-from the leonardstegmann.blogspot.com archives:   shared here with permission

-These are the three posts related to the  ~aloha~   'naked Pleasanton girl' photo

***** ONE *****

The Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar Post, by Leonard Stegmann,
original post:  ? 2005, reposted in  2010?

How do you mark the passing of each year? What annual event is it that makes you pause, perhaps just for a moment, and acknowledge that another 365 days of your life is in the can? Some people do this at Christmas. Others stop to reflect as the clock chimes twelve times on New Year’s Eve. Most often, of course, people feel the passing of another year as the lights are turned off and they blow out the flickering candles on their birthday cake. Me? It’s when I once again send in my check to The Calendar Company to order the coming year’s Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar.

Which I did today. First of all, that phrase from the last paragraph shouldn’t even be in caps. That’s not the actual name of the calendar—that’s just what I call it. It’s almost become a new word that I created and have been using for years with family and friends. “Meet for lunch on the 12th? Sure--let me just write that on my Naked-Hawaiian-Girl- Calendar.”

The truth is the girls on that calendar aren’t naked at all. They’re simply topless, and that’s just fine with me. I received my first of these calendars in 1978, when my parents returned from a trip to Hawaii and brought back two of these calendars—one for me and one for my brother. I think my brother continued to reorder the calendar for another five years or so and then quit. Slacker. I’ve ordered the calendar every single year since 1978 and, if I was forced to by some provision of the Patriot Act or something, I could probably search the house and come up with every copy. That’s 28 Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendars. And if you figure that there were twelve of these native beauties (I’m not sure how “native” they all were. A few of them look somewhat like the Long Island Jewish girls I grew up with.) on each calendar that’s 336 topless Hawaiian girls that have hung on my wall. And if you multiply that by two, that’s 672 beautiful, tanned…OK, you get the picture.

Another thought, this one more frightening, also crossed my mind today. Most of these girls seem to be in their twenties, although at my advanced age it’s getting increasingly difficult for me to estimate the age of any woman under the age of 40. They’re all starting to look the same: young. But say the average girl in those calendars is 25. That means that the little hussies I was drooling over when I got my first calendar in 1978 will this year be about 53 years old. And that’s fine. Aging, as we all know, is an inevitable and natural part of life. Even so, when my brand new Naked Hawaiian Girl Calendar arrives in a few weeks, I just hope they’re not on it.

“Without our traditions our life would be as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.”--Tevye


In this time of e-mails and texts, twitters and tweets, it’s become a rare thing, I think, when bad news arrives in the form of a regular old snail-mail letter. But arrive it did, and the old school method of delivery did nothing to soften the blow of this, my first personal tragedy of 2010.

The letter read:

The Calendar Company
Kailua, HI 96734

Dear Customer,

We are sad to tell you that after many years of printing Hawaiian calendars, we have decided not to print any titles for the year 2010. Please check back with us later regarding the 2011 editions.

Returned is your order.

With lots of Aloha and thank you,

Christina & Vanessa

And now a bit of background: In 1979 my parents took a trip to Hawaii, and among the souvenirs that they purchased for each of their sons was a calendar called Exotic Island Girls. The calendar featured stunning photographs of beautiful “island” women (some, frankly, looked like natives of New Jersey, but no matter) in what was described as “semi-nude” poses. Semi-nude means that the girls will show those and even that, but definitely not that.
The calendar came with a handy re-order form, so that securing the next year’s edition was a simple matter. My brother, slacker that he is, managed to re-ordered the calendar for a mere decade or so. I, on the other hand, religiously filled out the order form each and every year without exception, and so welcomed a fresh new dozen exotic island girls into my home for thirty-one consecutive years! Right up until, well, you know.

“Too bad you didn’t save them all,” says Mom. You’d think she’d know me better after all these years. Of course I saved them all. I can’t claim to be able to put my hands on all of the calendars (nor the actual girls, sadly) at a moment’s notice but I know they’re scattered in groups of three or five or nine in various locations throughout the house. Given a week, and a strong motivation to do so, I could find them all.

Peachpit says, “Why don’t you find another naked Hawaiian girl Calendar?” This, of course, is someone who does not understand the value of tradition. I don’t want another calendar, I want this one, the one I’ve been receiving for over three decades, for over half my life; the one where the new 2010 girls would be as fresh and fragrant as a tropical breeze and the original 1979 girls are most likely by now on Social Security. Or at least in AARP.

The letter says they may return to publishing the calendar next year. Why the gap in production I have no idea. Are they waiting for some tree to grow in Hawaii for the paper? Or perhaps this year an extra-special new crop of young ladies will come of age. And so I’ll wait until next year, when hopefully a new calendar will be published with new semi-nude exotic island girls.

But until then what am I supposed to look at on this year’s calendar, fucking kittens? In truth I just returned from the discount store where I found a nice selection of wall calendars for only $1.49 each. There were puppy calendars, flower calendars, dolphin calendars and yes, even kitten calendars. I bought one that shows some of the world’s great travel destinations, including the Taj Majal and the Great Wall of China.

It’s very nice.

Nipples

Occasionally you might find me watching one of those plastic surgery reality shows. In truth the actual operations are a little too gory for my taste: I don’t need such graphic reminders that we are all basically wobbly bags of sinew, fat (some more than others) and a dozen colorful varieties of glistening goop.

I am, however, more of a fan of the examination portion of the program. And it’s not just the sheer fun of watching as the patient is humiliated by a surgeon who sketches black lines all over her naked body until she looks like something Vince Lombardi might have drawn on a locker room blackboard. No, the real appeal, of course, is that I get yet another opportunity to see a naked lady. And on basic cable no less.

But the ladies are never really naked, are they? Many of the women are there for breast lifts, or some such, and their breasts are quite exposed. Except, of course, for the nipple. For some reason that eludes me, somebody, somewhere has decided that this one square inch of skin (size may vary, as you may well have discovered for yourself ) should never be seen by the general public, and so the nipple is invariably concealed, most commonly through the use of pixelation. (Don’t scoff—Janet Jackson’s nipple was partially exposed at the Super Bowl a few years back and many experts will tell you it’s the main reason we lost the war in Iraq.)

Ah, but not every nipple is censored on these shows, is it? There have been many nipples that have seen, have there not? The difference is that these particular nipples were attached to men. Apparently it’s OK to show male nipples but not female ones. And why should that be? Is it because the female nipple is attached to a breast? Haven’t we just explained that breasts are allowed to be seen and only the nipples aren’t?

OK, I swear I’m not obsessing on nipples. Here’s what started this whole thing. The other day I was watching one of these plastic surgery shows. The patient was a woman who was in the process of going through a sex change. (I mean “gender reassignment” or whatever the fuck they call it these days. God, staying p.c. is so exhausting.) She had already begun taking hormones and was now having her breasts reduced to look more like a man.

So as they began the operation the basic cable censors covered the nipples with the dreaded pixelation, and so Mankind was protected as the surgeon got to work removing globs and globs of the offending breastal material. Now these surgeons are very skilled people, and so it wasn’t too long before, lo and behold and abracadabra, I was looking at a remarkable recreation of a male chest. The only thing left to do was to reattach the nipples, send the patient a bill for an obscene amount of money and call it a day. And so the reattachment began, and don’t go getting ahead of me here, smarty-pants.

Yeah, you’re right. When the nipples were reattached and we got to see the result it was a view that was unblemished by any of that annoying pixelation. In other words, the same nipples that had been blocked from view at the start of the operation were now clearly and visibly on display at the end of the operation! Have I pointed out that these were the very same nipples attached to the very same body?

Many millennia from now when a different species has become lord of our planet they may wonder about the humans who preceded them. They may seek out clues as to how we lived and, even more intriguing, why we disappeared. They might theorize that we vanished as a result of global warming or that we used our own horrific weapons to finally and permanently annihilate our foul species. But they’ll be wrong—the answer will be much simpler than that. The reason that humans no longer roamed planet Earth as we once had is painfully obvious: we were just too silly to live.