in the Florida Everglades. (Reportedly that’s where he buried his treasure. I have an old parchment map and am collecting funds for an expedition. Write your checks to C.A.S.H.)
If you're thinking Peter Pan reference, don’t. Though in the 1954 Broadway play Cyril Ritchard did manage to get Argy’s signature chortle down pat—it goes a fast “Huh-huh-huh-huh”. The flamboyant style was also pretty close to the real deal.
Cousin Rocky (Wraunchy Wronski, aka "Wronski the Wrapscallion") Wronski was an “early adopter” of the Playboy life style. Hefner got the idea of wearing silk pajamas out on the town FROM HIM. Also, the pleasures and benefits of having more than one lady friend at the same time . . . that’s at home, mind you, not just in that little black address book.
Rocky is a cool cat, despite the heat he obviously had to be bringing to the party to earn his undisputed success with the ladies. He recently oh, so casually said this: “7,500 give or take, and counting.” We are not sure what exactly that number represents (there’s an intense but well hidden speculation in the family, as you can imagine); but Aunty Genevieve Wronski—who was as prudish as Larry was, ahem, a rapscallion—once said, “That boy should keep his family jewels in the attic.”
Not every movie made gets seen. Uncle Vinnie "Duchรฉ" Wronski could have had quite the Hollywood career, but he was die hard and true blue to the State of New Jersey come what may. In the original version Vinnie was the obvious choice; his accent and all.
Alas, "Hackensack" didn't get past audience testing. When he was tapped for the redo, Vinnie was a real duche and held firm to the original script. He would have gone for "Casablanca" but he insisted on keeping it "The Clam Broth House" of Hoboken, not "Rick's Cafe Americain". Also, he insisted the line should be, "We'll always have Lake Hopatcong." And, "give me another cup of that broth, Sam." And, "I can see you just fine. I said, I'm looking at you!"
Poor Vinnie, if he could have just compromised a tad. Instead they got another deadpan face to fill in. When you see the movie, remember Vinnie Wronski. He could have been a contender.
Uncle Tazio “Speedy” Wronski, shown here pre-race back in the day. He was quite the flamboyant figure and top road and track racer. Competing successfully against the likes of Juan Fangio, Sterling Moss, and Phil Hill. As you can see he liked the bling, before bling was “bling”. Arguably, he was the Shiznit before there was a Shiznit.
Story goes that he once stopped mid-race to comfort a sobbing young ingรฉnue he happened to spot en route to what was a certain victory. The interesting thing is that, even with the unscheduled and rather lengthy stop, he went on to win the race handily. In his words, a "Win, win". The young lady and her sister were so taken with Speedy (that appellation was for race day only; in the matter of affairs of the heart he was gentle and took his time) they became what is arguably the first set of groupies and cheerleaders in the history of Gran Prix racing.
Tazio had his flaws. He was an unabashed publicity hound and would take on any and all comers for corporate endorsements. Totally without discrimination when it came to making a buck. That notwithstanding, Uncle was arguably the first to presage what would become the fashion trend to festoon oneself with logos for all the world to see.
Grandmama did not approve, “Media Whore!” and "Sell Out!" she would call out from the spectator booth at the track. Nevertheless she was a fan of him as a racer. She explained, “That Euro trash little bastard! But, he is family. What can you do? Besides, the money’s not bad.” That old lady did not mince her words. And you wouldn't want to argue with her.
This photograph arrived anonymously in the mail one day. It is the last extant image of our beloved Cousin Zigismund Wronski, the original Gonzo journalist and peerless exposer of hidden mendacities, wherever they might be; fearless to doggedly pursue relentlessly any and all stories of hidden chicanery and malefaction. Specialized in clandestine investigative operations. Think Inspector Clouseau, and you have a pretty good handle on our boy.
(We can all breathe easy knowing that those in charge at the highest levels can be trusted and relied upon to do the right thing without any of the public having the need to pry or ask for transparent accounting.) Ziggy, if you are reading this . . . “Verbum Sap Sat,” old chap.
Also, and just to mention, Zigismund’s home is locked tight as a drum. But some nights there is a reported glow coming from his office window. If the picture provides any clue, let’s just say that he may be undercover and not aware of his super charged condition; as the song goes, “Don’t stand too close. You might catch it. Radioactive.”
Here we have the one and only Shady Slim Wronski, the original Shiznit before the word was even coined. This is not a “Got Milk” advertising photo. It is an “Oh, Mein Got!” moment caught by a paparazzo on set in that classic “The Girl Can’t Help It” starring Jayne Mansfield (as the girl—woof!) and Tom Ewel.
Shady Slim was the better looking of the two males auditioning for the role, but he was one to keep his eyes on the prize. Mr. Ewell got to hold them on camera; Slim was more a back of the house kind of guy. All he wanted to do was hang out outside of Ms. Mansfield’s trailer in hopes of—to use his solipsistic diversionary euphemism—“I nice glass of milk, and
maybe a plate of warm cookies.”
Cousin Slim’s famous line when caught red handed . . . “WHAT? Huh?” That’s called the Polish defense; i.e., acting clueless. Clearly, shady. (But maybe not so. You know why Polacks have round shoulders and flat foreheards? Because, when you ask them a question, they shrug their shoulders. And, when they get the answer, they slap their forehead.) I can say this since I'm Polish.
Cousin Slim’s famous line when caught red handed . . . “WHAT? Huh?” That’s called the Polish defense; i.e., acting clueless. Clearly, shady. (But maybe not so. You know why Polacks have round shoulders and flat foreheards? Because, when you ask them a question, they shrug their shoulders. And, when they get the answer, they slap their forehead.) I can say this since I'm Polish.
Our great, great uncle Nigel used to regale the assembled Wronski family whenever he could with his wistful reminiscences of his time in the sub-continent during the Raj.
Breezy monsoon nights, the scent of jasmine wafting in the gentle swaying night air, chilled Gin Gimlets on the veranda, the occasional Bengal tiger strolling through the garden, impulsive high speed midnight forays into the countryside in the Rolls Shooting Brake, shocking the staff with the whole crowd of them stripping naked and cannonballing into the pool, hits off hastily made mango bongs, peeled grapes, reckless liaisons with the governor's wife, awakened at the first of dawning and watching the day's rangoli being lovingly applied at the front gate with hand ground semi-precious gem powders whilst relaxing with a hot cup of spiced chai and a fresh hand rolled bidi, the morning bath scented with rose water and exotic perfumes.
And, speaking of those Rangolis, with all those gem stone powders.
It happened that the property entrance was located at the crest of a hill. When the Rongoli was washed away the fine gem pigments would spead onto the road and down on either side from its crest. The effect was magical, day or night. In sunlight or lit with the beams of an automobile, the road on either side leading to Uncle's plantation looking like a sparkling rainbow. If his casa was your destination, no mistaking that landmark.
And, speaking of those Rangolis, with all those gem stone powders.
Every evening that day's lavish hand applied art piece would be washed away. Either by the monsoon rain or buckets of water to slush it away onto the roadway just outside the front gate.
It happened that the property entrance was located at the crest of a hill. When the Rongoli was washed away the fine gem pigments would spead onto the road and down on either side from its crest. The effect was magical, day or night. In sunlight or lit with the beams of an automobile, the road on either side leading to Uncle's plantation looking like a sparkling rainbow. If his casa was your destination, no mistaking that landmark.
Those were the days.
Cousin Josef “Speedy” Wronski, shown here “at speed” lazily drifting into a hazardous hairpin mountainside turn during the demanding Grand Prix de Monaco of 1956. He drove for the Cyclops factory racing team as their top driver, campaigning for many successful seasons on the glamorous European Circuit.
Off track Josef was a gambling man. Baccarat was his game, but he was quick (“Speedy”) to place a bet whenever, and wherever, there was some action. He once bet Donald Trump, daring The Donald to go out in public with a squirrel pelt on his head. Speedy lost that bet, but Mr. Trump liked the results so much he made it a trademark look.
Cousin is alive today and living his golden years in the family villa on Lake Como, enjoying watching the lovelies cavorting at George Clooney’s place down the hill from our's. Spending his days at backgammon with his entourage of gorgeous live-in “nannies”. Life for our Speedy is an unending flow of champagne, spicy Cuban cheroots, and foot massages. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
Cousin Rastislav Wronski (‘RR’), for obvious reasons, went by the moniker ‘Railroad’ during his all too brief association with the Fab Four. Alas, if not for a change to Daylight Savings Time and a broken alarm clock, an historic groundbreaking session would have been laid down, and it would be the Fab ‘Five’ that we all would come to know and love so well. Rastislav slept through Sergeant Pepper. Making a play for the wife of one of the group also didn’t help; just to say that it was an Oh, No!
When he was working with the boys, Railroad was brought in for specialty effects. He was a virtuoso on the early Moog Synthesizer; you know, the one with the spinning speaker in a refrigerator size cabinet. On cowbell, few were his equal. And, of course, all the other stuff: bells, chimes, whistles, cymbals, triangle, uga horn, not to mention all those exotic type drums that the ‘regular’ drummer was too busy to put his hands on. It was never called for, but he could bring a rockin’ accordion, any of the wind instruments. If it played with a bow, he was your guy.
While he couldn’t sing worth a damn, vocally he could produce any sound—animal vegetable, or mineral. A full range, from grass growing to The Big Bang. Need we say more.
But, there is more. With Rastislav, there always is*.
He had quite the career. As Time Magazine coined it, ‘ubiquitronic’. Too many to mention; just a few. Emerald prospecting in Brazil. Cashew farming in Tuscany. Wind miller in The Netherlands. Perfumer in Paris. Life guard in a mikvah (impeccable integrity, that one). It would come as no surprise to the family Wronski to learn that he was even a deck hand on a submarine.
That’s Railroad. Chugging through life.
*Cousin Rastislav is enjoying his retirement these days at a rustic cabin on some isolated island in New Hampshire. He has taken up big scale sculpture, carving out larger than life sized bears out of old fallen trees. We hear that one is on order for the Rose Garden; you know where.
Is there any stopping that freight train?
We were rummaging in the attic and in an old box of snapshots there was this long forgotten portrait of the great man himself. Uncle Snaptuczek Wronski, known as “Snappy” in the old Damon Runyon-Walter Winchell-Sherman Billingsley-Toots Shor Broadway days.
Snappy was, as the photo attests, “The Genius of the Camera”. Henri Cartier-Bresson, however, he wasn’t. He did have that man’s knack for getting the image at the right moment; how they say, the “decisive moment”; just that Snappy usually got the awkward moment: the guy with his pants down, and the girl adjusting her underwear. There is supposed to be a whole collection of famous celebrities and political bigwigs shown in the act of picking their noses. When those turn up we figure we can quit our day jobs and retire to live the leisure life in a rustic cabin on Lake Tahoe.
You know that shot from the Seven Year Itch with Marilyn Monroe and her skirt lifted by the air from a subway train running below? No, he didn’t take that one. He was there though. He got the one nobody ever saw; and we are still hunting for it. It’s supposed to be a doozy. Rumor has it that it features the blond bombshell “pouring out” of a Duesenberg Phaeton.
You know that shot from the Seven Year Itch with Marilyn Monroe and her skirt lifted by the air from a subway train running below? No, he didn’t take that one. He was there though. He got the one nobody ever saw; and we are still hunting for it. It’s supposed to be a doozy. Rumor has it that it features the blond bombshell “pouring out” of a Duesenberg Phaeton.
Here you have Great Uncle Wrencek Wronski the original 99%-er what got robbed by the Man. It can’t be proven for sure (If it could, I’d be driving a Lincoln limousine. Driving? Ha! Being driven in . . .) but the story goes that that first tier 1%-er Henry Ford I-st got the idea for his historic Model T mostly from Uncle Wrencek; admittedly, adding the fourth wheel was HFI’s own inspiration. John D. Rockefeller lifted Uncle’s Pegasus flying red horse logo and slapped it on his Standard Oil Company. Even Harvey Firestone had a piece of him. See those studded tires; Wrencek pasted on licorice drops and arguably invented the first off road tire. Harvey was a fan of the licorice. (Didn’t you ever wonder why automobile tires a black?) He lifted the idea without attribution.
Our dear Great Uncle Wrencek couldn’t catch a break. Even his ex-wife Ethel referred to him as that “Wretch with a Wrench”. Ouch!
Yet, we remember Wrencek privately in the family for all his groundbreaking firsts. There’s—like Al Gore is credited with the Internet—for envisioning the economy car and the hybrid vehicle. Wrencek lowered the weight on his first production vehicle coming out of Wronski Motors by keeping it to only three wheels and by using his wife’s girdle as the skin for his famous 3-wheeler. Look closely and you can see the clip garters. His old lady was, ahem, rather a gas; he devised a method to collect her prodigious effluvia from under the covers and used it to power his automobile. Sounds like a tall tale. Like propane does today, it burned clean.
Well, he might have been the “Wretch with a Wrench”, but a few others were the real stinkers.
Uncle Elaviesczhek D. Pelvischezek (call him Ed) in his prime. I know what you may be thinking, what a cheesy pun on Elvis The Pelvis. But, we can’t rewrite history. It’s not the Wronski way. He himself was not a Wronski, only associated by marriage; to Aunty Hipszwingcheska Wronska.
Aunty was a story herself, what with her cabaret career, and once a featured act at the Moulin Rouge. Not the famous one in Paris, but in Hamtramck, Michigan; the Riviera of the Midwest and home to many an expat Pole. It was love at first sight; they were married on a tug boat in New York harbor with fireworks. It is told that the Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges were fully lined with well-wishers. The US Navy sent a flotilla. Surely, you’ve read about it?
Anyway, Uncle Elaviesczhek, Ed. He was a dancer by training and trade. If the pose looks familiar, it’s because he was for a time the dance coach and understudy for the real Elvis The Pelvis. The King, himself. So now you know where that guy got his bustin’ moves. Hairdo also. Alas, on looks, that’s were Elvis and Ed parted company.
If you think that this tale doesn’t hold water, you are free to call the Belle Isle (Detroit) Aquarium and ask to speak to Uncle yourself. He will be happy to answer all your questions. The facility as an aquarium no longer itself holds water. It closed in 2005 due to budget cuts (with a community advocacy working to reopen this historic “America’s Oldest Aquarium”.) Uncle Ed operates what is arguably the best fish and chips and pierogi stand in Detroit. It’s called "The King’s Stance" (?). Mention me and get a nice helping of kapusta on the house. So you will be like me as my mother used to say, “Your head is full of kapusta”. Sometimes, "Kapusta for brains". I'm not sure she was referring to the delicious Polish braised cabbage dish or to my eccentric, but lovably rich, Uncle Kapusta. Anyway, more about him some other time.
Uncle Masqua R. D. Wronski and Albert Einstein were party animals together. But uncle had no clue for mathematics; and it is no doubt because there was no chance of talking shop that Dr. Einstein friended him. Uncle, as you can tell, was a good looking chap, and Albert plainly admitted that he needed a good wing man.
Fate does, however, have a hand in things. Though their relationship was strictly social, Uncle had a knack for saying the, how they say, le mot juste. Here in a paparazzi candid we overhear part of an exchange in which the great man is asking Uncle if the plaid overcoat was working with the tuxedo. Uncle was a master of tact. Who knew, though, that it was to lead to that?
Uncle Whohacha (silent “c”) Wronski was, as you can tell, a clown. His parents were skeptical at first. His dad famously said (sarcastically), “Now there’s a career where you can really clean up”. That gave young Whohacha an idea.
First a little background. Whohacha is known as Confetti the Clown. His shtick is mass quantities of confetti for all occasions. Theatricals, conventions, and house par...ties. By mass quantities we mean, well, let’s just say that he makes boisterous and gay Rip Taylor look positively sad by comparison. We’re talking mountains of confetti. Confetti the Clown invented the confetti cannon and the “biblical” confetti shower. The latter to be used—if the stars so incline—at the Super Bowl XLVI.
As you can imagine, all that confetti just lying there like the proverbial lox at the end of the show is a bit of a problem. That’s where Whohacha brought his genius. He is booked up well into 2015 for events all over the world. You can always expect that mountain of confetti, no worries. In fact, he has a 90 page catalogue of confetti choices; colors, sizes, and shapes. Priced by the pond; 100 pound minimum.
What Confetti the Clown uniquely brings is a full team of expert cleaners to pick up the mess. So, if you’re having a party, book Confetti the Clown and end the soirรฉe with a blast (of confetti). Go to sleep and the next morning the place will be spotless. All this for a price, mind you. But, hey, don’t put a price on love. Or, confetti.
Father, by the way, is proud.
Uncle ZaZlo "ZZ" Wronski was a kind of a Zelig character in the family. And that's saying something since the family resemblance is so strong throughout the Wronski line that you might get the notion that there's only one person putting himself in so many places and times. But, no; the Wronski gene is a stubborn one and it seems to be fated to be that all Wronski's will look alike. You decide if that's a good thing.
Not short on the hubris either. ZaZlo (his spelling) considered himself a star. Here he is seen after having insinuated himself with those straight on rockers who, in his mind anyway, created their stage name as an homage to him. Imagine! Maybe they did. They did get on famously.
Back in the day Aunty Tiffany Wronski was a flapper. A flapper's flapper, was what they called her. She was a man's woman, if you know what I mean. When she entered a room, conversation would stop, heads would turn. She never wore perfume, her natural scent alone was aphrodisiacal. And yes, as you can tell from the picture, Tiffany was a natural blond; the carpet matched the drapes. Men bought her jewels just to get a moment's face time. Also, quite the dancer. But, only outdoors or in a well ventilated large auditorium (for reasons which shall be revealed later).
While she was attractive to all men, and attracted to most herself, she was a practical gal. Any guy who was going to get around the corner with her had to have the moola and prospects for more. Tiffany had a heart though. She would say, "You might as well fall in love with a rich guy, honey. So set your hook for the kind of fish you want on your plate."
The thing about Tiffany, however, for all her allure and kavorka, she was, well, a gas bag. Not a gasbag, as in she was talkative. But a bag of gas. As in, "Who stepped on a duck?" Fortunately for her, she naturally took to the outdoors and it was never a problem until she married and the hapless fellow had to contend with the harsh reality of living in close quarters with his offputtingly scented paramour.
As eager as they were to wed her, they were just as eager to escape. That cost them. She married several times and in her later years had amassed quite a fortune in her own right.
As eager as they were to wed her, they were just as eager to escape. That cost them. She married several times and in her later years had amassed quite a fortune in her own right.
In her dotage she was quite the philantropist. Huge amounts donated toward research; air quality issues. Her body couldn't be buried underground; instead she rests eternally in a sealed crypt with an eternal flame at the door, powered by Aunty herself. As the pun goes it was in her genes, and in her jeans. RIP Tiffany.
We are introducing you to the heartthrob of the Wronski family, young strapping Cousin Valentine. Undeniably, the pinnacle of Wronski genetic potential. Men want to be him. Women want to be with him. He, just wants to get on his pony and ride. No pun intended.
Excuse the photo, Val is seen here after just getting back from a long day in the saddle getting all sweaty and hot, searching hither and yon for a little lost baby kitten. Aw, shucks. How cute is that?
All Wronski's are lovers. Val takes the cake. And, the girls too.
Excuse the photo, Val is seen here after just getting back from a long day in the saddle getting all sweaty and hot, searching hither and yon for a little lost baby kitten. Aw, shucks. How cute is that?
All Wronski's are lovers. Val takes the cake. And, the girls too.
Bolivar "Big B" Wronski is a fierce fellow. As fierce as he is hairy. Hirsute, you say? And speaking of suits, he also likes to dress up a bit. Way up! We never have much to do with him (actually, it's the other way around if you should ask him) as he is just such a terrible fellow. Brooks no opposition. Treats the ladies like bonbons. Broken hearts and broken bones wherever he goes. The matriarch of the family, Grandmother Babuschka Wronska, once uttered in abject disgust and horror, "Yeni cohani, that man is disgusting, horrible! Such a hairball, too!"
You may being seeing him as portrayed by some British upstart impudent media personality, Sasha Baron what's-his-name, who is currently making funny business on the silver screen. If he and Bolivar come face to face, look out, the fur will fly.
Of course, there was the obvious and flagrant nepotism in making his aspiring actor son Ed Wronski the lead. Then there was the complete misreading of the plotline of the script.
Ignatz Von Wronski, "Wrong-Way-Wronski", had a special take on things. But, when big bucks are on the line, Hollywood can be ruthlessly self-preservative. We don't need to tell you anything more about the outcome of those events. The iconic promotion piece for the final production of the film is familiar to everyone. Henceforth, Ed and Ignatz faded from public view.
Not to worry though, father and son were survivors. Wronski et Fils is a hugely popular small fried fish joint in Muskegon Michigan. Home of the all-you-can-eat muskalunge platter. But, if you know anything at all about those freshwater "muskies" you know they are one of the hardest critters to catch on a line. Sort of counterintuitive for an all-you-can-eat menu item.
But, hey, that's Ignatz. He has a way. Right of wrong, we love him.
Here is Cousin Pjotr Jalisco ("PJ") Wronski back in the day when everyone who was anyone in Glamtown turned up for his annual birthday bash. No cameras after the opening cocktail time. Just let us say that there was a mountain of wet clothes and scattered car keys by party end. Pre-paparazzi, you know.
Cousin "PJ" was quite the pick up artist. And, himself also, quite a handful. His memorable line when meeting a damsel of potential conquest, "I could spend my life in your arms, dazzled and bewitched by the beauty of a lovely lady like you." Bees to honey, that line. It's not just the words though, you have to believe it. And then, sell it. Which, of course, he obviously did. He had chutzpah, before they had a name for it.
As the photo image clearly demonstrates "PJ" got results. He was "in" in Hollywood. Ms. Monroe was said to have gushed, "That boy sure knows how to straighten my seams."
"PJ" was on the set for this scene. Marilyn insisted. "He's my inspiration!" If you have to know, she was singing the song just for him.
He famously pleaded, "broaden the spotlight!" As usual, spot on "PJ".
Kiss me, you Fool!
Uncle Kizachek "Kissy" Wronski was, as in the family tradition, a lover. Here he is with Aunty Mona. He kept her, as he would say, lean. That is, he played hard to get. But Mona didn't have to moan-a for long. She knew the gambit too. All she had to do was demonstrate her undivided interest in his affections, and in short order the beast in him would awaken and things would take their natural course.
Kissy had several offspring. Aunty Genevieve once said, "That boy should put the family jewels away in the attic." Both Mona and Kissy were not amused with the metaphor. They would often show up at Genevieve's door early Sundays with the whole brood in tow and stay on to sample the cocktail bar and enjoy the pool while Aunty dear rustled up an impromptu Sunday meal. I don't know if her crack about the family jewels came before or after, but you can understand the sentiment either way.
Kissy had several offspring. Aunty Genevieve once said, "That boy should put the family jewels away in the attic." Both Mona and Kissy were not amused with the metaphor. They would often show up at Genevieve's door early Sundays with the whole brood in tow and stay on to sample the cocktail bar and enjoy the pool while Aunty dear rustled up an impromptu Sunday meal. I don't know if her crack about the family jewels came before or after, but you can understand the sentiment either way.
Dad was (arguably) the first Hippie. The term "Hippie" was a coinage derived from his nickname, Hipnuchek Pionchek Escavado by birth; friends called him "HPE" for short, and that is the way he signed his checks.
As was his usual way, H.P.E. was at the leading edge of almost everything he was near the edge of. A die-hard Republican conservative, after an encounter with an errant lightning bolt whilst fixing a flat tire on the night he so boldly took our dear mamma out on the date where he coined the phrase, "My way or the highway", Daddy had a complete change of heart and was the first to enter the counter culture 1960's with a bang. That night Mom and Dad inaugurated the sexual, free love, revolution. Paradise by the dashboard light, indeed! Just that Dad didn't need no dashboard light after that shocker of a kiss from mother nature. It must've been a double whammy, cause Mom had a pretty cute kisser.
Cousin Harry ("Horny Harry") was, well, a horndog. His endowments were considerable, but in terms of smarts Grandma used to say, "That boy's brains might as well be just painted on." Quite a turn of phrase, that Grandma, don't you think? Alas, fitting in Harry's case.
No complaints otherwise, though.
Uncle Wolvechek Mitzevsczelenke Wronski went by both "Wolfy" and "Mitzy". I don't think it's too hard understand why from this 1957 photo at Romanoff's in Beverly Hills. Here he is hobnobbing with two local beauties. Hob-nobbing. Indeed.
He was a special friend of Jayne's since it was Wolfy who came up with the bright idea of calling the bumper extensions seen on the Cadillacs during most of the 1950s decade, "Jayne Manfields". According to Mitzy it was him what gave GM the idea in the first place. He claimed that they brought him in to size check their design. Did I mention he had legendary large hands, hence the nickname. Anyhow, he was finally satisfied with their larger rendering. "It's just right." He found the lovely Ms. Mansfield ''just right" also, but he didn't elaborate.
Sofia Loren that evening was reported to have cornered Uncle Wolfy and put her jealous question to him hotly, "Whata she got, I no have!?" Mitzy was a "hands on" man, and after a little first hand observation, he replied, "Nottin'".
He was a special friend of Jayne's since it was Wolfy who came up with the bright idea of calling the bumper extensions seen on the Cadillacs during most of the 1950s decade, "Jayne Manfields". According to Mitzy it was him what gave GM the idea in the first place. He claimed that they brought him in to size check their design. Did I mention he had legendary large hands, hence the nickname. Anyhow, he was finally satisfied with their larger rendering. "It's just right." He found the lovely Ms. Mansfield ''just right" also, but he didn't elaborate.
Sofia Loren that evening was reported to have cornered Uncle Wolfy and put her jealous question to him hotly, "Whata she got, I no have!?" Mitzy was a "hands on" man, and after a little first hand observation, he replied, "Nottin'".
Never to forget Great, (Really!) Great Uncle Alexie Vronsky. . . AKA: The Crimean Killa, the Ukraine Heart Throb, the Boychick of the Balkans, the German Germinator, the Polish Prick. (That last one . . . that's what she said).
Uncle covered a lot of ground back in the day. He left, as they say, "a girl in every port". The appelations go on, and on. I don't think he ever picked his feet in Poughkeepsie, though. He was, for sure, a class act. And, a real contender. As you can see, drop dead handsome. Smelled like a million bucks. All in change. He was a little fond of the eau de cologne. Buckets full. Word is he wasted a fortune on fragrance. Metrosexual, I think would be the contemporary moniker.
When he entered the room, heads turned. (Nostrils would flare.) All the men wanted to be him. All the women wanted to be with him. On the latter front he was the Will Rogers of the Eastern provinces. You know that Will Rogers line, "I never met a man I didn't like". Uncle was fond of saying, "I didn't meet a lady I didn't . . . " Enough said. He had more than enough of The Kavorka to go around.
Rumor has it that he was the model for the Count Vronski in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. They, he and Leo that is, were drinking buddies. Alexie was his wing man on more than one occasion. Tolstoy could write, alright; with the ladies, however, he needed a interlocutor. And our Vronsky was a smooth talker. Things like, "I could spend an eternity looking into the depths of your beautiful eyes". That one was a sure fire winner. The lady at hand would swoon and fall limp into his arms. That's when he would haul her over to the waiting Tolstoy and whisper in her ear, "That's what he said." It worked more often than not. Especially after several rounds of wรณdka shots.
Someone quipped, asking who is that chick in the middle? That is not a "chick" in the middle in the photograph. (By the way,
most people just assume because the fellow looks like me, that it's me.) That,
in fact, is Cousin Chickie. It’s not his real given name, a nick name. Just
let's say dear Cousin had a certain way with the opposite sex. His real given name is being withheld; on request. Presumably lest certain legal actions aren't continued.
Notice the
undeniable Yin glow our Boychick there is clearly evincing in that backstage
photo. I say backstage — hopefully not revealing too much of the true and
complete story — because Chickie was Mr. Malkoviak’s coach for those torrid
scenes con amore el flagranto. He did have to demonstrate for the Actor. In
this particular scene taken after one of his “demonstrations” both those lovely
women, as you can see, are themselves aglow.
A chick? No, Chickie. And, as per usual.
A chick? No, Chickie. And, as per usual.
You should know Uncle Vincent "Vinnie" Wronski
[pronounced Vronsky] was as sweet as the sound of his name. Not the sharpest
knife in the drawer. But, hey, what works. No complaints from the ladies,
that's for sure.
Also, referred to by a knowing few as "Triple X". How
come? Who knows. One can draw inferences, though.
Not saying if, and not saying not; but he is often cited as the
Father of the Lap Dance. That is, in conversations among the cognoscenti in
that Babylon of the West. That would be ... Hollywood C-A.
And, the girls back in those Golden Hollywood Days loved to call
out his name in the most cherry-on-top flirtatious sing-song way. And, of
course, he ate it up. A lot of cherries were, ahem, consumed.
Here he is seen with an aspiring starlet in an intimate moment ...
"el flagrente dilecto"(?). Just also to say Old Vinnie had quite the
magic touch. No double entendre intended, please. If you are up on popular
goings on you may recognize that fulsome cutie. She would later become a world
famous cultural icon. Yes, Uncle had a hand in that. Again, no double meaning
there either. It might apply, but the full list recounting the depth of his
devilish doings did not survive the destruction of Casa Vincenzo which was due
owing to a mudslide one dark and rainy evening in the Hollywood Hills. So we
won't say what we can't prove. Just to add
As much as he had the Kavorka, he wasn't too much in the keppe.
Great Grandmother — we called her "Vooycheey Booycheey" [why, I don't
know] — said, "That idiot might just as well have his brains painted
on."
That would be our beloved Cousin Jake Wronski. Aka, "Jake the Wrake."
He insisted on telling his own story ...
His words ... "Hey, Girl. How ya doin'. See anything you like? Do you?
Well, that's just the tip of the iceberg. And, by "tip" I would be
referring to ... "
OK. OK. I have to interject. That was going to go way out of line.
Let's just say if that's where you want to go, Girl, Jake is your ticket.
Cousin Rosco
Second Cousin Rosco Wronski was a recording artist. Quite famous actually. Looks-wise, he took after his dad: Harry, aka, "Horndog Harry". While pater wasn't much upstairs ("Brains painted on", per Grandma Wronski) — downstairs, if you get my drift, was his metier — fils, while similarly endowed, hung his shingle in the music biz.
Interestingly, Uncle did have some similarities to the fictional Vronsky. What with all the hanging around with Tolstoy, the missus would make a big fuss about how he was never home; and she with the chores, and all. Back then the clothes were dried outside on a sting.
Lore has it Uncle and Leon liked to meet up regularly, whiling the hours, dicoursing over strong coffee and the occasional snort. Of snuff, that is. Oh, yes. And the more than occasional snoot. Of vodka, that is.
Uncle made his own snuff from leaves grown in his Grandmother's dhaka. Babcha would harvest the leaves in their prime in late summer and hang them to dry and ferment through the bucolic fall days in a well ventilated barn with just enough dappled sunlight to give her leaves a pleasant chocolaty hue. Then to mature over the winter packed tightly in oak barrels Dzadza had made by hand just for that tobacco.
Come spring the pungent leaves would be cracked out of the barrels and broken by hand into as small pieces as possible. Then ground painstakingly to a fine powder in a huge natural stone mortar with a heavy marble pestle.
Why, you might wonder, all the emphasis on the snuff. Well, it was pretty, pretty, pretty good stuff. And, as a matter of fact, you should also know that originally Vronsky was indeed the namesake for the feckless nobleman in one of Tolstoy's yarns. He was a Count, in fact. Wronski liked the idea of his name in a novel. He insisted on being called ... Count. Until, that is, he read the tale. What a cad the one in the story was. So, Uncle took it back and it was some time before he lived that one down. He opted to be known for his snuff.
Fortunately, he is fondly remembered — to this day — for that snuff. Some vintages survive and fetch staggering sums. In his home town of Yasnaya Polyana even today when someone sneezes the custom is to say "Vronsky!" It's like a "God Bless You" or a "Gesunheit". If you've ever taken snuff, you know what I'm referring to.
Here's a very obscure fact about Uncle Vronski. You probably know well the Battle of Vienna. It was at that skirmish where one General Sobieski defeated the invading Ottoman hordes. The victors demanded the vanquished also divulge the secrets of their legendarily famous cuisine. Wronski was honored — the General liked the snuff — with the secret recipe for Baba Ganoush. Which, the Wronski family to this day continues to prepare according to that delicious Uncle's original recipe.
And, which Sobieski happens to be the name of one pretty, pretty, pretty good Vodka. Drink it as ice cold shots with a beer chaser; or, better, a homemade dill pickle.
All My Relations Uncle ki
Behold Uncle Zapski. "The Juice." He's related to me through marriage to my Aunty Sparknishzevska Wronski. Zapski, as you could imagine, was one with the so-called exciting personality. Electric. Some would say.
The image of him is not some sort of theatrical pose. That's him on any given day. Eccentric. Sure. Electric. Don't stand to close. You might catch it. Good man to have on a cold day when the car won't start. Come to think of it he did in fact work part time there during a few winters for AAA.
If you see a Wronski family resemblance, it's because of his Zelig-like ability to morph into whatever social situation he found himself.
Also, it should come as no surprise that the Zapski's saved a ton on utility bills. "Just hook me up" was his catch phrase. And, he was a good neighbor. I believe the whole block ran on Zapski's juice.
Say hello to Jon Ron "Don Juan" Wronski. My father's younger brother. Lived in Hollywood during what his set called the "swell" years.
Reliably he was out and about, every night. Never without a leading lady or a promising starlet on his arm. Arm! Heck! He had two arms; and, like I said, he was never without company. He popularized the Mรฉnage ร Trois among the glam set. Two! Heck! As he would put it, "The more the merrier".
Uncle Don was also a high roller. He would charter a DC3 many weekends and fly a bevy of beauties with him to Vegas. A high roller, for sure. You've heard of the "Mile High Club"? He brought that one too.
Yes, he was quite the guy. He never made it in front of the camera though. Not so much that he couldn't act, or that he didn't have the right look. He was just too much of a piece of work off camera. Here he is caught in the act between takes. His quick retort, "Gimme some cookies to go with that".
Even so he was ever popular with the fair sex.
There's so much more. His son Rosco — a dead ringer for his Pop — followed in Dad's footsteps. But, that is a story for another time.
Merry Christmas
Seasons Greetings from Our Aunty Edna ...
Merry Christmas ... Goddammit!
I don't care whatever the f#*k holiday you or any other dumbass motherf#*ker like you may be celebrating this time of year.
Merry Christmas
I celebrate the Birth of our Lord!
So ... Merry Christmas!
Now go f#*k yourself for making folks feel peevish to say it, and instead feel compelled to say "Happy Holiday!" (Or, even if you didn't force anyone to, but went along with it. Like a sheep!)
There's some debate as to about how he got that name, Corny. Some say it be on account of his being a moonshiner; turnin' out some of the sweetest — and strongest — corn liquor delivered by him in his hot rod truck under the light of a moon shining across the border in the Louisiana sky. Moonshine.
Also, so he claimed, that he invented the Corn Dog. We have no reason to dispute his veracity. Think what you will.
And, others remember him fondly as the king of the corny joke. You know the kind of groaner that be funny in your head, but somehow doesn't get you in the gut. For example: "I like Bananas 'cause they have appeal." Or, "What do you get when you cross a submarine with a tangerine? ... A Navel Orange."
One of his better:
An old gent comes into a bake shop to buy a loaf of raisin bread. The pretty young thing waiting on him has to climb a small ladder to reach for that item on a high shelf. When she is poised high above — her skirt is rather short, and the fellow is enjoying the view — she turns to confirm, “Is it raisin?” “No, but it tingles a little.”
Interesting interplay, don't you think. On one hand his hooch certainly did get you in the gut. His humor, not so much. Get it. It's called irony. Used to be a thing not all that long ago. And, that Corn Dog, if it does gets in your gut, you wish it didn't.
And ... since this is, after all, Wronski's Wramblings ...
This is the week President-Elect announced his choice of Governor Rick Perry to head the Department of Energy. Perhaps you will remember how in the 2008 Republican Presidential nominee debates it was Rick Perry who vowed as President to eliminate three federal agencies: Commerce, Interior, and ... what is the third one? I forget. Oops! Well, it was Energy. Speaking of ironic, that has to be way beyond ironic. Don't you think? He is now going to head up the very agency he said he wanted to abolish. (Is that the subtext for his appointment?) Perhaps they are counting on the electorate to not remember either.
We wait to see it all unfold. Pray.
Now, listen to this ...
Woytek Kohotec ... Wronski
Have you heard of the Wronski gene. It's been isolated. Ones who have it all look alike. Dead ringers. Similar mentality too. To some extent.
This will go far to explain how long lost ancestor Woytek Kohotek Wronski, who hails from way back to the Dynastic Period in Egypt, could be assumed to look like all the recent history Wronski's.
Believe it or not, above is an actual photo of ancestor Woytek Kohotek. If you think that it's impossible that they could snap a photo in the Dynastic Period, then the building of the Pyramids and all those other mysteries should not be all that impressive to you. The snap was found sandwiched between two slabs of perfect Lapis Lazuli planed to an exquisitely perfect tolerance to mate with one another, one etched precisely enough to hold the photo. In other words, air tight. Which photo itself, by the way, was on papyrus. How we in modern Wronski time have come to possess such a relic, I am bound to not reveal. Let's just say ...
No!
I can't!
In the family he is referred to as The Egyptian. Some put it, That Egyptian. Seems our W-K was a bit of a rapscallion. Totally against the Wronski genetic grain. The story is that he ran away with the secret to the Pyramids. Probably other stuff too. There's a barn on the Wronski Family compound in Upstate Michigan where all the brick-a-brack, ephemera, and what-not of the whole Clan Wronski from day one of the Wronski history is kept. Where Babcha Wronski insists, "It's [all] there somewhere in all that mess." Maybe one day some one of us will rummage around and then the world will know how they did it.
Don't hold your breath, though. A Wronski would go to the ends of the Earth for a good Pฤ
czek or a plate of Mama's homemade Pierogi. For such as what the Woytek Kohotek might have left ... not so much. Don't ask. It's a Wronski thing. We favor small endeavors. Particularly tasty ones.
Uncle Voycheczevknieskczik Wronski
Uncle Voycheczevknieskczick Wronski had aspirations to be a heart throb of the silver screen during the Hollywood Golden Age.
His fatal flaw — alas, isn't it for us all — was pride. He insisted on being called by his full, given name. "Voycheczevknieskczick" was not only nearly unpronounceable, it was a mouthful. The director of his first movie in which he was only an extra had him fired claiming it took away several minutes of the shooting schedule just to utter his name. And, half the time he was off somewhere off set doing who knows what with who knows who.
So he was relegated to the role of blocker. As such, he would stand in for the male lead and patiently pose while the cinematographer got his lighting and camera settings adjusted properly. Seen in the above photo from Casablanca. Ingrid Bergman was taken with him. In fact she thought he would have been a much better choice, looks-wise, than that smug Bogart. Voycheczevknieskczick couldn't have agreed more. But, then there was that name, the scourge of every Hollywood film director. Every! He settled for the unrequited love of Ms. Bergman instead.
Oh, don't feel bad for Uncle. It seems that the girls in La-La Land were much amused by the challenge of pronouncing his name. It was like an open-sesame puzzle for them. He had killer good looks, of course. He was quite the prize. Too many to count got their Voycheczevknieskczick on in the day.
Maczhsamillionenen Wronski was the original lounge lizzard. There he is — can you spot him? — at Maxim's in the gilt days. The "Shiznit" before there even was such a thing as a shiznit. The "Man About Town" in Gay-Paree, as it were.
That's when "gay" was "happy and exuberant"; not like today. [Though, from all outward appearances, it's still all happy and exuberant.] And, that's alright.
And, you can be sure of that, he lived up to his name. He had a million — at very least! — at a time when that denomination had some real spending power. Around Uncle Max the Champagne flowed like water. A totally unsubstantiated rumor had it at the time that he used the bubbly to flush his toilets. Truth be told, it was the bidet; but, only when and just before l'amour toujours. I you get the meaning. The guy knew how to please.
And, speaking of pleasing, it was none other than our own Maxy Baby who coined the term ... "The more the merrier." Seems he was also the one to, maybe not invent, but most certainly put the mรฉnage ร trois on the map.
His famous trope, advising on the secrets of oral pleasure ... "You get in there and make sounds like a Frenchman speaking into a bowl of Kapusta!" That reference was the Polish in him coming out. Kapusta is cooked cabbage. And, arguably, more dear to a proper son of Polonia than even the charms of one such as even that Mata Hari. With whom he may or may not have had an acquaintance.
Here we present for your edification one Ploczekianewicz Johorszczevietczhek Wronski. The "Most Polish" of the Polish Wronski's. Owing to the rather complexity of his given name(s) his friends simply addressed him as "PJ". Others, mostly, stayed away.
PJ was a simple dude. A simpleton, some might say. Great Grandma said his head was full of Kapusta. That winter staple Cabbage dish in Old Polonia.
As you can tell from the archival Wronski Family photo, was one stylish Pole. Fond of limericks, we've been told.
Here's one of supposed favorites:
The boy stood on the burning deck / His feet were all a blister / The fire burned / His pants burned off / And now he wears his sister's.
Great, great, great Uncle Bedazachefczchickleslov Wronski. Great, huh? Fo shizzle my Wronskizzle.
That's quite a mouthful of a name too, huh? Just call him Bedaz for short. Pronounced, "Bad-Azz", with emphasis on the latter syllable. Interesting. He was quite the badass, in fact. But, like it is with almost all us Wronski's, ahead of his time; i.e., well before that term was a term.
Additionally, Uncle, he was the original "bedazzler". Only he did it before glitter and sequins were things. He was, as they say, a man of means; precious and semiprecious gemstones did it for him; that be sparkle. And — you might guess where I'm going here — also before the term bedazzle was a term.
Also, one of the most decorated warriors in the great pantheon of Wronski Warriors of lore, and among most other warriors of any lore for that matter. In the Crimea he was known as the one "who never met a man he didn't kill".
That scimitar ... encrusted with diamonds. Big ones. What did I tell you? I know! He predictably went in for the big "WOW" factor. Blade, as sharp as a razor. Forged over years of painstaking effort by the most famous sword maker of his time. Coincidentally, also a Wronski family member. Sharp ... and, tough.
Just like Uncle Bedaz. But, hey, that's a Wronski.
To this day among all the family members observant of the Wronski traditions, Thanksgiving — well, in fact, just about at any holiday or family gathering — it is custom to remember Uncle Bedaz's prowess with the sword in a ritual called "Flaying the Bird". Not a pretty sight for outsiders. But to a Wronski, mother's milk. A touchstone for what it is to be a Wronski. By the way, it was Uncle who invented "spatchcocking". He didn't give it that name, he just did the deed. The name was given to the culinary procedure by yet another one of the Wronski clan, Aunty Spatchinzcokschvitzskia. And, oh boy, she was something too!
But, enough for now.
One Jankuje Schlygielczheskolo Wronski. Aka, "Jake the Snake" Wronski. No one really knows what is — or even ever heard it — the correct pronunciation of that middle name.
Great Uncle Jake was himself a no good, down low, snikey snakey viper sort of a dude. "How low can you go?" was his calling card. Birds of a feather sort of thing, we figured.
"Them's good eatin' for sure." There it is! What he said. So, it's true. You are what you eat. Explains his whole deal.
Great, Great Uncle J. Walter Wronski.
As the film title plainly attests, J. Walter was perfect for the role. Type cast, is the term for it. He was my Great, Great Uncle. And he was ... GREAT. You can see for yourself, for crying out loud!
Indeed. Women wanted to be with him. Men, they wanted to be him.
We Wronski's are a handsome bunch. J. Walter Wronski was the pinochle of the Wronski gene pool. The quintessence of the definition of what it is to be a Wronski.
Sheer perfection. Even if he would say so himself. Because, as good looking as our dear Uncle was, he was even more so boastful of his God given endowments. [Yes, he was doing pretty good down there too, if you catch my meaning.]
Speaking of the women. Back in the day J. Walter cut a broad and long swath through the roster of Hollywood and Broadway A-Listers. Shown here with a very typical bevy of beauties. [One of hundred of such snapshots.]
So, you are probably asking yourself, why am I being asked to read about one devilishly handsome J. Walter Wronski?
Well, there's a back story.
Recently it came out that Uncle J. Walter was involved in covert operations during the Big One. Back in the ''Brown Shoe" U.S. Army days. Stateside, and most of the other theaters of that war.
Very little of his actual exploits is known. We do hear tell that if all of his amazing deeds came to light, very much of the current complicated and messy geo-political picture would come into snap sharp focus. His shadow looms large across the world, and across the march of time.
Well, why should you be surprised? He's a Wronski!
Uncle Dรคrnholdt-Zigismunt von Braunswieger und Stroopwafeln Wronski.
In some parts just ... That Darn Wronski! Or, the more familiar, "Darnski".
As you might expect from the writings of this one Wronski, for the most part we Wronski's have a way with words. Darnski, too; perhaps one of the top tier penmeisters of the clan.
He lived in Germany since immigrating there from Piekลo as an infant. Why they left is anyone's guess; could be that the name of the town, Piekลo, is the exact same word that is used to describe ‘hell’ in Polish. Apparently, it was ... well named.
Darnski is the one who coined the German idiomatic expression, "Ich kann mit setztzen". Literally, it's what one says when you see something particularly scrumptiliceous ... "I could sit in it".
He also did the whole Bavarian thing to the hilt. Trademark lederhosen. Pewter capped tankard. That impossible smoking pipe.
And, then, there's that overly appropriated name. If you delved into its true origins you'd find yourself in a little food store in Bad Tรถlz-Wolfratshausen. That's the German language for you. They aren't too much for invention of specific coinages. Just kept adding another name for variations on any particular thing. And, another. Good for the sciences, however.
He was quite the talker too. Smoking ... drinking ... and, yackin'. Quite the party animal. Here he is in Fasching mode [that bacchanal time in Germany celebrating in exuberant manner before the Lenten observances].
There's more. But, with the Wronski's there always is.
For now ... Tschรผร!
Recalling afterward of one New Year's Eve celebration some time ago when our Dear Uncle Rachmoninov von Trenchen und Hollern Wronski — he comes from the Teutonic offshoot of the Family Wronski — had some splainin' to do following a night of jubilant revelry at his dacha in the Bavarian woods with who knows how many rollicking beauties.
Those were the days. Champagne, of course. Also, Spritzers with the naturally bubbly spring waters from the spa at Baden-Baden, fortified with your choice of a rare D'yquem or a very old and dusty Trockenbeerenauslese.
The indoor pool was a popular destination. Heated of course. Nudity ... encouraged. And, that mad dash to the snow covered back garden lawn to roll around in the bracing cold; snow angels, of course. Photos were taken.
Those were the days. Champagne, of course. Also, Spritzers with the naturally bubbly spring waters from the spa at Baden-Baden, fortified with your choice of a rare D'yquem or a very old and dusty Trockenbeerenauslese.
The indoor pool was a popular destination. Heated of course. Nudity ... encouraged. And, that mad dash to the snow covered back garden lawn to roll around in the bracing cold; snow angels, of course. Photos were taken.
And, as if that didn't take the cake ...
Rummaging through the old shoe box stashed away way back in the bottom of the storage closet we came upon this candid from a typical Wronski Family get together.
Pictured is my Uncle Rosco. Rosco Wronski. "R.R." Stood for "Rough and Ready." "Raunchy and Rambunctious." "Refined and Reserved." Well, that last one ... not so much.
Then there's his Mom. She's the one with the penchant for torching her effluence. Aunty Selma. Smelly Selma some called her; but, behind her back. Yes, the pun just came out. "Behind her back." As in, behind her back side. She lit up every party.
Then there's Grandma Wronski. Seen her pictured refreshing herself to get ready for another machine gun round of Peppermint Schnapps shots with Beer chasers. As you can imagine the apples didn't fall far from that tree.
Truth be told, that photo shows just the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the goings on that night would make The Aristocrats blush.
Let me tell you a little about Cousin Stash. One Stanislav Sexoszcievich Machonatchikevitch Wronski.
He not only embodies the legendary and unparalleled Wronski kavorka, he is the poster boy within the clan itself for such powers of attraction. I don't know how it's said in the native tongue, but "Chick Magnet" pretty much sums him up. His Dad once had the bright idea to make some money if he could just find a way to bottle that sexual essence for mass consumption. Alas, it was just his own thing. Probably for the better.
Well, not just one sexy dude. He had a brief but brilliant career as a Tadeusz Koลciuszko impersonator. And, an even more brief time on the charts with his eponymously titled best-seller album, "Stash ...I'm All That!" The photo above is scant testimony to his attraction as a singer, and ... as a man. And, by scant, yes we're making full use of the double meaning there.
Of course, the big hit was the title song, I'm all That! Perhaps it still rings in your head that line, "You want me to be your sweetie pie? Sure, I'll be your sweet pie ... eat me!" Straight ahead unambiguous sexual references were his oeuvre d'art.
Other tunes, the tear-inducing "Take it! Take another piece of my Pierogi, baby!" The chart-topping "I got your Kielbasa." "I'd like to shred that fine ass of yours into a fine Kapusta." To name just a few. But, I know, who hasn't heard those beauties. Oh yeah, then there's the hauntingly unforgettable, "You're the salt in my Beer. [And BTW I'll have a pickled Egg with that!]"
His songs could be rather racy, as you already know. Once he had a gig booked at a nightclub. The manager was eager to book the popular entertainer, but was not up for the lyrics. He insisted, "I love your music, but just don't say the titles or sing the lyrics. Too much for our patrons." Well, he agreed to the condition. So there he is at the harpsichord — did I mention he was a virtuoso on that little box. Suck it Wanda Lewandowska — playing his heart out to an enthralled audience. On a break he's coming out from the men's room and a fellow notices it, and says, "Hey, mister, do you know your fly is down and your dick is hanging out?" Oh, that Stash ... "Know it, I wrote it!"
Alas, his album is now out of print. Very sought after among the vinyl collector bunch. You play that album over a nightcap back at your pad and you are guaranteed to get lucky. And, by "lucky", we're referring to gettin' it on in the sack. And, by "gettin' it on" we're referring to ... well, you get the picture.
That's enough about Stash. We don't want our readers to get all hot and bothered with the steamy details. It's all there in his song book anyway. Public property. Check it out.
The photo above was supposed to have been destroyed. Burn the evidence sort of thing. Yes, that's the cast of the iconic movie Ocean's Eleven. But, do the math. There are twelve!
Here's the skinny. True story. If you can believe it. [Nowadays, it's relativism 24/7/12/365. If you believe it, then it's true. Or, if you even think it.] But, let's not get into that psycho-spiritual mumbo jumbo. Okay? Let's let Marianne Williamson, Deepak Chopra and Opra towork that out for us.
Back to Hollywood. Hurray! For it.
You'll by now have noticed [finally!] there are twelve in the group photo. On the extreme left is Dear Uncle Zbigniew Ocheanichechowitz Wronski. He was not only the intended twelfth player, it is a true fact that flick was titled after him. Big Ocean is the moniker they tagged him with in Tinseltown where Biggie was, well, big.
Let's not get into all the politics of it; just to say that he was too good-looking. Look and that sonofabitch! Gorgeous. Hunky. The Shiz before there was even a Shiz.
But, Frank would not be upstaged. He was the main player after all. In short, Uncle would be the standout looks-wise. He did stand out too, as you can see; he was a tall drink of water. Obviously, he had to go.
Biggie was one hospitable guy. There's the story about a new neighbor who moves next door into the swell Beverly Hills neighborhood, and Biggie goes over to greet him.
"Hello! And welcome to the neighborhood. You'll like it here. We're having a shindig tonight to welcome you. Come on over."
New neighbor: "That's mighty neighborly of you. Thanks. What's the party gonna be like?"
"Well, there'll be some drinkin', some fightin', and some fornicatin'."
New guy: "Well that sounds like quite a time! What time shall I come over?"
"Oh, come on by any time. It'll just be the two of us."
In his later years he developed a flat forehead and stooped shoulders. Why? Well, whenever you asked him a question which more than likely he didn't know the answer he would habitually shrug his shoulders. Tell him the answer, and he would, again, habitually slap his forehead. [We are indeed shaped — literally — by our experience.]
He, as you can plainly see, was a Ventriloquist. Big on the Vaudeville stage. [Babcha said that you didn't know which one was the dummy. She didn't mince her words. But she did mince Beef, Pork, and Veal for her world class Goลฤ bki. (Say it ... "Gowombki".)]
You know that trick where the Ventriloquist drinks a glass of water and the dummy talks? He did that ... first to do it. Entertainment pioneer. Look it up. He's there.
He upped the ante with the tape across the mouth. Very few could copy that one. Then there was the nonpareil making the dummy talk from another room. It was so good, but he had to stop. Spooked just about everyone who witnessed that display of preternatural skill.
He, as is inborn to the Wronski DNA, was psychic. Not a stage act. He did have quite the following, however, giving readings to rich old biddies on the Gold Coast along Fifth Avenue in the city. He coined the term "24/7" after his policy of being available to his pampered clientele round the clock, every day of the week; for a price, mind you.
Here he is in a Bachrach portrait at a time when he was well into his new role as wealthy bon vivant about town. CLICK to read about HIM!
Here's the skinny. True story. If you can believe it. [Nowadays, it's relativism 24/7/12/365. If you believe it, then it's true. Or, if you even think it.] But, let's not get into that psycho-spiritual mumbo jumbo. Okay? Let's let Marianne Williamson, Deepak Chopra and Opra towork that out for us.
Back to Hollywood. Hurray! For it.
You'll by now have noticed [finally!] there are twelve in the group photo. On the extreme left is Dear Uncle Zbigniew Ocheanichechowitz Wronski. He was not only the intended twelfth player, it is a true fact that flick was titled after him. Big Ocean is the moniker they tagged him with in Tinseltown where Biggie was, well, big.
Let's not get into all the politics of it; just to say that he was too good-looking. Look and that sonofabitch! Gorgeous. Hunky. The Shiz before there was even a Shiz.
But, Frank would not be upstaged. He was the main player after all. In short, Uncle would be the standout looks-wise. He did stand out too, as you can see; he was a tall drink of water. Obviously, he had to go.
Biggie was one hospitable guy. There's the story about a new neighbor who moves next door into the swell Beverly Hills neighborhood, and Biggie goes over to greet him.
"Hello! And welcome to the neighborhood. You'll like it here. We're having a shindig tonight to welcome you. Come on over."
New neighbor: "That's mighty neighborly of you. Thanks. What's the party gonna be like?"
"Well, there'll be some drinkin', some fightin', and some fornicatin'."
New guy: "Well that sounds like quite a time! What time shall I come over?"
"Oh, come on by any time. It'll just be the two of us."
Uncle Paderewski Lingลanowitzski "Wrong Way" Wronski. Called him Paddy Wronski. "Wrong Way" Wronski to some. As confusing as was his name — "Paddy the Pollack" to some others — he himself was also too easily confused.
In his later years he developed a flat forehead and stooped shoulders. Why? Well, whenever you asked him a question which more than likely he didn't know the answer he would habitually shrug his shoulders. Tell him the answer, and he would, again, habitually slap his forehead. [We are indeed shaped — literally — by our experience.]
He, as you can plainly see, was a Ventriloquist. Big on the Vaudeville stage. [Babcha said that you didn't know which one was the dummy. She didn't mince her words. But she did mince Beef, Pork, and Veal for her world class Goลฤ bki. (Say it ... "Gowombki".)]
You know that trick where the Ventriloquist drinks a glass of water and the dummy talks? He did that ... first to do it. Entertainment pioneer. Look it up. He's there.
He upped the ante with the tape across the mouth. Very few could copy that one. Then there was the nonpareil making the dummy talk from another room. It was so good, but he had to stop. Spooked just about everyone who witnessed that display of preternatural skill.
He, as is inborn to the Wronski DNA, was psychic. Not a stage act. He did have quite the following, however, giving readings to rich old biddies on the Gold Coast along Fifth Avenue in the city. He coined the term "24/7" after his policy of being available to his pampered clientele round the clock, every day of the week; for a price, mind you.
One patron from one of the wealthiest families ever endowed him with a rich legacy, the sum of which was never disclosed, except to say that largess enabled him to move up a notch or more in the social pecking order and become a money bags himself. Given his creative talents he reinvented himself, leaving the stage life and that dummy behind.
Here he is in a Bachrach portrait at a time when he was well into his new role as wealthy bon vivant about town. CLICK to read about HIM!
Great Uncle Vussihond Grabashko Wronski. Pictured here in 1890 in Paris at the Club Allegro Fortissimo. "Just us girls." That was his slogan. [Pick up line, it turns out.]
Uncle was ahead of the times. Way. He identified as a woman; or, that's what he said he did. Imagine that. Way back then. There probably were others of similar persuasion. But VGW was next level. [Typical of all Wronski's.] He put it out there. Some balls, if I may put it ironically.
Easy access in some circles. Most of his many escapades have gone undocumented. Except for recollections by some senior Wronski's of the tales told. But, here, in that photo we get a rare glimpse of Great Uncle in his glory. And whatever else he could get his hands on. And, from the looks of it, he indeed did have his hands full. It was hot in there. And, it was hot. You can imagine. BTW, everyone went away satisfied. Uncle, after all, had the Wronski kavorka. In full measure.
He was a bold one. As if that isn't already obvious. The story goes that he finagled himself into a job as a lifeguard in a mikvah. Definitely not kosher. But, when they finally had enough of his shenanigans, Uncle casually dropped, "So call me pisher".
No that's not Great Uncle. The Apple doesn't fall far from the tree. That's his oldest [of 13 kids, mind you — his words, "Lucky 13".] "Hollywood" Dave Wronski. My namesake. The story goes that he had a permanent phone at his table at the Beverly Hills Hotel Bar. And, also permanent, a rotating roster of stars, starlets, and aspiring actresses. He was a casting director. He had a fresh new couch installed almost on a weekly basis. It drove the studio property manager nuts. He not only needed a new sofa every week but insisted that it be different and even better than the previous.
But, I digress. Perhaps the most infamous of the small handful of stories that survive in memory, was the "Night of a Thousand Stars" party Uncle threw for his 40th birthday. On his hand calligraphed invites he coined the now-famous line, "If you can't be there, you be square". No doubt you've come across that chestnut a time or three?
So, as you would expect everyone was there. Clark, Carol, Hedy, Myrna, all the Dick's, Lucille, Norma, both Jimmy's, Charlie, Paulette, Cary, Ingrid ... And, on and on.
Here he is in an appropriately, suitable-for-all-ages retouched photo canoodling with a bevy of hopefuls. They got his hopes up too!
Here we have Cousin Munyechekbigbagfulski Wronski. "Cash" we call him. Yes, we know his given name is a bit much, but too much was never a problem for him. Perhaps its just the karmic inheritance from such a lengthy moniker. A Calvinist, through and through. "God rewards the good" kind of thing.
So the story goes that he took the Dale Carnegie approach and went "next level" with it. "Think and grow rich." Well, he did.
How rich? Let's just say that he made Uncle Benjamin look like a piker. And, said Uncle was as you may know 1% of the 1%. Cousin "Cash" has, as they say, the world by the ass.
You never heard of him? Like all the well to do, he keeps out of the limelight. Parties at any one of his palazzos which are scattered like confetti around the globe, all telephones, cameras, and note taking paraphernalia were left at the door. Non-dislosures signed before entering the festivities.
Rumor has it that the cellars in all his so many domiciles are stacked to the gills with cash. And, big bills mind you.
Okay, you say, he's "RICH!". What's he like in person.
Let's just say that dumb sonofabitch was one lucky sonofabitch. Babcha said of him, "That boy's brains are just painted on!". "Kapusta for brains!" [Kapusta is Cabbage in the Mother Tongue.]
So, how come? One dumb but lucky sonofabitch. How lucky? You know that bit about the optimistic kid who starts frantically digging into a pile of horse poop ... "There's a pony in here somewhere!". Well, our Cash Cousin actually did find a pony once, just doing that. Imagine! He was his own golden goose. No, his poop was just like anyone else's. Not quite that golden.
What's the upshot of all the regaling you with the stupifying story of our dear Cousin. Just this: If you yourself want to think and grow rich, forget it. Cash was there first. Got all of it. As they say, "Cash is King".
Meet my dear Great XXX Uncle Victor Wronski. Lighting up the silver screen in the Pre-Code era. Heating it up too!
His movie roles and his, ahem, offscreen antics brought the definition "type casting". In the lobby card pictured above, don't get confused. "Cockeyed" wasn't what it means today. Or, more correctly, what it could in these Post Modern Relativistic times. You know the classic, "Sometimes a Cigar is just a Cigar".
Which reminds me of the story about what Groucho Marx was rumored to have said to a women on his show, "You Bet Your Life". She had very many children and Groucho asked her why. She replied that she loved her husband. Groucho: "I love my Cigar, too. But, sometimes I take it out of my mouth".
Uncle appeared in the many faintly remembered, never to be seen lost early Hollywood naughty confections. "Some Sugar with That, Honey?" "Let's Take a Look ... Bend Over." "I'm Peckish, But Not That Much!" "Eat That!!!" "That's One of Mine!"
That last one — "That's One of Mine!" — had a funny plot line:
He played the piano. Wrote all his tunes himself. Brilliant. Bigger than Jesus. And, BTW, John Lennon too. In the day, that is. But. Big "but". He gave his tunes the worst names. Dirty. Lewd. Scatalogic. Sleazy. Twisted. Warped. You get the picture? Just, downright awful. Unspeakable. [In these easily offended times, he would be kind ... of such.]
So it goes that one day he's auditioning for a gig at a swell Hollywood night spot. The manager likes his playing. "But, you can't say the song titles. This is a swanky joint!" Uncle agrees. Uncle, that is, in the movie. Remember we're talking about a movie? C'mon, Man!
He's playing his heart out. The crowd loves it. Going nuts, in fact. After a while he needs to make a pit stop. Excuses himself, and goes to the restroom. On his way out he forgets to put things back. A fellow sees that, and says, "Hey! Do you know your pants are unzipped and your dick is hanging out!" Uncle, in that still well remembered reposte chimes back: "Know it? I wrote it!"
Or, that blockbuster movie, "Night Cap". The, ahem, climax of the movie. After a lavish and adventurous night on the town with some lovely, he's invited up for the so oft euphemized "night cap".
The lady prepares a coupla Stingers. A hint if there ever was one. But ... he goes to take a sip and notices something. What is it. A pubic hair. Floating right there int he middle of the glass.
The movie moves to the inside of his thinking. "Is this just a messy mistake?" "Is this an overture?" "What should I do?" "On any level, she's sure not someone I should bring to meet Momma!" Always one to hedge his bet, and to keep his cards close to his vest, he said, "Do you have anything to eat with that?".
Not one to miss an opportunity either, but one who is tactful enough — talk about tact! He once asked a women he had just met a tactless question. She had a visibly protruding belly. He inquired whether she was pregnant, or had just finished a big lunch.
After that, it was all denouement from there. It was pre-code, but even in the day the perticlars weren't laid out in full view. But, you can imagine it. Just take down one of those pornos you got on file and pop it in the VCR.
Who's the babe, right? That's the flower of the Wronski genetic wonder garden. In her own words: "So, big boy, you be wantin' my Polish love? It's like a dill pickle to the heart!"
The wedding was a shebang. The working side of my Uncle's huge bakery was the "hall". Big lofty ceiling, huge rectangular worktable in the center. [That work table had enough room for twelve or so workers kneading dough. It was never that busy; but you get the idea.] Chairs and folding tables scattered around. Recorded music and dancing. Men in the corner shooting craps. Serve yourself to the drinks. Kids running around like maniacs, playing in the nooks and crannies, even hiding in the cabinets in the front selling area. Lots of home cooked food on that center work table. In short ... a Polish wedding.
A Polish wedding with all the usuals ... tossing the bouquet, sliding the garter off, first dance, cutting the cake. We're Polish, after all! Not barbarians. [Though given half a chance and enough Vodka, any dern one of us would not hesitate to jump on a war horse and ride galloping in the moonlight through a Birch forest ... bareback, and bare assed. The Wronski's do have their ways.]
Some other traditions have crept into "Wronski" wedding celebrations. "Beat Babcha." That's where the Groom gets to show his stuff by wrestling dear old Babcha Wronski best two out of three. "You Can't Drink All That!?" Just what you would think it is. Just that in the Wronski way, everybody is playing. Just, don't talk politics. Or, the kids' favorite, "IT." Which looks a lot like kids either not to be seen since they're all hiding somewhere; or, kids running full tilt hither and thither among the assorted adults and tables.
What about Cousin Lottie? Did she get into any action? [Well, she certainly did, later that evening. But, we only have the sounds of crashing and screaming from their bedroom to figure what, the what?] At the reception, though, the family tradition for the Bride is to arm wrestle all the females at the shindig. If she beats all them, then she gets to arm wrestle the men. If she beats all them, then the only one that's left is the Groom. I'm gonna stop right there. We don't talk about the what if's following which one wins, the Bride or the Groom. That enters into the very complex and deep Akashic mystery that is the Wronski brood.
Wherever you are right now, go throw some Rice. Even if it's in your imagination.
What's up? Wronski!
These days among the multi-billionaire set it's a big thing to put themselves in the news. By putting themselves into space most recently. Branson and the Space Cowboy, Jeff Bezos. Elon Musk not far behind. Why? It's completely lost on me.
Until I thought about my Uncle Spacetuchek Rocketskovich Wronski — Wrocket Wronski. As you clearly can tell by his moniker, going up there was written in his destiny. You wouldn't have heard of his exploits on account of he thrived in a time before narcissism was a thing. He just did what he did. Didn't give a Pierogi who knew.
Pictured here, our dear brave Uncle upon reentry. Bezos no doubt got the hat idea from him. How he even knew about Uncle's space adventure, who knows. Except, with him having the wherewithal to deliver packages in a day, you can imagine what tech he has at his disposal. [We're all just dots on an Amazon algorithm.]
It all started when Wrocket Wronski was a lad, lighting off bottle rockets. Not just around the 4th of July time; hey, fireworks are for any time you want to celebrate life! You heard about the Jet Pack. He was an early adopter. Predated Bezos too, what with jetpacking around town delivering groceries for Babcha Wronski's Polish store.
How he got the bucks to get a rig into the limits of the stratosphere is a whole nother story. He started his earning career with a paper route. And, like Jeff, moved up the ladder to eventually own the newspaper. Actually, a chain of newspapers. Which ones, we can't say. Non-disclosure. Like I said, he was a behind-the-scenes player. Well, until he wasn't; I'm mean, rocketing up and all for the whole world to see.
So now you know. But, that's not all. Uncle is credited with being the brains behind a lot of firsts. Soft serve Ice Cream; yah, that be him. The move away from the mono-girdle to showing the natural curves of the tush. His word, "tush". And, maybe his most excellent and wonderful invention, the electric knife. Just what the connection those few of his many inventions have in common, I don't have a clue. He was rather ubiquitronic in his tastes and tendencies.
My older Cousin "Squeezy" Wronski, as you might deduce, he played the accordion. "Lady of Spain" was a staple in his oeuvre. Polkas? Do you really need to ask? BTW, who did steal the Kishka? He wrote a lot of his own stuff too.
Give it a listen ...
Well, as we can also deduce, he was irresistible to the fair sex. Don't know for sure whether it was the playing, or his rebel nature. It's there in all us Wronski's, just most of us keep the kavorka under wraps.
It wasn't always so. Here's our guy is in the early years. As clean-cut a Polish lad as ever there was. Being a Wronski. Even more so. But, alas, circumstances shape who we become. In unimagined ways.
But, don't be fooled by that handsome, clean-cut Cousin Squeezy in the above photo. Harken back to earlier images you'll get more of an idea of how he turned out.
For instance, how did he get the moniker "Squeezy"? There are a lot of differing stories on that. One is that at his Mother's knee he helped with the washing and did a pre-squeeze on each of the wash items. It was in his nature. He was good. At squeezing, of course. Not, of course, Mother's cashmere panties. Washed in cold water, towel dried, then blocked to shape. Don't go asking me in the comment section about cashmere panties. Okay?
Then, at an early adolescent age — actually before that but in a more innocent way — our boy discovered the fairer sex. Good Catholic boy that he was, no sex. But, what's a piece of Apple pie without cheese? Or, a little kiss without a squeeze? Take a proclivity to do a Joe Biden whenever and wherever, add some of that locked in Wronski DNA charm, charisma, and kavorka, and ... well, nobody went home from the party without a good Polish hug. From, well, you know who.
Truth be told, Squeezy is not the only name bestowed on him on account of his reputation. His alter ego what had the legendary Polka and Jazz careers was internationally known as "Sleazy Squeezy". Cousin wrote most of his own tunes. Trouble was that he would give them the most disgusting, vile, depraved, gross, vulgar, obnoxious names.
Once Sleazy Squeezy was auditioning for a gig. He played the most beautiful tunes, but the titles he gave his pieces were just too outrageously gross. Really, the worst: dirty, salacious, crude, offensive, scatological, vile. Dirty. Not at all PC. I reiterate to give you, the reader, a clear as possible a sense of how low he went.
So the nightclub manager said, “You know what? I really like your music. And I want to hire you. So go ahead and play for my customers. Just don’t tell them any names for your tunes.”
Understandingly, Squeezy says, “OK, that’s all right.”
One evening he starts playing his accordion. [You may be wondering how come an accordion player is booked solo to just tickle and squeeze — pun intended. Read on, all will become known.]
The crowd goes crazy. A standing ovation. They never heard anything like it. The tunes are so beautiful. Such variety. The accordion, sublime.
After an hour of playing, he says “I’m gonna take a short break. I gotta go to the can.”
So he leaves. And goes to the bathroom.
On his way out of the restroom, he forgets to zip up his pants, and somebody sees him and says, “Hey, do you know your zipper’s undone and your dick is hanging out?”
The music man says . . . “Know it? I wrote it!”
Okay, I slipped in a joke. Call me pisher. You liked it though; admit it!
Now that we know how our dear Cousin rose to such prominence, let me give you a little "Amuse Bouche" of an idea of that.
This cat was so with it he played solo sets, booked for weeks, at all the hot spots here in cities throughout the good old US of A. He traveled. Let's just say that his suitcase was plastered with stickers. If you are too young to know what that reference is about, look it up! [You lazy ass mofo whippersnapper!]
One of the times I got to see him live was in New York City. At Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle Hotel, in the swell UES of the Big Apple. [Again, for the younger reader: UES stands for "Upper East Side" — of Manhattan] and "Big Apple" refers to Manhattan itself. As in, the apotheosis of all cities. Again, for the wet-behind-the-ears set — that would be the Pineapple, er pinnacle, of the jazz musical dinner club demimonde. Well, that's according to those who live on the UES*. And, they should know; that's a real big bucks neighborhood. So you know folks there know from.
*See, now you know what that means — UES — and you don't have to scratch your head no more. At least on that point.
You should know that Bemelmans is by definition a piano bar. Jazz, the American Song Book. Long-standing tradition. So many of the greats played there.
So here's Cousin Sleazy Squeezy Wronski playing set at Bemelmans. On the same night as Bobby Short, at his sublime piano; and, voice. Yet. Yet. Mr. Short opened for Squeezy! That's right. Call them up as ask about it. It's legendary.
Cousin Squeezy Wronski. He was good. And, when he was bad, he was really good.
PS He wasn't all Polka. He was a Jazz Man too. But, even at those swell spots where the well-heeled, rich and famous frequented, he always got a standing ovation after an all-Polka finishing set.
I'm not saying it's so, nor am I saying it's not so; but, Jackie O was reported to have Polka'd around the place 'til closing time. How about that! Huh?
Uncle Verterver Vevano Wronski, aka "Whodatski" was in high demand in the Hollywood pre-war [WWII] film industry. In his own telling, "I don't take no backseat to no nobody!".
Ironic. His trademark mistaken use of the double negative actually spoke to his place in Tinsel Town history. To add insult, never got a screen credit. Until this telling, you probably had been wondering ... who dat?
Here he is with George Raft and Jimmy Cagney in the 1939 classic "Each Dawn I Die", literally ... taking the back seat. So it goes. He's a Wronski, and the tribe does have it's share of "Wrongski's".
It's a bit of a conundrum, him and his career. He was never for lack of work. But, always a true "Wrongski" in how consistently he got the sense of the scene off; way off. The rumor has it that was his strength. He was never hired to actually make it past the cutting room; only to bring some levity to the set. Which he did. Again, given his Polish genetics, he never got wind of it. Don't laugh, he made a nice living from it. He was a true exemplar of the addage, "If life gives you Lemons ... ".
At parties too. The life of. Don't ask. None of us other Wronski's can figure it out. He did bring the Kavorka.
Witness ...
He's a Pollack all right, but he emigrated to Romania on a quest of the heart, and was adopted by that most hospitable folk of the land as a bone fide Romanian. At first the folks in Krakรณw thought he was all cracked up. But, time heals, and now he is accepted — albeit not in the fullest or highest sense — as that crazy "Romanian". Spoken with the kind of spin emphasis on "Romanian" that you get a clear impression that he's not in the A-list circle of family Wronski. Think of Seinfeld and his "Newman". Speaking of which, that's ironic since Wronski's from time immemorial have not enjoyed A-list status. Except for rich Uncle Benji; he bought his way into some high stakes situations. But, I digress.
The back story on Teddy, as we like to call him, is rather complex. Certainly unexpected. Some of it, in true Wronski fashion, is rather mundane.
A classic example of the aforementioned which, whilst enjoying cocktails on a sunny summer afternoon in the garden of the parents of his betrothed Romanian heart throb the Grandfather of that clan took him under his wing over a plate of speecy-spicy long green hot peppers. The trick is you cut the pepper lengthwise and then cut away the inner spines — besides the seeds, that's what carries the heat. Those spines. Nice to know. A lesson what translates to larger matters?
Turns out that this little bit of culinary wisdom is part of the familial approval vetting process among the folk Romania. Just like among the French who are ever so more into the fussy foods, the intended of their darling girl is given a peach and must peel it in one single connected strip. Probably something about how it shows that he'll be careful and gentle with his new bride. What the Romanians have in mind with that pepper schtick is anybody's guess.
With that pepper secret firmly embedded in his keppe, Uncle Teddy for a time until the novelty wore off liked to refer to himself as ... "I'm a Pepper".
As Paris Hilton might say to that, "That's hot".
Let's see, what else? Thaddeus, being a genetically certified Wronski can boast as part of his genetic endowments a general tendency to have extra large parts, if you know what I mean. And, if your mind went to where I think it went, then I have to ask, what's the matter with you? We're talking about things like the ears, the nose. Not a nose that's 12 inches long, because then it would be a foot. But, as honkers go ... big. And, for you pervy sorts, yes, there too.
Uncle also liked to tinker. He fashioned himself an inventor. He was indeed rather clever. But, maybe by a factor of twice so. His mรฉtier was the culinary world. He invented a host of one-purpose, kitchen-cluttering devices. If your kitchen is replete with such things you'll get the picture. Such as Banana slicers, Avocado scoops, Bagel slicers, poached Egg whatchamacallits, meat ball baller, herb scissors, Corn kerneler, burger patty press, egg cracker, Onion goggles. His standout invention is the Sp-atu-oon©. A combination spoon and spatula. For stirring and scraping out the last bit from the pot. Right handed and left handed, of course.
Digging deeper into his resume we see stints as such as carnival barker, Pizza delivery, dish washer, hot air balloon heater-upper, deck hand on a submarine, and — last, but not least — the starch boy at a busy Chinese laundry. The latter which is where he got slammed with the nickname "Mr. Staaach!". Spoken in the commensurate broken English with the also commensurate enthusiastic exclamatory verve known only and exclusively to those Chinese workers who spend too much time taking in the scorched aromas of an over-used ironing board. If you've ever patronized a Chinese hand laundry you know from such sentsations.
It's still not settled on whether and which and in what proportion the category of elements in his genetic makeup explains his ways. The general conclusion is that the non-Wronski side has a definite Mediterranean flavor. It's probably that slightly northern playful Romanian influence that moves him to mix things up a bit in his journey through life. "A bit?" A lot!
Witness in the photo image. Just one from a shoe box full of them; and, every one of them in there quite different from the each of other. If there are such things, he was an "eclecticon" and a "ubitquitron".
What to say, given the vast nature of his doings and comings and goings.
As far as the photo ... well, sort of explains itself. Tad liked things BIG. Pussycats, cigars, fish, libations, tushes. He also had a penchant for splashing on the English Leather cologne. Quite liberally. [This writer must confess to having the same predilection for that scent, so maybe that's from the Wronski side of it. BTW that stuff smelled swell to me in my college days. Now, OMG ... so overpowering. Whew! One thing about Wronski's, they may go astray — "Wrong-Way-Wronski" is a nickname in the family — but they get back on track ... eventually.]
Okay, ladies, we know what you are curious about. Admit it! That thin towel tied around Tad's trim waist. Are we wondering if he's BIG also in a certain other category? In fact and to get to the point, the answer is yes. Yes, he has a rather large collection of such printed towels. What silk pajamas were to Hugh Hefner, the printed towel in to Thaddeus. But Tad only wore his at home. For going out, a armoire full of chenille robes complete the ensemble. I know it sounds silly, but with him it worked.
Oh, you weren't thinking about the size of the towel? In the interest of decorum all that needs be said is that he had a strict policy, towel-wise. Big enough to just begin to cover the knee. Enough said. Now, dream on.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
We Wronski's are widely represented in all fields. The arts. Letters. Science. But, with the "Wronski" genetics you can bet there's gonna be a twist or two in the mix.
Meet Uncle Samuel B. "Wrong Way" Wronski. He got the nickname "Twippler" on account of all those W's; "VTrip" to friends. That's on account of the "W" in the Polish tongue is pronounced like a "V". Kapishe?
Purely as an aside, he was regularly dressed from Tripler, New York City. Mad Ave, don't you know; midtown. He was a class act sartorially, and the name of the shop had a sort of kismet thing going on with him. You know the store? They say it made Brooks Brothers look "racy". For those in the unwashed hinterlands, that's like saying the new-on-the-scene singer Aurora makes Taylor look like a school dance wallflower.
Girls will be girls. Thank heavens for them. Such a lovely garden of variety. Huh?
Anyhow ...
Seen here in the lab watching those dials and tweaking those buttons. As brainy a Wronski there never was one more so; but, like I said, "Wronski" comes with a twist. Which, by the way, is the way he likes his Martinis; 3 olives and a twist. Shaken or stirred? No. "Just pour that stuff in the glass, I know how to stir that shit". Out of his starchy lab coat and premises, our guy wasn't shy with the lingo.
Okay. That Wronski "twist". Seems Uncle, as good a scientist there was never another one to top him, he had unusual choices when it came to research study topics. While you would expect someone of his lofty caliber, academically and scientifically, that he would be out to find something to save the world, or maybe something that would top sliced bread or the classic mouse trap. No. He for reasons known only to hisself he chose from the other side of the scientific menu. "How many Angels fit on the point of a pin?" He's the leading scholar in that area of inquiry. "Why meatballs don't bounce." That's him too. The list is long. "If you're French in the kitchen, in the bathroom you're European?" The humorous aspect of things was not lost on him. In fact, that factor may be a clue to his mental metrics for selecting topics for his studies.
It should be noted that there are some in the scientific community who are so gonzo over doing research as a thing to do, that areas of inquiry are not so much a consideration on where to investigate. The critical factor has more to do with if anybody else would buy it. Science has its political side. If there was enough interest you can be that someone would launch a serious investigation as to which tastes better, Dairy Queen with a twist this way, or that way. This point by way of caution to not just take it as gospel when you hear that "scientists say" or "science has discovered"; and variations of such claims. Someone, given enough interest, would spend long hours and big money finding out the tensile strength of pubic hairs. And, to be sure, with all the variables such as hair color, twist, coverage. Maybe throw in the variable when the carpet don't match the drapes.
You've been advised, Pilgrim. Be like King Kong, don't take no guff from the airlines.
Uncle Sammy was not one of those sort. He marched to his own drum. No politic kissing up for him. No one knows how and why he looked into what he looked into. He did fall short on the popularity index given his rather left field choices.
Perhaps the area he is best known for in the realms of science is his extensive body of research work on the subject arena of which way to face the Cow as a determinant of the sex selection of the Calf. North, or South. And — hey, this is science! — the range of angles to the East and West from those cardinal points. Well, that's the general area of study anyway. His laser focus specialty was even more rarified: "How Many Wrinkles In A Bull's Ass?" That's right. Why would anyone choose that as a research study subject? It's called "pure" research. You know like how all that grant money that goes to looking up stuff that seems to have no particular application that anyone can think of. But, you never know. The shape of fish fins may in fact have influence on the currents of the oceans. You never know until you check it out. Now what do Bull ass wrinkles have to do with anything?
Bent over, drop tough; let's find out. Uncle will keep count.
