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Posts published by “Flynn Washburne”

The Stony Lonesome: Escape From Boredom

If prison has taught me anything — and it damn well better have, representing at this point about 23% of my life thus far, a…

Summertime Blues, Ain’t No Cure

I don't want to poke at any sore spots — I am nothing if not sensitive to the triggers and flashpoints of the paper's readership…

The Stony Lonesome: Here Kitty

There is a particular type of addict known colloquially as a "garbagehead." I might more appropriately say that there's a general rather than particular stripe…

The Stony Lonesome: Stereotypes

If I were a big game hunter, one place I would absolutely not ply my trade would be a zoo. It wouldn't be an honest…

The Stony Lonesome: Open Mic In Caspar

It was a lovely early summer Albion day and I was enjoying it in the front yard with my Hungarian bombshell neighbor. Hungarian-American, I suppose…

One Mean Redskin

It appears that Native Americans are currently part of the national cultural conversation and I — well, wait. I should probably qualify that by saying…

The Stony Lonesome: A Coastal Home Companion

And now the news from Fort Bragg, where the women are patient, the men spend a lot of time at home, and the children are around here somewhere… It's officially summer and the marijuana is already as high as a Doberman's thigh. It's expected to be a bumper crop this year if you talk to Rollie Deschutes down at the Weed Feed 'n' Seed as some do, though I wouldn't recommend it, given the condition of his oral hygiene… Rollie's let himself "go to pot," so to speak, since that big disappointment with the VFW poetry contest in the early spring. Turned out the whole thing was a fever dream brought on by a surfeit of immature peyote buttons served to him in the guise of Brussel sprouts by his practical joking cousin Ephraim. Rollie's 5,000-word ode to jellybeans, written entirely in squid ink on discarded plywood sheets, will be on display at the back of the store until August.

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