Storm Warning

Can somebody please explain something to me?  I just saw a weather bulletin that said there was a storm approaching my area at 40 miles per hour that had 60 mile per hour winds.  How is this possible?  If the winds are traveling at 60 miles per hour, wouldn't the storm be also?  If the storm is, indeed, traveling at 40 miles per hour, are the winds preceding it?  And, if so, where does the precursory wind leave off and the actual storm begin?

 This is beginning to sound very much like one of my time travel theories.  Like the one where you cook minute rice in a microwave.

All I am left with is one of three possibilities.  The first being that they are correct in their reporting of the storm information and that I am incapable of understanding the meteorological implications, the second being that they are wrong in their reporting of the storm information and I am right in questioning an illogical set of facts, or that the bimbo weather girl is living up to my expectations of her abilities.

Regardless, I am confused.  But I've gotta go.  The high winds just blew over my deck umbrella and, from what I hear, there is a storm approaching.

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This Is Our Fall Back Position

I really love Brewster Rocket's take on daylight savings time.
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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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Another Spring Forward

The Creepy Funeral Guy Story

So, the Brown-haired Beauty and I were canoodling on her couch the other day when she made an astounding observation. "You have a smart ass comment for everything, don't you?"

"Not to that I don't," I replied. All forward shields at maximum.

"No... but I can tell you're thinking of one."

"Or three," I answered honestly.

"I'm not criticizing you." she elaborated. "Sometimes you're almost entertaining."

"Gee... I..."

"Gotcha!" she laughed. "But really, you do seem to have a pretty funny punch line for everything."

"It's my super-power," I admitted. "I was bitten by a radioactive bed-bug while on a school field trip. Now I have the proportionate craziness of one."

"Well, I have a story that doesn't have a funny punch line." she said. "And I doubt even you will be able to come up with one."

"Oh. A challenge."

"Let's make it a bet. Winner chooses the prize."

"You're on." I said with out hesitation.

"O.K., but you have to make me really laugh."

"No problem."

She settled back against the leather cushions of the couch and began her story:

"I was thirty years old at the time. It was late in the year and my mother had died several weeks earlier. It was her desire to have her body left to science."

"Which science," I asked, "astronomy?"

"No, and that doesn't count. I'm not done with the story."

"Sorry. I was just warming up."

"Anyway, when a person leaves their body to science, the body is still handled by the funeral home on it's way to the university or medical school. The funeral home charges $400 for transportation and doing the paperwork.

"I was sitting at work several weeks after my mother died when I got a phone call from the funeral home. The man on the phone told me that they had some documentation that needed to be returned to me and that they normally mail it out, but he said he was going to be near my work address and he wanted to know if he could drop it off in person. I said O.K. and we set a time.

"Later on I got a call that there was someone to see me in the lobby. When I got there I met a kind of creepy older guy in a dark suit. He was going bald, had a scraggly mustache and brown, crooked teeth. And dandruff. He introduced himself and instead of just handing me the papers and leaving, he just kept talking in a raspy smokers voice. He just wouldn't stop.

"Finally, I interrupted long enough to tell him I had to get back. He looked a little hurt or put out or something and then he asked, "Look, I've really enjoyed meeting you and since it's kind of the holidays, I was wondering if you'd give me a kiss." My first thought was, "Ewww!" Then I thought how horrible it was that this creepy jerk was trying to take advantage of me during my time of grief.

"I'm not really sure what I said. I guess I mumbled some kind of excuse, clutched the papers to my chest and hurried from the lobby.

The Brown-haired Beauty sat there on the couch for a minute obviously reliving the revulsion of that moment. Then she looked up and met my steady gaze. "Well?"

"Well," I repeated, "If I were you I would have told him "Gee, we just met. Maybe we should wait a little longer. Why don't we wait until my father dies?" "



I won't tell you what my prize was. Let's just say I wasn't treated like a creepy funeral director.


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...Mouths of Babes...

Get your minds out of the gutter. The blog title refers to a Biblical quote that is often misunderstood to mean that "out of the mouths of babes (children)" comes wisdom. Regardless of the original intent, the inference remains.

I had occasion to return to my home town after many years absence and was surprised at my reaction and my welcome. I left Butler in the very early '80's and occasionally returned for the odd holiday or wedding or funeral. This was the first time I had been back since my divorce.

I admit to having had some trepidation about returning. It had been, by my reckoning, about 7 or 8 years since my last visit. During that time I lost my job, had to retire for health reasons, lost my home, and eventually lost my wife. Not exactly the stuff of a "Hail the conquering hero" homecoming. Quite frankly, I was too embarrassed to return home.

But, for some reason, I was in the right frame of mind when I received an invitation to my niece Stephanie's wedding. So I accepted.

When I got to my sister's house I was welcomed with open arms. Nobody asked me a lot of awkward questions and, more than anything, I was happy to be there. I had fun with my nieces and nephews and I honestly think they had fun with me. It was a beautiful wedding and a really fun reception. I got to reconnect with cousins and old friends that I hadn't seen in too many years.

And then I was introduced to the granddaughter of my second cousin. She was only 5 or 6 years old but we had a very memorable conversation. I had stopped, during the reception, to ask her if she was having fun. She said "uh huh" then asked me a question.

"Why don't you live here anymore?"

I thought about it a second and answered, "Well, I moved away because of my job."

"Do you still have that job?" she asked.

"No." I replied. "No. I don't"

"So why don't you live here now?" she asked.

I looked around the room at my sister and my extended family and said, "I really don't know, honey. I really don't know"

During the non-wedding related time of my trip, I had had occasion to wander around Butler county and visit my old haunts. I went past the house I grew up in, and the grade school I went to (now an apartment building). I drove past my old junior and senior high schools... through several neighborhoods where we had lived and began raising our children... past churches we used to attend... and past a number of old girlfriend's houses.

Many things had changed but many remained virtually the same. But the most important thing that had remained the same was the friendship of old friends, the closeness of community and the love of and for my family. Some things never change.

So why was I living close to 300 miles away from my home and family? At first I would have said I was following my career. But I'm retired, now. Then I would have said I was raising my family. But the boys are raising their own families in Ohio and Texas. Next I would have said that this is where my wife works and has her career. But we are divorced. So why am I still here?

My number one reason for remaining here has been the friendships I've made. I have met some truly wonderful, interesting and fun people over the past decade. Some of whom I will never forget and others that I expect will remain my friends wherever I may go.

But in another sense, I feel that, though I have washed up on the shores of a seemingly tropical paradise, like Robinson Crusoe, my soul longs for home. I have been marking time, trying to figure out what is next.

And I really did not know what that might be until a little girl asked me, "Why don't you live here anymore?" When she asked me that, I did not know how to answer her. Now I do.

I have a lot of logistics to work out, but screw Tom Wolfe, I'm going home.

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Mixed Metaphors

I write my own jokes. Some might even call it humor. I like to attribute it to my smart-ass gene. I've been told that I get this from my great, great, grand step- uncle Tex Bonus. Or maybe it was my uncle's niece on my mother's side, Daisy, the Grand Duchess of Portland, Maine. No one really knows.

A lot of people (3) have asked me where I get my ideas. I usually reply, "I dunno. Maybe it was something I ate."

More than likely, I'm just repeating the shit I hear the voices say.

Over the past several months, a lot of my friends (6) have heard me say the following snippets. I call them snippets because "one liners" doesn't apply. (Mostly because they're more than one line.)

There is one good thing I have to say about my ex-wife - she was into anal. No matter how clean I wanted the house, she'd go along with it.

I read that Pillsbury just bought the Trojan company. Their first new product is a self rising condom.

Politics is one of the few endeavors to allow us Absolute Certainty with Virtually No Information… …Religion and Meteorology are the other two.

I was wondering, if AA has a 12 step program, does AAA have an 18 step program?

You know how high heels can tighten a girl's calves and make her ass look great? Well, I once saw a lady who was so ugly her ass made her shoes look bad.

A lot of people think only tight, hard bodies go to nudist resorts. Actually, a lot of women go because they can't go to regular beaches. I mean, where would they even find a 10 piece bikini?

The other day a friend told me she bought a puppy on the internet. I just stared at her a second, then said, "Wow. What kind of printer do you have?

Several years ago I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

Mommy, what's a mixed metaphor? Your daddy is. Why, Mommy? Because he is hung like Einstein and is as smart as a horse.

So that's what a metaphor is!

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You Are Here

I was strolling through the mall with the Blond Bombshell the other day when I decided to test the degree of her blondness. As we approached one if the big maps I said, "I want to show you something."

We stood gazing at the map for a few moments when she squealed, "Oh, look! They have a Claire's Boutique!" The squeal was accompanied by a squeeze of my hand.

"Yeah, that's great. We'll go there in a little bit." I said somewhat distractedly. "But first I want you to look at something."

She stood there looking at the map a few more seconds and finally asked, "What?"

"See the red dot that says -YOU ARE HERE-?"

"Yeah?"

"Now follow me." I said and I took off at a brisk pace for the center of the mall. When we got to the next big map I said, "Now, look at that."

"What am I looking at?"

"The red dot." I answered.

"Yeah?"

"It now says I am here." I said, trying to sound a little exasperated.

"Yeah... well, you are." She said as if to a little boy.

"O.K. Let's do this one more time." I declared. With that I grabbed her hand and headed off for the far end of the mall. When we eventually got there she had begun complaining about her shoes. Or, more accurately, her feet. So when we arrived in front of the final big map I needed to refocus her.

I pointed at the map and said, "Well?"

She looked at the mall layout depicted before her and said, "I still don't get it."

"I don't either." I admitted. "I mean, how does it know?"

"Know what?"

"Where I am!" I exclaimed. "Obviously this thing is tracking me somehow." I paused a moment and said as if in deep thought, "Maybe it's reading the GPS in my cell phone."

She was quiet for several seconds then asked, "What if you left your cell phone in the car?"

"Well... I guess I'd have to ask someone where I am." I said slowly.

We just stood there, staring at the mysterious red dot declaring -YOU ARE HERE-, presumably deep in thought. Finally, I said, "Do me a favor. You stay here and I'm going to walk down there a ways. Let know if the dot moves."

"O.K." she answered, seriously.

I set off, retracing my steps past several store fronts before I turned around and mimed "well?".

She looked at the map and back at me and back at the map again. Then she started towards me on those sexy little heels. When she got to me she was a little out of breath. "I think I have it figured out!" she exclaimed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yep." she nodded with a big grin. "When you walked over here the dot didn't move!"

"So?"

"Well, it's obvious, silly. The map is tracking me!"




The moral of the story is: I never know when the Blond Bombshell is messing with me.

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