Playboy -- A Remembrance

I first heard about Playboy when I was in high school, which was well after Hugh Hefner started publishing it in 1953. I probably wasn't aware of Hugh Hefner until much later. Editors of magazines weren't exactly celebrities among my circle of friends.

He was almost a year younger than my father. Both served in World War II -- Daddy with the Sea Bees in the Pacific. Hefner, an infantry clerk in the Army, wrote for a military newspaper. (Wikipedia) They were both raised in conservative Methodist households. 

And that, friends, is where their similarities ended. 

Daddy didn't curse or drink, and by the time I was in high school, he had quit smoking. I doubt that he ever saw a Playboy and certainly never bought one or brought one into our home. 

We lived in a college town just north of Oklahoma City and I never saw Playboy magazines on the shelves for sale. I learned later that it was against a city ordinance to display it. It was kept 'under the counter.' People could buy it, but they had to ask a clerk to get it for them. 

As I said, I first heard about Playboy in high school. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. The editor of the local newspaper came and talked to us about getting short stories published. I don't remember his name, but he smoked a pipe, rode a motor cycle, and fought Oklahoma's then new and now repealed helmet law. And he had just had a short story accepted for publication by Playboy. He said they published the best short fiction because they paid the best money.

That's the way it still works. Publications that pay the best get the best submitted there first. 

That local newspaper editor was in excellent company. Over the years, Playboy published writers like Jack Kerouac, Joseph Heller, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Truman Capote, Haruki Murakami and three of my favorites Margaret Atwood, Ray Bradbury, and Jean Shepherd. In fact, that was my first exposure to Jean Shepherd's work -- the same Jean Shepherd who wrote A Christmas Story of "You'll shoot your eye out, Ralphie" fame.

I'd been warned by some of my male classmates about the questionable nature of Playboy -- nude women and racy cartoons, oh my. So of course I had to see for myself. but I couldn't go into a local convenience store and ask for one. They'd recognize me. 

A trip to a book store in the mall in Oklahoma City was necessary. I am glad to report that -- barring the naked women -- the fiction, cartoons, interviews, articles (I didn't read the ones on economics) and the Playboy Advisor were well worth the effort to get the magazine. 

I remember one letter to the Advisor from a soldier in Vietnam. He explained that he had availed himself of female company which he seemed to think was normal since he was so far away. He was concerned that his girlfriend back home, might be cheating on him. What should he do? The advice? That he should remember she was as far away from him as he was from her.

Later, I came to appreciate the reasonably good taste with which they displayed the naked ladies. When my son found some truly disgusting magazines in the Dempsey Dumpster at the car wash across the street from our house, I loaded him up and took him to the mall in Oklahoma City. He was too embarrassed to go into the book store while I bought a copy of Playboy for him, so he waited in the mall pretending to window shop at any of the other shops.

The Vargas drawings of nudes were always beautiful. Gahan Wilson's cartoons were surprising and funny. And there really was written material worth reading.

When I was a caseworker for the Welfare Department I ran across the most unusual Playboy Magazine. One of my clients had been injured in an industrial accident and was deaf and blind. We communicated through his wife. She would sign my questions in his hand and he would answer them. He had a subscription for Playboy in braille. It was covered top to bottom and front to back with the bumpledy language I could not read. And no pictures. 

His wife translated into his hand my feigned surprise "You've rubbed all the pictures off!" He had a wonderful laugh. And he was proof-positive, that some men did get Playboy just for the articles.

Hugh Hefner
April 9, 1926 - September 27, 2017
Rest in Peace

Progenitor Art and Literary Journal

My daughter Grace Wagner edited this year's addition of Arapahoe Community College's art and literary journal, Progenitor. Ryan Zimmerman was her co-editor. For some beautiful artwork, and some good poetry, nonfiction, and fiction click 2015 Progenitor. Do not be dismayed if you go to the home page and see the 2014 Progenitor cover. It is in fact taking you to the 2015 issue. (By the time you click this, that may be corrected.)

I am especially pleased to be included in this issue with my "Click" a piece of short fiction. And even though Grace is my daughter, the selection committee had no idea "Click" was by anyone related to her. They chose it because they liked it and not because they like Grace -- though I'm very pleased that they like her, too.

This is my first short fiction to be published. Many years ago I had poetry published in several literary journals. I couldn't afford to continue submitting poetry. In those days we didn't have cell phones and anything outside our area code was long distance. Not to mention that literary journals only paid two free copies of the issue your poetry appeared in. And there was no such thing as journals online. I couldn't afford the phone calls to brag and the extra copies to show.

I've also written for two small town papers in Oklahoma.

When I was in college I wrote a Women's Sports column for the Edmond Sun-Booster -- no pay, but I got to go to all Central State College's women's sports events. I wasn't good enough to make the teams, but I could write. and where there's a will . . . .

Years later when I was pregnant with my son I did obituaries, covered the local courthouse, wrote feature articles complete with photography, and edited the Women's Page at the Guthrie Daily Leader. 

For some reason I can't explain, the acceptance of this short story seems more important. (Maybe I'm entering my dotage.)

       "Dear Claudia Wagner, 
       The staff at the Progenitor Art & Literary Journal has accepted your submission for
        publication. Congratulations! Click has been accepted for the 2015 issue and will
        also be published in the online edition of Progenitor." 

These were the magic words via email.

And they invited me to read three minutes worth of "Click" at the release party. Hooray!

The party was held in ACC's Gallery of the Arts. I got to meet Stephanie Rowden, the Fiction Editor, and visit again with the staff sponsor Dr. Kathryn Winograd.

                                 

             Stephanie Rowden, Fiction Editor       &               Dr. Kathryn Winograd,

                                                                                                    Staff Sponsor

They let me read early on the program which allowed me to fully enjoy the other presenters. We were surrounded by fine art, served with tasty infused water (which I needed before I read) and comestibles of the most enticing kind (which I did not need.)

And to repeat what I wrote so many times back in my Women's Page Editor days -- A good time was had by all.

Click -- Short Fiction

image from chicagotribune.com

This is an excerpt from my short fiction Click published in this year's Progenitor, Arapahoe Community College's art and literary journal.

She missed them. All of them. Her fine, serious, hard-working father. He was a cowboy. A real cowboy. His hat sweat stained and misshapen from rain and snow and worse. All from work, not bought new looking like that. What did some singer know about hats like that? They might know about hard living, but what did they know about hard work?

She could still see him and her momma two-stepping around the VFW Hall.

She didn’t understand how she’d become who she was. They’d never had much, but it always seemed they’d had enough. They just knew how to make things come out right.

Click.

She muted the TV. The sports news and a rerun that wasn’t that funny the first time it aired came and went. She didn’t care about sitcoms with their nice houses and fine clothes and stupid problems. She was waiting for 9:59. She touched the ticket nestled in her pocket.  Six numbers – 6, 23, 27, 42, 54, and 9.

The woman with the machines that spat out five white balls and one red ball appeared on the screen.

Click.

She turned the sound back on. The announcer said, “23.” She had that number, but one match paid exactly nothing unless it was the power ball number. That would be $4.00. Not even enough to buy a cappuccino at Starbucks.

The announcer said, “27.” She didn’t look at the ticket. It didn’t mean anything yet. Once she’d won $7.00 with three matching numbers and no power ball number.

Click.

The door knob turned and he came in. Walking pretty steadily.

“I’m going to take a shower then go to bed,” he said.

She glanced at the TV screen and saw the numbers 6 and 54. Four matching numbers. That was $100. She’d never won that much before. One more would be a million dollars even without the power ball.

She heard him start the shower.

No “sorry, I’m late.” Or “how was your day?”

A good thing he was taking a shower. Did he think she couldn’t smell the alcohol on him? And sex? Never mind the perfume. Perfume that probably cost enough to pay the damn gas bill so he could have a hot shower.

Click.

She turned on the light in the bedroom and took a blue velvet bag down from the top closet shelf. It was heavier than she remembered. She removed the Smith and Wesson Model 10 from its bag. It was worth four or five hundred dollars. The only thing she had worth anything. Her insurance. Not enough to pay the rent, but worth more than anything else she had.

Her father left it to her. Not a big gun, but big enough to do the job he’d always said.

She went back into the front room. The pistol grip fit her hand perfectly. She held it, cradled it against her bare arm like a baby, its metal silky smooth and cool.

This story was also awarded Honorable Mention at the 2015 Rose State Writing Short Course. Click here for the whole story.

Gaiman, Neil Gaiman -- A Review

The problem with a new book by an author I particularly like, is that I expect it to be like the other books by that author. Even when I know it’s going to be different. Neil Gaiman’s Trigger Warning is very different from the other Gaiman books I’ve read.

It’s a collection of short fiction, and I’ve only read his novels. Already I’m in unfamiliar territory. But with Neil Gaiman it’s always unfamiliar territory. He writes fairy tales and myths for grownups. If you haven’t read him before, let me recommend Stardust, then Good Omens (which he did with Terry Pratchett,) and American Gods. Each is very different from the other, but they all do the same good things. They take you on exciting journeys, provide you with interesting companions, and never, ever do the expected.

He’s also written numerous children’s books including Coraline, which I love, and The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish, which I gave to my youngest grandchild Silas. The Ocean at the End of the Lane was for oldest Martha. And a copy of Stardust for the middle grandchild John Riley. All three were signed by Mr. Gaiman last February. That book-signing was certainly memorable – all properly documented in a blog post. See Neil Gaiman Book Signing.

Trigger Warning starts out with a lengthy introduction which I skipped after only the tiniest taste. I’m a cut-to-the-chase kind of woman. What he thinks, what inspires him, where each story was first published or aired (in the case of the Doctor Who episodes) these are of interest to many, but I’m here for the stories.

The first two stories just didn’t do it for me. I was on the verge of disappointment. But the third? The third was the Neil Gaiman I love. “The Thing about Cassandra” is a story about a very commonplace happening in a man’s past. Or was it commonplace? Did it happen? It’s that little zone in your mind, the thinnest of lines between reality and memory that we all have. And I was hooked.

The next Gaiman book on my to-read list is Ocean at the End of the Lane. Maybe I can borrow it from my granddaughter.

Neil Gaiman Book Signing

   It was a dark and stormy night. That would have been the perfect beginning for a Neil-Gaiman-book-signing sort of day. But it wasn’t. February 6 dawned clear and beautiful with the promise of mid-60s for a high temperature, a good twenty degrees above the average for a February day on the Front Range.

   For those of you who have not read Neil Gaiman let me suggest Stardust, a fairy tale for adults. It has a hero, evil nobles, ghosts, pirates, witches, and a fallen star. And humor. (The 2007 movie of the same name has Robert De Niro as the pirate Captain Shakespeare. And his immortal line “I'm taking the girl to my cabin, and mark my words anyone who disturbs me for the next few hours will get the same treatment.)

   American Gods, another of my favorites, will give you things to think about long after you finish the book.

   But to quote Arlo Guthrie “That’s not what I come here to talk about.”

   Being a new émigré to Colorado and having acquired early on a strong aversion to traveling I-25 to or from the Denver area, I was not looking forward to the two-hour drive on said highway to Ft. Collins. My daughter, who inspired me to make the trip, is an avid Gaiman reader and fan. After all, he has written episodes for the Doctor Who television series. (Matt Smith is her Doctor.)

   Everything was in place. Four books waited for me at The Old Firehouse Book Store. Including Gaiman’s recently released Trigger Warning, a collection of short fiction and poetry which was a required purchase to get into the book signing. Since I am currently attempting to write saleable short fiction and I admire Gaiman’s work, the requirement was painless.

   And being me, one book was not enough. The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Stardust, and The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish also waited for me. To be more precise, for my grandchildren – Martha, John Riley, and Silas respectively.

   The bookstore doors were scheduled to open at 4 p.m. We arrived at 3:45 and found a line winding around the store, down the alley, and around the block. It was not an orderly, single file line. It bulged here and there to three or four or six or ten people wide. Young people, old people, tattooed and pierced people. All carrying books. (We had been told he would sign the books we bought from the bookstore plus three brought from home. Grace didn’t buy a new book but we counted the two she brought from home as mine. I think a lot of people did likewise.)

   From the end of the line I called the bookstore to confirm that my pre-purchased books were there and that he would sign them in spite of the number of people waiting in line. What I was hoping was that those people who had bought multiple books would get special privilege and go to the front of the line. She assured me that he would sign books until the very last one, no matter how long it took and they had my books waiting for me.

   My Dad’s cousin lives in Ft. Collins and we’d been saying since we moved to Colorado that we’d come up and see her. I couldn’t go to Ft. Collins and not visit, so I called her. She asked us to come over after we got our books signed. I explained the situation. The line behind us had lengthened considerably after our arrival. I wasn’t about to lose my place in line.

   So Helen and Charlie came and stood in line and visited with me for a while. The young man (He didn’t like American Gods that much.) behind us in line asked me how they would find me among all those people. I pointed to my white hair. There were people in line with more brightly colored hair than mine, but not that many of us white-haired people. Besides I’d told her which corner we were on.

   Colorado’s sun is fierce. As long as it shines you will always be comfortable. So I had left my warm cape in the car. Did I mention that we had difficulty finding a parking place and had to park several blocks away? Helen and Charlie left and the sun set. And the temperature began to drop.

   It got cold. I had very carefully chosen my clothes. Black slacks, black knee-high stockings, my Washington, D.C. open-toed shoes (that’s a whole ‘nother story) a sleeveless black blouse, a forest green over shirt with the sleeves fashionably rolled to just below the elbow, and a thin black scarf shot through with brightly colored metallic threads.

   I got cold. My back hurt. My knees hurt. But I would not leave my place in line.

The people around us were worth standing in line to visit. The young man behind me was a junior in high school. Some of his friends had skipped class to get in line early. Smart kids. His parents were also somewhere in the line well behind us. They dutifully brought him food and drink.

   Half of one couple – she was a molecular biologist and he a chemistry teacher – went to their car to recharge their cell phones while she stood in line. They were from a town up near the Wyoming border and had had trouble finding a parking place, too. He came back with a partially charged phone and a $75 parking ticket.

   At one point we found ourselves waiting in front of a local winery. Unfortunately, Ft. Collins is narrow-minded about drinking wine while standing on the sidewalk. The folks in Louisiana definitely have the right attitude about public drinking. And it doesn’t get nearly so cold there.

   Grace went in search of provisions and brought me hot coffee. It felt so good just to hold it. And, in keeping with Gaiman’s penchant for fantasy, I imagined climbing into that paper cup, immersing myself in warm, wonderful coffee.

   I didn’t know Ft. Collins had that many people. But I am glad to report that the people there read. They also have a wonderful sense of humor. Quite a few Friday-night-out-people asked what was going on. One of the guys in line (probably 40-years-old or older) cheerfully answered that Justin Bieber was inside.

   I could go on and on. Suffice it to say, by the time we got into the warm bookstore, I had consumed hot coffee, hot cocoa, and hot tea. Oh, yes and a slice of garlic bread from a pizza place we eventually stood in front of.

   At 11:35 p.m. I was standing in front of Neil Gaiman and he was signing my four books. By then, my sleeves were rolled down as far as they would go and I had that sparkly scarf wrapped around my head and neck.

   He signed Grace’s books AND her laptop.

   He was cheerful and friendly and asked how I was after standing in line so long. And him having been signing things since 4 p.m. (Including at least one pair of red roller skates that I’d seen two hours earlier.) He still had as many more of us with books to sign. They said there were around 2000 people who had purchased books, from as far away as South Dakota.

   His discomfort must surely have been greater than mine. I was through and he was not. This is a price of success that I never imagined. 

   I wonder if he’s like me and just wanted to tell a few good stories.