Mixed Signals

I was driving on the perimeter road around our local mall, today, and came to a stop sign. Mounted under the traditional red, octagonal sign was another sign that read - 15 MPH. On the same sign post!

My first thought was make up your mind.

My second thought was which one should I obey?

My third thought was I'd love to hear this one played out in traffic court.

My fourth thought was about sex in order to fulfill my Guy Contract that states that all men think about sex every 37.2 seconds.

But back to the confusing signpost. What was I to make of this sign? Was I to come to a complete stop, then slightly floor it? Or, was I to consider 15 MPH as having fulfilled my complete stop obligation?

And what about the cars around me? Were they all going to make the same decision I was expected to? Which, I still had to wonder, was what exactly?

Was my decision to be based on traffic conditions? Such as how you can make a right turn on red? Or was it more like the Motor Voter laws, which I assumed allowed drive through voting? I took my driving test over 40 years ago and I am pretty sure a lot of things have changed. Like how it's O.K. for illegal aliens to drive without a license and have no I.D. but upstanding Americans better have their shit together.

Then I thought that maybe the confusing signpost was a prank. Then I got paranoid and thought maybe they made it purposely vague so that they could pull you over no matter what you did. Instant probable cause.

So what did I do? Well, just before the intersection was the entrance to a McDonalds. I turned right, pulled in there, circled the building and parked facing the access road. After observing the situation for several minutes, I saw many cars slow down and stop before proceeding safely on. I also saw a number of cars slow slightly and continue through the intersection. They weren't any freaking help at all!

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I turned left out of McDonalds and went three quarters of the way around the mall in the wrong direction to avoid the intersection.

I can assure you, this is not over. I plan on sending a strongly worded letter to the Mall Management Office.

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The Hanging Tree

Ever since I have moved, I have a different view from my back deck. It took me a while to come to terms with this unintended consequence but I pride myself on my ability to adapt. That being said, I have in my back yard what can only be described as a hanging tree. It is a fifty foot tall oak with a large horizontal branch about fifteen feet up. Often times, late in the afternoon, I will sit on my deck, sipping the major export of Scotland while enjoying a fine Dominican cigar. I like to contemplate how people in different parts of the world are toiling away at their tedious little lives so that I can while away a pleasant summer evening. I also, on occasion, think about the hanging tree.

I can picture a cowboy, on horseback, throwing a noosed rope over the branch and tying the other end off to a nearby tree. I can see three more horses moving through the cornfield, slowly approaching the tree. As I hold this mental image I lean back in my deck chair and I hear it creak slightly under my weight...


... the worn leather creaked slightly as I involuntarily leaned back in my saddle, away from the dangling noose. "You boys aren't serious about this, are you?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

"Serious as blisters, Johnny."

As Jubal moved his horse closer to me, he reached for the dangling noose and my horse skittered sideways, away from the sudden movement. I saw this as probably my only chance to do anything before they got that rope around my neck. Since my hands were tied behind my back, I reared back, grabbing onto the back edge of my saddle for better balance and brought my leg up to try to kick Jubal from his mount.

But Doc was behind me, grabbing a bunch of my shirt at the nape of my neck and jammed the barrel of his .44 under my jawline. "This ain't our first rodeo. Now settle down." he whispered in my ear. My horse was jumpy but was boxed in by the others and calmed down. As if obeying Doc's command.

Jubal snatched my hat from my head, tossing it to Lucas. "Luke, you need a hat?"

The hat hit Lucas' shoulder and fell to the ground. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of his range hat. His mouth was an angry slash across the bottom half of his face. Sitting motionless in his saddle, he let his eyes roam the treeline, looking for intruders. "Get on with it." he finally responded, ignoring my hat on the ground.

With a quick movement, Jubal looped the noose over my bare head and his gloved hands tightened the knot, cinching the rough hemp against my throat. "Now if this here were a proper hangin'," he explained, "with a gallows and all, you would drop down and your weight would snap your neck and it would all be over real quick like." Jubal always did like the sound of his own voice. "But... we don't have no fancy gallows. All we got is this here hangin' tree. So when we whack your pony here, he's going to ride off without you and you're just going to dangle like and then you're going to slowly strangle and you're feet'll kick and you'll try'in use your arms but they'll be tied behind yer back and for a little bit you'll look like yer dancin' on air. Then the fight'll go outta you. But you still won't be dead. You're face'll turn red and then it'll turn purple. Yer eyes'll bug out and yer lungs'll feel like they're gonna bust. But still you won't be dead. You'll just be hanging there all still like but yer brain'll still be workin'."

He reached up and tilted his hat back with his thumb and grinned his tobacco stained teeth at me. "Hell, if'n I keep the noose loose enough, you might swing fer half an hour before you die." He looked around to Doc and Lucas. "Ain't that right, boys?"

Lucas scratch a match on his britches and slowly lit a cheroot. Then he growled again, "Get on with it!"

I wanted to reason with them. But the noose was so tight I could only manage an inarticulate croak. Now I began to desperately scan the treeline. Hoping for help... for someone to stop this insanity. Hoping for anything to give me more time. The day was cool for this time of year but my shirt was soaked with my own sweat. I twisted to the left to look at Jubal and to the right to see what Doc was doing. Lucas' horse huffed and I twisted that direction.

This couldn't be happening! What the hell had I done that was so wrong, anyway? Jubal moved away to sit next to Lucas. I twisted desperately around to see what Doc was doing. While I was distracted, Lucas drew his pistol and fired into the air, spooking my horse. He reared up and for just a moment I teetered on the edge of eternity, my weight still in the saddle, my booted feet trying to grip the metal stirrups through the leather soles, my toes curling in vain. Then the horse was galloping off through the cornfield as I looked on in surprise and shock...


"What are you thinking about?" she asked from the other side of the table.

"Huh?" I asked, coming back to reality.

"What are you thinking about? You had a funny look on your face."

"Oh... nothing really. I was just wondering how old that tree was."

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Guys and Dolls

I saw a guy in drag the other day. Heeshee was waiting in line at the Walmart pharmacy. My first thought was, I wonder what Heeshee has caught. Then I wondered what Heeshee was spreading. Then, the salesman in me wondered who made ladies shoes in that size and if there was much of a market for them.

So I walked past this human side show in my never ending quest for Buckwheats cereal. It was discontinued sometime in the mid 70's and I keep hoping they'll bring it back. I really liked that cereal.

Later I saw the hopelessly confused dragmeister in the produce isle inspecting the cucumbers and carrots. Then, I made a mental note to stick to the Dole's Very Veggie Mix and leave the tubers to the professionals. While I was ruminating, Heeshee was joined by two other members of the Boys are Girls Club of America. Then I began wondering how you pee standing up if you are wearing pantyhose.

After a moment, I noticed them notice me noticing them. Not wanting to be known as the guy who was forced into white slavery by three angry men in dresses, I pushed my shopping cart on past them. But not before I nodded politely and said, "Gentlemen."

Which brings me to the actual meat of this story. I have a lady friend who absolutely hates to be called a guy. At first blush, you wouldn't think this would be much of a problem. She is curvy, and soft, and pink, and... and... you'd never mistake her, in a million years, for a guy. But if she is in a room of men and women and someone comes in and addresses them as, "Hi guys!", she will immediately say, "I'm not a guy."

Which brings me back to the trans-sexuals. Just as my lady friend is adamant about her sexual identity, these misfits if science are insisting on new categories. What was considered sick and perverse just 50 years ago (shortly before Buckwheats mysteriously disappeared), is now mainstream.

But morality aside, I was wondering about something else. By my last count (I'm making these numbers up) there are cataloged 73 separate, distinct sexual positions and, according to the new government health laws, there are seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. So I'm wondering two things: A) Why seven? With two original sexes, and all of the slice and dice variations, wouldn't you think it would always end up with an even number? And 3) Are the 73 separate and distinct sexual positions factoring in the seven legally recognized, sexual gender categories or do they now become a multiplier? Making it 511 possible sexual positions.

I, personally, have only ever completely mastered four of them. Well, five if you want to count that thing with the cat.

I guess what I am saying is that that is way too much sex for just seven, legally recognized, sexual gender categories. When does anybody get any work done? Maybe the recession has hit at a good time for America, sexually speaking. What with all the enforced free time, and all. It gives more people time to explore their sexuality and question their gender choices. Maybe this was the CHANGE everybody voted for in the last election.

One of the interns here at the International Escape Velocity Headquarters was just giving me a neck rub and was reading over my shoulder when she asked, "Did you ever think that you're not secure in your own masculinity?" Which got me to thinking. Maybe that's my lady friend's "guy" problem. As pretty, and sexy, and lovely, and curvy, and pink as she is... maybe she's not secure in her femininity. Maybe she has some trans-gender leaning that she is secretly ashamed of and, therefore, for the sake of her own psyche she has an overwhelming need to point out to everyone who will listen that she is "not a guy".




Which brings me back to the guy in drag at Walmart. I mean, it's not like I don't have empathy for the poor miserable slob. Because I, myself, am a man who very much wants to be in the body of a woman... I just want to get in there the traditional way.

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