We never talk any more. Well, I do, but these guys? Fuuuuuuu...

Action is the real measure of intelligence.

   - Napoleon Hill

Unknown to my favorite Flysters, I have created a Room to Swing a Cat for the last 4 weeks! Right here at my desk, yes indeed.

Haven’t had the time to publish a single one.

And yes, I wrote this last week, too. And the week before.

Let’s see if it makes it into the book this week...

Meantime, Spring done spranged: did too, little crocuses and lilies and bulby things are sprouting in places we didn’t know they were planted here at our rented house, and it’s a lovely surprise.

On other fronts, the bank will sell my house on March 28 to the highest bidder. Foreclosure, here we come. I await it eagerly, not too eagerly, but in the same way one awaits a dental visit to fix a broken tooth: please, for God’s sake, can we get this shit over with?

On yet other fronts, my new job remains lovely, to the degree that a very commonplace event took me by surprise last week: my team went out for drinks after work. It was heavenly, mostly because the event reaffirmed a suspicion I’ve had that I don’t work with a bunch of assholes. No, these guys are good folk, and I enjoy their company. Bonus!

Helped that a vendor showed up and paid the bill. Vendors are nice that way.

On other-other fronts, my wife, little over-achiever she is, is headed into her last two months of school, then she’ll graduated with an Associates Degree in Cardiovascular Technology. Her GPA is an inhuman 3.98, and she’ll probably be able to use the term summa cum laude on her resume, which I discovered means “with highest honor” and has nothing whatsoever to do with the porn industry, although skill-wise, I might add...

There are plenty of other fronts to report on, but I usually end up digressing to the point of numbness, and I have to get into the afternoon flurry of meetings now.

Originals here.


Dear Prudie,
My sister and I found out a few years ago that we have a half-sister from an affair my father had. The half-sister is eager to have a relationship with me and my sister. If I decide I want a relationship with my half-sister, how can I go about it in a way that doesn't hurt my family?
—In the Middle

Dear Completely Clueless,

Here are a few things normal people can do which I’d like to share with you:

1. Speak (in their native tongue) to other human beings about stuff
2. Use discretion and care when communicating difficult or confusing ideas
3. Be heard clearly and fully by others, as their heads are no as far up their asses as yours is so their mouth is in the clear

So this little soap opera is baffling you? This pissy little drama – about as compelling and fearsome as, say, a comic book – has you at a loss?

Fuck me. I had no idea people could be that goddamn frail and cloddish and still have enough brain functionality to operate their lungs and circulatory systems.

Tell you what: let your sister handle this. You are a fucking idiot.

Note: the rest of us would call her and have a conversation, because, you know, we can use our words like real good as you haven’t did.


Dear Prudence,
Last year I started working as a clerical assistant in a large law firm. Every St. Patrick's Day the office throws a big bash. Everyone in the office received an invitation. However, a week before the party, the clerical staff received an e-mail asking us to sign up to work during the event checking coats. I was shocked. I'm torn about what to do. Do you think it is appropriate for the company to hand out invitations and then tell us we can attend only if we work? Should I swallow my pride and go again this year and work, or should I make up some excuse to stay home?
—Got My Irish Up

Dear Blarney Stoner,

Do you have a sister and a half sister who’s pregnant? No? Sorry: different imbecile.

Lets get all kindsa theoretical here: Say I am a person who owns a company – a law firm, perhaps – and I decide that throwing a party is just the shizzle dizzle. Here’s how I shall word my invitation:


…Note: clerical staff are required to blow me, wash my car, walk my dog, and vacuum the parking lot in order to attend. Also, female clerical staff must wear sexy lingerie (or be completely naked), and men…well, you aren’t actually invited, because we want first dibs on the hot female clerical staff, and what the hell, why compete?


See what I did? Now: You know why I did that?

Because I can, you bloody dipshit. I'm the boss, even if I am an asshole.  Any more questions?

The rest of us would flip a coin – sometimes it pays to be a junior staff member who does the shit work, as they occasionally get to become senior staff members.


Dear Prudence,
My son's fiancee has become a true bridezilla. The bridesmaids are all in bright colors and the older women in dark shades she picked. I was told that an alternative color, which would have looked better on me, was not in her palette. I design textiles, so I know what works on my over-voluptuous body. Is it now common practice for brides to tell the parents what to wear for weddings? I hope it is just prenuptial madness and that she will return to the sweet young woman I knew before all this wedding planning began.
—Biting My Tongue

Dear Nuptial Noob,

If I have said this once I have said it a million times: weddings, for whatever reason, cause otherwise normal, sane, responsible, kind, gentle, generous people to become dreadfully horrifying creatures of unholy darkness who are best dealt with by shooting them right between their fucking eyes and walking away like a goddamn boss.

This includes mothers in law.

Wear the dress, don’t wear the dress…nobody gives a shit but you and her. Make a choice, mumsy, and get it over with. It matters not that you are a fat textile designer: this is a wedding, so everyone is fucked.

The rest of us….would be just as fucked, but likely better equipped to deal with it somehow, I suppose…but maybe not…weddings…scary…scaaaaary…


Dear Prudence,
I am single. A man who works in a different department and I have been making goo-goo eyes at each other in the hallways and cafeteria for several months. We have not spoken, and he does not know my name. Recently, he approached a co-worker in my department asking the name and status of the "woman with the long dark hair." That co-worker thought he was speaking of someone else in our department who recently moved in with her boyfriend and informed him of this. When my co-worker shared this information at the water cooler with practically everyone in our department, I didn't speak up. Now I'm concerned that my opportunity to potentially date this man is lost. Do you think I should do anything to correct the situation?
—Bad Intel

Dear Lack of Intel(ligence),

You, girl. Him, boy. Goo goo eyes? You mean in the hallways on the way to recess?

Why, I wonder, would you think little kiddy play time is at an end? Are your goo goo eyes broken?

And I need to ask: when your co-worker shared the mistaken information at the water cooler about the wrong goo goo eyed girl, and you “didn’t speak up” in front of “practically everyone”…what would you have said? “It was me! The whole time, Me, I say! He wants to finger bang ME, you sillyheads! And you RUINED IT!”

The rest of us are all growed up and able to, even if haltingly, talk to members of the opposite sex about stuff like finger banging, so we’d have it handled.


I have decided that wearing a tie to the office in a business casual world is not so bad – guy who sits next to me wears a bow tie every so often, and rocks it surprisingly well.

Today is my Bill Blass peacock pattern, deep green to go with my slacks, over plain white button down shirt and a pair of Aldo’s that are so comfortable I could sleep in them. Fashion statement, me. Who knew?

Cheers my Flysters.
STC =^oo^=


  1. Schuyler! So glad to read your oh so insightful comments again!

    Congrats to Mrs Cat...

    Glad you like your job, wish I could see your amazing sartorial displays.

    I'm with you on this week's letters, though of course I lack your poetic skills.

    I'm still surprised (and surprised that I'm surprised) by that silly woman who doesn't dare call her half sister because her parents might get upset. You know there seems to be some vague undercurent in her letter that by communicating with her half sister she would in some way be complicit with her father's adultery?

    Well, I've got my own weird undercurrents in that little brain of mine, but at least I know they're weird!

    I can't quite remember what the other letters are, oh I now remember the poor mother in law to be and her wedding dress --go figure! My own statistically insignificant impression is that the more elaborate and stiff the wedding, the shorter the marriage will be... On the other hand a fun wedding with everyone relaxed and dancing shoeless and drinking and eating all together (including eventually the hotel staff!) makes for a solid marriage...

  2. PS: I sure like the other Napoleon's quote!

    You know, I'm a fan of Charles Sanders Peirce who argued that the meaning of any utterance or thought is the action it leads to... The meaning in this sense is retrospective... (speaking of weird!)

  3. Yay! You're back! It gladdens me tremendously to see you so relaxed and... Schuyler-like. You are right on all counts and now it's ME that's so dreadfully behind on everything.

    I'm deeply grateful and obnoxiously smug that I dodged all manner of wedding crapola by moving every five years or so for the past couple of decades. Every time I hear about some of the nonsense and taradiddle that goes on, I breathe yet another sigh of relief, followed by a sotto voce, "Sucks to be you.....sucker.

    Even in the City of Wind, my daffodils are coming up. The ferns are looking like they might start waking up, too. Now, if only I could start wearing shorts....but alas, it still freezes at night. Perhaps The Boy will start wearing his Doc Marten's and shorts ensemble soon.

  4. Yeah, weddings. Bloody hell, weddings. That "sucks to be you, sucker" line of thought for me is frequently followed by a statement such as "your paid what?!"

    Lemme tell you about a wedding: 1 California boy, recently wealthy, but soon some religious zealots would fly airplanes into buildings and fuck everybody's lives up. 1 Canadian chick, utterly gorgeous and has only met above Californian three months earlier.

    It was a two and a half hour drive. To Las Vegas.

    The little chapel by the courthouse, and the same pastor who married Brittney to some dickhead a few years later.

    A few drinks, because hey: it's Vegas. Followed by a slow motion chase scene on the escalators in the MGM Grand, near the lion's habitat, undoubtedly watched by security who may have considered sending security after the drunken fools who, on the odd occasion when they caught one another, made out for a few minutes before resuming the chase.

    The buffet at Mandarin Bay saved us from headaches the next morning for the drive back.

    My family? They found out three months later.

    That's a goddamn wedding, yo.

  5. Sounds like the best wedding ever!