The Opening...

Sorry for my delay, folks. My computer finally bit the dust, so I've got to steal a few minutes from work in order to post.

But to continue...

As I was saying, Shelley bungalow nights are always full of fun and merryment. She was living in her Aunt's back yard in Torrance before she married Matt. And as a bit of trivia, the photo you see at the top right (with me wearing my bug-eye glasses) was taken at her Aunt's house in Shelley's "front yard" on New Year's Eve one year.

On the night in question, Shelley had assembled the usual suspects: Matt & Shelley, of course; Michelle & Mateo, who were "just friends" at the time; Geoff & Emily, who hadn't been married long; Matt & Raven, his mail-order wife from the Phillipines...and me and Alba.

(By the way, you ever notice how you always put the name of the person you've known longest first? For instance, I knew Michelle long before I met Mateo, so naturally it's "Michelle & Mateo," and not the other way around. But I only met Raven after she came back from her and Matt's Phillipino "shotgun wedding" with Matt wearing a scottish kilt with the photos to prove it (even though he's not Scottish), so it's "Matt & Raven." Do you do the same thing?)

I don't exactly remember how Shelly got away with insisting that everyone be present for "the opening," but somehow it happened. We're all sitting in our pow-wow circle in Shelley's tiny, hot-as-hell living room when it's finally time to open my present from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman].

Naturally, I'm curious to know what Ms. [grotesquely fat woman] would get me for my birthday and how the hell she knew it was, in fact, my birthday. But I'm also not as gullible as you might think, and I knew Shelley must have been up to something. But who am I to stop the fun?

So the gift is presented amid the hushed crowd, as everyone looks on expectantly. Excitedly, I tear off the wrapping, and open the box inside it...and pull out...wait for it...and big, black dildo dubbed the "Jr. Dong," with a note in lovely, flowery writing that says:

Happy Birthday, Aaron.

I hope you get as much enjoyment from this as I did!

-Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]

Obviously, I must show the crowd my lovely new gift, so out comes the wobbly "Jr. Dong" for all to see--including the incredibly scandalized Raven, who was a bit more conservative than we realized, I think.

So everyone's howling except for the scandalized Raven, when Alba pulls out Mr. Jr. Dong and starts waving it around herself, and making favorable comparisons between its 7" length and my own personal dong, which I don't discourage.

So anyway, it was all a riot. Even Raven finally relaxed, and after about a million "Oh, my God's" and had to admit is was pretty damn funny.

So after that, the Jr. Dong started making the rounds as it became tradition to pass it on to someone else at the next birthday. I happen to remember another scene in a nice restaurant, when out came the Jr. Dong at Heather's birthday. (I think it was Heather's birthday, but don't quote me on it.)

But with time, the Jr. Dong has passed into legend, and no one is sure what its fate was. Maybe it's still out there...waiting for the day it will rise again.

The Stan

It's My Birthday!

It's my birthday today. And Alba has been saying "Happy Birthday" to me for a week, "just in case she forgets." In fact, she was in such a hurry, that we celebrated on Sunday with some Chinese takeout from the Emerald Garden. (Alba has to work late all this week, so Sunday it was.)

Anyway, every year my parents usually get me an Amazon gift certificate, which is definitely the best present anyone could ever give me. I probably tithe my income to Amazon.com.

But the most memorable gift I ever received was from none other than Matt and Shelley...although they led me to believe it was from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]...

One day, I'm hanging out with Matt and Shelley, when Shelley informs me, "Hey, The Stan, I have something for you from Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]!"

"Ms. [grotesquely fat woman]?" I ask.

"Yeah, she tried to catch you after church the other day, but you had already left. So she wanted me to give it to you."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," said Shelley, "It's a present."

"A present?"

"Yeah, it's your birthday this week, right?"

"Yeah...but how would Ms. [grotesquely fat woman] know?"

"I don't know, but she must have known because she gave me a present to give you."

"Have you been spending a lot of time with Ms. [grotesqely fat woman], Stan?" Matt asks.

"No!" I quickly deny. "Well...I guess I talk to her every now and then...It's hard to avoid her." Matt and Shelley chuckle. "But I wouldn't say I spend a lot of time with her."

"Well, you must have made quite an impression," Shelley says as Matt tries to conceal a smile, "because she got a present for you."

"Okaaay?" I say somewhat skeptically.

"But I forgot to bring it," Shelley says, slumping her shoulders and acting disappointed. Then, she brightens and says, "But we're having a little get together at my bungalo next weekend, why don't you come?"

Well, I can't refuse an invitation like that...Shelley bungalow nights are always full of fun and merryment!

Tomorrow...the rest of the story.

The Stan

What's Really On My Mind

I changed my mind about blogging about farts again today. So if you were really looking forward to me expounding on SBDs (silent but deadlies), then I'm sorry to disappoint you.

I'd rather my blog not descend into the realms of toilet humor (any more than it already has)...and I certainly don't walk around thinking about farts all day, the way I do about sex.

I mean seriously.

They say guys think about sex about every six seconds or so...and I'm beginning to think that's probably true. I can be deep in thought about the most serious issue...when here comes this random thought about...

...nice supple breasts...

...a pair of shapely legs...

...a lovely round ass...

or...

...

What is it about sex, anyway?

In fact, here I am, right at this very moment, writing up my blog, thinking about sex...

Give me a second, here...

...

...

Okay, I'm back...oh wait, hold on...

...

...

Now...what were we talking about, again?

Oh, yeah!

...

...

Niiiiiice!

...

...

The Stan

An Introduction To Flatology

I think farts are hilarious.

Now before you start accusing me of being an unsophisticated, uncouth, crass, blue-collar yokel consider this: I didn't invent the things. God did.

And God had to have had a sense of humor when he invented them. Imagine creating a race of beings who walk around blowing hot, smelly gas out their ass, and often very LOUDLY.

Everyone has gas at one time or another (even the President). Its just a matter of how bad, how often, and whether it happens in public. I have a friend who is so flatulently repressed he says he has never farted...ever. And if he has to, he holds it in.

Now I don't know about you, but if I've got a lot of air pressure pushing against my sphincter, I'm going to let it out! It's where it's supposed to go...it's the natural order of things. Holding it in just postpones the inevitable, and makes it a whole lot worse. Like procrastinating on paying your bills...there WILL be a reckoning day!

Now, the degree of humor in any given fart situation is a function of how loud it is, how raunchy it is, how many people are in the "kill zone," and how embarrassed the flatulator is.

So what is flatology? It's the scientific study of flatulence. According to flatologists, flatulations are classified according to their three primary characteristics, known as the "Three 'S's": sound, smell, and spread.

1. Sound: The sound is made up of a combination of various measurable elements: volume (decibel level), length, timbre, pitch, repetition, etc., including their change over time. This is expressed in a series of graphs, mapping these sound characteristics over time.

2. Smell: Anywhere from "diffuse" to "deadly." It also takes into account the "delay factor," which is calculated as a function of the air density differential, the temperature differential, and wind speed/direction.

3. Spread: The precise dimensions of the "kill zone" and its change over time. This is represented by a series of graphs showing concentric rings of decreasing intensity from the source and the precise degree of exposure within each radius. Since the "delay factor" is directly related to spread, spread is also dependent on the air density differential, the temperature differential, and wind speed/direction.

Therefore, it stands to reason that the worse fart possible would max out in all three categories...while the most innocuous would barely register in any category.

However, there is a special subcategory, popularly known as the "silent but deadly" which barely registers on sound meters, but maxes out the other two. It can be argued that this is, in fact, the worst possible flatulation because bystanders have no early warning sign, and are, therefore, caught in the "kill zone" unawares until it's too late.

It is this special subcategory that is the subject of my next post...

The Stan

1989 Cheap Jerokee

I picked up another vehicle over the weekend. Finally...Alba and I each have our own car. She'll drive the 1996 Toyota Corolla, and I'll drive the 1989 Cheap Jerokee. I call it my "Cheap Jerokee" because I got such a great deal on it.

Consider this:

One owner, a lady, who bought it new and took it in for maintenance every 3000 miles. Good cosmetic condition, clean inside, no mechanical problems, no accidents reported (I checked the carfax record). $1450.

Even if you consider it in overall fair condition, that's still over $400 below blue book trade in value. I just couldn't pass it up. (By the way, the photo isn't an actual photo of my Jeep. Too lazy to break out the camara. But it does look very similar to mine. Same color.)

I like driving my Cheap Jerokee. It's certainly more "manly" than the little Toyota Corolla.

And there's a lot more room in the back seat, if you catch my drift. (In fact, I'll definitely be testing out that back seat sometime this week. It DOES happen to be Alba's birthday this week, so....)

The Stan

Tales From the College Years, No. 1

Once upon a time during my college years, I was roaming the halls of the music building when I noticed I was being noticed.

It felt a bit cooler than usual in Ellis Hall that morning. Probably because I was wearing my thin, tan kackis that day as opposed to my usual jeans, since I had to teach that afternoon.

Anyway, lots of looks and smiles were coming my way from some very attractive women and I suddenly felt like a stud. I stood up straighter, smiled back, and said "How's it going?" as I continued down the hall.

All morning this was happening, and I was having a such a great day.

Later, around lunch time, I walked out to my car and as I was sitting down into the driver's seat, I heard a rip. I knew what happened immediately. I could feel the rip in my pants just as I sat down.

So I reached down to survey the damage, and to my horror I realized there was no way that little rip caused my pants tear in half all the way up the butt crack.

Suddenly, understanding dawned.

The whole morning flashed before my eyes like a film in fast forward. All the "flirting" ladies weren't flirting at all...they were laughing at my butt-flap flying like a tan kacki flag in the wind, while my tighty whities mooned all of Ellis Hall.

No wonder it was so cold that morning.

Relating this story, it occurs to me that every single pair of pants I have ever owned in my entire lifetime has bitten the dust the same way: a rip in the crotch. It's as predictable as the sunrise.

I know with 100% certainty that when I buy a new pair of pants, they will go in the garbage within two years from a rip in the crotch. It's only a matter of time...and whether it happens in public or not.

Am I cursed, or something? Why does this happen to me?

It's a good thing I have a sense of humor about it, because it's just the sort of thing to cause a complex!

But I am relieved about one thing, though: I'm glad I found out about my loose butt-flap when I was safely in the car. I can only imagine the "walk of shame" all the way to my car, knowing people were staring and sniggering all the way.

The Stan

Love That Chickin'!

I haven't eaten at Popeyes in at least a year! So yesterday, I decided I needed to get my Popeyes fix.

I remember eating at this place as a kid in San Antonio. But then, when my family moved to Springfield, MO (home of the Simpsons) the closest Popeyes was in St. Louis.

But THEN, I moved to blessed L.A., where there are Popeyes located anywhere the demographics support it. Thank God for black people. If it weren't for them, I'd never get my Popeyes.

Now, I hope no one out there construes this comment as in any way racist, because the fact is, I love black people! I'm fascinated, for example, by the fact that every single black person on the face of the planet knows how to dance...and I don't.

But more than that, I LOVE soul food. (Which is really just good 'ole Southern cookin'.) And there's nothing that will get me feeling all warm and fuzzy about a particular ethnic group like the quality of their food.

Take the Japanese, for instance. I love the Japanese! Fresh sushi is one of earth's heavenly delights! Or the Chinese. I know they didn't invent Cashew Chicken, but they were at least the inspiration for it, so I love the Chinese!

Now the Vietnamese, on the other hand, I've never developed particularly fond feelings for...probably because the slightest whiff of anything they cook makes me want to wretch.

Anyway, back to Popeyes. If you've never eaten there, you're missing a real treat. Their buttermilk biscuits with a bit of honey are delicious. The spicy fried chicken is awesome. But the best thing they've ever had is the fried crawfish basket. (Or "crayfish" or "crawdad" or whatever you want to call it. I always called them "crawdads," but it's impossible to say that word without it dripping with "Southern charm.")

Speaking of "crawdads," it's getting about that time to make my twice-yearly pot of gumbo. You can bet I'll be blogging about it, because this is always a special time for me. There is no other dish like gumbo!

The Stan

The Natural History Museum

I love the L.A. County Natural History Museum. It's kind of small...not nearly the size of Chicago, New York, or the Smithsonian. But there is one area of the museum that's world class: The Hall of Gems & Minerals.

I must admit: I love rocks and minerals. Call me a nerd if you want to, but I just think they're so cool. I even have a little collection of my own. (And I belong to the Mineral of the Month Club!)

But the museum has some SPECTACULAR specimens. And the exhibit is HUGE!

I went there with a friend of mine last Saturday and most of the day was spent in the mineral hall. Sure, they have those cool dinosaur skeletons from the Mesozoic and skeletons of extinct mammals from the Cenozoic, and those cool diaramas of North American and African mammals. And the Latin American History wing, the History of California exhibit where they have a gigantic model of what L.A. looked like in the 30s. Then they have the insect zoo (which isn't quite as cool as it sounds). And some other rotating exhibits.

But the Gem & Mineral Hall is the crown jewel (pun definitely intended) of the museum. The photo you see is only part of one wall and displays specimens arranged according to systematic mineralogy.

Another wall shows minerals and crystals of California. Then there is the gold exhibit. The meteorite exhibit. The classic specimens (some of which are extraordinarily spectacular). Fluorescent specimens. The "Gem Vault" where you literally walk into a vault containing hundreds of precious cut gemstones. Plus interactive stations showing how crystals are formed, etc. (Oh, and they have one of the largest crystal balls in the world and its flawless.)

I can't wait to go again. I never get tired of that Hall. There's just something about these crystals...all those different colors and shapes...it's remarkable to think of them as natural phenomenon. They're just so beautiful!

But there's nothing at all really complicated about them. They're just regularly arranged structures of basic elements.

Take stibnite, for example. It has a distinctively metallic hue and forms in groups of long, thin crystals. I have a stibnite sample at home. It's beautiful. But it's just Antimony Sulfide arranged in a regular pattern. Galena is Lead Sulfide, also arranged in a regular pattern, but the crystals are much larger and can form in gigantic cubes.

So...simple compounds...regular patterns...beautiful crystals.

Dr. Nerdstan

Epilogue: A Shitty Day in Mexico

I occurs to me after re-reading my posts about my shitty day in Mexico, that perhaps I was too hard on "M." After all, I could have said no from the very beginning to taking someone else along on my and Alba's day trip.

That was my first mistake, and mine alone. I do remember Alba asking me about it, and I obviously didn't think through all the ramifications of taking along someone else. (Particularly the part about leaving much later than expected and getting up the next day much earlier than expected.)

What really bothered me the most about this trip was not the pothole from hell, not the fact that "M" didn't pay for anything, not the fact that I spent the day with two extra people, one of whom I'd never met and didn't really feel comfortable with when I'd imagined a trip with just me and Alba...it was the fact that of the 16 hours the trip entailed...from 8:30 am Monday morning (from the hotel in San Diego) to 12:30 am Teusday morning (when we got back home), about 13 of those hours were spent in the damn car...and getting sick as a dog.

THAT is what really sucked.

As far as the pothole goes...shit happens. I can deal with it. In fact, I wasn't even terribly bothered with it at the time. Just surprised that there was a gigantic pothole on the highway.

What I do hate is that the whole f**king day (forgive my language, folks) was spent in the car, and not actually doing anything. (Except getting carsick.)

I'm a pretty impulsive person. The fact is, I kind of wanted to go to Ensenada. I wanted to go to La Bufadora. I'd never been to those places and the fact they weren't on our original agenda kind of made it more exciting. But I didn't have all the facts, either.

Ensenada was NOT 40 minutes away, it was two hours. And when I was told that La Bufadora was 30 minutes away, I should have made the logical conclusion that if 40 minutes equals two hours, then 30 minutes (by logical extension) must equal an hour and a half.

But I didn't come to that conclusion. I gave the benefit of the doubt when it had already been spent. So I can't place the blame on any one person. When I trace back all the events, the mistake happened when I reluctantly agreed to let "M" come along. So it was really my own damn fault.

But like I said in my last post...never again.

The Stan

A Shitty Day in Mexico, Part IV

FOUR HOURS to get back to Tijuana. In other words, my and Alba's day off together was spent with "C" and "M," mostly in the car driving, and me getting more and more sick. I was nauseated, sunburnt, had a HUGE headache and constantly felt like throwing up.

We arrive in Tijuana around 7:00 pm or so, but spend an hour at "M"s friend's house because she needed to pick up her stuff. Then, "C" took us to the line to cross back into the states, at which point we said our goodbyes, borrowed $40 from "M" to give him for his trouble (which "M" criticized Alba for), and waited in line for nearly two hours.

I hear the line on foot is equally gruelling these days, so given the alternative, I'd prefer waiting two hours sitting in the car behind the wheel, than standing in line carrying a bunch of shit, feeling like shit.

Since I had a HUGE headache, I needed to be drinking water. But there is no restroom during that two hour wait. (Someone should start a business with roadside bathrooms along the highway back into the U.S. You'd make tons of money, I'm sure.) The last half an hour was particularly rough. I almost stepped out the car and pissed off the side of the road. But I didn't want to get arrested by a Federale.

Finally, we got through, and I took the first exit on the American side so I could take a piss. But also, by this time I was feeling worse than shit. So I asked Alba to drive.

I hate riding with Alba. She's too timid a driver. And she always acts too scared to change lanes when I ask her to. But today I have no choice.

She tells me "You're going to have to direct me back to the freeway."

"Okay," I said.

So we're heading up to an intersection and well-beforehand I tell her "turn left up here at the light."

We get closer to the light. Alba's not moving into the turning lane. I say again: "Turn left here."

Alba stays right on course.

"You need to turn left here."

"Turn left. Turn left. Turn left. Turn left." Nothing. I'm pointing to the left.

"Turn left. TURN LEFT. LEFT. LEFT. LEFT. LEFT. LEFT. LEFT." I'm pointing frantically to the left, but still Alba doesn't change lanes. She just acts too timid. But there is NO ONE around! (INFURIATING! She does stuff like this ALL THE TIME! That's why I always have to drive if we're together.)

So she never gets into the turning lane, but stays in the lane to go straight. But now, there is traffic coming and she can't back up to get into the other lane. Fortunately as the light turns green, the driver in the other lane lets her go ahead.

I successfully get her onto the freeway, and I lean back to try to get some rest...for about an hour.

But Alba gets off the freeway about 20 minutes south of Irvine, and asks me to drive again because she's too tired and having a hard time staying awake. So, feeling like shit, I have to drive the last hour back home.

But we've got to drop "M" off first and let her get her stuff out the car. Then...we finally get home around 12:30 am and I have to work the next day.

At this point, I couldn't give a rat's ass about unloading the car, or putting anything away. I just go inside, undress, and go straight to bed.

Well...lesson learned. I will never take "M" on a trip with us again. She's nice enough. But I felt awkward the whole time with "C." I felt a little taken advantage of (by "M"). "M" didn't pay for anything. Alba and I didn't really get to spend quality time together. And the trip certainly wasn't my agenda.

Never again.