I've discovered why at 35 years old I still think I'm a kid. It's a simple matter of perspective. No, I don't mean some deep philosophical thing, it has to do with flatulence. If you find yourself one of those that is above the base humor that comes from this particular human requirement, you'd better stop reading now.

It dawned on me the other day as I was in the office. I had to use the restroom, and was in a stall, quietly handling my business. I heard the door open, and some anonymous person walked in to use a urinal. From the moment he crossed the bathroom threshold, he begain cutting them loose. He floated five air biscuits before he ever made it to the urinal. I was in the stall in tears trying not to laugh out load or say "good one".

My family seems to have a central humor thing about this, also. A great story involving one of my dad's brothers, Uncle Max, involved him standing in line at a grocery store. The lady in front of him had a lot of groceries and was conservatively putting everything on the counter. At this time, Uncle Max couldn't hold back anymore, and ... um... stepped on a dog... Apparently it was loud and smelly. He looked at the lady and said "Good God, lady!". Even though she didn't do anything, she was so embarrassed she left her stuff on the belt, and exited the store.

In 1986, at Thanksgiving dinner at our house, my brother-in-law placed a whoopie cushion in the chair that my prankster uncle was going to be sitting in. As we sat down to dinner, the novelty item did its job, and my late-80's great-great-aunt (Annie's namesake), simply and elegantly said "oh, my".

When I was a Resident Assistant, a number of my residents took great pride in being able to make fart sounds without actually going through the activity. Being a good leader, I also practiced this valuable skill, so I would be seen as not only a role model, but one of the guys. One time my folks and I were at a Shoney's for breakfast. As we were leaving, my dad decided to use the restroom (we were far from our destination). After he went in, I felt like it would be a good idea to do the same. No one was in the bathroom, except my dad in a stall. I walked up to do my business and started faking all sorts of Barking Spiders. I quietly left, and waited by the car with my mom. Dad came out with his eyes watering. He was trying not to laugh out hysterically. In a break from character, my dad began telling the story of how some guy was just in the John cutting the cheese every which way but loose. I made the noise, and told him it was me messing with him. He had been dying to say something to the person...

Another time, while at a conference and having dinner, over which we were supposed to discuss research, a friend of mine couldn't contain himself. There were 15 people at the table: professionals, professors, etc. The smell was abysmal. At one point a professor looked down the table, and another friend leaned back in his chair to suggest "nope, not me". The culprit excused himself, and swore that his colon was broken after that night...


And don't think that it's just a guy thing. Guys are in general far more proud of the power of the colon, but women are disgusted in an effort to cover up their lack of colon power. My ex would always look disgusted by it, but when she was pregnant with Annie, she was very proud of her expulsions. I'll not talk about the other women I know who are proud of their colons, but they know who they are...

So, I admit that I may have started something that could backfire. Annie goes to great lengths to share her ... um... rubbing the duck. She will run clear across the house to get me to pull her finger. She ruffles the covers after breaking wind in bed, and laughs hysterically. We have an agreement that she can't do this at school, but at home, it's a free-for-all. Hey, there was a reason her mother named her Stinky-Farts-Hockanson when she was a baby...


I even have a friend that begins to stink when he gets too hungry. Try dealing with that when confined to lab work for a day...

This post is long enough, but I assure you there are many more instances of crying due to laughter as a result of venting the colon colliape (thanks to Flanders for that one in particular). I'll not comment on my mother or ex-mother-in-law, although my ex-father-in-law is probably going to be upset that he wasn't included as an example. Yes, you've made my eyes water.


It's a necessity for your body to expel this stuff. Deal with it. Laugh with the rest of us degenerates...
Still get a chuckle out of the baser things

Annie has just informed me that Lilo has poop on his bottom. I wonder how many places he has been in the house?

I'm pleased to say he is cleaning it now...

Wondering anew why it is so hard to keep the house clean

Annie stayed home from school today, because she woke up last night feverish and couldn't stop coughing. As the day winds down, she is definitely feeling better. She just came running up asking to take Tolkien for a walk, because the neighbor was taking her dog for a walk. Unfortunately, I had the feeling the neighbor really didn't want company. I told Annie she couldn't take Tolkien for a walk amidst the "but, but, but". She had been sick, it was cooling off, and Tolkien isn't much of a walker since he hurt his leg. I told her that if she was still better tomorrow, maybe we would go for a walk (none of this feeling sick again when it's time to go to school). I tickled her a little, and she stopped pouting. I heard her telling Tolkien to get up, and from the sound of it, he did as expected and just wagged his tail and continued reclining in the driveway. The quiet that followed made me a little nervous. I went to check and found her standing at the end of the garden... waiting for the neighbor to return.

Now she is telling me that she's bored. And everything is boring. Saying I was bored as a kid was the fastest way to being put to work. I think I may have to try that with Annie...

Not bored

This post is not here, so don't read it.

I've tried not to say much about my ex here, but you know? This is my freakin' web site, and I said I put it here to vent a little. So? Here it is is, 3:45 am, and I woke up feeling irritated and couldn't get back to sleep. I've been sensing a push from my ex to have her boyfriend be more involved with Annie's life. When Annie talks to her mom, she usually wants to do it on the speaker phone. I typically go outside when they are talking, but the last couple of times I've had to be in the vicinity of the study, and heard bits of the conversations. A few nights ago, I heard Annie's mother say "you should have what's-his-butt teach you more Spanish". Granted, she didn't call him what's-his-butt. Last night I walked by the study to hear a male voice talking to Annie. I paused to determine what was going on, and discovered Annie relating her day to what's-his-butt on the phone.

Yeah, I know. It's perfectly natural for Annie's mom to want Annie to like and have a relationship with the boyfriend. I guess I still find it a bit insulting that a person could leave a relationship under the premise that she just didn't want to be "domesticated", and then move in with someone else and decide to be "domesticated". Flake.

Oh well. The coyote's are howling, and the local owl is hooting, which is quite soothing.

Be sure you haven't read any of this...
She's already got a father

Geez. I need a hair cut. I have curly hair that does exactly what it wants, whenever it wants. In particular it likes to spread out behind my ears when it gets too long. This is God's way to negatively impact my control freakiness. God is supposed to be omniscient and omnipotent. Well, he is also infinite in the ways of humor: he is omnihumorous. God spends his morning coffee laughing at how my requirements for control of life are negatively impacted by my hair. As my hair gets long, it grows wings that are either angel wings or devil wings (you decide). It spreads over my head in a way that in normal days I can control to some extent. But, in times of wind, motorcycle riding, or just getting up in the morning, it's a little strange. After a day of work, I generally look like this when the hair gets long:

Pardon the five-o-clock shadow, and I hope you don’t see the nose and ear hair that is apparently a genetic inheritance (thank you, Dad… I love you, anyway).  Yes, I need a haircut. But why does a haircut have to accentuate the gradually receding hairline? As you may see, the hair grows best on the neck, the nose, and the ears. How is that the better way to handle age? Where in genetics was it determined that this was necessary in the aging process? I’m freakin’ 35. Why does my forehead continue to elongate as I get older? Oh well. My hair shags around in its own fashion that covers my age degredation, but I have to do something to it to get it to behave. Granted, it’s not what most women have to go through. I run a brush through it, and it’s pretty much done. But when it gets long like this, I get up in the morning looking like...well, this. Granted, I could look like like someone I respect less… Oh well, it’s just a trip to someone that will ultimately make me look bald. You know, mom, that this is genetically your fault…

Wondering why hair in my nether-regions doesn't fade like the hair on my head...

Annie just finished her homework for tomorrow. She was working on this one workbook regarding shapes. The shapes were three-dimensional objects, which she was to find in a two-dimensional medium. It was driving me crazy. The poor girl is thinking that a sphere is just another word for circle. I gathered things in the house that look like the objects she was working on: cylinder, sphere, cube, and cone. I know it is just a start, but man was it difficult for me. You see, I'm kind of a stickler for accuracy, although my friend Rodney would disagree.

I had to bite my tongue while working on cylinders in particular. Cylinders do not have to be round, folks. It is not a requirement. I know... She's five and a half. Maybe the real problem I'm having is remembering being taught things in primary school that I found out later were wrong. My first English course in college began with "forget everything you were taught in high school about the English language." Ok. That was a waste of time... The high-school coach who told me about Newton's Third Law? What a joke. After my first couple of years in college, I should have gone back and demonstrated it with my foot in his butt. However, I guess he wasn't all bad. He gave me back my squirt guns on the last day of school... I would have been defenseless on the way home from school otherwise...

So, I'm toying with the idea of advancing her math skills beyond her requirement. I could stop by a craft store and get some foam pieces and demonstrate... and I probably will. I'm nervous, though. My sister is largely responsible for teaching me to read and write. She was a great teacher. However, she began teaching me cursive, as did my parents, before I was supposed to know how to do it. They were told that I was learning it incorrectly for the current curriculum. This seems ludicrous now, given that everyone I know writes cursive differently. I'm waiting for the note from school that just says "stop it."

"Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics. I can assure you that mine are still greater." — Albert Einstein

Rebel teacher

This is great fun. I can write about things that I know my folks will read and shake their heads about... probably grateful that they didn't know about this at the time. Well, read on...

I was a foreign-exchange student my senior year of high school. It was a wonderful, yet challenging time. A time spent finding out about myself as much as about another culture. My second half of the year I spent in northern Germany (the reason is a subject for another post). I developed some wonderful friendships that I wish I still had. My friends were great about taking me to places they knew I might not otherwise see.

One fine spring day, they told me they were going to Holland, and wanted to know if I would like to go. Heck yes! One of the beauties of Europe is that the same time it takes us (in the States) to drive a few counties, you can be in a different country. On the given day, I came home, and prepared for the trip. Yeah, I don't know what that means. Probably that I sat anxiously for my friends to come by. Before the given time for the adventure, one of my friends came by. He was a good guy, but I never would have presumed him to be so astute of human character. I can still see his face as he sat in a chair in my room, and I sat on my bed. He made some small talk, and I could tell there was something else on his mind. Finally, he said, "Du weisst weil wir nach den Niederlande fahren?" Alright, my German is very rusty: "You know why we are going to Holland?" My naive mind spun. Of course, it's another place to go... windmills... flowers... dikes...wooden shoes... Then this subtle shadow crossed my mind. The shadow was evident on my face. "Yeah, I didn't think you knew the real reason." I'm of reasonably strong character, so I wanted to go anyway.

We crossed the border in several vehicles with no problem. It would be obsurd to bring problems to Holland. Problems only leave. We went to a small town just past the border and parked. We walked up the street of bars and the like. My friends were completely hyped on adrenalin. We walked up to a bar. Oh Lord, please let us just be going in for a dutch beer. The door made it clear what I was in for. A massive pot leaf drawn on the glass. I sat at a table with a three-foot bong in the center while my friends went to buy their goods. My mind spun, but I focused on the television seven feet above the floor. It was the Cosby Show... in German... with Dutch sub-titles.

We soon left the venerable establishment and headed back for the cars. My friends were so hyped that two of them ran over a BMW. I mean, ran. That poor car. We headed back to our vehicles. I got into the car with my friend Jan (not the same from previous post). He drove a Citroen Ente. That's the German word, I don't know what it's called in French, but in German it's called the Duck. It is one of the cheapest vehicles known to man. He took his recently purchased booty, put in a latex glove, pulled the glove over the product, placed in another glove.... you get the idea. The whole bundle was stuffed under the dash. It could have been stashed anywhere. The car had no barriers, so everything was a cubby. About now, I'm wondering about the validity of my visa.

We proceeded towards the country line. We were last. The first three cars proceeded slowly across without anyone coming out to even say howdy. Of course, when we approached, someone came out. My heart was pounding. I thought that was the beating I heard, but now I think it was Jan's heart I was hearing. The sentry got within ten feet of the car, and he gunned it. "He gunned it." That's like saying he put his lawnmower in high throttle. Nevertheless, the car pulled away. The sentry took another toke on his cigarette, and went back to his post. We were moving so slow that a turtle could have identified the car, and he wouldn't even have to be able to read. But, we got away.

While I disagree with the point of the event, it was very exciting, and it's good stuff to write about... I loved those guys.

Not in a prison camp

I felt like posting, but the things going through my mind for current events have me a bit irritated, and wanted to post something funny. So...

When I was a freshman in college, a friend of me called me on the floor pay phone... at midnight... He lived in L.A., and was moved by the forces of the cosmos to hitch his away across most of the States. He said that the fact he actually found me (we hadn't communicated in almost two years) was a sign that he should do this. He had a cousin in Chicago, and was going that direction. He called me every day of his trip to give me progress and let me know he was still alive. He decided to go to Chicago first, and see me on the return trip. The friends of his cousin in Chicago took a "collection", and bought him a bus ticket to St. Louis, where I picked him up. He stayed in the resident hall with me for a few days, but was starting to get concerned about the trip home, because he had school starting in less than a week. We were having a floor party that Flanders and I were responsible for putting together, and we really wanted him to stay for it. He couldn't do it if he were going to make it back in time for school. Fine, I said, I'll drive you (I was far more spontaneous then). It was decided. Two friends of mine and I would drive him back to L.A. after the party.

The party went beautifully. Flanders opted not to join us on our adventure west, which is probably best. He would have been in a bad mood the next day. He was in charge of the door for entry to the party (making sure everyone was appropriately under-age for drinking... it was college). Halfway through the party, we had to have someone interpret for him. "Allow me to help... I speak drunk..." God love him. Between midnight and 1:00 am, we began our adventure. This is only Part I, as there is far too much of our adventure to share. This is not in chronological order. It's just what strikes my muse at the moment...


On the return trip, my friend Jan was driving. I was (mostly) asleep in the back seat after driving 14 hours straight. Jerry was in the passenger seat. We were making good time through Oklahoma, and having visions of finally sleeping in a more-or-less real bed. My '78 Ford LTD II was big, but not a sleeping vehicle. The sun had risen, and the car started to get warm. We were passing through some town/city, and Jan asked Jerry to take the wheel so he could take his sweatshirt off. As we are flying down the freeway (or interstate if you don't live in California), Jan has his sweatshirt over his head, and Jerry calmly says "cop just pulled by". I was in and out of sleep, and alreay knew I didn't want to be awake. Sure enough, we got pulled over.

One of the officers came up the driver's side, the other, the passenger's. Now. Let me say that my father was a police officer. One of my uncles was a police officer. My ex-father-in-law, and good friend, is a police officer. My ex-brother-in-law is a police officer. I love and respect the office. But some people shouldn't take this on as a profession.

The officer on the driver side, let's call him Andy (as in Andy Griffith) was sharp. The window went down, and he said very sincerely, "do you know why we pulled you over?" In my mind? Countless reasons. We were speeding. The driver had a shirt over his head. I'm sure there were many other infractions of which we were guilty, but this I hadn't expected. "You've got a tail light out." Jan got out and, sure enough, we had a light that wasn't working. Let me introduce Barney: the officer on the passenger's side of the vehicle. Hands on his hips, he is surveying with the scrutinous eye of a seasoned veteran... wantabe. After Jan returned to the vehicle, he answered the routine questions of where we were coming from, and where we were going. As I cowardly and tiredly remained reclined in the back seat, Andy asked what was wrong with me. Jan replied that I had driven a considerable amount of time and distance and was getting some sleep.

It is now that I should mention that Jan had a medical condition: he was diabetic. Immediately after Jan's response regarding my uncomfortable sprawl across the back seat, Barney picked up a syringe off the front dash and exclaimed with what he was sure was condemning evidence, "are you sure it's not because of this?" Jan stuttered out, "I-I-I'm a diabetic." He produced his medication and even a copy of a prescription. Andy asked if it would be ok to look in the trunk. Of course, we had nothing to hide. We might be of poor judgement in our decision to venture across the states during the school year, but we truly weren't doing anything more wrong than speeding.

Now, I must take you further back in time another few weeks. Our friend Chad's family was going to be out of town. They asked Chad if he wanted to bring some friends down to watch the house. Of course, we all said yes. Not because we wanted to post sentry at his house, but because that meant we could all do laundry. We packed the car within so full of laundry stuff that it would surprise me if shirts and jeans were hanging out the trunk.

We return to the story. The trunk opened, and to everyone's amazement there was a pile of white powder in the trunk. We (the students) knew what it was, but before anyone could respond, Barney stuck his finger in it and put it in his mouth. I'm guessing that Tide is not terribly palatable. With a quick smirk, Andy allowed the trunk to be closed, and sent us on with a warning (I wish that were the only warning from that trip).

You know? I never did anything to that tail light, and it worked from then on.
Used to be adventurous

Before last night, I spent two miserable nights with my friend Insomnia. I woke up around 1:00 am, and tossed and turned for the next five hours. The night before last I just gave up and started reading. around 3:00 am. When I would try to sleep, I would doze just long enough to start having the wierdest dreams. Six times in succession, I was walking around (generally in a different place each time) to find my fly was open. This probably stems from the fact that my 501's have a tendency to unbutton at times. In my dreams I had become so used to it, I would just fix myself no matter who was around. I would awake from other dreams after having witnessed someone doing something that infuriated me, and then my blood would be pumping and sleep was pushed even further away.

Last night, I went to bed shortly after 9:00 pm. I figured I might as well aim for four or five hours of sleep. Sure enough, it hadn't seemed I'd been asleep for long before I awoke. I was a bit groggy, and shifted my pillow apprehensively to see what time it was. The alarm clock has huge numbers on it, a feature required by my bad eyes before laser surgery. The numbers took shape in my foggy brain, and... sure enough: it was two something. No! Wait! It was five something (stupid blocky LED numbers). I had slept for about eight hours... that's eight straight hours, not eight hours over a couple of days! With a smile, I rolled over and went in and out of sleep for another hour.

The reason for my sleep and lack thereof came in an e-mail this morning...

Dude!

I'm really sorry about the past few nights. It must have been a bummer not getting any real sleep for a couple of nights. You see, the Tooth Fairy, Santa, the Easter Bunny, and a bunch of others got together the other night and we sort of had a party. We were knocking back this wicked brew that the Fairy Godmother concocted, and Father Time was ripping some awesome Stevie Ray Vaughan tunes on his guitar. Mother Nature was a little tipsy, and was putting on quite a show dancing on the table. Well, I kind of lost track of time. I left for a little while to do my job, but didn't want to miss anything, so I sort of had to... you know... skip a few people on my rounds.

Anyway, I'm back now, and will try not to let it happen again. We got our frustrations out, you know, about our outsourcing worries (the SandAmigo works for a ridiculously low price, and doesn't have to deal with the environmental controls on sand harvesting).

Well, I'd better get some shut-eye. I should be by tonight.

Later,

- the SandDude SandMan

Jerk. Why is it so hard to get good service these days?
Rested

The introduction of the space shuttle paved the way for the recycling era. (If you don't agree, check out James Burke - Connections.) For the first time, the world had a space vehicle that could be used more than once. If you've never seen the remains of a Saturn V rocket, you should. It completely puts into perspective the cost and expenditure of early space flight.

Unfortunately, in most electronics, we have gone the other way. Seven years ago, I bought a DVD player. Last week, it died. I took it apart, and cleaned everything. It still can't see DVDs. It is a single disc player that reads DVD and CD protocols. Maybe I could have fixed it, but it would have taken a lot of time and energy. I went on line and found a five-disc changer for the same money I spent on the original DVD player that could also play a score of other media formats, including MP3. Actually, I think it was cheaper. On top of that it is half the height of the original. I recycle everything I can: cardboard, paper, all types of plastic, glass, whatever. Electronics? I try to find another use for them, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Wouldn't it be great if we could just find a standard form-factor and replace the guts without replacing everything?

Yeah, well, when the cost of petroleum products gets high enough, we'll change our goals and interests. Until then, anybody want a used DVD player that doesn't work? The laser might make a cool project...

In the sticks, but my sticks conduct electrons...