Everyone needs a Stan. He's the guy who you can neglect for months at a time, and then call at three am from jail and he'll be there with bail money and no questions asked. Of course, you'll have to put up with ribbing about it for, oh, well, forever. But a Stan is worth it.

Stan never calls me anything but Dead Man. Stan has himself convinced that I am a lesbian (or lesbo, in Stan's terms). Stan is a great husband and still quite the admirer of the ladies, the closer to first year in college, the better. Stan is a great kidder and I have never seen him in a bad mood. Stan has raised a great son and is as proud of his music career as if it were his own.

I generally get along well with older men, probably due to the kind of relationship I've had with my father. My dad is the kind of guy for whom a pun is the height of wit, and who thought my tart-tounge was adorable. Even when I was very young, Dad would insult me in front of his friends to show off my snarky come-backs. (This has caused no end of trouble in my life, come to think of it. I can't seem to turn it off.) Older guys, including Stan, seem to like my moxie.

This week, after not speaking to him for many months, I called Stan to see if he had a line on a roofer I could use. Of course he did, and the guy made it over to my house less than 5 hours later. And he didn't even charge me anything to patch up the patch-up job Scott had done previously.

I adore Stan, and I think the feeling is mutual, though me saying so would make him uncomfortable. "Aw, come on, Dead Man," I can hear him saying.

But here's a big thank you for being there, Stan, from your friend the lesbian Dead Man.