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Oh, how I have missed you all!

My travels have reached an end, and I am back on American soil.

My novel “Richman’s Class” is now available on Kindle for 0.99 $. You can check out a sample of it and let me know what you think.

Thelma just walked in with her German home-wrecker beau, so I better go and kick some butts right back out.

I will blog again tomorrow.

Until then!

SR

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Uncategorized

Still Alive

Dear WordPress-Family,

Stanfried is not dead! 

Yes- healthy, happy, and feeling awful for not having shared anything with you for the past two months.

Where has this crazy old man gone to? Some of you may have thought I got hit by a bus, or that the (ex)wife Thelma has, with her lover, chopped my head off in the middle of the night.

No and no. 

Europe. Europe stole my heart. I am here (for a while), chatting with birds, getting lost in the woods, cleansing my mind, drinking wine, eating three tons of cheese, finishing my book… And… Now you ladies won’t believe this, but this wrinkle-pot here has been lifting weights. 

I feel young again. 

I better go now, but I will try to upload a photograph for you all to see.

We all have a lot of catching up to do.

Love,

SR
   
Spending my days here.

   

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blogging, books, christianity, events, family, home, life, marriage, news, romance, Stanfried

My Wife Left Me For A Young Tourist

Here I am – a vulnerable idiot.
It happened in 2013. Christmas was just around the corner. And so was my doom. I didn’t know.
Because Andrew, my sometimes lazy son, forgot to bring us a Christmas tree, I stole his sweetheart daughter, my granddaughter, to go tree-hunting with me.
Let me cut it short:
 
While buying her some hot chocolate to thaw the frost that was swathing her face, we met a man. His name was Helmut – a German tourist who had lost his wallet and (with the wallet he also lost his money, documents, and hotel key), asked if we had a telephone he could use. 
Now, being the old-school man that I am – I didn’t have a cell phone. Never had one. Nor do I plan on having one anytime soon…
I pitied Helmut. He seemed anxious. Like his life could end without that phone call.
We asked him to help us carry the tree to the car and took him home with us. Make as many phone calls as you wish, I said.
Done. But the snow was mad. It turned into a winter bath. It would have been callous to let him leave in that weather. He had no money to pay for his hotel. He had no one to go to. He had no documents. He should stay, said Thelma. Okay, I said.
He picked up his clothes from the hotel and spent Christmas with my big family.  (They all loved Helmut, and thought it was a good idea to let him stay – it felt like we had a 37-year-old exchange student over).
Christmas was over. Helmut’s plan was not to return to Germany, but to stay in America. He wanted to find a job, an apartment, and his brother was going to send him some money soon.
We made a deal. Stay until you find a place. He did. He helped around the house (repairs, even some domestic work – which I truly appreciated at the time).
Two months later, he found a studio apartment just down the road.
16 MONTHS LATER:
March 05, 2015:
I was reading a book when Thelma, my wife of over thirty years and Helmut decide to crush my heart in my very own home.
An affair.
Which started a good month after I brought Helmut in.
They are in love. Thelma is tired of being chained, she says – of being married to the same person for so long, of raising “my” kids, of not being able to enjoy life.
She did enjoy it. She was an unknown girl when we met. She had nothing. I gave her everything.
They are to move to Germany together, because Thelma wants to start all over – with Helmut. She wants to live. Live her life.
She was my life.
Apparently I have been nothing but a leech in hers.
Heart-broken.
Thank you for the panic attacks. For destroying me. For making me the one to break our children by telling them, “Your mother is leaving. With Helmut.”
Perhaps I should write a book, I might, pour it all out until my mind decides to accept reality.
What else can one do?
I just cannot believe she fucked him in my house.
I have nothing left to say.
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books, dorrance publishing, history, literature, publishing, self-publishing

DORRANCE PUBLISHING – BEWARE!

Dear WordPressers,

Publishing today can be a hassle.

Agents won’t even consider you unless you are a “name.”

Publishers won’t even read you unless, well, you are a “name,” or you have an agent.

So what do we do? We look for other ways to get our works out there.

I came across “Dorrance Publishing,” and decided it would be best to warn you all, in case some of you consider going with them.

They are scam. Yes. They will charge you around 8000 for 50 pages, and double that for 100 pages to print your breathtaking novel! And once they see that you are not interested, they will stalk you… until you are nine feet under soil and devoured by maggots.

Stay away from Dorrance Publishing. Self-publishing is the way to go.

SR

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art, books, Education, literature, russian literature

FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY VS E.L. JAMES?

theidiot

Forgive me. Behold me get on my knees and beg you all for forgiveness.

Why?

Because I, a culprit whose head is worthy of being severed from the body with the blade of a French guillotine, have just committed a crime (and I shall never be free of guilt) by plopping the sacred Fyodor Dostoyevsky into the same subject line as E.L. James.

Everything in life has a catalyst. You go to the bathroom, because you have to pee. You eat a hamburger, because your stomach bells start ringing. You go to a funeral, because somebody was taken from life.

I am writing this post, because a teenager on the train today forced me to write it. I was on the train on my way home from the city, reading one of my favorite books: Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. A new generation sitting in front of me was curious about the title, and asked me what it was about. After telling her the whats and the whens (it was written) and the who’s (it was written by), I got nothing out of her other than: “Meh. Why would anyone write a book like that?”

She went on and on about how people back then wrote because there were no other jobs for them to do. She called them lazy drunks. She also went on asking if I ever read “literature” of today.

It depends, I said, as I am someone who will give just about anything a try, although I find it hard to find the kind of literature today that could hold a candle to the works of centuries ago.

“You have to read Fifty Shades of Gray!” she said. “The writer is amazing. I could really get into the book and connect with all of the characters.”

“Okay,” I said. I had heard about Fifty Shades of Gray before, but the title never really tickled my fancy.

So I got home. I grabbed the kindle my darling granddaughter got me, and I browsed for Fifty Shades of Gray to see what the hype was about.

One page in, I thought about the girl’s comment, “The writer is amazing.”

Now, this may be because I’m an old man, but I saw nothing close to amazing in her style. Let me rephrase that. I saw no style at all. What I saw was a bundle consisting of about twenty words, and those twenty words scattered all over the book.

E.L. JAMES cannot write. But why would anyone call her, or the book, amazing? Why would a book of such sickening subject matter gain the kind of “VIP STATUS” it did? And how on earth can a book like Fifty Shades ever be compared with the classics of masterminds whose hands produced some of the most touching, thought-provoking books that will forever live on?

I don’t know. But all I know is that, while reading the book, I had to stop, stop before my eyes dropped out of their sockets with hapless cries. This is not literature. This is nothing. Nothing at all. It’s worse than the rotten foods that escape our bodies once they have had their time to “Settle down.”

shite

To add some humor (alas, very sad one!) to this subject. I checked the customer reviews of all Dostoyevsky (and even Tolstoy) books to see the kind of comments and thoughts people had after reading their work.

I saw stuff like:

“Awful! I bought the book and had to throw it away because its such bullshit not even my bookshelf wanted to have it!”

“What a douche! I guess publishers would publish just about anyone back then!”

“I bought this for my child and regret it! He hates it!”

“I think the writer was really trying to show off by using way too many and too complicated words. He must have been using a Thesaurus??”

“Hell no! Worst buy ever! Glad times have changed.”

“Lazy a** drunken writers who cant write. Writing the most depressing sh**s ever and claiming they know everything about life. Some of the chapters make no sense at all.”

And then I went back to Fifty Shades of Gray to look at some of the comments there. While there were many who agreed with me, this time I will go ahead and choose some out of the majority to show just what awful a situation this is.

“Best writer ever! I love EL James and cant wait for more from her!”

“Love it”

“Truly enjoyed it”

“Yes the sex is hot, hot, hot, but I love the storyline even better!!!”

“Best book ever! So much better then the movie itself . Its so intense and sexy. It transported me to another world”

“Best book I have read! This is my 4 th time. I saw the movie and just had to re read the book!”

Unfortunately, writers, and books like E.L. James, rob other “talented” writers of their chances to be seen. People, our generation, is becoming more and more obsessed with these nauseating SM novels that seem as though they have been written for little kids with its “prose” that they won’t even give other works a chance. Especially if those other works contain no sex.

It makes me sad. Sad to be living in today. Maybe I ought to blush. Yes. I go to my room now and “I blush.”

P.S. How can you know that you are blushing without looking in a mirror? And when you look in that mirror, please don’t tell me, “I look at my pretty blue eyes.”

P.P.S Ladies: If you had to choose between Prince Myshkin and Christian Gray – who would be your pick?

Gentlemen: If you had to choose between Nastassya Filippovna or Anastasia Fifty – who would be your pick?

SR

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art, books, literature, poems, poetry

BOOKS OF POETRY ONE SHOULD READ

Well, hello. How long has it been since old chap Stanfried posted something? You must all forgive me. I have been busy playing around with the kindle (thanks to my granddaughter who introduced me to it!) that I had little to no time to stroke the keys of my computer.

A fan of literature and poetry, I was able to find some wonderful gems on the kindle. Here is a list of what I just finished reading:

1 Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

2) The Road Not Taken and Other Poems (Dover Thrift Editions)Apr 19, 1993 by Robert Frost

3) Great Short Poems by Paul Negri

4)  POEMS FOR KYRIOS QUENTIN TARANTINO by the Nyxon sisters.

While all of these titles were/are bowls of sugary refreshment, I must admit that my favorite read was “Poe’ms for Kyrios Quentin Tarantino.”

Now, I know not much about the man himself, but the ladies that penned these poems seem to be stuck in the wrong era, because their language skills are superb. Pure brilliance that brings past centuries back to life. A definite must read.

In the meanwhile, go check these books out, and if there are any books you want me to check out on my new kindle device, please leave a comment with your suggestions!

SR

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cook, cookbook, David Fincher, domestic, Fight Club, films, Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl, hollywood, housekeeper, how to be a good wife, how to cook, maid, misogyny, movies, Polanski, Se7en, sexism, wife, women

David Fincher is The Savior Of A Sick Generation

An old chump I am. An old soul I am not.

I know about movies.

Although, back in the days we had good flicks. We had pure flicks. Oh, we had fine flicks, let me tell ya! I’m talking about those evil birds, that devil coming out of Rosemary’s womb, the horny graduate, that psycho kid, the strange love doc, easy rider, 8 1/2 kind of fine.

And then you little ankle biting zits came along and ruined it all with some seriously abysmal Gen-triple-X twitchlight kind of poop that had me staggering on the verge of suicide.

But there is one cat, a very fine cat, who might just have saved this flawed gen with films that are just way cool. His second film made me open every box I ever received with the excitement of a baby. His fourth film… well, now, here we have it. I watched it. I didn’t take the wife with. Such powerful movies aren’t meant to be watched by the other kind. Plus – I had some old kids from the past visiting the next day from out of town, so the wife stayed home, making sure the house’d be neat for my guests.

Anyway.

I watched the film. And then I went home. And then the wife had an attitude. And then I thought about what I had just seen. And I remembered that I am a man. And then something happened…

I won’t talk about it. Thelma (the wife) knows not how to use the internet, but you just never know with these women. They always find a way to spy on their beloved other half. These trust issues… even if life has glued you two together for forty or sixty or eighty years already.

Now.

Mister David Fincher is his name and oh god damnit, I shall bow before him and kiss his feet if I must, kiss his feet for, at last, we have got someone who does not fear to plant women where they belong:

The kitchen.

and

The bedroom.

I also watched Gone Girl. Mister Fincher has turned a mediocre book and a badly written screenplay into a visual wow. Although…

Gillian Flynn is trying too hard to be cool. She’s trying too hard… too hard to have a penis so that she can get that “wow” effect from others. “Wow, Gillian’s a cool chick.” Right, Misses Flynn? She is a closet feminist portraying herself as a manist.

Now let’s get to the actual point. Why am I really writing this? I have read article after article written by bitter chicks who seem to just recently have learned the definition of “misogyny” and now have that sudden urge to viciously attack anyone who portrays the woman not as a hero.

Ohhhh ohhhh nooooo! Mia Farrow gave birth to a little devil and not a little blue-eyed, fat-cheeked boy! Oh, no! Mister Polanski is a misogynist! How could he!

So now Mister Fincher’s flicks are sexist, testosterone-spitting flicks. And they are. I agree. They have lots of testosterone, but isn’t everyone turned on by testosterone? We live in a society now where women want to be like men.

They want a man’s job. They want a man’s brain. They want a man’s clothes. They want a man’s shoes. They want a man’s wallet. They want a man’s bank account. They want a man’s car. They want a man’s behavior. They want a man’s dick without anyone seeing it.

Sorry, it’s not working, so go cool your chops, little miss chicky chicks. Ya only shoving the stick of idiocy up your own ass.

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