Wait! Don't go!
Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Something changed. Don't freak out.
This is still FCN. Your old buddies. Sick, not-very-funny satire written in the back row of Spanish class for the last few years. It's us. Remember us? We just changed our look. Slowly, gently. Ease your mouse off that big X and read on.
Here at FCN, we're about more than just brownies, girls, and bad grades (though of course those are all wonderful things too).
I don't remember where that was going.
So let's get to the point: we've branched out. FCN now has a Twitter - yes, a Twitter - and a FormSpring. This allows you to ask us questions about anything, and allows us to tweet about anything you forget to ask about.
To symbolize these - upgrades? - we're tweaking the site format a bit as well. The tired old header that has graced this site for the past year or so has been replaced by a new, soon-to-be tired old header that will grace this site for a year or so. We decided to go for green as an apology for not posting anything on St Patrick's Day.
Check us out twitter:
And ask us something on formspring:
Oh and PS: this new format is a work in progress, so everything you hate about it is theoretically temporary.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Sometimes life isn't spicy enough. The regular ebb and flow of daily interaction proves alternatively interesting and difficult, but it occasionally needs a small dose of excitement added in to make it truly provocative. I had one such dose a few weeks ago when I visited my local bank to make a routine deposit. The teller who handled my business was, you guessed it, an attractive brunette with a captivating smile. She moved swiftly between orders before calling "next," signaling my turn. Hers was a gentle grace that would be more at home in a museum of art than a pecuniary cesspool like my local bank.
I wonder how many other bloggers have had occasion to use the phrase "
community pecuniary cesspool” today. I feel special.
Her nametag read "Claudia." I said hello. I don't remember what sort of small talk we engaged in, but I do recall that it was simultaneously provocative and inconsequential. In other words, it was spicy. Ours was the verbal repartee appropriate of two singles in a big world of hormones. She flipped her hair and I smiled too big. I imagine the behavioral psychologist observing the whole episode through the bank security system was on cloud nine.
I did not ask her number or give any indication of interest besides my subtle flirting. My attitude was, in the immortal paraphrased words of the late great Charles Dickens, “really cool.” Claudia felt, I'm sure, that my departure from her service window marked the end of the story.
At this point, it is appropriate to borrow a trick from the great novelists of yesteryear by jumping to a seemingly unrelated topic only to reveal its tangential connection in a paragraph or so.
Meet William, or Bill as he likes to be called. Bill is a venerable septuagenarian who works out at my gym. We became fast friends a year or so ago when he offered to spot me and I discovered his freakishly muscled build. His is the physique that amazes and frightens. He has the build of a much younger man. If I didn't know better, I would guess Bill supplemented his rigorous diet with MLB level animal steriods. But I do know better. Bill's physically dominant form is due only to his diligence in the weight room and a God-given predisposition for massive muscle.
As it so happens, Bill was behind me in line at the pecuniary cesspool (2!). He was the next customer to talk to Claudia. And, he told me later, the conversation went something like this:
Bill: So, Claudia, do you have weekend plans with your boyfriend? [This may seem like a weird question coming from a super buff 74 year old, but trust me, it's not.]
Claudia: I don't have a boyfriend. I'm just chilling with friends.
Bill: No kidding. Have you met Cody? ["Haaave you met Ted?"] He's the most responsible derelict I know. And he's single (between us, his relationships always seem to suffer from early exit syndrome). Have you thought about going out with him?
Claudia: Well, I think he's cute.
She thought I was cute! Can you believe that? No girl has ever told me that before (or yet, because Claudia only told Bill who parroted it back to me). Cute. As Bill recounted these words over the bicep press, I knew it sealed the deal. I was going to ask Claudia out on a date. The only question was how to make the request epic and legendary.
My chance came one short week later. I walked into the bank and saw Claudia on break. She
waived waved to me. I waived waved back. As I took care of my banking business, Claudia sat down by the exit to fiddle with her iPhone. I had to think quickly. I signed my name on the withdrawal slip and collected my receipt. Finished. I marched toward the exit and Claudia where we had the following exchange:
Me: Hey! Claudia, right?
Claudia: Yeah? [Smiling -- what a smile!]
Me: Did you take my deposit last week?
Me: I think you missed something...you didn't give me your number.
I had pulled a pen out of my pocket and extended my receipt toward her with a smile. She was surprised, but jotted down her digits. I took the paper, said I would call and walked out to my car. Epic and legendary.
The next day I set up the first date. That date turned into a second and the second a third. Things were going well. Claudia and I had chemistry and she seemed to enjoy my company almost as much as I enjoyed hers. But dark foreboding clouds loomed. Utopia is unsustainable.
After a movie on our third date, Claudia and I went for a walk in a local park. The conversation was light and she seemed cheerful, although a little apprehensive. I wondered at the cause of her reservation. Eventually she asked if we could sit down. Feeling the significance of her impending revelation, I acquiesced.
Claudia: C, I need to tell you something.
Me: Mmmhmm, what's that?
Claudia: I'm married.
Thunder and lightening! Fire and brimstone! Christopher Columbus! For the love of Brad and Angelina! She was married!? Married, as in a ring, a husband and a shockingly easy to void state license?
Me: I'm sorry. Come again?
Claudia: I'm married. When I was a teenager I married this guy. My family didn't approve. It was a mistake. He cheated on me. We are separated now.
Me: But you're still married to him.
Claudia spilled all the salacious details which, for the sake of brevity and innocence, I will mask here. It suffices to say that relations between Claudia and Marco were at an all time low. Only the delusional would predict an optimistic outcome.
It's hard to convey the gravity of that situation on a humor blog without portraying the picture with undue flippancy. I like and felt for Claudia. By her account, she'd done nothing wrong. Circumstances had victimized her terribly.
Claudia obviously wanted a disposition from me. She wanted to know if her marriage sounded the death knell for our budding relationship. I thought about giving her an answer, but knew that doing so would cheat the faithful FCN few out of a valuable opportunity to weigh in on my personal life.
So I put the question to you in all its glamor. Should I date a married woman? Is there a clear moral compass on this issue or is it an ethical vague area open to exploitation on emotional and or subjective whims? What would you do in my shoes? Let me know in the comment section and I'll make a decision based on your input.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Some of the earliest records of man's creativity are believed to have stone art. It was beautiful. Man had creativity. But what should he use his gift for? There was little question in the ancient man's mind: Food was awesome: so he drew food.
A man hunting antelope.
A man cooking antelope.
As man became tired of drawing using simple sticks and stones, it was found that paints could be made mixing various plants and organic materials (which is a nice way of saying animal innards). Ironically, the favored color was usually black, which happens to be the same exact color as the scratches made with sticks and stones.
History has records of almost every culture leaving behind some sort of artwork. This is good, not only for historical research, but for also for history text books, which would be unbearably boring without pictures.
An ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic of a chicken, representing the letter "A". c. 2500 B.C.
A Roman coin with a mug shot of Nero. c. 62 A.D.
Join us next time for part 2!