The best way to convince someone you're making things up is to be straight up. Here are a few vignettes from the past week
Oh, Flat Stanley wishes she had an imagination as creative as truth!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sheets on Fire
*
*
"Hey," Flat Stanley posted on her daughter's Facebook page, "Wanna come firewalking with me?"
Gotta hand it to the kid, she didn't miss a beat. "Sure. Early birthday present?"
Flat Stanley's a lot like an Australian Shepherd. Why settle for herding just one sheep when you round up 20? (And it's better when the other 19 don't ask for an early birthday present.) Not that people who join in Flat Stanley's wildy varying ideas of fun are sheep, but it is like when you're out drumming up participants for an adventure, you usually end up shepherding most of them toward the destination. And losing a few on the way.
But not Carl. He's a younger guy, and this was pre-Facebook between him and FS, so he used email to arrange a carpool between us. He'd drive two hours to FS's locale, climb into the FSMobile and ride the rest of the way. About 2 pm we headed out, stopping at the local Subway so he could stoke his buff, training-for-the-Marine-Corps-marathon-six-foot-something frame with a footlong.
On location we joined FS's daughter and our peers in affirming "I Am Terrific" "I Feel Good" "I Am Happy" "Yes!" "Yes!" "Yes!" High-fives all round! Each person wrote a self-limiting belief on one side of a board, then BAM smashed the board barehanded.
Take THAT, Bitch.
We participated in the solemnity of watching the start of the fire, placed our broken boards on the pyre, then filed back to the retreat room for more focus and learning. At dusk we trekked back to the fire, which was down to juicy red hot embers that hadn't cooled enough to smolder.
Dave wanted to know: Was this really about walking on them? Uh, yeah, Dave, that's what you paid to do.
Karen was adamant that she was here to observe only, who cares about the fee.
Flat Stanley was waiting for proof that the fire was ready to walked upon. Surely someone would wave a special thermometer over the surface, or test it with a substance of standardized flammability, or at least the instructor would walk on it first to demonstrate its safety . . . but no. The instructor said "Who's first?" And Flat Stanley's daughter walked over top of people 18 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier and said ME.
Chip off the old block, she is. There are not words enough to describe how FS felt at that moment. "Freaked out" would be a good start, though. And "awed."
Everyone walked the fire. Even Dave. Even Karen. FS's crazy daughter crossed three times. FS crossed twice. No injuries. Here's proof:
Crossing rural VA on I-66 about 11 pm, Carl said he was hungry. Ten minutes later FS got around to answering. "Wanna stop at Sheetz?"
Carl's from Delaware. Apparently they don't have Sheetz over there. "Excuse me?" he stammered, uttered, stuttered. Great, FS realized. The poor guy's freaking out because he's all alone in the dark with a woman who just propositioned him.
A bit rattled, FS said, "Sheetz. Like Rutters."
Great, just great, FS. Animals rut. Like when you take your second-grader to the zoo to see Mother Nature on a day when she's feeling frisky.
"Orange and red overheads. They look alike," FS blurbled. "We got gas there earlier today."
Whew. Two exits later there were signs for Arbys. So what? We were going to eat at Sheetz. No way was FS going to walk over hot coals, then leave Carl forever wondering about those hot sheets.
*
*
"Hey," Flat Stanley posted on her daughter's Facebook page, "Wanna come firewalking with me?"
Gotta hand it to the kid, she didn't miss a beat. "Sure. Early birthday present?"
Flat Stanley's a lot like an Australian Shepherd. Why settle for herding just one sheep when you round up 20? (And it's better when the other 19 don't ask for an early birthday present.) Not that people who join in Flat Stanley's wildy varying ideas of fun are sheep, but it is like when you're out drumming up participants for an adventure, you usually end up shepherding most of them toward the destination. And losing a few on the way.
But not Carl. He's a younger guy, and this was pre-Facebook between him and FS, so he used email to arrange a carpool between us. He'd drive two hours to FS's locale, climb into the FSMobile and ride the rest of the way. About 2 pm we headed out, stopping at the local Subway so he could stoke his buff, training-for-the-Marine-Corps-marathon-six-foot-something frame with a footlong.
On location we joined FS's daughter and our peers in affirming "I Am Terrific" "I Feel Good" "I Am Happy" "Yes!" "Yes!" "Yes!" High-fives all round! Each person wrote a self-limiting belief on one side of a board, then BAM smashed the board barehanded.
Take THAT, Bitch.
We participated in the solemnity of watching the start of the fire, placed our broken boards on the pyre, then filed back to the retreat room for more focus and learning. At dusk we trekked back to the fire, which was down to juicy red hot embers that hadn't cooled enough to smolder.
Dave wanted to know: Was this really about walking on them? Uh, yeah, Dave, that's what you paid to do.
Karen was adamant that she was here to observe only, who cares about the fee.
Flat Stanley was waiting for proof that the fire was ready to walked upon. Surely someone would wave a special thermometer over the surface, or test it with a substance of standardized flammability, or at least the instructor would walk on it first to demonstrate its safety . . . but no. The instructor said "Who's first?" And Flat Stanley's daughter walked over top of people 18 inches taller and 150 pounds heavier and said ME.
Chip off the old block, she is. There are not words enough to describe how FS felt at that moment. "Freaked out" would be a good start, though. And "awed."
Everyone walked the fire. Even Dave. Even Karen. FS's crazy daughter crossed three times. FS crossed twice. No injuries. Here's proof:
Crossing rural VA on I-66 about 11 pm, Carl said he was hungry. Ten minutes later FS got around to answering. "Wanna stop at Sheetz?"
Carl's from Delaware. Apparently they don't have Sheetz over there. "Excuse me?" he stammered, uttered, stuttered. Great, FS realized. The poor guy's freaking out because he's all alone in the dark with a woman who just propositioned him.
A bit rattled, FS said, "Sheetz. Like Rutters."
Great, just great, FS. Animals rut. Like when you take your second-grader to the zoo to see Mother Nature on a day when she's feeling frisky.
"Orange and red overheads. They look alike," FS blurbled. "We got gas there earlier today."
Whew. Two exits later there were signs for Arbys. So what? We were going to eat at Sheetz. No way was FS going to walk over hot coals, then leave Carl forever wondering about those hot sheets.
*
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Well, she died
*
Faithful readers (wave everybody! all five of yuhs!) may remember that last year about this time Flat Stanley was writing about her mother, whose unexpected re-appearance after a 25-year absence coupled with her terminal illness, a fractured collection of offspring and the hint of an inheritance provided blog content.
The scene ripped holes in the shredded fabric of whatever kind of family you'd call the siblings of a cardboard storybook character, not to mention the delicacy of a cardboard heart. So when the old lady finally died, FS didn't have the heart to write about it.
It's been one year and three hours since the stubborn, scared, sad, bitter, lonely old woman outlasted her visitors, dieing 10 minutes after the last of them shuffled from her room for the night.
Flat Stanley was scheduled to conduct training at an international conference and wasn't going to miss it, so she blew off the funeral and went. The plane flew over Niagara Falls. The old lady and FS's father spent about six months living near there when FS was an infant. Wandering into the local town that weekend, FS was nearly cut off at the knees while visiting a bookstore. The old lady had once tried her hand at running a bookstore. FS threw rocks into the Bay of Fundy. The old lady used to like going to wild places like that.
FS did the training, collected the certificate. Made nice to the lady whose husband died the year before. Got on the plane, flew home. Over these 12 months, the old lady's death has been defined by (a) missing what could have been a great friendship and (b) sorrow that the old lady couldn't/wouldn't/didn't make a few different choices.
The area had several big snows this winter. FS remembers wading through thigh-deep snow looking for traps the years that the old lady tried trapping muskrats. The old lady once built four great bikes by scavenging parts from junk bikes. FS is handy fixing things and recently started riding bike again.
The old lady used to lead FS and any interested siblings on hours-long explorations of the surrounding hills. Today, FS hikes the AT and linking trails. The old lady was well-read and fascinated with ancient culture. FS has a history degree. The old lady finished college when FS was in junior high. FS finished when her kids were grown.
Today, one of FS's brothers refuses to speak to either sister; the other brother calls occasionally when he's drunk and hurting to try to pick a fight. FS refuses to associate with relatives from her mother's side of the family. History repeats itself, and FS is content to let it, to a point.
FS used to worry that she'd leave her own children when they became difficult teenagers. The kids became teenagers and were at times difficult. FS stayed. FS has worried that having a cardboard heart makes her shallow. The old lady's heart wasn't shallow. It was fractured and tender, willed to steel-strong and rendered gossamer weak through overuse. FS used to worry that she'd let anger and bitterness dictate her life, like the old lady did. She hasn't.
FS faces the next 25 years without the mother she didn't have the past 25 years. Here's tipping one to you, Mom, sincerely wishing you the very best that's possible where ever you are, where ever you go, who ever you become.
*
Faithful readers (wave everybody! all five of yuhs!) may remember that last year about this time Flat Stanley was writing about her mother, whose unexpected re-appearance after a 25-year absence coupled with her terminal illness, a fractured collection of offspring and the hint of an inheritance provided blog content.
The scene ripped holes in the shredded fabric of whatever kind of family you'd call the siblings of a cardboard storybook character, not to mention the delicacy of a cardboard heart. So when the old lady finally died, FS didn't have the heart to write about it.
It's been one year and three hours since the stubborn, scared, sad, bitter, lonely old woman outlasted her visitors, dieing 10 minutes after the last of them shuffled from her room for the night.
Flat Stanley was scheduled to conduct training at an international conference and wasn't going to miss it, so she blew off the funeral and went. The plane flew over Niagara Falls. The old lady and FS's father spent about six months living near there when FS was an infant. Wandering into the local town that weekend, FS was nearly cut off at the knees while visiting a bookstore. The old lady had once tried her hand at running a bookstore. FS threw rocks into the Bay of Fundy. The old lady used to like going to wild places like that.
FS did the training, collected the certificate. Made nice to the lady whose husband died the year before. Got on the plane, flew home. Over these 12 months, the old lady's death has been defined by (a) missing what could have been a great friendship and (b) sorrow that the old lady couldn't/wouldn't/didn't make a few different choices.
The area had several big snows this winter. FS remembers wading through thigh-deep snow looking for traps the years that the old lady tried trapping muskrats. The old lady once built four great bikes by scavenging parts from junk bikes. FS is handy fixing things and recently started riding bike again.
The old lady used to lead FS and any interested siblings on hours-long explorations of the surrounding hills. Today, FS hikes the AT and linking trails. The old lady was well-read and fascinated with ancient culture. FS has a history degree. The old lady finished college when FS was in junior high. FS finished when her kids were grown.
Today, one of FS's brothers refuses to speak to either sister; the other brother calls occasionally when he's drunk and hurting to try to pick a fight. FS refuses to associate with relatives from her mother's side of the family. History repeats itself, and FS is content to let it, to a point.
FS used to worry that she'd leave her own children when they became difficult teenagers. The kids became teenagers and were at times difficult. FS stayed. FS has worried that having a cardboard heart makes her shallow. The old lady's heart wasn't shallow. It was fractured and tender, willed to steel-strong and rendered gossamer weak through overuse. FS used to worry that she'd let anger and bitterness dictate her life, like the old lady did. She hasn't.
FS faces the next 25 years without the mother she didn't have the past 25 years. Here's tipping one to you, Mom, sincerely wishing you the very best that's possible where ever you are, where ever you go, who ever you become.
*
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
It's Just Crazy
*
Flat Stanley's been gainfully employed for the last coupla weeks. The honeymoon you usually get at a new job is wearing off, and today FS learned why one of her co-workers is constantly nasty to . . . Bob. Yes, that's a good pseudonym. Bob.
Bob is a hyper little guy, bald on top and Albert Einstein hair on the fringes, wild and wiry and looks like he just did a Ben Franklin with a kite, a key and a lightning storm. Why ol' Ben lived to be famous is beyond FS. Last week, a guy taking a run on a beach got mowed down by a crashing airplane when he wasn't looking, and Ben Franklin got away with attracting lightning and lived to tell the story? Go figure.
So about Bob. Military retiree, probably, and the fact that he wasn't mowed down by his own troops in a supreme act of self-preservation probably reflects (a) the military's foresight in never assigning him a duty station in a conflict zone or (b) dumb luck.
Bob's not dumb, but he does apparently like living on the edge. Otherwise, why would he delay until the last possible moment the completion of high priority projects whose success depends upon the timely submission and implementation of input from others? And once warning others that this project would be extremely high priority, would he delay delivery for several hours? And then, upon delivery, give incomplete direction? And then, when presented with the results, spend the next 45 minutes fussing over the the why's instead of simply saying "go make it right?"
But, yeah, working in the city has its upside. Last Monday, FS climbed the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment. At the top of 58 steps, FS dug out a dollar bill, ignored a tiny Chinese immigrant begging for funds to return home, and paid it to a tall, sorrowful-looking man in a yarmulke and a troll in a jeans and a suit jacket.
THIS Monday, FS climbed the steps the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment, only this time it was the tall guy wearing the suit jacket and the troll looked pretty spiffy. What can you do but laugh? FS paid her buck and figured that for the next six or eight weeks, other people can pony up for the 7:30 am serenade.
And it's the city, of course, so FS has learned to keep her eyes down, ignore the guys whose pallets border the two blocks between Metro and work, and step over the pee spots on the sidewalk. Think about it: Where else are they gonna go? Until now, FS has never thought to wonder: Where do they poo?
FS is a do-gooder at heart, so Monday she spent her lunch hour helping people at the homeless shelter apply for jobs. Now here's room for a rant. WHAT IN THE WORLD DO PEOPLE THINK THEY'RE DOING, ASKING SOMEONE TO SUBMIT A RESUME AND COVER LETTER FOR A PART TIME JOB THAT PAYS $8.25 AN HOUR? Seriously. The economy is not that bad. And nobody's who's serious about providing jobs for the homeless can possibly think that a cover letter and resume is a realistic way to help people in that situation move ahead.
The richest part of that experience is that the center for homeless has nine computers. Seven are for general use and two (which weren't working that day) are dedicated for a few hours a week to job search. So not only were FS's two clients trying to apply for nowhere jobs on a broken computer, but the guy sitting at the computer nearby had serious space issues and threatened us all with serious but unspecified harm if we bumped into him One. More. Time.
Well.
So back to Bob. On the one hand we got little crazy guys hanging on by their claws til retirement and on the other, unemployed guys hanging on by their claws til the next bathroom, the next cup of coffee, the next chance to do something right.
Bob's not a bad guy. He's just doin' the best he can, and driving people crazy along the way. Many of the homeless men and women aren't bad people, but they're driving us all crazy along the way. Crazy because we don't know how to help them, crazy because we see in them the same hopes and fears and dreams we see in ourselves. Crazy and sometimes scared because somewhere inside of us we know that between us and them, and you and me, and Bob and his co-workers, the differences aren't any bigger than in the musicians from Monday to Monday. Same beauty, same wonder, same song.
That's just crazy.
*
Flat Stanley's been gainfully employed for the last coupla weeks. The honeymoon you usually get at a new job is wearing off, and today FS learned why one of her co-workers is constantly nasty to . . . Bob. Yes, that's a good pseudonym. Bob.
Bob is a hyper little guy, bald on top and Albert Einstein hair on the fringes, wild and wiry and looks like he just did a Ben Franklin with a kite, a key and a lightning storm. Why ol' Ben lived to be famous is beyond FS. Last week, a guy taking a run on a beach got mowed down by a crashing airplane when he wasn't looking, and Ben Franklin got away with attracting lightning and lived to tell the story? Go figure.
So about Bob. Military retiree, probably, and the fact that he wasn't mowed down by his own troops in a supreme act of self-preservation probably reflects (a) the military's foresight in never assigning him a duty station in a conflict zone or (b) dumb luck.
Bob's not dumb, but he does apparently like living on the edge. Otherwise, why would he delay until the last possible moment the completion of high priority projects whose success depends upon the timely submission and implementation of input from others? And once warning others that this project would be extremely high priority, would he delay delivery for several hours? And then, upon delivery, give incomplete direction? And then, when presented with the results, spend the next 45 minutes fussing over the the why's instead of simply saying "go make it right?"
But, yeah, working in the city has its upside. Last Monday, FS climbed the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment. At the top of 58 steps, FS dug out a dollar bill, ignored a tiny Chinese immigrant begging for funds to return home, and paid it to a tall, sorrowful-looking man in a yarmulke and a troll in a jeans and a suit jacket.
THIS Monday, FS climbed the steps the steps from the Metro to the sound of a hauntingly sorrowful, beautifully performed melody on a violin with guitar accompaniment, only this time it was the tall guy wearing the suit jacket and the troll looked pretty spiffy. What can you do but laugh? FS paid her buck and figured that for the next six or eight weeks, other people can pony up for the 7:30 am serenade.
And it's the city, of course, so FS has learned to keep her eyes down, ignore the guys whose pallets border the two blocks between Metro and work, and step over the pee spots on the sidewalk. Think about it: Where else are they gonna go? Until now, FS has never thought to wonder: Where do they poo?
FS is a do-gooder at heart, so Monday she spent her lunch hour helping people at the homeless shelter apply for jobs. Now here's room for a rant. WHAT IN THE WORLD DO PEOPLE THINK THEY'RE DOING, ASKING SOMEONE TO SUBMIT A RESUME AND COVER LETTER FOR A PART TIME JOB THAT PAYS $8.25 AN HOUR? Seriously. The economy is not that bad. And nobody's who's serious about providing jobs for the homeless can possibly think that a cover letter and resume is a realistic way to help people in that situation move ahead.
The richest part of that experience is that the center for homeless has nine computers. Seven are for general use and two (which weren't working that day) are dedicated for a few hours a week to job search. So not only were FS's two clients trying to apply for nowhere jobs on a broken computer, but the guy sitting at the computer nearby had serious space issues and threatened us all with serious but unspecified harm if we bumped into him One. More. Time.
Well.
So back to Bob. On the one hand we got little crazy guys hanging on by their claws til retirement and on the other, unemployed guys hanging on by their claws til the next bathroom, the next cup of coffee, the next chance to do something right.
Bob's not a bad guy. He's just doin' the best he can, and driving people crazy along the way. Many of the homeless men and women aren't bad people, but they're driving us all crazy along the way. Crazy because we don't know how to help them, crazy because we see in them the same hopes and fears and dreams we see in ourselves. Crazy and sometimes scared because somewhere inside of us we know that between us and them, and you and me, and Bob and his co-workers, the differences aren't any bigger than in the musicians from Monday to Monday. Same beauty, same wonder, same song.
That's just crazy.
*
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Global Climate Change is Good
*
Good News!
Just when a 10-year span of lackluster winters had Flat Stanley resigned to the reality of Global Warming, Global Climate Change came to the rescue, setting snowfall records in the Washington DC metro area this past week. And now, Flat Stanley has discovered how to predict the time and location of the next blizzard. Meanwhile . . .
Last week’s snows make the parking lot behind FS’s apartment building look like an open field dotted with anomalous humps and a lot of broken tree branches. Out front, city trucks with plows attached traveled in threes: The first riding the center line of a four-lane street, the second taking its half from the middle, and the third, herding the snow toward the curb.
This is a city, and they say the city never sleeps, which isn’t quite accurate. Washington and suburbs slept the entire week. It’s the morons driving gas-guzzling SUVs with Save the Planet stickers on the bumper and 16-inches of snow blowing from their roofs that never sleep.
Now Flat Stanley, you say, surely they weren’t the only morons.
And Flat Stanley says, turn about-fair play. You wanna hide your data, I get to hide mine.
Well, what’s a piece of cardboard to do? There’s only so much hanky-panky one little luv nest can accommodate, so FS and spouse bundled up and went walking, careful to stay off the one navigable road. One side street led to another. Eventually we crossed over a limited access highway that leads straight into DC. The plows, the ones that weren’t stuck, were busy piling snow in the access lanes to keep the SUV drivers from killing themselves.
More Good News! After wading through uncharted territory in knee and thigh-deep snow, we stumbled upon a gas station that was not only open, but was also selling off all its beer at half-price. Ever try carrying a 12-pack of bottled beer over icy, unplowed streets? Makes the beer taste all the better.
Spent hours shoveling out, got more snow, damn global warming, spent more hours shoveling out. Saturday we caught the metro to check out downtown DC. FS hopes the city isn’t enforcing parking meter fees, because there’s six feet of snow between the snowbank and meter, and feeding the meter means slogging a half-block to an ice-bank, navigating over the snow, then slogging back to a meter in the neighborhood of your car over an un-shoveled sidewalk at best, icy at worst.
But about this Global Climate Change: It’s not rocket science. It’s Flat Stanley. Follow her moves:
Central Florida, 1983: Unprecedented freezes. Orange crop goes belly up.
North Carolina, 1987: Blizzard
PA, 1995: Blizzard
VA, 2010: Blizzard, record-breaking snowfalls, blizzard.
It’s Global Climate Change alright, but it works like this: When Flat Stanley moves, it snows. Snow is a good thing, ergo, you should be happy about it.
*
Good News!
Just when a 10-year span of lackluster winters had Flat Stanley resigned to the reality of Global Warming, Global Climate Change came to the rescue, setting snowfall records in the Washington DC metro area this past week. And now, Flat Stanley has discovered how to predict the time and location of the next blizzard. Meanwhile . . .
Last week’s snows make the parking lot behind FS’s apartment building look like an open field dotted with anomalous humps and a lot of broken tree branches. Out front, city trucks with plows attached traveled in threes: The first riding the center line of a four-lane street, the second taking its half from the middle, and the third, herding the snow toward the curb.
This is a city, and they say the city never sleeps, which isn’t quite accurate. Washington and suburbs slept the entire week. It’s the morons driving gas-guzzling SUVs with Save the Planet stickers on the bumper and 16-inches of snow blowing from their roofs that never sleep.
Now Flat Stanley, you say, surely they weren’t the only morons.
And Flat Stanley says, turn about-fair play. You wanna hide your data, I get to hide mine.
Well, what’s a piece of cardboard to do? There’s only so much hanky-panky one little luv nest can accommodate, so FS and spouse bundled up and went walking, careful to stay off the one navigable road. One side street led to another. Eventually we crossed over a limited access highway that leads straight into DC. The plows, the ones that weren’t stuck, were busy piling snow in the access lanes to keep the SUV drivers from killing themselves.
More Good News! After wading through uncharted territory in knee and thigh-deep snow, we stumbled upon a gas station that was not only open, but was also selling off all its beer at half-price. Ever try carrying a 12-pack of bottled beer over icy, unplowed streets? Makes the beer taste all the better.
Spent hours shoveling out, got more snow, damn global warming, spent more hours shoveling out. Saturday we caught the metro to check out downtown DC. FS hopes the city isn’t enforcing parking meter fees, because there’s six feet of snow between the snowbank and meter, and feeding the meter means slogging a half-block to an ice-bank, navigating over the snow, then slogging back to a meter in the neighborhood of your car over an un-shoveled sidewalk at best, icy at worst.
But about this Global Climate Change: It’s not rocket science. It’s Flat Stanley. Follow her moves:
Central Florida, 1983: Unprecedented freezes. Orange crop goes belly up.
North Carolina, 1987: Blizzard
PA, 1995: Blizzard
VA, 2010: Blizzard, record-breaking snowfalls, blizzard.
It’s Global Climate Change alright, but it works like this: When Flat Stanley moves, it snows. Snow is a good thing, ergo, you should be happy about it.
*
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Kuntree Mous muvs to Big Citee
*
Things shur r diffrnt, livvin heer in the big citee.
First, Mr. Mous and Ms. Mous leev all dehr stuf in Big House in little kuntre town n cum liv in teenee apartemunt in Big Citee. Big House be vere spensive Storij Shed. Tenee apartemunt be Luv Nest.
This week, Ms. Mous lern Metro Pass n find out why Citee mouses theenk that 30 mph is mayking gud time. Even on hiway.
Fud in Big Citee evreewehr! Diffrunt mouses evreewehr too! Diffrunt speeking evreewehr! Diffrunt dressing evreewehr! Sum gud, reel gud. Sum frum hohmland. Sorta funnee but remind Kuntree Mous of Amish in hohmtown who wehr dehr ohn funnee clozhe. Mr. Mous, now he have office job n wehr suit evreeday. Ms. Mous lookeng for job, wants dress up and relax at same time.
Go to groshuree stor n find Beer and Wine in stor! Ms. Mous act like Kuntree Mous n tayk picture of Spotted Dick on shelf. N wahndr around excited bout Beer n Wine IN STOR! But in shopeeng, manee choices. So many, hard two find simple theengs. Kuntree mousses do not need can ohpenner whut kostes $18.99! That sillee. Kuntree mousses do not need "Simple Human" trash kan for kithin what kostes $60.00! That make no sens to Simpl Kuntree Mous.
But apartemunt iz Big Adventure! Ellevatr wrks but Kuntree Mouses tak stayrs most time. Only four floors. Walk doun hallway to washerdrier room lik in collij dorm. Say hi to naybrz az thay rush away to ketch bus. Go doun street n opn mike nite at coffee shop. Welcum to Big Citee!
*
Things shur r diffrnt, livvin heer in the big citee.
First, Mr. Mous and Ms. Mous leev all dehr stuf in Big House in little kuntre town n cum liv in teenee apartemunt in Big Citee. Big House be vere spensive Storij Shed. Tenee apartemunt be Luv Nest.
This week, Ms. Mous lern Metro Pass n find out why Citee mouses theenk that 30 mph is mayking gud time. Even on hiway.
Fud in Big Citee evreewehr! Diffrunt mouses evreewehr too! Diffrunt speeking evreewehr! Diffrunt dressing evreewehr! Sum gud, reel gud. Sum frum hohmland. Sorta funnee but remind Kuntree Mous of Amish in hohmtown who wehr dehr ohn funnee clozhe. Mr. Mous, now he have office job n wehr suit evreeday. Ms. Mous lookeng for job, wants dress up and relax at same time.
Go to groshuree stor n find Beer and Wine in stor! Ms. Mous act like Kuntree Mous n tayk picture of Spotted Dick on shelf. N wahndr around excited bout Beer n Wine IN STOR! But in shopeeng, manee choices. So many, hard two find simple theengs. Kuntree mousses do not need can ohpenner whut kostes $18.99! That sillee. Kuntree mousses do not need "Simple Human" trash kan for kithin what kostes $60.00! That make no sens to Simpl Kuntree Mous.
But apartemunt iz Big Adventure! Ellevatr wrks but Kuntree Mouses tak stayrs most time. Only four floors. Walk doun hallway to washerdrier room lik in collij dorm. Say hi to naybrz az thay rush away to ketch bus. Go doun street n opn mike nite at coffee shop. Welcum to Big Citee!
*
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Tips on Perfect Parenting
A reminder of why FS and spouse raised such perfect offspring: The one who authored this note would not permit failure.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Conversation with a Cougar
*
Flat Stanley has a journalistic bent, but not a mass-media bent, so it's only been in the past few weeks that the term "cougar" has crossed her radar. The word made an audible ping today when the John Boy and Billy show referred to one of Tiger Woods' conquests as a cougar. Only, of course, she being a cougar, it was her conquest of him rather than the assumed other-way-round.
So.
Flat Stanley is certainly old enough (turning 53 this week! send cards and money!) to qualify as a cougar should she set her sights on the sexual conquest of men approximately eight years her junior. The age definition is derived from several postings on the urban dictionary. Obviously the posts are submitted by 20- to-30-somethings, for surely no woman in her 50's is even remotely interested in the sexual conquest of your average 40-something male.
To clarify: Consider for a moment the average 40-something male. If he's ever been married, he's either in the middle of a divorce or treading water trying to stay married long enough to get the kids in college. Or he's a serial playboy who's still reliving his last game of high school football and trying to fit his 38 waist into size 34 pants. (Note to Flat Stanley's husband: Yes, you are the exception. Much appreciated :-)))
FS has given some thought to the concept of cougar and try-as-she-might, she can't see anything wrong with the concept of a woman going after what she wants instead of waiting around for some prince charming to make the right moves. To get perspective on the matter, Flat Stanley visted herself, 25 years into the future. Here's what that lively woman has to say on the topic.
FS: Tell me, Grandma, what do you think about the idea of a woman going after a younger man for the purpose of sexual gratification?
Grandma: I think it's about time that equality of the sexes extended to the bedroom.
FS: ahem. I see. Uhh, Grandma, why do you think the term "cougar" is used pejoratively?
Grandma: What's that?
FS: Pejoratively. Why do you think the term "cougar" is used as an insult?
Grandma: I understand the word, Flat Stanley. I just need you to speak more loudly. Hearing's not what it used to be, you know. The term is used pejoratively because younger people often tend to be under the delusion that there is an inverse relationship between between physical age and sexual desirablity.
FS: But, isn't there? Isn't that what natural selection is based on?
Grandma: Yes, of course, FS. It wouldn't make sense for Mother Nature to instill massive horniosity in people who aren't going to be around long enough to raise the results of their lustful predilections. What I'm getting at is two separate aspects of sexuality. One – orgasm. Two – the need to be fully treasured by another.
FS: But Grandma, what's that got to do with cougars?
Grandma: Pipe down, punk. I'm getting there.
FS: Yes Ma'am.
Grandma: The way I see it, cougars can be pathetic, or they can be powerful. The pathetic ones are the ones pursuing serial sex with younger guys because they are absolutely terrified of life without any Prince Charmings assuring them that the fairy tale can still come true.
FS: . . . and the powerful ones? What makes them powerful?
Grandma: Cougars are powerful because they know what they want. They go after their prey with single-minded determination. These cougars are powerful, FS, because they don't get wrapped up in the game. It's not personal to them. They're after enjoyment, no strings, no complications, no attachment. You could say that cougars represent the next stage in the sexual revolution, where free-love has become free for both parties. By that I mean that both parties are free from culturally dictated roles of playing chase or hard-to-get. People are free to have sex simply because they have agreed to.
FS: That explains orgasm, Grandma, but what about that other thing you said? That thing about being fully treasured by another?
Grandma: FS, you've been around long enough to know exactly what I'm talking about. Cougars can have that, too, although I'd argue that pursuing sex purely for the sake of sexual gratification likely means that being fully treasured becomes a momentary event rather the kind of fulfillment that a healthy long-term relationship can bring.
FS: So Grandma, are you saying that cougars are missing out?
Grandma: Not at all, Flat Stanley. I'm saying that some cougars are needy, and that some cougars know exactly what they're doing. Some cougars I feel sorry for, and some cougars I admire. Now go away. I'm baking cookies today and getting ready for a hot date with Grampa.
And stop looking at me like that. Yo momma wasn't brought by the stork and she wasn't hatched. And that's one thing I'm glad as hell about: No matter what age fella I chase after, there's no worries for me about being somebody's Baby Momma.
FS: Grandma!
Grandma: Cookies are done. Want one?
*
Flat Stanley has a journalistic bent, but not a mass-media bent, so it's only been in the past few weeks that the term "cougar" has crossed her radar. The word made an audible ping today when the John Boy and Billy show referred to one of Tiger Woods' conquests as a cougar. Only, of course, she being a cougar, it was her conquest of him rather than the assumed other-way-round.
So.
Flat Stanley is certainly old enough (turning 53 this week! send cards and money!) to qualify as a cougar should she set her sights on the sexual conquest of men approximately eight years her junior. The age definition is derived from several postings on the urban dictionary. Obviously the posts are submitted by 20- to-30-somethings, for surely no woman in her 50's is even remotely interested in the sexual conquest of your average 40-something male.
To clarify: Consider for a moment the average 40-something male. If he's ever been married, he's either in the middle of a divorce or treading water trying to stay married long enough to get the kids in college. Or he's a serial playboy who's still reliving his last game of high school football and trying to fit his 38 waist into size 34 pants. (Note to Flat Stanley's husband: Yes, you are the exception. Much appreciated :-)))
FS has given some thought to the concept of cougar and try-as-she-might, she can't see anything wrong with the concept of a woman going after what she wants instead of waiting around for some prince charming to make the right moves. To get perspective on the matter, Flat Stanley visted herself, 25 years into the future. Here's what that lively woman has to say on the topic.
FS: Tell me, Grandma, what do you think about the idea of a woman going after a younger man for the purpose of sexual gratification?
Grandma: I think it's about time that equality of the sexes extended to the bedroom.
FS: ahem. I see. Uhh, Grandma, why do you think the term "cougar" is used pejoratively?
Grandma: What's that?
FS: Pejoratively. Why do you think the term "cougar" is used as an insult?
Grandma: I understand the word, Flat Stanley. I just need you to speak more loudly. Hearing's not what it used to be, you know. The term is used pejoratively because younger people often tend to be under the delusion that there is an inverse relationship between between physical age and sexual desirablity.
FS: But, isn't there? Isn't that what natural selection is based on?
Grandma: Yes, of course, FS. It wouldn't make sense for Mother Nature to instill massive horniosity in people who aren't going to be around long enough to raise the results of their lustful predilections. What I'm getting at is two separate aspects of sexuality. One – orgasm. Two – the need to be fully treasured by another.
FS: But Grandma, what's that got to do with cougars?
Grandma: Pipe down, punk. I'm getting there.
FS: Yes Ma'am.
Grandma: The way I see it, cougars can be pathetic, or they can be powerful. The pathetic ones are the ones pursuing serial sex with younger guys because they are absolutely terrified of life without any Prince Charmings assuring them that the fairy tale can still come true.
FS: . . . and the powerful ones? What makes them powerful?
Grandma: Cougars are powerful because they know what they want. They go after their prey with single-minded determination. These cougars are powerful, FS, because they don't get wrapped up in the game. It's not personal to them. They're after enjoyment, no strings, no complications, no attachment. You could say that cougars represent the next stage in the sexual revolution, where free-love has become free for both parties. By that I mean that both parties are free from culturally dictated roles of playing chase or hard-to-get. People are free to have sex simply because they have agreed to.
FS: That explains orgasm, Grandma, but what about that other thing you said? That thing about being fully treasured by another?
Grandma: FS, you've been around long enough to know exactly what I'm talking about. Cougars can have that, too, although I'd argue that pursuing sex purely for the sake of sexual gratification likely means that being fully treasured becomes a momentary event rather the kind of fulfillment that a healthy long-term relationship can bring.
FS: So Grandma, are you saying that cougars are missing out?
Grandma: Not at all, Flat Stanley. I'm saying that some cougars are needy, and that some cougars know exactly what they're doing. Some cougars I feel sorry for, and some cougars I admire. Now go away. I'm baking cookies today and getting ready for a hot date with Grampa.
And stop looking at me like that. Yo momma wasn't brought by the stork and she wasn't hatched. And that's one thing I'm glad as hell about: No matter what age fella I chase after, there's no worries for me about being somebody's Baby Momma.
FS: Grandma!
Grandma: Cookies are done. Want one?
*
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Every Small Town
*
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.
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.
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.
*
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