*
Every small town has one: The slightly off guy or gal who's just enough off-balance that you're never quite sure whether to run away or stick around for a few minutes of entertainment. And of course the entertainment always runs into a half-hour and you're dying to get away but you've been trained to be polite and anyway the person just won't stop talking long enough for you to say your goodbyes and on top of that every now and then they throw in a statement just interesting enough to pull a response from you which then closes off your escape route. So there you stand.
So there Flat Stanley stood at 9:30 pm, Thanksgiving eve, blocking the organic foods aisle at the local Giant Eagle. Jack has a memory like a steel trap, and he remembered FS from a retail position she held at a dollar store six years ago. He also remembered that she worked for a year at the local paper. He's the kind of guy that talks to lots of people, reads a lot, retains facts, and spins it all into a fascinating tale just believable enough to keep one on her tiptoes. It's like remaining poised at the edge of the Grand Canyon waiting for that one final, amazing observation that will surely convince one to leap with Jack hand-in-hand into a grand new understanding of the ordinary.
That is to say, the observant listener knows that much of this stuff might be true. It's quite possible that a guy like Jack has met every president since Eisenhower. Being from around here, it's quite possible that he grew up visiting the Eisenhower farmstead as a child, and that he remains in touch with the Eisenhower granddaughter.
It's quite possible that Jack has an uncle who was attached in someway to the British embassy in Washington. And was an ambassador. Whose neighbor was Colin Powell. Who used to shoot the breeze with Jack when Jack visited his uncle and Mr. Powell was in town. During Viet Nam. And who once explained to Jack just why the US couldn't solve a certain logistics problem involving deployment to Southeast Asia by simply setting about to solve it.
Turns out that Jack, though an open-minded kind of guy, doesn't like the second President Bush. It's personal. It's because, Jack tells FS, that he personally saw the president rape a 17 year old student at a local private school. But that's nothing, according to the backstory Jack provided, compared to why President Bush felt that he could force himself on this helpless student. But Jack overplayed his hand on this one.
This girl's parents were stationed overseas, Jack says. That's certainly easy to believe. They wanted to send their daughter to a very good private school, so they chose -- Academy. They couldn't afford it, but the family was diligent and the girl was awarded a full ride from Merrill Lynch. So far so good.
Merrill Lynch, however, made the award contingent upon the the student signing a document agreeing to provide sexual favors to any US political figure who asked. Even Flat Stanley doesn't buy that one.
The girl signed the agreement. Uh-huh. And Pres. Bush called in his favor. FS's not buying that one, either. Jack didn't happen to explain how it was that he got to watch this go down, or why it was he to whom the girl told her story.
Dang it all. When FS returned home she mixed all the dry ingredients for a double batch of pumpkin bread. At 10:30 pm she discovered that there was not one drop of cooking oil in the house. There will be no gifts of pumpkin bread at the Thanksgiving table tomorrow. But there will be at least one good story.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
dream, dream, go away
*
Sometimes Flat Stanley dreams of things as they happen. She does not know what this is called. It seems to be some kind warp that randomly connects FS to tragedies that happen on the other side of the world (commercial plane crash, Viet Nam, lots of fire, plane on runway, people crying, rushing, burning, dying) or in the next town over (man goes crazy, spends the night slashing and stabbing his family. They survive.) FS does not sleep with a television or radio on, so the glib explanation "You heard about it in your sleep" doesn't explain it. She finds out by accident the next day, which is even odder, as FS does not tune into news shows.
These dreams leave FS wrung out, running over with sadness, the kind she imagines one might feel if the sadness of others were her own. The sadness isn't only tied to the sorrow of the victims and those who love them, but also to the knowledge that as an observer, FS was staked to the scene able to do nothing more than watch the tragedy unfold and feel the sorrow of others. FS spends the first day after these dreams tearful. She functions at a minimum and gives herself plenty of time that day to cry, because, baby, there just ain't much else one can do with that kind of grief.
The attentive reader will note that FS only cites a few events. Until two nights ago, there had only been three. This is a good thing. Otherwise, FS would be strapped to a hospital bed with electrodes trying to fry the bad feelings from the neural network inside her skull.
Two nights ago, FS watched some school children get off a school bus on a highway running through an industrial part of a city. It was mid-winter. Recent snow had left the highway and traffic coated in the thick gray coat of road salt and grit that replaces ice and keeps the economy going. FS was standing along the road, enjoying the kids and their happy after-school sounds. One group hung back and decided to jaywalk across four or five lanes of heavy traffic which was backing up at the light.
One little guy, maybe 9 years old, got the great idea that he'd duck under a tanker truck. As he scooted under, traffic started moving forward. FS started screaming "Stop!" She had no voice. She screamed "Stop!" again. No voice. FS was screaming at the kid as much as she was at traffic. No one could hear her. The kid got run over. Two sets of double tires. FS ran into traffic to keep others from hitting him again. His brown winter coat was gone, his hat had fallen off. His shirt was torn. He was mortally injured, but his body didn't know it yet. FS held him to keep him from running wildly. She cried. So sorrowful, that this could not be stopped. So sorrowful, the sorrow yet to come.
Anyway. This dream was different. It was just as real as the others, but there was no corroborating story the next day. And, the sorrow, instead of being powerful the first day, then fading, was faded the first day and has grown more powerful over the past two days.
So. WTF? What is the point of being tuned in just to observe? What is the point of feeling that intensive sorrow? What is the point of witnessing an event to which there is no connection? And now, why this change, a dream of an event that does not make the news? That makes it just a bad dream, right? Except for the sorrow, and the incredible depth of detail, it's just a dream, and tomorrow the sorrow will have faded.
Based on past occurrences, FS shouldn't have another dream like this for another five or six years. You all take real, real good care. FS does not want to read about you in the funny papers.
*
Sometimes Flat Stanley dreams of things as they happen. She does not know what this is called. It seems to be some kind warp that randomly connects FS to tragedies that happen on the other side of the world (commercial plane crash, Viet Nam, lots of fire, plane on runway, people crying, rushing, burning, dying) or in the next town over (man goes crazy, spends the night slashing and stabbing his family. They survive.) FS does not sleep with a television or radio on, so the glib explanation "You heard about it in your sleep" doesn't explain it. She finds out by accident the next day, which is even odder, as FS does not tune into news shows.
These dreams leave FS wrung out, running over with sadness, the kind she imagines one might feel if the sadness of others were her own. The sadness isn't only tied to the sorrow of the victims and those who love them, but also to the knowledge that as an observer, FS was staked to the scene able to do nothing more than watch the tragedy unfold and feel the sorrow of others. FS spends the first day after these dreams tearful. She functions at a minimum and gives herself plenty of time that day to cry, because, baby, there just ain't much else one can do with that kind of grief.
The attentive reader will note that FS only cites a few events. Until two nights ago, there had only been three. This is a good thing. Otherwise, FS would be strapped to a hospital bed with electrodes trying to fry the bad feelings from the neural network inside her skull.
Two nights ago, FS watched some school children get off a school bus on a highway running through an industrial part of a city. It was mid-winter. Recent snow had left the highway and traffic coated in the thick gray coat of road salt and grit that replaces ice and keeps the economy going. FS was standing along the road, enjoying the kids and their happy after-school sounds. One group hung back and decided to jaywalk across four or five lanes of heavy traffic which was backing up at the light.
One little guy, maybe 9 years old, got the great idea that he'd duck under a tanker truck. As he scooted under, traffic started moving forward. FS started screaming "Stop!" She had no voice. She screamed "Stop!" again. No voice. FS was screaming at the kid as much as she was at traffic. No one could hear her. The kid got run over. Two sets of double tires. FS ran into traffic to keep others from hitting him again. His brown winter coat was gone, his hat had fallen off. His shirt was torn. He was mortally injured, but his body didn't know it yet. FS held him to keep him from running wildly. She cried. So sorrowful, that this could not be stopped. So sorrowful, the sorrow yet to come.
Anyway. This dream was different. It was just as real as the others, but there was no corroborating story the next day. And, the sorrow, instead of being powerful the first day, then fading, was faded the first day and has grown more powerful over the past two days.
So. WTF? What is the point of being tuned in just to observe? What is the point of feeling that intensive sorrow? What is the point of witnessing an event to which there is no connection? And now, why this change, a dream of an event that does not make the news? That makes it just a bad dream, right? Except for the sorrow, and the incredible depth of detail, it's just a dream, and tomorrow the sorrow will have faded.
Based on past occurrences, FS shouldn't have another dream like this for another five or six years. You all take real, real good care. FS does not want to read about you in the funny papers.
*
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Prisoners are People, Too
Flat Stanley is the luckiest piece of cardboard! Every Wednesday night for eight straight weeks she gets to co-conduct a class on communication and leadership for 10-12 inmates at a medium security prison. This is the third group that FS and Richard, a most excellent training partner, have facilitated since last July: About 35 men total.
FS doesn't get to talk about this experience very often because most people have serious issues on the issue of prison. Most people are content with voting for political candidates who whitewash the dynamics of the US justice system by accusing their opponents of being soft on crime. As if being "tough on crime" is synonymous with improving society.
It's like this: You take a man, raise him in a world of skewed social values, bust his sorry ass for pursuing the American dream (happiness), throw him in prison with a bunch of like-minded fellows for several years, then set him loose, refuse to give him a decent job, and expect him to be far better than you, yes, YOU, ever have a hope of being? We on the outside demand that he take on the patience of Job and build a successful life in the face of odds we don't want to admit are there.
So maybe you're thinking that FS must be one of those freakin clueless do-gooder libbrals.
Not.
FS ain't stupid, y'all. These guys did the crime and they know it. Fact is, most of them are glad they're only doing time for what they got caught doing. And yah, it's easy for a man to be repentant when he's in prison. Or when he's got jailhouse religion.
FS and partner only know about the men what they choose to reveal in class. There's premeditated murder. Drug trafficking. Probably some spouse abuse. Drug trafficking. Breaking and entering. Drug trafficking. Drunk driving. Parole violation. Concealed weapon. Third strike. Drug trafficking.
Nobody's innocent, and everybody has a story. But what stories they are.
Boys living on the street at age 12. Or earlier. Boys abused by mothers, fathers, and mothers' boyfriends. Boys raised by good parents but choosing bad anyway. Boys following in their father's footsteps. Boys acting out in rage at themselves, at the world. Men acting like the boys they never were. Men following the code of the street.
Men dealing because they think the flash and the cash is what makes them real men. Men using, abusing, hustling for the next fix, the next hit, the next deal, chasing madly for significance. Men leaving despair in their wake and hopelessness for their future. At some point, if they are lucky, they see this.
This is the gift that FS and Richard provide: Once a week for eight weeks of their four, ten, 20, 40-year sentences, if their behavior is noteworthy, if they are in Chaplain C's domain, if they are selected, if the prison can find a room, if FS and Richard don't have a schedule conflict, a class of 10 to 12 men get to spend an hour or two as students. For that time, they get to be men free of their past and hopeful about their future. They are students, exhilarated that their jailhouse dreams of making the world which formed them a better place for their children and childrens' children is taken seriously.
They themselves, however, are the gift to FS and Richard by paying the highest compliment possible: They pay attention. They learn. They resist. They struggle. They think, consider, weigh. They grow. They improve on their ability to articulate their thoughts. They push each other, hone leadership skills, build upon the incredible inner strengths they will need to be as changed outside prison as they are while inside prison.
Again, FS ain't naive. She knows that not all these guys are gonna make it. She knows that the men in her class are heavily pre-screened -- that's the only way FS would have it. Prison is prison for good reason.
But it's nice. Really, really nice, to have this opportunity to see these men, some of whom who have simply screwed up in big ways, some of whom were bad, as in the bad sense of the word, all of whom, at this particular point in their lives, have regained touch with their innate goodness.
That's the part that's exhilarating, the part that FS wants to share with others but cannot because they do not want to hear: So many of those people behind bars? They are human. Nice, kind, thoughtful, caring, human beings.
FS doesn't get to talk about this experience very often because most people have serious issues on the issue of prison. Most people are content with voting for political candidates who whitewash the dynamics of the US justice system by accusing their opponents of being soft on crime. As if being "tough on crime" is synonymous with improving society.
It's like this: You take a man, raise him in a world of skewed social values, bust his sorry ass for pursuing the American dream (happiness), throw him in prison with a bunch of like-minded fellows for several years, then set him loose, refuse to give him a decent job, and expect him to be far better than you, yes, YOU, ever have a hope of being? We on the outside demand that he take on the patience of Job and build a successful life in the face of odds we don't want to admit are there.
So maybe you're thinking that FS must be one of those freakin clueless do-gooder libbrals.
Not.
FS ain't stupid, y'all. These guys did the crime and they know it. Fact is, most of them are glad they're only doing time for what they got caught doing. And yah, it's easy for a man to be repentant when he's in prison. Or when he's got jailhouse religion.
FS and partner only know about the men what they choose to reveal in class. There's premeditated murder. Drug trafficking. Probably some spouse abuse. Drug trafficking. Breaking and entering. Drug trafficking. Drunk driving. Parole violation. Concealed weapon. Third strike. Drug trafficking.
Nobody's innocent, and everybody has a story. But what stories they are.
Boys living on the street at age 12. Or earlier. Boys abused by mothers, fathers, and mothers' boyfriends. Boys raised by good parents but choosing bad anyway. Boys following in their father's footsteps. Boys acting out in rage at themselves, at the world. Men acting like the boys they never were. Men following the code of the street.
Men dealing because they think the flash and the cash is what makes them real men. Men using, abusing, hustling for the next fix, the next hit, the next deal, chasing madly for significance. Men leaving despair in their wake and hopelessness for their future. At some point, if they are lucky, they see this.
This is the gift that FS and Richard provide: Once a week for eight weeks of their four, ten, 20, 40-year sentences, if their behavior is noteworthy, if they are in Chaplain C's domain, if they are selected, if the prison can find a room, if FS and Richard don't have a schedule conflict, a class of 10 to 12 men get to spend an hour or two as students. For that time, they get to be men free of their past and hopeful about their future. They are students, exhilarated that their jailhouse dreams of making the world which formed them a better place for their children and childrens' children is taken seriously.
They themselves, however, are the gift to FS and Richard by paying the highest compliment possible: They pay attention. They learn. They resist. They struggle. They think, consider, weigh. They grow. They improve on their ability to articulate their thoughts. They push each other, hone leadership skills, build upon the incredible inner strengths they will need to be as changed outside prison as they are while inside prison.
Again, FS ain't naive. She knows that not all these guys are gonna make it. She knows that the men in her class are heavily pre-screened -- that's the only way FS would have it. Prison is prison for good reason.
But it's nice. Really, really nice, to have this opportunity to see these men, some of whom who have simply screwed up in big ways, some of whom were bad, as in the bad sense of the word, all of whom, at this particular point in their lives, have regained touch with their innate goodness.
That's the part that's exhilarating, the part that FS wants to share with others but cannot because they do not want to hear: So many of those people behind bars? They are human. Nice, kind, thoughtful, caring, human beings.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Large Furry Green Character Must Not Have Done It
Item in today's local paper.
--burg police say there were no reports of a large green furry character in --burg that could be blamed for the smashing of a windshield with a pumpkin after the New York Yankees defeated the Philadelphia Phillies for the World Series title Wednesday,
there were no reports of a large green furry character, so that definitely rules out the possibility of a large green furry character having committed this atrocious act of terrorism against the windshield, an innocent bystander caught up in international conflict far beyond its ability to comprehend.
so they are instead looking for a Phillies fan in mourning.
because that would be the next logical thing to look for, right? Anybody know what a Phillies fans in mourning looks like? Dressed in black, that's for sure. And maybe small, and purple and covered with yellow and orange triangles?
The pumpkin that damaged the 1995 Buick sedan parked in the first block of North Washington Street was painted to recognize the New York Yankees,
wow! They have paint that turns pumpkins into sentient beings capable of recognizing things? WHAT will they think of next???
who on Wednesday won the World Series with their fourth defeat of the Phillies.
Pretty green thinking, eh? The local paper saves paper by combining the police log with national sports. Not to mention the money they save by hiring actual college journalism majors to write. Not sure what they're saving by not hiring editors.
*
--burg police say there were no reports of a large green furry character in --burg that could be blamed for the smashing of a windshield with a pumpkin after the New York Yankees defeated the Philadelphia Phillies for the World Series title Wednesday,
there were no reports of a large green furry character, so that definitely rules out the possibility of a large green furry character having committed this atrocious act of terrorism against the windshield, an innocent bystander caught up in international conflict far beyond its ability to comprehend.
so they are instead looking for a Phillies fan in mourning.
because that would be the next logical thing to look for, right? Anybody know what a Phillies fans in mourning looks like? Dressed in black, that's for sure. And maybe small, and purple and covered with yellow and orange triangles?
The pumpkin that damaged the 1995 Buick sedan parked in the first block of North Washington Street was painted to recognize the New York Yankees,
wow! They have paint that turns pumpkins into sentient beings capable of recognizing things? WHAT will they think of next???
who on Wednesday won the World Series with their fourth defeat of the Phillies.
Pretty green thinking, eh? The local paper saves paper by combining the police log with national sports. Not to mention the money they save by hiring actual college journalism majors to write. Not sure what they're saving by not hiring editors.
*
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Let Me Just Plain Piss You Off, Ok?
cruisin' tonight, Flat Stanley found this: 4 Simple Rules for Running Your Sex Life So It Doesn't Piss Me Off.
Depending upon your politics and your sensitivity, it may Piss You Off. So you been warned.
Depending upon your politics and your sensitivity, it may Piss You Off. So you been warned.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Cummin On
.
Due to Age Enhancement Effect, FS has a few body parts that are beginning to droop. Thanks to good skin, being fairly fit, Victoria's Secret and small gravy catchers, things are holding up pretty well. FS is embracing AEE by letting her hair go silver.
On Thursdays FS has been working out with the Get Ripped class at the gym. It's for the 20-something guys, and they call each other Girl when somebody can't do all 25 of the third set of ab busters. They think it's kinda cool that there's an "older woman" working out with them. FS is training to do some parkour, so finds the class helpful and it kicks her butt so it's fun, too.
When she was younger, younger-to-hanging-on-to-stud-aged men would jump to FS's aid with "Here hon, let me help you with that." Compare that to the same age and older saying today, "Here Ma'm, I'll get that for you."
FS doesn't always appreciate the kindness.
Last Summer she stood at the local grocery store waiting for two 30-something couples to finish swapping childbirth stories. The six-some were blocking the aisle; FS, on the way home from the gym, was standing patiently when one of the new dads looked up and said, "Oh, please excuse us, Ma'm. If you wanted us to move, you should have just said so." FS, being occasionally an actual Ma'm, refrained from saying "Fuck you, punk. If I'd wanted you to move, believe me, you'd have known."
A few weeks later the president of the company she was doing contract work for casually compared something to his approach to dating when he was a college student: When there are lots of available girls, there's no need to tie yourself down to just one. It was an . . . odd . . . metaphor. FS let it pass, wondering if it was some kind of pass.
Back in the day, back when the phrase "sexual harassment" was newly coined, passes were highly stressful events for FS. It's hard to handle a pass when your boss knows that he won't get in trouble for it and the suggestion of a job or grade may hang in the balance. Gives him a huge advantage. Not nearly such a deal for FS today. Employers are a lot smarter and a lot more careful. Dare FS say it's a lot safer for most women in the US work force today?
This week, FS had the opportunity to ignore several cleverly phrased passes. Just casual suggestions, stories told about sexual opportunities, nothing personal. No requests, nothing so out in the open. FS mulled it over a couple of days, then asked one of the guys at work WTF. He said that FS has been put on notice that the door is open.
Oh for pete's sake. We work in the cow-shit business. Can you imagine anything less romantic? Oh sure, the guy would do the proper wine and dine, and if a woman was up for it, she'd get a good meal and nice hotel room outta the deal.
FS can not imagine knockin' boots just for the hell of it, much less carrying on at work as though nothing happened after swapping spit and other body fluids with a co-worker. How do you people do this?
This isn't about pheromones and hard-ons and sticky panties. It's about little blue pills (Viagra's a little blue pill – who knew?) and playing hide-the-sausage, pack the pickle, nookie, gettin' some, going all the way, a roll in the sack, a roll in the hay, 'friend' with benefits.
Next up: FS tries to make this whole thing funny. Be watchin'!
Due to Age Enhancement Effect, FS has a few body parts that are beginning to droop. Thanks to good skin, being fairly fit, Victoria's Secret and small gravy catchers, things are holding up pretty well. FS is embracing AEE by letting her hair go silver.
On Thursdays FS has been working out with the Get Ripped class at the gym. It's for the 20-something guys, and they call each other Girl when somebody can't do all 25 of the third set of ab busters. They think it's kinda cool that there's an "older woman" working out with them. FS is training to do some parkour, so finds the class helpful and it kicks her butt so it's fun, too.
When she was younger, younger-to-hanging-on-to-stud-aged men would jump to FS's aid with "Here hon, let me help you with that." Compare that to the same age and older saying today, "Here Ma'm, I'll get that for you."
FS doesn't always appreciate the kindness.
Last Summer she stood at the local grocery store waiting for two 30-something couples to finish swapping childbirth stories. The six-some were blocking the aisle; FS, on the way home from the gym, was standing patiently when one of the new dads looked up and said, "Oh, please excuse us, Ma'm. If you wanted us to move, you should have just said so." FS, being occasionally an actual Ma'm, refrained from saying "Fuck you, punk. If I'd wanted you to move, believe me, you'd have known."
A few weeks later the president of the company she was doing contract work for casually compared something to his approach to dating when he was a college student: When there are lots of available girls, there's no need to tie yourself down to just one. It was an . . . odd . . . metaphor. FS let it pass, wondering if it was some kind of pass.
Back in the day, back when the phrase "sexual harassment" was newly coined, passes were highly stressful events for FS. It's hard to handle a pass when your boss knows that he won't get in trouble for it and the suggestion of a job or grade may hang in the balance. Gives him a huge advantage. Not nearly such a deal for FS today. Employers are a lot smarter and a lot more careful. Dare FS say it's a lot safer for most women in the US work force today?
This week, FS had the opportunity to ignore several cleverly phrased passes. Just casual suggestions, stories told about sexual opportunities, nothing personal. No requests, nothing so out in the open. FS mulled it over a couple of days, then asked one of the guys at work WTF. He said that FS has been put on notice that the door is open.
Oh for pete's sake. We work in the cow-shit business. Can you imagine anything less romantic? Oh sure, the guy would do the proper wine and dine, and if a woman was up for it, she'd get a good meal and nice hotel room outta the deal.
FS can not imagine knockin' boots just for the hell of it, much less carrying on at work as though nothing happened after swapping spit and other body fluids with a co-worker. How do you people do this?
This isn't about pheromones and hard-ons and sticky panties. It's about little blue pills (Viagra's a little blue pill – who knew?) and playing hide-the-sausage, pack the pickle, nookie, gettin' some, going all the way, a roll in the sack, a roll in the hay, 'friend' with benefits.
Next up: FS tries to make this whole thing funny. Be watchin'!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Flat is Good; Big is Better
*
Flat Stanley comes by her name honestly, and she's ok with her physique-ness (or lack of). But golly-gosh-darn, fellas, can you at least pretend not to be distracted by the eye candy when they walk into the room?
Put yourself in FS's shoes: The company president asks for an update on a million dollar project you're working on. You take advantage of the moment to let somebody who cares know of your progress. At the same time, you use the moment to suggest an angle that will put you in a position to go after more funding and in walks Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off.
Don't get FS wrong. The girls appear to be well done, and Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off wears tops that do the job tastefully. FS isn't jealous, and she'd do the same thing if the rack was on her chest. Honest, this isn't a wild rant about another woman's trophies.
But it is a bit of rant. Look guys. Err, don't look. Just think for a second. On second thought, don't do that either.
It's like this: You're telling your best friend an awesome story about how you bowled three strikes last week and suddenly his eyes light up and his face breaks into a warm, warm smile. A really, really, warm, warm smile. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that it's not your bowling game that's got him wound up. Oh no, Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off has just walked into the room to announce that she can't find her stapler.
No matter that the end of your story is that he gets to split the take-home prize of $15,000,000. No matter that the entire team has been invited to travel to Italy on another company's dime for a week. Not important that if the contract isn't completed and signed within the next 15 minutes that all deals are off.
What's most important at this very moment is that the world stops while we find the stapler.
No, no, it's ok, really. FS means it when she says she doesn't have an issue with Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off and her gravy catchers. FS will even help look for the stapler. But please, couldja, just for a few more seconds, focus on t . . .
Guess not.
*
Flat Stanley comes by her name honestly, and she's ok with her physique-ness (or lack of). But golly-gosh-darn, fellas, can you at least pretend not to be distracted by the eye candy when they walk into the room?
Put yourself in FS's shoes: The company president asks for an update on a million dollar project you're working on. You take advantage of the moment to let somebody who cares know of your progress. At the same time, you use the moment to suggest an angle that will put you in a position to go after more funding and in walks Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off.
Don't get FS wrong. The girls appear to be well done, and Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off wears tops that do the job tastefully. FS isn't jealous, and she'd do the same thing if the rack was on her chest. Honest, this isn't a wild rant about another woman's trophies.
But it is a bit of rant. Look guys. Err, don't look. Just think for a second. On second thought, don't do that either.
It's like this: You're telling your best friend an awesome story about how you bowled three strikes last week and suddenly his eyes light up and his face breaks into a warm, warm smile. A really, really, warm, warm smile. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that it's not your bowling game that's got him wound up. Oh no, Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off has just walked into the room to announce that she can't find her stapler.
No matter that the end of your story is that he gets to split the take-home prize of $15,000,000. No matter that the entire team has been invited to travel to Italy on another company's dime for a week. Not important that if the contract isn't completed and signed within the next 15 minutes that all deals are off.
What's most important at this very moment is that the world stops while we find the stapler.
No, no, it's ok, really. FS means it when she says she doesn't have an issue with Miss-I-Paid-For-These-And-By-Golly-I'm-Going-To-Show-Them-Off and her gravy catchers. FS will even help look for the stapler. But please, couldja, just for a few more seconds, focus on t . . .
Guess not.
*
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Animal Planet
><
The other day Flat Stanley heard the house bird, a cockatiel, singing and clucking most melodiously, not at all the screech she reserves for when no one's home, or the cheeping sounds she makes for a few days before popping out an egg. Curious, FS visited the bird cage to see what was going on. FS understands the temptation to anthropomorphize animal behavior. In this particular instance, however, FS argues that the bird was feeling good. Pretty darned good. In a pre-afterglow kind of way, if you catch the drift.
Note the bird's pleasant, smiling demeanor.
In other news, FS visited a worm farm a week or two ago, properly called a "vermiculture operation." The worms live in climate-controlled bins. Their job is to eat and poop. The job of their human caretakers is to eat and poop, too, but that's another part of the story.
Did you know that 1,000 earthworms weigh about two pounds and can eat about one pound of food waste in a 24-hour period? The SO WHAT is that after they digest what they've eaten, they poop, and the poop is like black gold, or fertilizer on steroids, for plants.
The only other thing worms in a vermiculture operation need besides food and moisture is someone to harvest their poo.
Curious readers may wonder what worms eat. They eat food waste and other kinds of waste. They like poo. Pig poo, cow poo, people poo. The worm in the photo is feasting on people poo. Once the vermicast (worm poo) is harvested, it goes to a pile to be dried. What do you think is growing in that pile?
What do you think those plants are, class? Let's think about it for a minute. Worms eat poo, and maybe even small seeds. What seeds to people eat lots of? Think about it for just a minute . . .
That's right! Tomatoes! People eat tomato seeds, which pass through the digestive track unharmed, travel to the city sewage treatment plant, get fed to worms, pass through their digestive track unharmed and . . . bingo. The result is a pile of vermicastings made from worms fed on people poop. The pile is clean enough to pass muster with the Dept. of Environmental Protection. The bad people-pathogens are destroyed, and any plant lucky enough to get close to it thrives.
Only one problem with this pile of poo: People are so disgusted at the notion that the worms that pooped it were fed on people poop that they won't buy it for their gardens.
Sustainability: It's good on paper, as long as it's not in your back yard. Salad, anyone?
><
The other day Flat Stanley heard the house bird, a cockatiel, singing and clucking most melodiously, not at all the screech she reserves for when no one's home, or the cheeping sounds she makes for a few days before popping out an egg. Curious, FS visited the bird cage to see what was going on. FS understands the temptation to anthropomorphize animal behavior. In this particular instance, however, FS argues that the bird was feeling good. Pretty darned good. In a pre-afterglow kind of way, if you catch the drift.
Note the bird's pleasant, smiling demeanor.
In other news, FS visited a worm farm a week or two ago, properly called a "vermiculture operation." The worms live in climate-controlled bins. Their job is to eat and poop. The job of their human caretakers is to eat and poop, too, but that's another part of the story.
Did you know that 1,000 earthworms weigh about two pounds and can eat about one pound of food waste in a 24-hour period? The SO WHAT is that after they digest what they've eaten, they poop, and the poop is like black gold, or fertilizer on steroids, for plants.
The only other thing worms in a vermiculture operation need besides food and moisture is someone to harvest their poo.
Curious readers may wonder what worms eat. They eat food waste and other kinds of waste. They like poo. Pig poo, cow poo, people poo. The worm in the photo is feasting on people poo. Once the vermicast (worm poo) is harvested, it goes to a pile to be dried. What do you think is growing in that pile?
What do you think those plants are, class? Let's think about it for a minute. Worms eat poo, and maybe even small seeds. What seeds to people eat lots of? Think about it for just a minute . . .
That's right! Tomatoes! People eat tomato seeds, which pass through the digestive track unharmed, travel to the city sewage treatment plant, get fed to worms, pass through their digestive track unharmed and . . . bingo. The result is a pile of vermicastings made from worms fed on people poop. The pile is clean enough to pass muster with the Dept. of Environmental Protection. The bad people-pathogens are destroyed, and any plant lucky enough to get close to it thrives.
Only one problem with this pile of poo: People are so disgusted at the notion that the worms that pooped it were fed on people poop that they won't buy it for their gardens.
Sustainability: It's good on paper, as long as it's not in your back yard. Salad, anyone?
><
Friday, June 26, 2009
Bold Yellow Balls
Yesterday, this little yellow ball appeared about 10 feet away from FS and spouse recently moved our yard chairs. It is nestled atop a violet. Bold little bastards.
Obviously they no longer fear discovery.Hold your loved ones extra close tonight . . . tomorrow may be the end.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Score!
*
Left at 4:30 this morning to drive 250 miles for a 10 am meeting in western NY. Submitted preliminary project proposal to local RC&D for approval. Amount to be determined, probably will be in the neighborhood of $400-600K. Scope of proposed project to include 10-15 farms with manure management problems in PA and NY. Got a thumbs up and the group assigned a sponsor.
YES.
Next step: Get the PA group to approve, then begin scoping out project for the actual application. Oh yah, who's worth the money? WHO? WHO? Me, that's who.
*
Left at 4:30 this morning to drive 250 miles for a 10 am meeting in western NY. Submitted preliminary project proposal to local RC&D for approval. Amount to be determined, probably will be in the neighborhood of $400-600K. Scope of proposed project to include 10-15 farms with manure management problems in PA and NY. Got a thumbs up and the group assigned a sponsor.
YES.
Next step: Get the PA group to approve, then begin scoping out project for the actual application. Oh yah, who's worth the money? WHO? WHO? Me, that's who.
*
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Little Yellow Balls
A few months after their high school graduate left for bootcamp, Flat Stanley's neighbors solved the mystery behind an on-going shortage of boy's gym socks by cleaning out his room: Under Chris's bed and in his closet were enough barely-worn white socks to account for his entire senior year. It was a once-and-done deal. They found the socks, washed them, gave them away, and moved on.
At Flat Stanley's house, gym socks weren't a problem. One son only needed one pair, to be replaced when he wasn't looking. The other son supplied his own white socks, selected by his girlfriend. When each kid moved out, FS and spouse hosed out their rooms and threw away everything too big to wash down a drain.
Six or seven summers ago, somebody around here had a pellet gun. The ammunition was a million beebees.
FS vaguely remembers strong, fast teenage boys leaping over the fence, sleuthing around corners, ducking and rolling through ambushes and causing some collateral damage to innocent landscape.
FS's house has been cleaned a time or two since those days. Rooms emptied, walls painted, furniture rearranged, old toys thrown out. It's reasonable to think that the vestiges of childhood occupation would by now be long gone. No more legos or broken slinkies, the RPG cards are history, Monopoly and Risk are in the give-away pile. Even the last of the green soldiers have been unearthed from their strategic locations in the yard, window sills, and special niches and been granted retirement or honorable discharges.
The beebees are another story.
FS assumed they were plastic, but this was probably incorrect. More likely they represent a reproductive stage in the life cycle of ancient race of galactic conquerors. They could be an alien invasion waiting for an invisible ray to hatch them open. They'll open in waves. The first wave will immediately contact The Brain. Pinky will be right there with him, of course.
The really insidious part of this monstrous plan to invade and take over planet earth isn't the way the enemy eggs look like a child's toy. Yes, that's clever enough. The truly diabolical aspect of this plan is how the eggs themselves reproduce.
Flat Stanley finds them hiding under furniture in rooms recently emptied, swept bare and re-furnished. They turn up in underwear drawers. Medicine cabinets. The glove box in a car not even owned when the original settlers arrived. In the garden at the roots of an old rose bush. The stump of a tree. Under the grass mat covering a sidewalk that has been edged two or three times a year for years.
It's only a matter of time before these little aliens have amassed enough to take over the world. Last week FS put out three trash cans full. She noticed that the neighbors on either side each had one trash can full of these eggs. This morning one showed up in FS's coffee. It is the end of the world as we know it. Prepare.
*
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Little Yellow Balls
A few months after their high school graduate left for bootcamp, Flat Stanley's neighbors solved the mystery behind an on-going shortage of boy's gym socks by cleaning out his room: Under Chris's bed and in his closet were enough barely-worn white socks to account for his entire senior year. It was a once-and-done deal. They found the socks, washed them, gave them away, and moved on.
At Flat Stanley's house, gym socks weren't a problem. One son only needed one pair, to be replaced when he wasn't looking. The other son supplied his own white socks, selected by his girlfriend. When each kid moved out, FS and spouse hosed out their rooms and threw away everything too big to wash down a drain.
Six or seven summers ago, somebody around here had a pellet gun. The ammunition was a million beebees.
FS vaguely remembers strong, fast teenage boys leaping over the fence, sleuthing around corners, ducking and rolling through ambushes and causing some collateral damage to innocent landscape.FS's house has been cleaned a time or two since those days. Rooms emptied, walls painted, furniture rearranged, old toys thrown out. It's reasonable to think that the vestiges of childhood occupation would by now be long gone. No more legos or broken slinkies, the RPG cards are history, Monopoly and Risk are in the give-away pile. Even the last of the green soldiers have been unearthed from their strategic locations in the yard, window sills, and special niches and been granted retirement or honorable discharges.
The beebees are another story.
FS assumed they were plastic, but this was probably incorrect. More likely they represent a reproductive stage in the life cycle of ancient race of galactic conquerors. They could be an alien invasion waiting for an invisible ray to hatch them open. They'll open in waves. The first wave will immediately contact The Brain. Pinky will be right there with him, of course.The really insidious part of this monstrous plan to invade and take over planet earth isn't the way the enemy eggs look like a child's toy. Yes, that's clever enough. The truly diabolical aspect of this plan is how the eggs themselves reproduce.
Flat Stanley finds them hiding under furniture in rooms recently emptied, swept bare and re-furnished. They turn up in underwear drawers. Medicine cabinets. The glove box in a car not even owned when the original settlers arrived. In the garden at the roots of an old rose bush. The stump of a tree. Under the grass mat covering a sidewalk that has been edged two or three times a year for years.
It's only a matter of time before these little aliens have amassed enough to take over the world. Last week FS put out three trash cans full. She noticed that the neighbors on either side each had one trash can full of these eggs. This morning one showed up in FS's coffee. It is the end of the world as we know it. Prepare.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
the mouths of babes
*
Wise words of advice from one granddaughter to her stepsisters:
"You know, when someone calls you names or is mean to you, the best thing to do is turn around and walk away...
...because they might have a stupid last name like yours, too."
L, age 8 1/2, speaking to R, 8, and A, 5
*
Wise words of advice from one granddaughter to her stepsisters:
"You know, when someone calls you names or is mean to you, the best thing to do is turn around and walk away...
...because they might have a stupid last name like yours, too."
L, age 8 1/2, speaking to R, 8, and A, 5
*
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tag, You're It.
*
The dealio is to go to your Pictures file and then go in the first folder and pull out the tenth photo to post and write about.
Take a gander at Flat Stanley's tenth photo:
This is the entrance to Brendonk, a concentration camp located in Belgium and used by the Germans to house prisoners during WWII. Flat Stanley visited this place two years ago as part of a graduate class called "Origins of Democracy." This was the only concentration camp we visited. The class was comprised of about 20 young 20-somethings, a coupla professors, and one geezer (FS).
FS's fellow students were a stunning group of people. The trip was awesome. This particular tour, sobering. Everyone: Younger, older, rowdier, more studious — everyone toured this facility with the tension produced by an hour or two of holding back tears in public. The interior of the prison was heavy, gray, concrete, low-light, metal drinking troughs, uneven brick floors, wooden bunks in compressed cells. Oppressive. The tour guide was an historian who had conducted extensive interviews with a man who had been held there. This prison was, overall, hailed as a fairly good place to go, as prisoners were not executed en masse or exported to gas chambers.
The head of this prison was a man, an ordinary man, who was generally not well-liked and looked down upon by his neighbors. Once installed as the head, he and his wife took hold of their new-found power and used it to become inhumane. They had a pet dog they would use to attack, bite, torture and kill prisoners. It is amazing and scary and sobering, FS thinks, that under different, "normal" circumstances, this couple would have bumbled through life and never have done anything remotely as monstrous as this.
On to a happier topic, photo #15:
Same trip, Venice. What is a trip with a bunch of college students if one can't take a moment to kiss some real fine ass? FS stole the idea from some cute girls she saw doing the same thing. The awesome background is the Doge's Palace at St. Mark's Cathedral in Venice. No, not Florida. Italy. Italy, you know? That big boot-looking thing you see on maps next to France?
Over and out, FS, World Traveler
*
The dealio is to go to your Pictures file and then go in the first folder and pull out the tenth photo to post and write about.
Take a gander at Flat Stanley's tenth photo:
This is the entrance to Brendonk, a concentration camp located in Belgium and used by the Germans to house prisoners during WWII. Flat Stanley visited this place two years ago as part of a graduate class called "Origins of Democracy." This was the only concentration camp we visited. The class was comprised of about 20 young 20-somethings, a coupla professors, and one geezer (FS).
FS's fellow students were a stunning group of people. The trip was awesome. This particular tour, sobering. Everyone: Younger, older, rowdier, more studious — everyone toured this facility with the tension produced by an hour or two of holding back tears in public. The interior of the prison was heavy, gray, concrete, low-light, metal drinking troughs, uneven brick floors, wooden bunks in compressed cells. Oppressive. The tour guide was an historian who had conducted extensive interviews with a man who had been held there. This prison was, overall, hailed as a fairly good place to go, as prisoners were not executed en masse or exported to gas chambers.
The head of this prison was a man, an ordinary man, who was generally not well-liked and looked down upon by his neighbors. Once installed as the head, he and his wife took hold of their new-found power and used it to become inhumane. They had a pet dog they would use to attack, bite, torture and kill prisoners. It is amazing and scary and sobering, FS thinks, that under different, "normal" circumstances, this couple would have bumbled through life and never have done anything remotely as monstrous as this.
On to a happier topic, photo #15:
Same trip, Venice. What is a trip with a bunch of college students if one can't take a moment to kiss some real fine ass? FS stole the idea from some cute girls she saw doing the same thing. The awesome background is the Doge's Palace at St. Mark's Cathedral in Venice. No, not Florida. Italy. Italy, you know? That big boot-looking thing you see on maps next to France?
Over and out, FS, World Traveler
*
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sorrow and Grief and Grace
*
Flat Stanley attended a funeral service Saturday for the 22-year old son (Eric) of an acquaintance who's a really good guy. Lots of people were invited, for the dad is part of the organization FS has been heading this year.
Most everyone entered the church hoping the family would hold it together. Nobody wants to be the person who breaks into uncontrollable sobs. It's especially bad when you've never met the deceased, but, as most people present had children that age, most people present were tense.
The family held it together with incredible grace. Eric had come to a sudden and violent end, cause unmentioned. The eulogies included references to addiction, anger, being troubled, and even, "Eric would never intentionally bring harm to himself or others." Was it drunk driving? A drug deal gone bad? A robbery? Bar fight? Suicide?
The preacher was on track with the family. He told the mourners, "Don't blame yourself for Eric's bad decisions, or for not having done enough to help him, for when you do, you take away his credit for the good that he did." And Eric did do good. His dad read to the mourners a portion of a note from a friend who had also struggled with addiction. Eric, it turns out, had made a significant impact on the lives of others, even when he was, in the end, unable to live with his own condition.
It was a mighty experience, sharing grief with this group of strangers and near-strangers. Afterward we accepted the invitation to go to the family's home. It was obvious that they wanted this as part of the day. They asked for flowers in the funeral announcement. "It might be selfish," the announcement read, "but we have decided that we want flowers." FS had a great time at their house and exchanged email addresses with a fascinating lady.
About those flowers: Well, hey, yes, we could have donated $60 to an addiction recovery group. But if flowers helped this loving family celebrate the gift of their son, then FS and spouse are glad to have been a part of that.
Twenty-two and addiction and depression. That's a lot for a young person to handle. May Eric rest in peace and his family hold on to joy.
*
Flat Stanley attended a funeral service Saturday for the 22-year old son (Eric) of an acquaintance who's a really good guy. Lots of people were invited, for the dad is part of the organization FS has been heading this year.
Most everyone entered the church hoping the family would hold it together. Nobody wants to be the person who breaks into uncontrollable sobs. It's especially bad when you've never met the deceased, but, as most people present had children that age, most people present were tense.
The family held it together with incredible grace. Eric had come to a sudden and violent end, cause unmentioned. The eulogies included references to addiction, anger, being troubled, and even, "Eric would never intentionally bring harm to himself or others." Was it drunk driving? A drug deal gone bad? A robbery? Bar fight? Suicide?
The preacher was on track with the family. He told the mourners, "Don't blame yourself for Eric's bad decisions, or for not having done enough to help him, for when you do, you take away his credit for the good that he did." And Eric did do good. His dad read to the mourners a portion of a note from a friend who had also struggled with addiction. Eric, it turns out, had made a significant impact on the lives of others, even when he was, in the end, unable to live with his own condition.
It was a mighty experience, sharing grief with this group of strangers and near-strangers. Afterward we accepted the invitation to go to the family's home. It was obvious that they wanted this as part of the day. They asked for flowers in the funeral announcement. "It might be selfish," the announcement read, "but we have decided that we want flowers." FS had a great time at their house and exchanged email addresses with a fascinating lady.
About those flowers: Well, hey, yes, we could have donated $60 to an addiction recovery group. But if flowers helped this loving family celebrate the gift of their son, then FS and spouse are glad to have been a part of that.
Twenty-two and addiction and depression. That's a lot for a young person to handle. May Eric rest in peace and his family hold on to joy.
*
Monday, May 25, 2009
Random Thoughts and Catching Up
*
"People of integrity expect to be believed, and when they are not, they let time prove them right."
Yesterday one of our special, difficult leaders — one of the two who violated campaign ethics referenced a few posts ago (but not the one FS has written about several times this past year) — offered an apology for her actions over the past year and asked to treat senior leadership to lunch. Oh, yah. It's nice to have her back, but FS will certainly remember her ability to get off track.
FS has been invited to provide leadership training at an upcoming conference servicing ~14,000 members. About 200 expected to attend the conference, and maybe a dozen will attend the two-hour session, but it's great experience, exposure and reputation-building. FS still rocks.
Ill parent still alive, hanging on by a thread. It is unbelievable how tightly to life the human body clings, even with the most minimum of assistance.
FS endured a three-hour meeting last week that opened with "We want a weekly report of your activities," followed with a series of uninspiring project assignments, and ended with being assigned the task of exploring and developing a business partnership with a company that sells worm poop. FS went from I-hate-this-job-save-yourself-some-money-and-hire-somebody-cheaper to Oh-yah-that's-more-like-it-I'll-stick-around.
It appears that during the course of the three hours, they came to realize that when when FS warned them that they would not be able to see a direct, immediate correlation between her activities and the bottom line, she was right. BUT, take a look at the multi-state, multi-partner project under development and think what that might look like down the road a year or two. Uh-huh. And those partnerships with government agencies...you think they go from 0 to 60 mph overnight? And that meeting between our poopsters and local and state gov't officials? The one that could net us an entry into the green dreams of the Obama administration? mmm. I thought as much.
FS was surprised to learn from her daughter that the carefully cultivated neutral look that FS wears when not liking what she's hearing is universally recognizable as Danger! Danger! Danger! Having a face that reads like an audio book turns out to be an advantage when your employer likes you, hence the transition from chump to champ in terms of project assignments.
And the weekly report? Reduced to a brief bullet point note.
And that's all the news for now. Ciao!
*
"People of integrity expect to be believed, and when they are not, they let time prove them right."
Yesterday one of our special, difficult leaders — one of the two who violated campaign ethics referenced a few posts ago (but not the one FS has written about several times this past year) — offered an apology for her actions over the past year and asked to treat senior leadership to lunch. Oh, yah. It's nice to have her back, but FS will certainly remember her ability to get off track.
FS has been invited to provide leadership training at an upcoming conference servicing ~14,000 members. About 200 expected to attend the conference, and maybe a dozen will attend the two-hour session, but it's great experience, exposure and reputation-building. FS still rocks.
Ill parent still alive, hanging on by a thread. It is unbelievable how tightly to life the human body clings, even with the most minimum of assistance.
FS endured a three-hour meeting last week that opened with "We want a weekly report of your activities," followed with a series of uninspiring project assignments, and ended with being assigned the task of exploring and developing a business partnership with a company that sells worm poop. FS went from I-hate-this-job-save-yourself-some-money-and-hire-somebody-cheaper to Oh-yah-that's-more-like-it-I'll-stick-around.
It appears that during the course of the three hours, they came to realize that when when FS warned them that they would not be able to see a direct, immediate correlation between her activities and the bottom line, she was right. BUT, take a look at the multi-state, multi-partner project under development and think what that might look like down the road a year or two. Uh-huh. And those partnerships with government agencies...you think they go from 0 to 60 mph overnight? And that meeting between our poopsters and local and state gov't officials? The one that could net us an entry into the green dreams of the Obama administration? mmm. I thought as much.
FS was surprised to learn from her daughter that the carefully cultivated neutral look that FS wears when not liking what she's hearing is universally recognizable as Danger! Danger! Danger! Having a face that reads like an audio book turns out to be an advantage when your employer likes you, hence the transition from chump to champ in terms of project assignments.
And the weekly report? Reduced to a brief bullet point note.
And that's all the news for now. Ciao!
*
The Rise and Fall of Grief
Well I'm too lazy to try to turn this idea into a poem and don't want to lose the idea so here it is, a contemplation on how I experience grief.
Grief brings to me a wash of powerful emotional responses that I feel but do not understand. I am held captive by those emotional responses and must endure them as one caught in a wild ocean surf. These responses -- well heck, they're reactions -- roar and recede, rise up and draw back, cause pain without solace, scrape me raw and leave me bruised and tumbled and sore. They are to be endured. I know that, like the tide, they will crescendo, withdraw, and fade. I will be left on the shore to heal, and as the roaring surf recedes, my strength will return.
Grief brings to me a wash of powerful emotional responses that I feel but do not understand. I am held captive by those emotional responses and must endure them as one caught in a wild ocean surf. These responses -- well heck, they're reactions -- roar and recede, rise up and draw back, cause pain without solace, scrape me raw and leave me bruised and tumbled and sore. They are to be endured. I know that, like the tide, they will crescendo, withdraw, and fade. I will be left on the shore to heal, and as the roaring surf recedes, my strength will return.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
The GOOD GUYS WIN This Time
*
Election Day! Flat Stanley spent hours planning the agenda, double-checking the organization's by-laws, referencing Robert's Rules of Order, structuring the Standing Rules of Order, helping prepare the chairs of the credentialing and nominating committee chairs for their roles at the business meeting, and building the business meeting packets.
Opened the meeting by explaining who had a vote and who didn't (only about half the attendees had a vote); why those who had a vote had it; making it clear that only voting members could speak; and informing the assembly that members of the credentialing committee would physically check to ensure that speakers had the special sticker and ballot that indicated their status as a voting member. Oh, yah, it was tight, and people of average and even below-average functionality knew right then and there that this year's chair could not, would not be pushed around.
We've had to deal a couple of them this year. One was elected to a key role last May because last year's leadership team was naive in the matter of personal integrity and politics, FS included. Another — well, you get some clunkers now and then. Can't fire them because they're not hired, and the organization can cover incompetence at certain levels.
At certain levels of the organization there is an expectation that leaders will progress through the senior roles as a way of preparing for the Top Dog position. You gotta earn it, dammit, because FS has put too many years into this to put up with her successors being rubber-stamped into leadership. Building upon past successes and laying the foundation for an even better year next year, FS has spearheaded the development of a culture of professionalism and value and ain't about to let some title-seeking, self-serving clueless moron gut it.
The Nominating Committee was impeccable for both the character of its members and
for their willingness to make sound decisions regardless of past practices. The committee did not place Title Seeker #1 on the ballot as would normally be expected. He decided to run from the floor. That's allowed. Title seeker #2 decided to run from the floor rather than go through the nominating committee process. Why avoid the validation that comes with being placed on the ballot? Simple: Clueless. Never read her manual. Didn't know the process. Not like it's been a secret. It's posted everywhere.
Anyway. Both were disqualified from running from the floor because of flagrant violations of the organization's campaign ethics. Title seeker #1 even signed a form promising to abide by them when he went before the nominating committee. Title seeker #2 was told not once, not twice, but several times during the day to cease and desist her illegal campaign activities. She did not.
A visiting dignitary explained before the entire assembly what their violations were. Explained that in the event that either candidate were elected, each would be subject to removal not just from office, but from the organization by the International body. Suggested that this would be an excellent opportunity for these two to gracefully withdraw their bids for election.
Each decided to run anyway. What the???
Both lost the election. The candidates of choice—the ones groomed by FS and other key leaders over the past year won by a large majority. Bonus: The process cemented the credibility of the process as well as FS's leadership over the past 10 months.
There were big corporate sponsors in the room, and guess what: They were so impressed with the organization that they are looking at the possibility of providing FREE meeting space for future events such as this, which require food and meeting space for 100 to 125 people.
Yup. It may have taken an entire year, but it's clear that integrity and respect for the organization's mission won the day. Here's to you special folks: A message you must infer — but won't — since you don't have the inherent skill set:
Election Day! Flat Stanley spent hours planning the agenda, double-checking the organization's by-laws, referencing Robert's Rules of Order, structuring the Standing Rules of Order, helping prepare the chairs of the credentialing and nominating committee chairs for their roles at the business meeting, and building the business meeting packets.
But then, there are always the PITA's, the Clueless, the Unethical, the Just-Plain-Stupid.
We've had to deal a couple of them this year. One was elected to a key role last May because last year's leadership team was naive in the matter of personal integrity and politics, FS included. Another — well, you get some clunkers now and then. Can't fire them because they're not hired, and the organization can cover incompetence at certain levels.
At certain levels of the organization there is an expectation that leaders will progress through the senior roles as a way of preparing for the Top Dog position. You gotta earn it, dammit, because FS has put too many years into this to put up with her successors being rubber-stamped into leadership. Building upon past successes and laying the foundation for an even better year next year, FS has spearheaded the development of a culture of professionalism and value and ain't about to let some title-seeking, self-serving clueless moron gut it.
The Nominating Committee was impeccable for both the character of its members and
for their willingness to make sound decisions regardless of past practices. The committee did not place Title Seeker #1 on the ballot as would normally be expected. He decided to run from the floor. That's allowed. Title seeker #2 decided to run from the floor rather than go through the nominating committee process. Why avoid the validation that comes with being placed on the ballot? Simple: Clueless. Never read her manual. Didn't know the process. Not like it's been a secret. It's posted everywhere.Anyway. Both were disqualified from running from the floor because of flagrant violations of the organization's campaign ethics. Title seeker #1 even signed a form promising to abide by them when he went before the nominating committee. Title seeker #2 was told not once, not twice, but several times during the day to cease and desist her illegal campaign activities. She did not.
A visiting dignitary explained before the entire assembly what their violations were. Explained that in the event that either candidate were elected, each would be subject to removal not just from office, but from the organization by the International body. Suggested that this would be an excellent opportunity for these two to gracefully withdraw their bids for election.
Each decided to run anyway. What the???
Both lost the election. The candidates of choice—the ones groomed by FS and other key leaders over the past year won by a large majority. Bonus: The process cemented the credibility of the process as well as FS's leadership over the past 10 months.
There were big corporate sponsors in the room, and guess what: They were so impressed with the organization that they are looking at the possibility of providing FREE meeting space for future events such as this, which require food and meeting space for 100 to 125 people.
Yup. It may have taken an entire year, but it's clear that integrity and respect for the organization's mission won the day. Here's to you special folks: A message you must infer — but won't — since you don't have the inherent skill set:
Thursday, April 30, 2009
It's Election Time!
Last year we had dirty politics, a dirty nominating committee, manipulation of the election process, stolen ballots, and charges of miscounting. The result was the election of an incompetent non-performing, dysfunctional bobblehead to a key role in the organization.
THIS year, however, Flat Stanley and others, having learned some huge lessons, put together a nominating committee of unquestioned and widely recognized integrity, put the word out to the entire organization as to what constitutes fair campaigning, implemented a zero-tolerance abuse policy, and staffed the credentials and ballot-counting committees with high-compliance, strong-willed people.
Therefore, our bobblehead is not on the ballot. He can still be nominated from the floor, and hey, it could happen — but after a year of strong, strong leadership from #1 (Flat Stanley) and #2 (second in command), and an incredibly strategic campaign by #2, the elections have a high likelihood of putting good people in place for the coming year.
Yes. It should be good. Oh yes, it should.
THIS year, however, Flat Stanley and others, having learned some huge lessons, put together a nominating committee of unquestioned and widely recognized integrity, put the word out to the entire organization as to what constitutes fair campaigning, implemented a zero-tolerance abuse policy, and staffed the credentials and ballot-counting committees with high-compliance, strong-willed people.
Therefore, our bobblehead is not on the ballot. He can still be nominated from the floor, and hey, it could happen — but after a year of strong, strong leadership from #1 (Flat Stanley) and #2 (second in command), and an incredibly strategic campaign by #2, the elections have a high likelihood of putting good people in place for the coming year.
Yes. It should be good. Oh yes, it should.
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