Mrs. Navarro and the Fourth of July

This is a quick little pastiche, inspired by attending the fireworks yesterday (Chicago’s big display is on the 3rd.) I don’t foresee this showing up anywhere, at least not in this form, so if I didn’t write it quick I never would.
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“Smut!” declared Geraldine Navarro in a powerful tone that shouldn’t have been possible from her feeble, elderly frame.

Judge Elizabeth Atkin smiled at the defendant kindly. She had practiced this smile for more than a decade, and she was good at it. Old ladies liked that smile—it calmed them down. For that reason, Judge Atkin got most of the old lady cases in Baxter County. It kept her surprisingly busy.

“Mrs. Navarro? While I have the utmost respect for the strength of your conviction… perhaps you could elaborate for me.”

Mrs. Navarro stood and began pacing in front of the bench. She walked with a cane, although she obviously didn’t need it; she forgot to use it for her first two passes. “I always considered the Fourth of July to be wholesome,” she began. “But this last Fourth of July. It was pure smut in the sky!”

“I take it you mean the fireworks,” Elizabeth said.

“I would hardly call them that. I would call them pornography.”

Judge Atkin hardened her eyes, just slightly. Still kind, but in a “get to the point” kind of way. Someday her highlight films would be shown in law schools.

“Some people would call them fireworks,” Mrs. Navarro admitted.

“Very good,” said Judge Atkin, half-softening her expression so Mrs. Navarro knew she’d done right, but still felt enough tension to keep on this path. “How exactly were they smut?”

Mrs. Navarro spoke as if speaking to a child. “They made dirty pictures in the sky. I was appalled!” She took a set of pictures out of her purse and handed them to the judge.

Judge Atkin looked at the first one in the pile, but turned them face down quickly. “This is a picture of breasts,” she declared.

“They’re mine. I wanted to provide a frame of reference for the next picture.”

Judge Atkin reluctantly took a look at the second picture in the pile. It showed a fireworks display—two round red bursts, a bit out of focus and framed well off-center.

“You see the resemblance?” Mrs. Navarro insisted. “They’re both round and erotic.”

“This is a standard form of fireworks, Mrs. Navarro. I believe they’re called ‘peonies.’ After the flower.”

“Sometimes they had these spiral explosions in the middle. It looked like a—“ here she lowered her voice—“stripper’s tassel.”

Judge Atkin flipped to the next picture, fully expecting another needlessly intimate image. In this she was disappointed—correct, but still disappointed.

Mrs. Navarro leaned in close. “I have to warn you that the next one is even worse.”

The next picture was a close-up of a wrinkly and rather desiccated scrotum. Judge Atkin lost her careful demeanor with a sharp “Mrs. Navarro!”

“It’s my husband’s,” Mrs. Navarro offered as explanation. “In case you’ve never seen one before.” She began gesturing wildly with her cane. “Imagine seeing that in the sky! It was traumatizing.”

Judge Atkin examined the next photo. It was a green cloverleaf explosion, although one of the points had failed to burst leaving it a bit off-center. “It is a fairly long trip from one to the other.”

“That isn’t any reason to provide our children with a road map,” Mrs. Navarro demanded. “I am here for them, you know.”

“You’re here because you robbed a liquor store with a gun,” Judge Atkin corrected, as kindly as she could.

“It was a political statement!” Judge Atkin compelled her to explain with a raised eyebrow. “The naughty pictures in the sky made me do it.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Mrs. Navarro bowed her head. “No, not really.” She smiled weakly. “I used to use that tone of voice on my children. They couldn’t resist it either.”

Judge Atkin put a couple of notes on a form. “You will, naturally, have a full trial. Until that time, I am going to have to keep you in custody.”

Mrs. Navarro nodded in acceptance as a bailiff gently took her arm and led her out. As this was happening, the clerk dropped an overstuffed folder on Judge Atkin’s bench.

“The Hall of Fame,” the judge observed. “Thank you, Richard.” She slipped the photos into it as the next case was called.

The Old Man and His Bikini

So, I just shared a hot tub with an old dude in a red bikini.

The story:

I went to the gym to use the hot tub. Not to work out, which I did before going to the gym, and which is probably another story. But after the workout, I decided it would feel good to sit in the hot tub for a few minutes, so I did. And there, lying on the side of the tub, was an old dude in a red bikini.

I didn’t realize it at first. I left my glasses in the locker, and I was tired and not at my most observant anyhow. I didn’t notice anything atypical until I was in the tub and had walked past him (the hot tub is long but narrow — almost as long as a five-lane pool is wide, with seats on each side but no room for anything but walking between).

And then, the little voice in my head that only seems to talk in this kind of situation started screaming: “That’s a dude!”

Even then, I wasn’t positive. He had a mannish frame, but age does tend to do that to women too. His baldness was typical male-pattern, which was a bit better of an indicator. Not really conclusive, though, in the face of the “wearing a red bikini” evidence.

It wasn’t a big bikini, either. Little top, just strings tied together holding the bottom together–you’d expect to see it on a 20-year old, which he, regardless of gender, was most definitely not.

Anyhow, at this point, I was still unconvinced of his duditude. I discretely took another seat on the other side of the hot tub. His arms weren’t shaved, but that didn’t completely convince me.

But that little bikini bottom definitely had a penis in it.

Curiosity satisfied, I retook my original seat. Because, really, there’s nothing wrong with an old dude in a bikini in a gym hot tub. You could even find it inspiring–someone comfortable enough with himself to defy convention in a blatant way, and in an environment that you wouldn’t necessarily expect to be welcoming of it. Or as a sign of progress: No one in the hot tub, or pool, or walking through on their way to the sauna, seemed distraught by the man and his bulging bikini bottoms.

Of course, it is a dude in a bikini, and, you know, that kind of image can really brighten up a day.

The Panhandler

This is a bit of fiction, and, if all goes well, the first draft of the prologue to a comic science fiction novel I’m writing. Rebecca is decidedly not the main character of the story, or even much of a character at all. The way that I hope it works out is that her story will be interspersed with the main plot, giving the broader world’s perspective on it–as filtered through this fairly absent-minded and kind of useless businesswoman. Perhaps eventually she’ll join up with the main story, perhaps not. (And of course, the entire device may prove not to work at all.)

Regardless, I think I like the character. So…

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Four hours later, Rebecca Salazar was unsettled.

She wasn’t bothered by the simple fact that someone had asked her for money. Chicago’s Michigan Avenue is a minefield of beggars and environmentalists, and she had long-ago learned to ignore them without even a twinge of guilt.

The man was begging, or advocating for the environment, or whatever he was doing, early, catching morning commuters. That was odd; asking for money didn’t usually start until lunchtime. Still, Rebecca didn’t mind. It was kind of refreshing, ignoring someone before the midday summer heat hit. It meant no perspiration that might somehow be confused with caring.

But four hours after ignoring him, Rebecca did care. It was hurting her greviously: she had treated herself to a fancy grilled chicken salad, with fourteen different types of healthful leaves drowning in creamy ranch dressing, and she wasn’t enjoying it the way she should. She was distracted and dripping ranch on her blazer.

What exactly did the man ask for? It wasn’t money, she somehow knew. No, he was warning of impending doom, she decided, as she tried and failed to spear a slippery tomato with her fork.

That was, perhaps, the least common flavor of unwelcome human interaction on the Mag Mile, but hardly unprecedented. He wasn’t even wearing a sandwich board alternately blaming Russians, Italians, Belgians, and Buddhists for the world’s ills, which should have eliminated any chance of him being written into Rebecca’s memory.

“It must have been the third eye,” Rebecca murmured to the waiter after he informed her unconvincingly that she could take as long as she needed with the check. The waiter opened his mouth, intending to assure Rebecca that she (as the customer) was correct, before deciding that his integrity wouldn’t permit him to say any such thing. He left with a slight bow.

That was definitely it. The man proclaiming that disaster would come unless somebody would listen to him had three eyes. Two normal and one in the middle of his forehead.

The middle eye had winked at her.

Unsettling.

But realizing what was wrong, and putting a name to it, provided Rebecca some comfort. It meant the problem was the strange man’s, not hers. It wasn’t even that much of a problem, she reflected as she drained her glass of water, with no ice but a slice of cucumber. It was probably handy; if his normal eyes became farsighted, that one would let him read without glasses.

The possibility that the danger that the strange man warned of could be real never crossed Rebecca’s mind.

How I Tried and Failed to Quit My Job

My plan for this post was to announce that I’d quit my job and was going to start freelancing full-time, and, oh, by the way, wouldn’t you like to hire me to write or edit for you?

Things didn’t quite work out that way.

It started well enough. I went into my boss’s office, told him that I hadn’t been happy at the job for some time, and informed him of my plan to resign.

Then I started babbling.

(I’m much better on paper — or on computer — than I am in person. Me generally talk not so good, even though I know in general how to put words together properly.)

When I’d run down, my boss informed me that he’d had no idea that I wasn’t happy, and that I needed to be more vocal if there’s something I don’t like — a valid criticism. He also offered to try to address the issues that I have with the job, rather than just letting me sever ties completely.

I’m going to take that offer, at least provisionally. I’m not sure how I feel about it, though. Part of it is just that I don’t know if anything can truly change. Part of it is relief, knowing that I’ll have a steady paycheck and benefits for a while longer. And part of it is wondering if I’m just settling for something unsatisfactory because it’s easier, rather than following dreams.

Still, this may be temporary. We’ll try this for a couple months. In the meantime, I’ll still be putting a solid 2-4 hours a day after work into my various creative endeavors. (Sadly, there are a lot of them, meaning that none of them really get the time they deserve. But progress is being made.)

This site will continue, even though the self-promotion factor isn’t so critical. For now. (Although, I’ll certainly be promoting my writing, and my comedy, and my music.) It will contain published/produced samples — which you’ll hopefully find entertaining — as well as original stuff that doesn’t really fit elsewhere.

Also, I will be open for freelance work. Contact me at gklandgr (at) yahoo (dot) com for details.

Airport Porn

Pornography in airport bookstores makes me sad.

I’ve never seen anyone reading porn in an airport or on an airplane, although I suppose that’s understandable. (And probably fortunate; I wouldn’t want to be on the plane when a concerned parent asks a flight attendant to do something about the guy in the next row and his nudie mags.)

I’ve also never seen any porn purchased at the airport. But some must be, or else the stores would give the shelf space to something else.

So who buys the airport porn? Men, naturally. A certain kind of men.

Namely, men who aren’t able to purchase porn when not travelling.

This is a thought experiment, but I think it’s realistic. If you want to buy porn, an airport is probably the worst place in the world to do so. Bad prices–and bad selection. Playboy and not a whole lot else. The Relay doesn’t have a huge adult section.

So, if you’re buying porn at an airport, you’re doing so because you can’t do so at home, and because you also can’t make time in your travels to go to a specialty store to get the porn that you want at a decent price.

Let’s sketch our hypothetical airport porn-buyer. He has a wife or a girlfriend, who doesn’t want him looking at adult materials. He’s traveling separately from her, no doubt on business. He’s probably unsatisfied, either in the relationship or at least in the restrictions imposed upon him. He’s working far too hard on this trip, with no time or energy to hit an adult bookstore–or a 7-11. And he hasn’t yet discovered the internet.

Sad.

Yet also comforting. For the alternative–needing airport porn that isn’t available–would be far worse.

Major Life Change Coming

That’s a bit of an unfair tease; there is one person left who I need to inform of this before I go posting it on the internet for… well, no one to read, at least, not yet. But I’m excited and terrified about it, and this blog will chronicle my experiences.

I have a feeling “chronicle my experiences” is used in the introductory post to about 99% of all blogs. So I’ll spice it up, slightly, by noting that I’ll also include reflections on my other, continuing activities such as improv and sketch comedy and song (or more accurately, lyric) writing, as well as housing various samples of my creative work. There will be a practical aspect as well, but more on that when the Major Life Change is announced. (They’re related).