I, Klepto

A few weeks ago, I committed what I believe to be my first act of what may be shoplifting.

The item was one of those little plastic sleeve things that go into your wallet and hold cards. I don’t use mine for my main cards—there are dedicated slots in my wallet that are more convenient—but I do have keep my supplementals like grocery cards in there. And mine was nearly detached from the tab thing that actually holds it in.

I went to a store that I suspected would have it, as well as a few other things that I needed. One of these things was a new watch band (mine had either broken or was on the verge). In the watch department, I did find one that I thought would work and that looked okay; I’m not a fashionista by any stretch of the imagination, but I at least know that a gold or silver band would look stupid with a digital Timex.

Note that I said “thought” would work. I didn’t know for certain, because the clerk declined to provide assistance in ensuring the right size, let alone helping me swap the band out with that handy dandy tool they have for swapping watch bands. It did, in fact fit, although I didn’t know for certain until I got home and had managed to take out the old band and put in the new using my fingernails to hold down the plungers on the watch band rod while I slid it into the watch itself. That’s not the easiest thing in the world to do. Perhaps I should set it to music and go on a reality television show.

Of course, you’re here for hard crime. In the watch department, I noticed a selection of wallets and asked if there were any plastic sleeve thingies. As I ought to have expected, the clerk was no more interested in solving this problem for me than she was the watch band dilemma. She did, fairly snidely, direct me to the men’s department.

I eventually found the wallets in the men’s department. They were next to the socks. I did not, however, find any replacement plastic sleeves.

Except one.

It was lying on the shelf below where the wallets were hanging. Fallen out of one, I presume. Tantalizing, regardless.

But no. I was raised right. So I did another tour of the men’s department, looking for legitimately purchasable plastic wallet sleeves. I found none.

Back to the wallet display. The sleeve was still lying there, all alone, with no tags, and no markings of any kind.

There were no clerks around. No people at all. And no cameras that I could see, although I wouldn’t trust myself to notice any.

So I picked up the lone sleeve and slipped it into my pocket.

I still had to get out of there. But my improv training would come in handy. I would simply need to act… normally. Which of course, means, not acting at all. I tried to put the thingy out of my mind as I hit the registers, and the cashier didn’t seem to notice anything odd.

One more obstacle. The exit doors, with their theft alarms. If anything went off… I figured I would probably have just thrown myself on their mercy. I’m wussy like that. I didn’t think there were any tags on the sleeve, but who knows… they could be tiny these days.

Five steps to go.

Four steps to go.

The alarm goes off, and the father walking through the sensor panels with his two kids stops, confused.

Three steps to go.

Two steps.

Still time to back out.

One step.

Zero steps.

I made it.

I think. Don’t run. Don’t look around as if you’re expecting people to follow you. Just walk normally. It’s weird enough that I’m walking to the bus stop rather than a car. Don’t be any weirder.

And success. I did make it out of the lot, and home, without being caught.

Of course, I don’t swear that this story is true…

After all, the plastic card-holding sleeve in my wallet is still about to separate from its mounting tab.

Becky’s Back!

This is another excerpt from the novel I’m writing. This is Rebecca’s third appearance in the book (Her first is here). She’s a relatively minor character who occupies a slightly different timeline from the rest of the book—starting about a year before the rest of the story, although she eventually catches up.

Anyhow, her entitled vapidity is an absolute joy to write. And will hopefully provide an interesting counterpoint to the protagonist’s guilt-ridden vapidity. She may go too far in this draft, but we’ll see how that plays out.

Hope you enjoy!

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Rebecca Salazar deserved this yoga class the way no yoga class in the history of time had been deserved. It had been a terrible week.

On Monday, she had gone to dinner with a gentleman who was less attractive than his online photo implied. And when the check came, he offered to pay… half.

On Tuesday, she had been shopping for a self-esteem restoring top. She found one, the cutest thing, a pink-striped number with little tiny straps that said, “Yes, I work out, and no, I don’t sweat.” Rebecca asked the shopgirl if she could try it on, and what did that little tart say? “Sure, Sweetie, let me get you a size 8.” Rebecca spun on her heel and left that perky little bitch in her dust, but it still wrankled.

Even worse, in her haste to leave, Rebecca neglected to pick her purse up from the shelf where she had set it to free both hands for better shopping. When she returned to the store, not five minutes later, to retrieve it, it had been removed. She had to ask that… that thing! if she had seen it. And the shopgirl  had the audacity to say, “I’ll have to check in back.”

You’re the only one working here! You moved it!

The girl even had the audacity to make Rebecca describe it before handing it over.

On Wednesday, some very nasty construction worker had screamed at her. She was minding her business, walking on the sidewalk where you’re supposed to walk, and talking on her phone where you’re supposed to talk, when he suddenly started shouting. “You knocked over fifteen feet of scaffolding!” he’d yelled, as if that were possible. She hadn’t touched anything. If one of her bags had, well, she couldn’t really be responsible for every one of her possessions, could she?

Oh, but that construction worker had a foul tongue. She didn’t listen to much of what he said, but he definitely called her a “bitch” at some point. Rebecca called people “bitch.” She wasn’t called one herself.

The man also completely lacked decorum. Rebecca could still hear him screaming from that rooftop when she was two blocks away.

On Thursday, her toaster burst into flames.

Spontaneously, unless the puddle of water had something to do with it. But that seemed stupid. Water put out fire, it didn’t start it. That’s why she didn’t live in Cleveland.

That one wasn’t even really a big deal. Scary, a bit, but nothing lasting. All she had to do is rip it out of its socket and shove it into the kitchen sink. That didn’t stop the flames, but it did put the apartment fire extinguisher into her view. Rebecca banged the butt end of the extinguisher into the toaster until her next door neighbor, a liverspotted old grouch named Barney, burst in (attracted by the pounding or perhaps the fire alarm), grabbed the extinguisher, and used the hose end to shoot some kind of white foam at the toaster.

Not a big deal at all. Rebecca dined fashionably, never on toast and never in her own resident. But Barney had carried on as if she were recreating World War II, calling her a stupid little girl with no respect for anything or anyone’s nap time. And then the landlord came up and hollered about how the alarm had automatically called the fire department, and when they came and realized that there wasn’t any fire there would be a $100 fine, and that Rebecca was going to have to pay it, all of it interspersed with Polish obscenities. Which was terribly unfair, because there had been a real fire, so it seemed only natural that the fire department should be invited.

But today was Friday. Rebecca cleared all of the trauma of the past week from her highly trained mind. There were, perhaps, traces of tension left—if she’d considered the matter thoroughly, she’d realize that she could date a constant increase in stress in her life to her first encounter with the strange three-eyed man about six months earlier. She did no such thing, however. It was yoga time, and that required a clear head to fully enjoy.

This was the good yoga, too. The one with the genuine little Asian man. It cost an extra twelve dollars a session, and worth every penny.

Rebecca kept her moans of contentment silent as the genuine little Asian man led the class through its beginning stretches. Extraneous noises were strictly frowned upon, as every teacher explained at the start of class. It interfered with your chi.

It was the seated carp pose—a new one, of the little Asian man’s invention—that caused the problem.

The class was twisting to the left. All except one person, the man immediately to Rebecca’s left, who was turned opposite. Awkward, but Rebecca had decided to magnanimously not permit this infraction to ruin her day.

But her eyes caught his. Three of them.

“You!” Rebecca screamed. “You again! Stop stalking me!”

By this point the little Asian man had leapt to his feet and bounded over to Rebecca. He bent over her and picked her up by the waist, so that when he straightened up Rebecca was upside down and helpless. He hauled her to the door, set her down roughly but upright, and pushed her out.

“Do not return,” he demanded. Pointing at one of the many signs, he added, “No refunds.

The Prophecy

A quick and easy post today; this is a segment from the novel I’m writing. To set up: Nathan is a three-eyed alien who has kidnapped the narrator. Carla has inadvertantly stowed away on Nathan’s airship. (It’s not a space ship; Nathan’s been exiled and he’s kidnapped the narrator to force him to help him prove his innocence so he can return home.) I actually wrote this passage a few weeks ago, but today it found a home.

“I like the third eye,” Carla interjected. “It gives your face a nice symmetry.”

“Don’t get attached to it,” Nathan said. “I won’t have it much longer.”

“Why not?”

“It is an ancient prophecy, told to me by Nai’ar the high priestess. She assured me that it could refer to no one else.” Nathan lowered his voice and rasped in smoky tones. “While in exile, you will be stabbed in an eye.”

Carla had even stopped wheezing in anticipation of the prophecy, and it was obvious she expected more. “Aren’t most prophesies a bit more vague and mysterious?”

All three of Nathan’s eyes popped wide. “What value would that provide?”

“It would let you know that something’s important,” Carla insisted, defensively.

“I believe the importance of being stabbed in the face will be sufficiently apparent to me, when the day comes.”

“I guess. But prophesies should be romantic.”

Nathan grunted. “I prefer romance with females,” he declared. “In fact, I’m not certain how one could be romantic with a prophecy. Can you explain to me?”

Carla considered this prospect, and decided she couldn’t with a curt “No.”

Setting Priorities

This blog, while hopefully it has some entertainment value, has a different true purpose: My hope is that a) I will be able to make a career as an author and b) in the long term, this will prove to have some self-promotional value for that career.

The blog fits into my life in kind of a strange way. How much energy to devote to it? It’s tough to justify; it has essentially no self-promotional value yet (although a few people have found it searching for things like “airport porn”, “scrotum pictures”, and “sweet and kinda creepy”) and every minute that I spend on it is time that I’m not writing for potential profit.

It seems to be settling around 2 posts a week, which works for me.

I have, frankly, too many projects, so all of them fit into my life a bit strangely. I have, fairly recently, settled on the book that I’m writing as priority number 1(ish). The book (we’ll call it “Very Bad Magazine” for now, although I’m quite certain that that won’t be the final title) achieved that standing because I realized that I’m looking for something life-changing, and that other projects (among them, a play, a sketch comedy show, and finally learning piano adequately to accompany my own lyrics) weren’t going to do that. Getting a book published… well, there’s no life-changing guarantee, but there is potential.

I’m working on it at a clip of about 4,000 words a week. That’s certainly nothing astonishing, but it’s steady enough that a completed novel is a finite and even reasonable period of time away. It’s also not even really my sole #1 priority. I’m also performing (and co-wrote) Front for Evil, a sketch comedy that opens August 7. That won’t lead to a new career, but it is going to make my current one more enjoyable. Plus, it’s very definitely happening, and it’s happening with other people who are relying on me, so the idea of dropping it is inconceivable even if I wanted to.

There’s also the National Gelatinous Cube Attack Hotline, a webseries (for lack of a better term) that is better than 2/3 done. Dropping that would just be stupid, considering the labor that has gone into it so far. (It’s also hopefully going to be promotion for Three Legged Race, the group that’s mounting Front For Evil–another point in its favor.)

I don’t always even follow my priorities. A novel idea sprung into my head yesterday while I was biking. (I’m exercising too, which might be considered co-priority-number-one, but more about that another time.) Part of that idea was three nearly fully-formed scenes. So I wrote them up yesterday and today, rather than letting myself forget them. Within reason, I think, that’s okay, but too much and it just becomes procrastination.

I have to admit that I have a tendency to drop major projects before they’re done. So I guess beating that habit is the real priority #1. I have some reason for optimism, I think, but, well, I can’t claim to see the future.

Anyhow… this has been an awfully navel-gazing post. Sorry about that. And I’m also sorry if you’re looking for scrotum pictures or airport porn, because this one has neither.

I swear, next time I’ll make an attempt to be interesting.

Wait, Wait…

A bit later than I expected (the annual conference was a series of 15-hour days, and I’m only today feeling back to myself), here’s my personal report from Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. (There’s a professional one as well, which you can certainly find, although I’m not eager to put the trackback on it, so I’m not going to link.)

A fracquaintance* of mine, Don Hall, is house manager for the show, and he led the work entourage that I was part of down to the green room. This is fortunate, not so much because he’s the only one who possibly could have, but because at work I had boasted that I had an in at the show, so even if our understanding of the arrangements were wrong (a possibility — things came together pretty last-minute and without a whole lot of details) he’d still get us in.

The cast all shared a green room, which I really should have expected, but for some reason I thought they’d each have dressing rooms. This isn’t an intelligent thing to expect, and I won’t in the future.

There’s not much to say about the interviews. They went fine, they’re what I needed to do, they’ll go over good with my audience, yadda yadda.

After the interviewing, we got to stay for the show itself, which was terrific. (They had plenty of material—both Michael Jackson’s death and Sarah Palin’s resignation—although the topics fortunately ranged a bit farther than that.)

My favorite moment, however, was before the show. There were three categories of seating: Reserved (as in, the seats had names on them), VIP (a general seating area, but up front—people had to pay an extra couple bucks to get those tickets) and general. A couple people with VIP tickets opted to sit in the reserved section. Don pointed out the names on the seats and moved them to the VIP section, coincidentally a few seats from where I was.

Those people spent the next ten or fifteen minutes complaining about their treatment (to themselves; Don was no doubt busy, or at least had the good sense to let them be). One of the reserved seats that they had vacated was soon filled. The other one, however, stayed open until just before the show started.

When Don filled it with… a kid of about 12.

I don’t know if the kid was legitimately the one the seat was reserved for, or if he put the kid there just to mess with the people who were complaining, or if it was just a coincidence because the kid had the last ticket and that was the last seat, but whatever it was, it was good.

* “Friend” is probably a bit strong to describe our relationship—we don’t know each other that well, or have each other’s phone numbers, or barbeque together. But “acquaintance” has sort of a negative connotation, like someone you know, don’t like, but have to deal with. And that’s not true. We’re on perfectly good terms, just not extraordinarily familiar ones. I use the word that I did because, well, I like new words, and also because I’m obviously on the bleeding edge of culture.

Celebrity, Wi-Fi, and Tenses that Will Have Gotten Away From Me

Related to job-I-tried-and-failed to quit, tonight I’m having my greatest brush with fame so far. (My previous peaks were meeting singer-songwriter Jill Sobule and a couple of people from the Sonic commercials—and the Sonic people were before they were in the commercials.)

Tonight I’m going to a taping of NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me! Prior to the show, I’ll be interviewing comedian Paula Poundstone and scorekeeper/announcer Carl Kasell. Poundstone is the celebrity spokesperson for one of the units of the place where I work, so I’ll be talking to her and taking video in that capacity. (That’s ample information to determine where I work, so there’s really no need to keep it anonymous. Of course, you could also figure out where I work by Googling me, so there never really was.)

I’m a bit nervous, which is silly. It’s going to be ten minutes and then it will be done. I even want to do a good job, which is also silly, considering my attitude towards the job. On the other hand, this is a case where how it comes out pretty much is a reflection of my ability. Stupid Midwest German Lutheran pride-in-work.

I’ll certainly write about how it comes out. Probably either tomorrow or Wednesday (in between will be solid 15-hour days). Although it may be tomorrow by the time I actually post this (I’m writing away from a wireless connection), in which case, well, you’ll just have to work out the grammar for yourself, because I’m not going to rework it.

Faith? Hope? Inspiration?

Every moment is but a moment, and every day shall pass.

I don’t normally go in for inspirational stuff, but I’ve been saying that to myself a lot lately.

It’s been a bad year. Two of three things that mattered to me a lot at the beginning of the year have imploded. I didn’t see either one coming (although I should have seen the second at least, and there were some signs for the first as well). I was pretty much useless from February through May.

Things are getting better, I think. I’m at least working to make things better. (This blog is part of that, as are some other things–I’m sure I’ll be writing about them before too long.) And the last time things fell apart like this wound up being a pretty fertile time for me; I wrote and produced a show (link goes to video, which is solidly R-rated) and grew as an improvisor a lot too.

Now that I’m past (or at least, functioning after) the depression of the collapses, I’m hoping to have the same kind of growth. More, really. The projects that I’m working on are bigger. Life-changing, even, if they work. But at this point, it’s too early to even see tangible results, let alone the light at the end of the tunnel. It is hard, though, and sometimes painful, and sometimes very un-fun.

Thus, as appalled as I am to be doing it, I’m using the little affirmation. A lot.

Every moment is but a moment, and every day shall pass.

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.