"I second the motion," I said reluctantly. It's not often I endorse one of Golem's editorial suggestions.
Columbine glared.
As February is the traditional month for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, Golem had proposed that we put out a swimsuit edition of The Little Egypt Gazette. Although I vetoed the suggestion that he tour the country, camera in hand on company expense, I agreed that we would send out letters, inviting the various "babes of magic" (Golem's words) to submit photos of themselves modeling the latest in Robin Piccone, Darling Rio, Tyr Sport, Keiko, Speedo, Gottex, and Giorgio di Sant'Angelo swim wear. Accordingly, we drafted letters of solicitation and instructed Columbine to forward them to the likes of Melinda, Connie Boyd, Lilia Ayala, Jinger, Joanie Spina, Charlotte Pendragon, Erika Larsen, and the entire female cast of Bonnie Saxe's Showgirls of Magic.
Miss Farnsworth, our buxom administrative assistant from Year One of the magazine, could have posed for the entire spread herself, but she had left the organization over a salary dispute. She felt she should receive one.
And photos of Columbine? We're lucky the kid even works here. We're not about to queer the deal with indecent proposals.
The days and then weeks went by, and no photos showed up at the corporate loft.
Golem accused Columbine of sabotage. Perhaps she never sent the letters.
"You guys are so lame," she countered. "None of those ladies is going to send you pictures. Talk about Jon and Odie."
As time passed and the mailbox remained empty, we had to consider a fall back position. I suggested we move up the Paul Harris issue. The new books were terrific, after all, and a full review was overdue.
Columbine brightened immediately.
"Would we like, get to work with him?" she asked.
"I don't know him," I said. "I usually contact the publisher for these things. We'll probably just work through Mike Maxwell."
The child besieged me with questions as the issue developed. "Is Paul married? He did that movie -- is he rich? Is he going with anyone?"
Answers: "I don't think so. Rich? I don't know; look at these covers. I don't think he can even afford shoes and socks." And: "I'm sorry -- I know nothing of Paul's social life."
Even Miss Farnsworth took a distant interest in the issue, sending a telegram from Tahiti. "HOW OLD PAUL HARRIS STOP IS HE UP FOR ADOPTION STOP." I gave her the famous Cary Grant reply: "OLD PAUL HARRIS JUST FINE STOP." I further informed her that Paul is older than she, not younger. One of the problems of becoming successful and famous at an early age is that folks continue to think of you as being that age.
As Columbine's interest soared, Golem's plummeted. I realized that a sysop in a funk could be disastrous for the magazine.
"We could run another racy grammar piece," I suggested.
Columbine chortled. "Not more nude Dover clip art!" she cried. "The net is so full of serious porn that I can't even get J.R.'s attention anymore. How can you expect anyone to get excited over antique line drawings?"
"Uh, it's for a good cause," I reasoned, weakly.
Whatever it takes to raise the level of written and spoken English is justified, I felt. But I saw that I also had Golem's attention, and even though the issue would eventually carry Columbine's lipsticked epistles to Paul Harris, I knew that my computer guy now had sufficient interest to keep things tweaked until we aired.
As for me, I'd still rather run an issue with Melinda in a Speedo, but we'll have to save that for another day.
