Key West

Over the past few years fate has somehow ordained that I would be a party to brief visitations to the Southernmost city in the Continental US-- Key West , Florida. Having had more than its share of genuine characters in its past, the city seems in no danger of losing even a percentage of its resident hooligans. Long known for Ernest Hemmingway and his antics at Sloppy Joes, his frequent watering hole, the city probably is much like he left it at his untimely death. Hemmingway left a legacy as a genius writer and hard drinking scoundral, yet his most talked about link in Key West is the tribe of oddly mutated cats with an extra toe on each front paw. These felines, like the legion of scrawny bantam like chickens, wander the streets at will, and without enemies save for the occasional aging yankee in his rental convertible that often leaves a ball of feathers or cat pelt smashed on the narrow blacktop trails leading to Duvall Street. Key west is perhaps one of the few remaining tourist haunts in the US where you're awakened from your $200 a night room to ugly little bags of feathers crowing angrily at the rising sun. I can personally vouch that the place would be far more pleasant and clean if the police were allowed free hunting with a double barrel twelve gauge and a load of birdshot on these miserable creatures, The chickens only live to eat ,defecate, and procreate; yet in hindsight that's what most of my buddies do, and noone is hunting them with birdshot, except for a few ex-wives. Back to Duvall Street one's sense of normalcy is laid to rest as every dreg of society from pickpockets, hustlers, streetpeople, hookers, and con artists meld somehow together to lend a festive air. Tourists come here and spend bunches of money to be insulted, conned, and treated badly. They find amusing the things that people are regularly arrested for in Times Square. Let the day draw to a close and everyone heads to Mallory Square to watch the sunset and the performers. Junk is sold and everyone is drinking silly little beverages with paper umbrellas, while every Jimmy Buffet wannabee is Singing Margaritaville with a cup close by for donations. Mr. Buffet himself comes in regularily to his Margaritaville Restaurant and his giftshop. You can always tell when he's visiting because there's a fleet of Brinks Trucks to take his money to his island estate. You know where it's 5 O'clock somewhere? The streets are filled with gross sights of fat,obese yankee men and women riding rental bicycles with far too skimpy shorts and tops displaying obscene draps of flesh. What possesses these grandparents to display unsightly old ,fleshy bodies while they're in Key West? Do they cross The Seven Mile Bridge and suddenly want to display their white corpulent, disease ridden bodies?Does Sam and Lucille from Buffalo suddenly think that society wants to see their drooping ass cheeks as they placidly peddle their bikes down Duvall?? I think not. There should be some remnants of decorum even after crossing the bridge. And street people. These characters have been here so long that their bodies look like my old Sperry Topsiders after a Summer on Cumberland Lake. They have not one ounce of body fat on their filthy bodies, as they scrounge behind the restaurants in competition with the cats and chickens for morsels of homosexually produced finger food from fruity little restaurants with French names and Cuban food. Everything is a "wrap" with red wine something and balsamic vinegar. I promise you can't find a balogna and cheese any nearer than Tavanier, and that can be doubtful. Every year in October is when there is a week of debauchery nonpareil called Fantesy Fest , when even the wild ways are topped! The clothing du jour is body paint for women and alcohol for the men . Everyone participates, regardless of sexual persuasion, body type or financial standing. Did I mention Key West is an outpost of homosexuality, for women as well as men? I guess in hindsight that it is an outpost for a lot of things. For some it is a group of middleaged men being led around by wives and being admonished to "Put your Eyes back in your head!" If at times I seem weary of the Conch Republic , I must be excused as fatigued. Come October I'll be searching for Cheap Miami Tickets, and the best rental car deals. Its become a ritual ,and I look forward to the ugly ,depraved sights. If Sandy would just consider letting us plan for Fantasy Fest week. Right. It won't happen.

Beauty-Skindeep or What?

I've often tried to figure out what it is that allows men and women to be attracted to the opposite sex, and what subliminal signals we pick up that makes us think of an attraction. Now a knockout woman always will stand out in a crowd to almost any man, but women are more complex in what they see as attractive and find interesting in a male. I have personally developed a criteria of my own of what makes a woman interesting to me , and oddly enough this changes as I get older. I once read that changing trends had been studied and researchers had found that young women were attracted to older men--great news! The downside was that their definition of older men was 30!That's just another wedge in any feelings of self esteem that I might otherwise have had. My favorite quote that some charlatan like Doctor Phil had come up with was "Men talk to have sex, and women have sex to talk". Well as sensitive as I and my colleagues have become, this solves a lot of problems and lets everyone build up their self-esteem. Women and men are so vastly different in what makes a woman attractive that the two sides will never agree. Women dress and lose weight for other women, as no sane man wants a skinny woman. The chicks just don't get the message that nearly all men want a woman with curves and a little more meat on the bones. Rubens was not wrong when he painted his statuesque models.Men like friendly,yet mysterious women who act like they really enjoy being with the man. I think from my limited knowledge of todays younger women and men that both sexes are more interested in having the right clothes , right hair, make-up ,and the right car than they are of impressing the opposite sex. Olive tries to explain to me what some of the new vocabulary is. Take "Hooking Up" for instance. It is not what I initially thought it to be. Alice and Jerry can hook-up ,and yet not be intimate, and they can become intimate and that can be a type of Hook-up. I think I hooked up with Sandy when I met her downtown for lunch, but I can't be sure of what degree of hook-up we partook of. I don't think it was especially good for her , but I was sensitive to not ask. You cannot say that a relationship is "Rolling "as this means having sex under the influence of drugs. People used to ask how work was coming along and I would say "We're rolling along". Not anymore." Players" are both admired and scorned, and it depends on who has been a part of the play--I think. And Metro sexuals??? This seems to be a male who is straight, but spends a lot of money on haircuts, shampoo, manicures, pedicures, and body lotions. I don't understand the Queer Eyes /straight guys phenom as I plod through middle-agedom. I am told that even Hazmit had his brows waxed to enter a body building contest. You know talking to a male buddy about his brow wax is like having your father talk to you about sex- you just don't go there. I travel a lot and somehow just the glimpse of a flashing earring in a mirror on the car ahead of you will instinctively tell you whether the chick is a babe or less. I can see a little bit of tanned cheek or flashing white teeth and go on the witness stand as to what degree of beauty a woman has. Maybe it's some subliminal way her head is turned, or maybe her confidence is psychically projected, but nontheless most men have radar when it comes to babes. The one exception to the rule that all men can vouch for is that you cannot trust the sound of an unseen woman's voice on the telephone. Every man on earth has a story of hell that came from the blind date with the beautiful voice. Guys-trust me, get a picture before you commit. That's what college yearbooks were invented for. I guess these insights were most helpful to some people unless you are a narcissistic metro-sexual or a woman,in which circumstance I guess hooking up would be an exercise in futility either way. I'm still trying to be more sensitive toward the opposite sex but I just don't have any patience.

The New Frontier Part Two

Blogging is a relatively painful experience for me as I never learned the joy of typing, hence a perfect way for me to spend an hour typing out even a short paragraph. At times I am so envious at the ease which good typists race across the keyboard and magically make stories come together , something I will never achieve. I have often, and truthfully stated that I would exchange two college degrees and assorted other college hours for the ability to play guitar like Eric Clapton,as college degrees come and go but God-given talents are few and far between. As previously stated Americans have always had safety valves in the frontier until the US became settled in 1892 with the end of the frontier era. There was an interesting book about a decade ago called THE POPCORN REPORT which made the premise that it was the first time in history that the civilized areas of the world was more dangerous than the wilderness. Now that got me to thinking ,and the author was right on the money. We often have more people killed daily in Central Kentucky in automobile accidents, shootings, and acts of violence than in the battlegrounds of Iraq! Early Kentucky settlements in Kentucky often had huge numbers of settlers killed due to Indian attacks, accidents, and illness. Some historians calculated that the average Kentucky settler lived only two years after they crossed the mountains in the 1770s and1780s. The year of 1777 was known as the year of the "Bloody Sevens" because so many Kentuckians were killed by the British and Shawnee Indians during a siege that lasted nearly the whole year. Those settlers certainly had the intestinal fortitude just to come across the mountains. Can you imagine how bad were the conditions along the east coast to make them cross the formidable hills as a safety valve? We, on the other hand must constantly look to diversions in modern life for our own safety valves, and there certainly seem to be a myriad of choices to lure us away from the everyday , mundane hours of our lives. Some choose the easy route of narcotics or alcohol to bring some sort of relief, while others will go deeply in debt to attempt to buy relief in the form of happiness. One thing is certain: the wealthy never have to seek relief as much as the poor. Happiness and relief can fall on people with new hobbies as Jimmy Olsen and Pepper Anderson found in Golf. Maynard finds relief catching big fish , and he was recently crestfallen when he found a comrade who supplied him with fishing bait was moving out of state. "You can replace a wife, but a source for big shad is moving and can't be replaced". True quote. Olive can replace total depression on a single visit to the cosmetics counter at Lazarus, and my brother will sit for hours waiting for a turkey or deer. Speaking of which, countless billions of dollars are spent yearly by otherwise intelligent men in the pursuit of wild turkeys. How some creature with a brain the size of a large marble eludes all these grown men is beyond me. Some men ride Motorcycles, and others drive fast cars. Some women buy clothes and look better through plastic surgery;the common denominator being that we each have our poison, the only difference being how much we need and how much it costs.Youth makes a difference as the population of the United States is obsessed with youth and vitality, whereas the true youth is obsessed with the money that the Baby Boomers are spending in pursuit of their youth. No person is happy with what they have.First time job applicants out of high school want supervisory jobs from the start without consideration that they have no skills. Newly wed young couples want new homes in the best subdivisions with Hummers in the driveway. Job skills have gone South and no worker can seem to put in a 40 hour week;I have become the person at 56 that I ridiculed and despised at 26. The other day Olive and I were going to a job site and she was driving with 50Cents screaming hate filled invectives out her CD player and I felt really,really old. I felt like my Dad as her ranted about the Beatles and The Rolling Stones. I don't understand rap, and I don't much like Kenny Chesney, who reminds me of a precocious chipmunk. Musically I'm a dinosaur looking for a tar pit to fall into-headfirst. It takes so long to type this that my trains of thought meander around like some old man trying to go to the bathroom, and paragraphs? Hell, I'm lucky just to type with some of the proper letters. I would trade a lot to play like Eric Clapton , and I wouldn't have to type. I'd let my guitar do my talking for me.

The New Frontier

In the early days of American social development Civilization travelled from thev East Coast ever Westward. Frederick Jackson Turner had "the Frontier Thesis" that stated that the Frontier was a safety valve that acted as relief to social conditions to a growing mass of immigrants to the new world. A Frenchman, Alexis De Tocqueville wrote later of the raw spirit of Americans on the frontier in his memoirs about American Democracy. His travels along the frontier during the 1820's were fascinating reading to later historians and Europeans. He was particularly fascinated with the habit of spitting on the muddy sidewalks that the frontiersmen exhibited with regularity. Nothing good lasts forever , and the United States Department of Interior officially declared that the frontier was no more in existence in 192; the Safety Valve was gone forever! One might ask how then do modern Americans relieve stress when they cannot just pack up and move across the mountains when things become unbearable?Well, we as a society have had to become very innovative and invent new ways to beat stress and monotony. I vividly remember my grandfather who was born coincidentally in 1892, the end of the frontier. He never worked a day in his life that I can remember and raised a family of ten children on a small subsistence farm. He never had running water in his house , and resisted any effort of his children to modernize or come into the 20th century. He had a wood cookstove that my grandmother prepared three meals a day like clockwork on, and the rest of the time he sat on the porch chewing tobacco and whittling. In cold weather he sat by a coal stove and did equally nothing , just like summer. He didn't read or participate in anything intellectual. Not being a particularly religious man, he "allowed" my grandmother and the children to go to church, yet refrained from going himself. Living to be around 80 years old, he probably only saw a MD a couple of times in his life, and stayed remarkably fit and healthy for the lifestyle he chose. Not a believer in any form of alcohol, chewing tobacco his only vice, he was all in all a very honorable and proud man. While refusing to come into the modern world, he would have me take him to the grocery store once a week in my then Ultra hip Ford Grand Torino with the big tires and shiny chrome wheels, the 351 Cleveland growling as we went up Kings Mountain Hill in a streak of metallic blue. PawPaw would have his elbow out the window watching the scenery go by as we talked about times past, his favorite riding horse while he was a young man down in Middleburg,Casey County , the scene of his youth. He never seemed to think my hair was getting too long, or that I was anything other than his companion on short adventures. PawPaw died in the Seventies after I graduated from college and he was buried in Middleburg Cemetary next to his father, who was buried next to his father who was buried next to his father. Later in 1990 my own father was interred next to PawPaw, way too early, but laid to rest nontheless. Altogether there are five of my ancestors laid peacefully in a row, overlooking the pretty little valley that most of them had called home since the early 1800's. I sometimes envy them the peace and harmony that they shared in their lives; a commonality that I have never known or attained, and not likely to ever achieve. I have always envied their inner strength and composure and felt alien from their world. My own life is too jumbled to ever have peace, and I guess I wouldn't want it any other way. I've often wondered if I would have gotten along with my ancestors and inevitably come up with the conclusion that we wouldn't have much in common from what I've heard and observed. I guess I've gotten too much from my mother, which isn't a compliment to her at this life. Old De Tocqueville was right in a lot of things to be a Frenchman. I learned most of this while drawing numbers on round track cars for my mentor Danny Coffman and his band of henchmen.

What about Brittany?

OK, so I'm writing this in my most peaceful and tranquil color since I need a little solace about now. It's not easy being a 56 year old man in today's fast paced society.When everything hurls at you at 100 mph , and you are only capable of a maximum speed of 65 , then debris starts hitting your body, if not completely overwhelming you. Tonight I was watching the weather channel when Carl Edwards broke his forecast to say that he had been handed a bulletin saying Brittany Spears was pregnant. I was as shocked as his co-anchor , the Babe Jennifer Lopez! No , not the J. Lo with the marvelous set of buttocks, of P. Diddy /Ben Affleck fame, but Weather woman Jennifer Lopez. I try to keep up with the weather babes because all in all they are pretty nice window dressing for a normally boring subject-the weather.Now we've all seen Jim Cantore nearly blown away by hurricanes, or Mike Sliddell in snow up to his bushy eyebrows, and who hasn't listened to Dr. Paul Kochin as he tries to talk in a gravelly voice? After all he is the winter weather expert. I was completely taken aback as the announcement of Brittany's pregnancy came out of a meteorologist's mouth. I hope this is not a new trend, as all the airwaves will be following this story. How could something of the magnitude of the Pope's death be even followed by such drivel? I personally have know many ,many couples of the caliber of Ms. Spears and her husband , and none have even gotten an announcement in the papers of a new child, yet none have the money and notoriety of the soon to be mother. I guess what I'm saying is that I would like a break from this trashy bunch of the nouveau riche and their constant escapades. I wish Michael Jackson , Robert Blake, O J Simpson, and Anna Nicole Smith were somewhere else. Court TV has just about been locked out on my tv, along with the shopping channels. And E , Entertainment TV, has actors that recreate the daily carryings-on of the Michael Jackson Trial. Where did they get that androgynous creature to play Michael? I hope that's all make-up and not a true person just like Michael. Could he have spent millions of dollars cloning himself? Has Dolly the sheep come back to haunt us?And still on Michael, am I the only one that thinks the long , straight white hair of his lawyer is just a little too similar to Jackson's long straight black Hair? Good Lord is this"Ebony And Ivory" come to fruition? Is this Ying and Yang? And now we are told Mr. Home Alone with his jelly filled lips was a playmate at Neverland. I'm waiting to hear that Robert Blake spent some quality time with Jocko. All this ruminating leads to the conclusion that our country has somehow lost our focus and ethical priorities. Nearly one half of a Million people perished in December's Tsunami, and have received less press coverage than these little court cases. Up until recent times the most talked about court cases were the Lindberg baby kidnapping, the Neurenberg Trials, and probably the McCarthy hearings . Never have so many words been so wasted on such unworthy subjects. We all know about Paris Hilton's sex tapes, Pamela Anderson's sex tapes, and Bill "I DID NOT HAVE SEX WITH THAT WOMAN", and nothing shocks us anymore. I remember in college not so long ago that "orals" meant something altogether different. Thanks to the Oval Office even Blue haired grannies talk about oral sex. I think this is not a healthy direction for our society. I feel that Nicole Brown Simpson, Ron Goldman, Jon Benet Ramsey, Chandra Levy, and Bonnie Blake went awfully easily and cheaply down the drain.Some people care, but not the legal system, as fame and power has a way of eluding justice.This weekend the future King of England remarried, and nobody cared. It was like two old plow horses that had been living together for 35 years suddenly made it legal. They didn't get much more publicity than if the nuptials had been performed at my mentor Danny Coffman's garage.In this particular case I was proud of the restraint of the fifth estate. Maybe all this blabbering has to do with my bio-rhythms being out of whack. Does anybody remember Bio-rhytms? I think those went out with The BeeGees and Dance Fever, but I feel somehow disconnected with Ms. Spears and her upcoming birth.Will we have to send gifts? Will she have showers? What do you give to the"OOPS I DID IT AGAIN" new mother?I  do somewhat understand Paris Hilton, as I knew some like her years ago. 

Speaking of Botany

As spring fast approaches here in Kentucky I was walking through my yard and surveying the usual sad shape of the lawn, when I came up with the idea that we as humans are really no different than plants. Here at the end of March most of us are coming out of the doldrums of winter , and our exubrance at the coming warmth and sunshine is tempered by the pallid colors of our too-fat and flabby bodies. I sensed that life ,like my lawn is full of weeds and a few flowers, along with the usual wannabees that change their stations from time to time. Take me for instance, I've always been a weed, and always will be ; but remember- not all weeds are created equal. Some weeds are reprehensible and scorned by humanity, as in the lowly crab grass ,or what gardener hasn't cursed chickweed as it grows like a cancer amongst the obedient and doting vegetables? Other weeds have grown followers and cult status as in Tobacco for its nicotine and marijuana for the obvious highs.I began to think of colleagues and fellow workers and what their plant world status might be.Take Maynard the Mighty for instance. Maynard does not have to prove himself to anyone ,yet who would have thought his start as a small brier would have grown to such a formidable businessman whose sense of acuity is a legend at the boat dock. How did such a phenomenon occur you might ask? Well Maynard married a red rose and as they twined and twined he became a force to be reckoned with , as in Jimmy Grove and Barbara Allyn. They had Olive and she came out as an azelea, fiery red in color and temperament. Just a couple of weeks ago she was breezing through Wal-mart and caught her elegant, trailing, but highly fashionable scarf in the shopping cart wheels, and had to be extricated by store personnel. True story, yet even the prettiest azalea falls to frost every once in a while. Pepper Anderson , ever the enigma and feared office manager has taken up golf! I overheard Jimmy Olson giving her a gift the other day, and low and behold it was a dozen psychedelically colored golf balls!! Talk about an alliance and friendship made in hell! Good Lord these drifting spirits have found companionship in golf- the sport invented for the weak and infirm! I have come to believe that Jimmy is still recovering from his inflamed uvula, and that Pepper is on some sort of middle-aged crusade that only women and other golfers can comprehend. For their new-found affability I must elevate them to the status of desirable plants and hereafter they shall be a cabbage and a head of lettuce. I can't quite give them a flowering status because of the golf defect, but nonetheless they can be found on the gardening trays at Leroy Boone's Hardware store. If Jimmy would just quit wearing those silly little short socks with the dangling balls. Now Lois Lane , pure and simple is without a doubt an ornamental plant and it is quite easy to ascertain what variety she is. Last year she went to some strange store and bought everyone in the sawdust Kingdom these weird plants called "Sensitive Plants". Talk about a plant with a strange habit-- just touch one of these little bushes and the leaves curled up where you touched it!! The thing just begged for you to touch it to watch it curl up in embarrassment. Maybe the thing is just bashful, but I feel it has the most chronic case of an inferiority complex in the plant kingdom. I took mine home and messed with it every time I passed by. It shrivelled up every time I forgot to water it , but miraculously sprang back up when it rained. I loved the plant so much that I left it out all winter . I fear the thing was too sensitive and expired around 15 degrees. For her love of this plant I ordain Lois lane to be A "Sensitive Plant". I married Sandy Kay because of her disposition and her cheerful personality and she is undoubtedly a cheery little pansy as it brightens up the early days of spring. Her brother ,Old Timothy A. however is an enigmatic eggplant. Why an eggplant? Because like Tim' the eggplant will never, ever tell you anything. All this foolishness comes to a culmination as to my own status as a plant. What type of weed am I going to be? After much thought and inner reflection I must admit to being Kudzu, because I,Like this invasive plant have run rampage in Eastern Kentucky for years, which isn't all bad. After all Maynard got his rose, but I stole a pretty brown-eyed pansy. Olh Hazmit got grey sweatpants. Read about him at http://hazmit.blogspot.com./

You may be what you smell

Modern science has written the sensory perceptions of humanity as being wrapped up in the five basic senses, or at least five senses in most people. I have known some people who have somehow evolved into creatures of even more perceptions, whether it be ESP, UFO sightings, or just being lucky at winning things like a lottery. Sandy Kay for instance has a 6th sense of when I might not be telling the truth, something like a lie-detector. Or she can immediately sense when I am about to question someone at a party about embarrassing details of a personal nature, and she will take me home, often without any warning. I guess however, after comparing notes with other male colleagues that most woman have developed this 6th sense to a perfection. This revelation brought to mind how many other differences have taken place between men and women regarding the senses. One of the few senses that I have retained is the sense of smell. Sandy has an acute sense of smell as well ,yet her recognition of odors is not as readily available as mine. She can smell dirty socks from out in her car as it pulls in the driveway, but she doesn't recognize the smell of burning brake pads, or the acrid odor of a bad catalytic converter of the old Pacer in front of us at the light. She thinks that the catalytic converter odor is someone passing gas. Women have developed this unhealthy fascination with candles, and it seems the more I question this- the more candles we have. We not only have candles , but we have little hot-plate looking things that melt the wax without flames. What for? The good smell of course. I have eavsdropped on women and heard them talk for hours about candles. Good Lord this is the age of Halogen lighting--what's with the candles? A few weeks back I walked into a bank and noticed a funny smell and I asked the teller what it was. She pointed to a burning candle and said"Sex on the beach,Baby". It suddenly dawned on me that that was the name of the candle giving off this vaguely coconut smell. Now I wasn't in a position to debate the merits of the description ,but it was not like sex on Boonesboro Beach 35 years ago, and certainly didn't stimulate some of the other senses that had been involved, but that will remain an unknown blog. I must admit that Sandy has no patience with her candles and throws them away with regularity; maybe they don't live up to her expectations,but I have been taking them out to the whirlpool spa and floating them around in the soothing waters as I bask in the warmth on cold winter nights. I can testify that they will float placidly around with a soft glow so long as I don't turn the jets or bubbles on. It took a lot of effort to clean up the water when I sank a whle fleet one night just to see what would happen. A final note to candles is that the girls should start marketing candles for men . Think about the rush to buy them if they could market candles that smelled like gunpowder or a wet birddog on the ride home from the hunt. Some guys would pay a lot of money for the smell of Harley Davidson exhaust mixed with Coors Lite and Baby powder. And what man wouldn't want a combination of Baseball Opening Day hotdogs mixed with Drunken pizza eaters? I personally can remember the smells of Homecoming 1970 as my friend's date ate all of her huge yellow pompom mum that was pinned on her left chest, somehow leaning down and gracefully nibbling until nothing remained but a green stem . The candle associated with that episode would be called Bicardi and Coke. I recently had an olfactory experience when an associate that I'll call the Soap Babe gave me some soap that her company manufactures. Now I'll admit that I was perplexed when she asked what fragrance I wanted to try. I asked for choices and finally settled on Peppermint and one called Patchouli (I think). Quite to my dismay I really liked the peppermint, but made the mistake of telling her in front of Maynard, my overly sensitive and ever- politically sensitive boss, who immediately questioned my masculinity because of my liking that scent. Now Maynard somehow sees himself as a deadly combination of Charles Bronson and The Rock, and so long as he continues placing his masculine signature on my paycheck he can fantasize about his image all he likes. I , on the other hand would like the Soap Babe to develop a peppermint smelling bar that floats like the old Ivory. Just think, I can bask in the hottub with Sandy's cast off candles and sweet smelling peppermint soap that I can always find. Now won't that be sensory overload!!

Little Nascar

Often in my everyday work schedule I will find myself on I-75 headed Southbound towards Knoxville or points that branch off in either Eastern Kentucky or Tennessee. The common thread of all the miles travelled is that one just never knows what adventure lies around the next mile marker. I always travel Old 150 to Mt. Vernon and enter the Interstate just above Renfro Valley. When I still had the black jet it was light it up and lift-off about 9 0'clock in the morning most of the times when I was heading towards points south of Knoxville. The routine never wavered---the jet would be approaching 75 mph as it merged with the usual commercial traffic of the interstate, knowing that if I averaged 80mph that I would be buying a medium coke at exit 129 in Tennessee in one hour. That was taking in account that we would slow down to 75 for the speed trap before the Livingston exit, and the army of bored troopers as they ticketed hundreds of unwary yankees as they approached the first London, Kentucky exit. There is always a calvacade of Canadians as they are either coming or going to Florida. Sometimes it seems that Eisenhower just developed the Interstate System to accomodate our Canuck neighbors to the North. Now in all sincerity some of these Canadians look old enough to have participated in the battle of Quebec when Wolf defeated Montcalm, but that's probably just the effects of a lifetime of harsh winters and too many shots of liquor after a hard day at General Motors. It is hard to foster genuine feelings of comradeship with these fellow travellers when you're nodding at them at upwards of 90 mph as you tackle Jellico Mountain with a vengeance.I have been over that mountain hundreds of times over the last 20 years and it's always the same , and yet always different as your reflexes receive a workout dodging old retirees, strung out truck drivers, and interstate alligators(huge carcasses of blown -out rubber truck tires). Everything slows down about mile marker 134 (Caryville, Tennessee) as the tan and dark brown trooper cars have a propensity to ruin the days of carefree travellers.The saddest thing about this area is that those nasty little beetles have killed all the pine trees on the side of these mountains and left gaping black holes in the sides of the forest. Over the past five years there has been a battle of morals as a church started in a metal building complex off of Exit 141 and then moved to a larger unseen building to be replaced by "ADULT World GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS". . It seems the church crowd is battling the den of iniquity with a 5 story metal cross, but it appears there are more semis parked in that old nasty gravel parking lot every time I go by. For the un-initiated Exit 141 is the place that has the fluorescent ferris wheel that flashes in day-glo orange and yellow that fireworks are to be had. I guess I could stop for Fireworks or "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS" but I know that just 12 miles down the road is my first destination-- McDonalds and a smoky smelling restroom followed by a large coke in a plastic cup that always has something about the "Vols". How that coke can taste so good in that nasty orange cup is beyond me. As I near Knoxville traffic picks up and the chore becomes harder as I-40 and I-75 converge and cars play ping-pong with each other with regularity. There's always construction in Knoxville, and wrecks are as plentiful as the old Canadians are headed to Tampa. It seems in retrospect that the retired Canadians and the Michigan malcontents are imprinted like Canadian geese to head south every fall and north every spring. Michigan drivers are a totally different story. They are usually the old geezers that are attached close to your bumper, flashing their high beams in their impatience for you to pull over to the slow lane. I think most of them are always in such a hurry to get to Florida because they are so old that they think they are out-running the Grim Reaper. I have had them flash their highbeams at me while I have been doing over 90 mph, to pass me in a metallic flash of chrome as they have the cruise set on 105 in their lumbering Cadillac Deville or Buick Park Avenue, usually accompanied by a blue-haired female with a yapping white poodle draped over their shoulder.I often wnder if someone is dreading their arrival in Florida, or if someone in Michigan is elated that they have finally gone South for the winter.The beauty is that I'll never know all these answers as I finally hesd North out of Knoxville again, headed to the first Mt. vernon exit. The only certainty is at the Williamsburg exit is a waiting medium coke with my name on it doled out by some pimply faced Cumberland College student. I can hear the ticking metallic sounds of the jet's motor as it is cooling down from the subsonic descent down the mountain. I check the cell phone for messages, and light the motor up, the jet fires and its back to Helm Street and the inner city.

Maybe they shouldn't

This weekend besides being chilly, nasty , and depressing was made even more miserable because KET was having a fund raiser, and was featuring rock music of the 60's with a lot of the original stars singing their hits. I wish to go on record that I love KET and music is one of the greatest pasttimes in my life, but watching your college age idols as they attempt to sing their greatest hits is not a pretty sight! I watched with amazement as a group of fat , bald or balding men tried to sound like The Grass Roots, The Birds , And even Steppenwulf! What mockery was this, and who had the audacity to sing the Sacred songs like this decrepit aging bunch of old men!? Then the awesome truth befell me that this was a gathering of the real artists that I had listened to and worshiped as a wet-behind -the ears college freshman at old EKU. It didn't help that the cheering audience was an overweight, aging group of men and women that were swaying and dancing in stiff arthritic movements like they would have done back at Specks on Water Street in 1968. Could this group of glassy- eyed, post- menopausal females be the same group of babes that set my heart ablaze over 35 years ago?? Good Lord!!! 35 years ago?? My own mortality settled on my shoulders as I realized that this pitiful audience was ME! What happened to the star struck lad from Mckinney that travelled to Richmond for an education. To become the first person on either side of his family to obtain a college degree was my goal. Success is in the eyes of the beholder as Maynard tells me he knows "fools who graduated from Eastern."Maynard himself measures success as "Marrying the first girl down the street whose daddy owned a Ford Dealership."I can't argue with his yardstick for success but that's a different story. As I started college during the "Summer Of Love" I was stunned with new ideas , people, and life. South Fork didn't have sorority babes and a long legged blond gymnastic star that talked like an angel. I became tongue-tied and awkward every time she smiled with those deep dimples and crinkled those brown eyes. Mckinney High didn't have gymnastics, and this 6 foot tall goddess of svelteness and muscletone like a cheetah troubled my mind like nothing had ever done before. The same emotional overload had only previously been felt when screaming Baptist preachers had screamed about the fires of hell and coming damnation on those hot summer nights as heat lightning had played across the black country skies. I just knew the devil was reaching up to snatch me away as the katydids screamed outside. With this tall girl /goddess from Columbus I had the same intense emotional overloads to my little mind. She troubled me like the Baptist preacher but she offered no redemption. The same heat lightning flashed across the hot autumn skies and she had her own intensity and heat that scared and fascinated me , even today not totally understood. I would go to class and parade around the parking lot in Uncle Sam's green ROTC uniform with 2000 other unwilling cadets that Eastern said had to attend for four semesters. This was the year of Kent State,as we put a whole bottle of Vitalis and slicked down our hair to fit newly grown, but forbidden locks of hair under the ugly little, flat army caps. We shared 1-S deferrments, bottles of Vitalis and Brasso , and the gathering storm clouds of Southeast Asia . I would walk to class filled with dread of Corp Period Day and Sergeant Gregory as he encouraged us to sign up for Advanced ROTC , my only hope that some of the upper class babes who were Sponsors would be out there strutting with their tight little mini-skirts, shiny black high heels, and green ROTC blouses. If they weren't there I would think of the gymnast and helping her with chemistry at the John Grant Crabbe Library until 3 o'clock in the morning. That always helped with cursings from the ROTSIE lifers about unpolished brass and long hair. They hated for us to call it ROTSIE and we hated everything about them. We listened to the Temptations and the Four Tops, ROTC listened to the Star Spangled Banner. I liked a blonde tall goddess ,and they liked the idea of killing Cong. I watched Earth Day 1968 down at the Ravine and heard "Hell no ! We won't go! " for the first time. I watched Bobby Kennedy gunned down on tv, and observed both cheering and tears when Martin Luther was killed in Memphis, all the time listening to the music that later came to be called the "Sixties". Some went to Vietnam, and all came home , either in body bags or changed forever. I was a pallbearer for a friend I started first grade with, graduated high school with , and 1 year of college with. He went to Vietnam , returned in one piece, and I saw him at the drive in movie, full of plans to go back to Eastern the next semester on the GI Bill. He was killed in a car wreck the next weekend at Ft. Dix, New Jersey; not a victim of Uncle Sam's war but his own wild ways. He'll always be 21 years old. I hope he's somewhere good , and laughing at me and those aging rock stars down here as we take anti-cholestrol medicine and watch our blood pressure. I watched KET's segment on the Carpenters and renewed my bond with Karen Carpenter, the greatest female singer ever to perform,but I wish I hadn't seen those Fat Boys with pony tails and those audience grandparents making fools of themselves. I wonder what my heat lightning gymnast turned into, but not really. I wish Karen would sing "A Song For You" for her and Frankie.

Risky Behavior

Over the course of my lifetime I have often been a party to events that Sandy Kay often describes as dangerous behavior. She feels that there is a thin line between thrill seeking and utter stupidity, and is often confounded when I apparently cannot differentiate between the two. I cannot pass any opportunity to buy rides on Helicopters, and I will drive for miles out of my way to jump in a Bell Jet Ranger for the thrill of having my entire body vibrated for whatever the length of the ride.Sandy Kay only asks for the keys because she seems to have a vision of the whirly bird crashing and burning into a hillside with her husband melted into the fusilage, along with whoever else was foolhardy enough to fly. It doesn't help the cause that one of my favorite pilots crashed and burned , and was horribly disfigured. As long as she has the keys she knows she can drive home and continue with her life. I tried to get her to go para-sailing with me down at Panama City and she just held out her hands for the keys and said"Go for it!". There's something indescribable about floating 300 feet above the beach and hearing only the wind as you glide out over the Gulf of Mexico on a beautiful cloudless day. A few days later a parasailing mother and daughter were blown into a billboard as the parasail was caught in a freak burst of wind. Sandy watched the rescue squad take them away and only shook her head. A lot of people are afraid of sharks and are terrified that the boat will dip them into the waters of the Gulf right atop a hungry great white. Tim and I , on the other hand have dived with Caribbean Reef Sharks doing figure eights all around us thinking we will feed them. Now these are certainly not great whites but there were 5 or 6 of them in the school and they were 5 or 6 feet long, and have no fear of two middle aged out-of-shape men. As they glided by within a foot of us their black cat looking eyes would be turning at us and sizing us up as to our potential as a snack. It seemed as if their big toothy grins were saying,"You silly boys should have listened to Sandy Kay who's up on the bank clutching your wallets and the room keys!"Then there was the time when we elected to pay money and dived Sting Ray City in the Caymans with a gozillion Stingrays looking for squid handouts. These big monsters hear the boat engines and come flopping their black fins toward you much like birds of prey swimming under water. They are often four feet across their backs and will settle on your head like some obscene overstuffed hat that Aunt Ruby wore at Easter in the fifties. You can see their mouths on the white belly as they are sucking the squid that you have been given to keep them on site . A curious fact is that the mouths have been designed by nature to vacuum shellfish and food out of the sandy bottom , and these creatures have far more suction than David Orick ever dreamed of in his life time. The boat captain warned us of Sting Ray Hickeys and fortunately we survived. The only near danger we had was this monster barracuda somehow attached itself to Tim, often looking straight into his mask.I personally think that this multi-toothed creature sensed that Tim was the pharmacy guru and needed some recreational drug therapy. I could have told him(her?) that big old ugly fish wouldn't be given anything but ibuprofen or a rap on it's ugly killing snout by Dr. Tim.I might add that the bellies of stingrays feel like sleek white marshmellows under water as they glide across your exposed flesh, a fact that makes Sandy shudder when I tell her. I almost thought that she was going to swim with the manatees at Crystal River in Florida , but she rode on the boat and watched from above as old Tim and I snorkled out and swam amongst these gentle creatures . Nothing prepares you for how huge these things are as they graze underwater on aquatic plant life, often with a young baby at their sides. Being mammals , the manatees must surface for air often ito the props of overhead boats. Most of these creatures have horrible scars on their backs with collisions from boats. It is truly amazing that these animals can weigh 1000 pounds and are as graceful as dolphins . I was really proud of Sandy as she leaned over the edge of the boat , watching us swim with the mammals, our billfolds and keys carefully tucked in her purse. I have to admit that I'm not to squimish about danger, as I always drive too fast and like thrills, but the sight of a baby coming toward me picking his nose will cause me to overload. I cannot stand nose-picking children and I have a phobia about them rubbing Buggers on me. Sandy , on the other hand doesn't seem to have this phobia, mainly because the little devils always seem to come toward me. I also cannot bear the mechanics of diaper changing either, so I guess Sandy and I are a good team. Whenever Nose-picking kids come around I hold out my hands and she gives me the keys to guard. I can dive down in utter blackness to a lake bottom and grope around in 12 inches of slimy, cold mud, but you let a two year old bugger picker within a mile of me and I'll generally panic . It takes all kinds. "You got fins to the left and fins to the right and you're the only bait in town"

In trouble again

Well, as always I have somehow managed to alienate myself from another woman, not just any woman, but Sandy Kay, my trusty wife of thirty some years and the Queen of Helm Street and holder of my future happiness . I , in a weaker moment undiplomatically opined that you could place three women in a room with a steel railroad rail and they would somehow destroy it in a matter of hours, and without the help of tools. Well predictably enough this had somewhat of a chilling effect on the last couple of days , and the next couple of months if past transgressions are any indication of what the future holds. Any intelligent man would learn from the past , yet no person has accused me of any brains for the past decade.I have gotten in trouble as I tried to explain that vacuum cleaner bags need to be changed when full, and that dragging them at warp speed through the house by the hose and then running the cannister into the woodwork and doors is not beneficial to the house. Sometimes when I'm downstairs and the vacuum is running upstairs I keep my hand on the phone for 911 because I've heard genuine barroom brawls with less noise and banging around!When the noise dies down I will usually go up the steps to see if there's anything left, and the old Hoover will be lying on its back like a dead dog , and Sandy will say its not picking up like it used to. I seemed to have solved the vacuum dilemma by trying to tutor her in the fine art of the machine. She implied that if I knew so much that I could vacuum myself. Well that took care of that with a side benefit as I'm going to need something to do for the next couple of months anyhow.A second issue that we cannot meet in the middle on is the differing attitude toward cars. Sandy Kay drives into our driveway and little old garage at just about the speed of an F-14 Tom Cat as it lands on the carrier deck of the Kennedy.It is somewhat of a comical picture as this pretty, classy lady touches down with a roar and screeching of brakes, The Phantom Of the Opera blaring out on her cd player. I bet if old Michael Crawford knew how fast he had landed in the garage that he would have a new found falsetto in his voice. Speaking of the Cd player in her car, now that's interesting.Anytime I drive the Queen's car I always look to see the state of her radio controls. I have tried for 30 years to explain the concept of "balance" and Fader controls. She will always have Barry Manilow coming out of only one speaker up front, nothing in the back. "His name was Rico- He wore a diamond"comes out of the left side with a vengeance!She's also from the planet Krypton when it comes to hearing. She always aks me "What is that noise?". I honestly have to say"What Noise?" Inevitably it will be the brake wear- indicator on the front discs , or the beep of a weak battery on the alarm system in the house.I just can't hear high pitched noises anymore. I think my ears left me about 1970 when Steppenwulf came along, but it could honestly be the sonic booms of the hoover as it plays like a pinata with the wood work upstairs. A final difference is our attitudes towards pumping gas at the self serve stations. One cold winter day I was pumping the stuff when Sandy reached over and shut the engine off. I asked why and she pointed to the sign telling you not to run the engine, talk on the cell phone , or possibly even think because of immanent explosions.Everyone knows the sign the one right below the Bullet-headed State Trooper's Picture who officially warns you that if you you fail to pay for gasoline you will lose your license. Now everyone knows that you can't control drunken drivers in Kentucky, much less the criminal that drives off with $5 worth of gas! This all makes me want to Fillup with the motor running full blast while talking on my cell phone , and smoking a forbidden cigarette. I will only attempt this act of bravado if Sandy is not present. Has there been a rash of Service Stations blowing up because of careless men? I hadn't heard of it, but I haven't been tempted to drive off without paying because of Mr. Bullet Head Trooper. Who can forget"I fought the law and the law won" by the Bobby Fuller Four. As a final act of contrition I must admit that while I firmly believe the circumstances as true, ther is always Sandy's side of the story which does carry a great deal of weight. Other men have commiserated with me with similar stories, yet they will remain nameless. Just because I have destroyed my life does not mean they deserve the same hellish fate. On one of my past jobs there was a female Branch manager who was extremely hard to please. I made my usual overtures of helpfulness, but made the mistake of saying that I just couldn't seem to get along with women. She immediately jumped me with,"Well just stand back and look at yourself and ask'Why can't I get along with women?!'"It's taken me several years and counselling sessions with the boys at Danny Coffman's garage to work my way through the trauma. I can't find anyone that will measure up to Sandy , but I find her giving me long questioning looks when she thinks I'm not looking.I think she's hearing old Michael sing about the Phantom.

Dive boat diva

This time of year in Kentucky is always a depressive and dark, cold reminder that winter has a way to go. Instead of the snappy, sunny days of a cold New England with white snow, we all too often have damp, foggy ,and bone chilling times of depression.Times such as this remind me of past February days spent in the sunny Bahamas. The journey of a short distance by air is mind boggling to board in Lexington or Louisville in cold 30 degree weather to step out to brilliant sunshine and mid 70's in Nassau. It's quite startling to hear the pilot announce that we'll be arriving in Nassau in ten minutes to sunshine and temperatures in the seventies, even if we know this is normal and the way the world's climates work. As we get a ride to our inn, both Tim and I suddenly remember that the only ride in the world to equal a NYC cab ride to Mid town Manhatten is a Bus ride in the bahamas by a suicide bent native as he drives on the wrong side of the road in horn blowing glee, trying to scare his passengers to death. What is it with these drivers from hell as they blow these little shrill horns at every possible moment? It's almost a sexual thing with them as they screech around corners at sub light speeds , the engines belching noxious fumes at toxic levels. We hope they're diesels, but think they are probably gasoline. Along with the dive group from Louisville are three or four Louisville Metro Policemen, all under 30 years old, exuding testosterone, extreme agressive behavior, and delight at leaving wives and girlfriends in cold,snowy Louisville.There are a couple of babes along , one attached with her husband, the other a divorcee hairdresser from New Albany, where I guess it was just as cold as Louisville as only the Sherman Minton Bridge separates the two. The hair dresser talked on top of talk, she never shut up. On our first dive we embarked on a nice dive boat belonging to Nassau Divers, where we went out to some shallow reefs with some of the most beautiful coral in the western hemisphere. The water was so warm (mid 70s) that most of us wore just dive skins which is like Paradise when you're used to wearing bulky awkward ,wet suits. But then again we were in Paradise. The oranges were blooming on shore and the sky was an unimaginable blue, without a cloud in the sky. The tropical vines were loaded with vivid red flowers that were intoxicating in both color and fragrance . I think the Garden of Eden must have looked and smelled somewhat like Orange Hill where we stayed. Every night the cops would go to Nassau and come back drunk and rowdy, howling at the moon until nearly daylight.Every night Tim and I would take medicine for our pains and take stock of our sunscreen for the next day. Everyone else on the trip would be somewhere in-between. Perhaps the most memorable event of the trip was when we all converged on the Inn's pool to find Tracey( the married babe) sunbathing quite nonchalantly in the skimpiest thong ever beheld by civilized man. This was like Playboy mansion South.This woman would have placed in the top two in an Hawaiian Tropic Contest. Even the Bad Boys(you know the tune "Bad boy, bad boy what you gonna do?) were in a state of shock. We all stayed poolside until the sunscreen had boiled away and we became young and middle aged lobsters.Throughout it all the hairdresser kept talking, constantly telling us all and individually if our toe nails had fungus and how bad our hair cuts were. The cops ignored her and stayed signal nine on the thong babe.On our last dive on the final day of our charter, the dive master was over the dive site and was giving the dive instructions. Most everyone was paying attention, the cops were vivid red from the thong watch, and visibally hung over from Nassau's nightlife. The hair dresser however was as usual, yapping . The dive master asked her two times to be silent while he finished his instructions, and she ignored him. The dive captain just went over and picked her up, and threw her over the back of the boat. Everyone was silent with shock , then we see her come up and swim toward the swim platform . I think this is the perfect opportunity for old Tim to be a gentleman and help her on the boat. Did he try? No, he just watched as she struggled to get back on the slick platform. The bad boys looked like she had gotten what she deserved and turned their attention back to the lecturing dive captain. I realized if someone helped her it was to be me, since no one else was so minded. I went astern gave her a helping hand and helped pulled her aboard. She came up with fire in her eyes and said"At least there's one gentleman on board this damn boat!" All looked at me with some degree of malice in their eyes and we continued the dive. She spent the night with the guy who threw her overboard. Women???? Bad boys what you gonna do?

Real love

Being a poor person all of the past 55 years has often been an eye-opening experience, sometimes good and sometimes bad. Along with the constant companionship of poverty has been the unique experience of having a job of which most of my clientele are multimillionaires. Talk about extremes in lifestyles! I may be riding around with characters in Bentleys as we go to lunch and discuss their mansion interiors, or we may go down the Ohio River on a custom mega-yacht that needs several truck loads of rich mahogany for the lavish ocean- going interior. Nearly all of my clients have Gulf Streams, Lears, or at the least a couple of King Airs. Most of the houses that I work on are at least 35,000 square feet and larger, often with as many as three or four kitchens. All these houses have granite floors , bath rooms , and wonderful libraries. The stables for their automobiles are only the finest in the world. Mercedes is the norm and quite mundane, as one elderly couple had a 911 Porsche with a whale tail that they only used for Sunday afternoon ventures down Kingston Pike for Baskin and Robbins icecream . Most of the time the steel blue shark sat in an airconditioned garage on carpet, wall to wall ,no less. Can you imagine an automobile capable of 190 mph sitting year round except for Sunday drives observing the dogwoods?What a waste!The reason I'm telling this background is to explain that even though I'm poor I'm not braindead. I leave these wealthy star walkers with never a tinge of envy except at times a certain part of my mind lingers on their automobiles, and the sheer euphoria that a fine machine can induce on most men. I really don't care much for the Mercedes, and the average BMW won't turn my head, but let it have 911 written on its rear and I'm rapt with attention. The old 928 was a truly awesome machine, that when running , would make the wildest roller coaster seem boring. Tuned dual exhausts have the same effect as Angelina Jolie's whispering dirty promises in my ears. The only brush with automotive ecstasy that I have ever had was an old 1966 Jaguar XKE 2+2. It was red with some rust and the leather was a little ragged on the drivers seat. The thing was typically British in the fact that the electrical system was totally undependable with constant things not working today but being perfect tomorrow . The thing had a bonnet(hood) that was a mile long and tilted forward to expose this 4.2 liter in-line 6 cylinder. Three carbuerators drank 104 octane gasoline and only ran well on cold, damp mornings. It was the only time in my life that I could wake up , look out the window, and rejoice if it was a cold,dismal, foggy day. All of the above heralded" a turn the Jag loose on the world day". I think that the Hound of the Baskervilles must have had the same engine as he prowled the moors on those cold nights. Arthur Conan Doyle would have had Holmes in a Series 1 with glassed in headlights, much like mine. You could smell the leather as I would fall down into the cockpit, looking at the no-nonsense instruments about to come alive if the gods of 12 volt were smiling this day. I would turn the small key on , flip the fuel pump button and, Thunk thunk thunk , I'd hear the 104 octane coming up front to the Strombergs, ready for the next step- hitting the starter button. What happens next is only understood by someone who has owned a Brutal XKE. All hell would break loose as the engine came to life with an almost sexual thud as the fine tuned engine roared out the glasspacked up-turned dual exhaust. The engine would sit at stop lights with a snarl and a promise that it would take on any Detroit ass and chew it up, at least on a long road. The book said that any speeds over 180 mph should call for extra venting on the brakes. Man, who wanted to stop?! Jan and Dean sang about a Stingray and an XKE in Deadman's Curve, a gory song of speed and death. Well I sold the Jag because I needed money and it needed rehab. I can still hear it in my dreams nearly redlineing in 2nd as I went by the old IGA grocery. I can see it sitting in my driveway, looking like it was going 120 just sitting still. I hope someone fixed her up and in its own mechanical way, I hope it misses me every once in a while. I wish it aviation fuel and cold, damp days, and I hope it doesn't have to transport senile people for icecream on Sunday afternoons.

Old Mcdonald Had A Zoo

I was recently coming through Somerset from Monticello,and like any normal day I was ready for a convenient stop at the Golden Arches for the unbreakable cycle of all road warriors for restroom followed by a large chalice of caffeine on the rocks. Being on the road for the past 27 years has imprinted many things in my brain, but perhaps the daily consumption of Mcdonalds large cokes is my most cherished ritual. Large cokes are $1.38, and mediums are$1.06 through most of Kentucky, but Manchester is higher. I quit cigarettes 15 years ago ,but I would die before quitting caffeine. I could write a Fodor's sort of book on the Mcdonalds of Kentucky and Tennessee ,and I personally know a man who owns 14 of the things. He told me just last week that he has 900 employees. Now this man has my respect far more than that wimpy,feminine Donald Trump, or even Rick Pitino. I can tell you which Mcdonalds are new ,which are sleazy, and even what the clientele are like. I can tell you which ones are progressive and hire handicapped workers, and which are in the midst of remodelling. All of this information is to establish my qualifications as a professional Mcdonalds expert and user, and to relay this story of indescrible misery and terror. As I entered the South 27 Mcdonalds in Somerset I was nearly knocked backwards by the wall of noise and screeches that assaulted me. I thought that I had mistakenly entered the primate wing of the Louisville zoo , the noise was that bad! Then I remembered the Yellow buses in the parking lot. There were two or three 66 passenger public school busses parked outside. I had unwittingly entered some sort of reward day hell!! These were not just any public school students, but what looked like 1st or 2nd graders, all in motion from caffeine and sugar induced frenzies, all screaming and combative from excitement. Now in all my years of marriage we never had children, something I can honestly say I've not missed.But in my own defense I can truly say I believe I love most children, but in managable numbers. I looked for the teachers but for the most part they looked to be in shell shock and as miserable as I was myself . What were these educated women thinking? On the one hand they hand out copious doses of rittalin(sp.?) and then take the little apes out to overindulge on sugar and caffeine. What planet are these leaders of our youth from that they haven't heard of how many grams of fat a Big Mac has, or how many calories a large order of fries has?As I cautiously waded through the screaming masses to the men's restroom, I opened the door to another hell. God only knows what mischief 6 or 7 boys were up to in there as they looked up from the water fight they were in at me with suspicion in their eyes. The absence of male teachers had given this little primate gang their own private kingdom to wage havoc on normal customers. One of them had his watch lying on the vanity top, for what reason I don't know. It's been nearly 50 years since I was that young, how would I remember what one thought about in the First grade? This whole scene reminded me of Dante's Inferno as I hastily retreated to the quiet and calmness of the parking lot and my 4x4.m I reflected on how these little monsters will be become sweet, adorable children when they are separated from their peers, but as a group they become a surly, loud , obnoxious mass, uncontrollable by their brainless teachers. Leave the students at school where they can learn.Do not let them loose like an uncontrollable amoeba on the unsuspecting public.Unpopular as my views certainly are, I don't care. Schools need to educate,not entertain.

Rocky Times

They say that truth is stranger than fiction, and this weekend certainly proved that statement. Our little town/hamlet will celebrate its 230th birthday this year, as Long-hunters camped at the little spring that still supplies our water in times of drought, in 1775. Being the second oldest town in Kentucky is not nearly as prestigious as might be surmised. Times have often been lean as Stanford has only about 3400 people, and our surrounding neighboring towns have thrived as we merely survived. With this setting in mind I would offer the fact that our little village often has the idyllic characteristics that endear it to some citizens, and yet draws scorn from others. One constant trait prevails in that we as a community are small enough to know each others business ,and we thrive on any news that might break the cycle of the mundane everyday carryings -on. This particular weekend was shattered with the news that a citizen had gotten "THE ROCK". Not just any rock but "THE ROCK". Stanford, like any old maiden aunt has more artifacts and historical momentos than many museums. The aforementioned Rock has been a part of Mainstreet Stanford for perhaps the last 150 years. Just what is this modern day Kaaba? Did it truly have Supernatural beginnings? Was it somehow Divinely placed on mainstreet? Well no......Actually the rock is a piece of hewed limestone that is about 6 feet long by about 2 feet wide by about 16 inches high, and it sat for years on the sidewalk on the corner of South Depot Street and Main. Its purpose? Well tradition has it that in slower(did I say slower?) days genteel ladies and gentlemen would light from their horse drawn buggies and use the monolith as a stepping stone to the sidewalk. Can you imagine the gleams in the lads' eyes as they hung around the rock for forbidden glimpses of Victorian ankles as the lasses descended from regal carriages? Much like Pamela Anderson as she walks down Rodeo Drive. This past Saturday the serenity of our Shangri-La was shattered forever when a rapscallion had agents under his hire to rudely drive backhoes up to the corner and plucked our symbol of a kinder time from its sacred home, and took the 400 pound monolith down to his own kingdom on East Main. That this knave was recently seated and sworn in to Stanford City Council only exasperated the crises. The transgressor weakly defended himself by saying he had bought the rock for the previous owner of the building behind the rock. Could the Wily Bill Clinton sell the Washington Monument?I daresay not!!. Even as emergency meetings were called by the citizenry and forces became mobilized, the knave repeatedly said he would keep the rock. Finally after more scheduled meetings he agreed to return the Rock to it's sacred site on the corner. That was Sunday afternoon, and as I drove down mainstreet on Sunday afternoon he was out on his drive in a cold snowstorm washing his new rock with a brush and bucket of water. Not the picture of a man about to give up a prized possession. Where I come from you don't wash something in the freezing winter and give it back. I think the rock is in for a war. As I watched this unfold I asked myself what would cause a normally sane citizen to become infatuated with a chunk of limestone? Good gracious, I can understand lust and gluttony and all sorts of avarice . But over a Rock?Could this be an unknown ,previously undocumented case of middle-aged craziness? Could this be Hormonal imbalance? Only time will tell but I do know that I'd rather be in a brawl in Marlow Tackett's bar than be confronted by the Lincoln County Historical Society and the Minions of Rightousness that they will summon to antagonize the knave! Good Lord, its not a pretty picture as clouds of Avon and shades of rouge descend upon this miscreant!You know the only positive image that I can claim from this deed is that Paul Simon's LOVES ME LIKE A ROCK suddenly makes sense to me.All of this leads to the inescapable conclusion that a new legend has been created.How it plays out cannot be foretold, but I'm betting the Rock goes home and the Avon warriors win.

Pimp my Ride?

Americans today are perhaps (no, they are) the most envied people on the face of the earth. Every society wants to emulate us for our clothes, our movies , and our cars. Our whole society is built around the mystique of the automobile , and we as a country spend more on cars than on any other big ticket item other than our homes, and sometimes our automobiles even exceed our dwellings. Just go to Casey County if you don't believe that. A new Tahoe costs a good deal more than a worn -out trailer. In my youth we always stood back in awe as Leroy Wilson cruised around town in his pale yellow Coupe Deville, and who can forget Lewis Coleman's 58 Chevrolet Impala , lowered 2 inches above the black top, lake pipes half opened and that 348 roaring with the threat of bad things for anyone bold enough to test him over on Short Pike. Uncle Johnny started out with an old 50 Chevy that met a tragic end when it ran into the back of a rusty , smelly manure spreader. Who would guess that only a few short years later he would be cruising around Jerrys in Bad assed Corvettes, looking up at the world from down in that leather cockpit, secure that Mr. General Motors had given him 375 horsepower spitting out its disdain through factory sidepipes . Nevermind that those sidepipes burned your date's legs with 3rd degree burns everytime she crawled up from the well where Corvette riders rode. Lord it was worth following the Vette just to see those girls get out. Couple a Vette, a pretty girl ,and a 1968 mini skirt and you had a lethal combination. Put Creedance Clearwater on the 8 track and John Fogerty took care of business. Proud Mary and 105 octane spelled the end of innocence for a lot of boys and girls. There was always the conflict of the Ford Boys against the General Motors Crowd, and then Mopar snuck in the scene. Cudas, Chargers , and Super Bees slinked in the parking lots , hemis roaring, and that old whiny Chrysler starter drawing laughs of disdain from Boss 302 drivers. Every once in a while fresh blood would roll in from out of town and cruise around the joints, maybe a Cobra, or maybe a Z-28 with Hooker headers nearly dragging the ground. They would always have a sex goddess riding shotgun, but she was just window dressing. That Cobra driver would consider her as just part of the package. Girls were plentiful, but Mickey Thompson series 50 tires were hard to come by. Most of the time differences were settled out on a quarter mile straight stretch. I saw victories and I witnessed defeats, as over-revved hot cammed engines would hurl flywheels and pressure plates up through the center consoles at super sonic speeds. All too often the racing shrapnel would maim or kill before Uncle Sam's killing machine in Southeast Asia . It was a simpler time,but it was a time of dread and anticipation as the Draft lay over the horizon for everyone. I'd come home from college on the weekends and stop down at my mentor, Danny Coffman as he ran a garage catering to just about any mechanical device. I would listen to George Jones as he whined out of Jack Mcwhorters 64 Galaxy's am radio. Even then I was wanting to listen to Steppenwulf and that Magic Carpet Ride but that was not to happen at Danny's place. Bugs King would cruise by in a big old Oldsmobile with white walls and chrome curbfeelers, Conway Twitty speaking of Little Darlin out of the audiovox 8 track. I was caught in country music hell. The haircuts were whitewalls with Vitalis. The boys wanted to know what college was like. It was difficult to tell them . My hair was growing longer every visit home, and our worlds grew further apart . Danny would ask me if I was smokin that old LSMFT, and I truthfully said no. Every once in a while I'd hear that 375 horsepower 67 Stingray rumbling down the road and I knew redemption was at hand . Uncle Johnny (he's my same age) would pull in, fillup with 105 octane and I'd jump in , both of us on our way to Danville and miniskirted damsels smelling like coconut butter.We'd wave goodbye to Danny and depart with the burnout and roar that only a brutal 375 fuel injected Stingray could produce, most of the time with Wake Up Maggie drifting out the windows , loud enough to compete with the burning rubber. The Vette opened the doors of even the most reluctant maidens ,and it truly was unfair the advantage the car had over the lads driving Dad's Buick. The only other thing that was a certainty was that if wev picked up new girls that were just visiting , then my name was Danny Coffman and Johnny was usually Charley Coleman. Strangely enough certain songs or perfume smells will evoke long forgotten deeds and times. If I hear American Woman I always remember how badly Danny Coffman acted one night with that nurse in her new pale yellow beetle, and who can forget the night Charley Coleman cursed the girl down at Somerset who jumped wetly in the Vette after the Midnight skinny dip in Cumberland Lake. I hope Danny and Charley had as good their surrogates.

There's tires on my house

As I travel over the Southeastern United States I have become increasingly aware of the number of mobile homes that will sprout up overnight, much like a crop of aluminum and rubber mushrooms. Statistics show that Florida as a state has more of the homes , and South Carolina has the second highest honor. All of this was a surprise to me as I felt Kentucky would rank as a top contender. If my memory serves me right we are number 8 on the list , but this writing makes no pretense to be anywhere near accurate. I do know that Eastern Kentucky and Tennessee have groups of Jugornauts who go out and place these tin creations in impossible to imagine locations. As a matter of fact one of the sales lots in Booneville, Kentucky is on such a mountain top that if you stepped out the back doors you would fall 80 or 90 feet straight down.People have bulldozers to push flat spots on the steep slopes and then--Voila! Instant home. Nowadays these things are very nice and are huge , especially the doublewides. I just can't warm up to the traps myself as I feel that they were invented for meteriologists to measure wind severity by.Watch the news after a series of tornadoes and where are all the newsteams broadcasting live from?Right where the Shady Grove trailer park used to be. As I grew up it became somewhat of a ritual of adulthood for my peers to have children, get married, and buy a mobile home as quickly as they could buy a lot to stand for a downpayment. I believe that the young man would wake up some morning with a pounding in his head and a voice screaming"MOBILE HOME !MOBILE HOME!". Only after he purchased the home would the pounding ease up. Just as the children would be entering the middle school would he wake up with an even worse splitting headache. This time the voice would be saying"DOUBLE WIDE! DOUBLE WIDE!" and the instant solution is obvious. Now I'm not too good to live in a mobile home; I'm just too scared. Have you ever met a trailer salesman?Well let me introduce him to you . He wears polyester pants held up with a leather belt that has a brass nameplate on it , most of the time his own. He never wears socks and plays a lot of bad golf. He has been known to drink a little too much , and his last two wives will tell you. He goes to Tennessee and the factory pretty regular and calls all women Darlin. He used to look like Conway Twitty but now he looks like Dale Senior.I used to love girls who lived in trailers because they just made me feel like they liked me. The same with preachers daughters and girls who drove pale yellow VW Beetles. All these things leave me with warm feelings inside. The only problem is that I have been hearing voices ,and having headaches. You know you can take a boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy. I don't know how I'm going to break the news to Sandy. Maybe I'll start out with a little camper.

The Bahama Mama

Sometimes I think of THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER and think that was what inspired me to take up scuba diving, but deep in my heart I know that is not true. The simple truth is that I was bored one summer and took up the sport on a whim.In the last several years Brother-in-law Tim and I have been on several adventures that range from the swims amongst reef sharks to Stingray City to furtive glances at scantily clad damsels on diesel clouded dive boats. Get on a dive boat with 20 other divers and everybody starts sizing each other up. You can tell the rookies by their bright colored dive skins,bcds ,and even their fins and masks. Everything matches in hot pinks, lime greens or vivid yellows. Old Tim has all different colors(he has difficulty matching things), and mine are mainly black. I felt that black gear meant serious diving. Another fact of diving that is inescapable is that regardless of how attractive a man or woman is, that when they climb back on board the swim platform and hand their fins to the deck hand there will be a strand of clear snot hanging from their nose to the fiberglass deck. If you go down a couple of atmospheres you will surface slinging clear snot . It happens-get over it! One of our memorable trips happened in Aruba . We had gone out to a shipwreck and we were getting the briefing from the dive boat captain which includes conditions, depths, and bottom times. This morning there happened to be on board a little lady from Boston, Mass. who was only too happy to tell you her life story, even while the Captain was trying to go over the dive. She told me , like everyone else, that she was from up north and had just completed her open water certification, and immediately had gotten on a plane and headed south to apply her newly acquired skills. You know the "Delta is ready when you are " syndrone. She also said "You can call me THE BAHAMA MAMA". Now I would have suggested that we were on Aruba ,a long ways south of the Bahamas , but I realized Aruba doesn't rhyme with Mama. I also began to think that this little matronly, short ,school teacherish woman was probably 65 years old , 50 pounds overweight, and knew nothing about diving. I did catch the final warnings of the Captain who said there was fire coral in profusion on the wreck and to watch for it. We all took our giant strides and descended into beautiful, gloriously clear water. Down below I could see the first divers already exploring the deck of the scuttled ship as Tim and I tried to clear our ears. Tim couldn't clear and signalled he was going back to the dive boat. Smart divers dive with a buddy , but since the water was so clear I immediately descended to attach myself with the group 90 feet below. On the way down who should I happen upon but the Bahama Mama entangled in an old rail of the deck. She couldn't see where her Octopus(spare air line and Regulator) was ensnared behind her. She was also dragging her exposed skin through a healthy patch of fire coral. I helped her get out of the entanglement, but not before she dragged me into the stuff. The reason it's called fire coral is that any contact with flesh causes excruciating pain and large red lesions on the exposed skin . As soon as I helped free her she took off like a waterborne banshee to careen off all the other divers like a mad waterbug, or a soggy pinball as it tried to rack all the points on the machine. I'm trusting that the dive master has her under his watchful eye, yet I see something above me and , guess who? You got it. The Bahama Mama is completely upside down , struggling, and her air tank is totally out of its straps and velcro secondary bindings. I grab her and pull her down and reattach her tank. Thank goodness the dive is over as we head up the anchor line. Once aboard the Bahama Mama streams the mandatory discharge out of her nose and immediately starts telling everyone what a lovely dive she had just had. She didn't seem to notice that her legs were painfully red from fire coral.I certainly felt it across my shoulders, but Tim the drug guru gave me ibuprofen out of his gear bag and told me to be a man and suck it up. We ate our orange slices and pineapple wedges as the Captain fired up the roaring diesels, and cranked up the Bob Marley. I think the Bahama Mama was singing "I shot the Sheriff" as we roared to the next dive sight.

Play that funky music White Boy

As I watched the demise 0f 2004 and the birth of the New Year on the past Friday night, I ,like everyone else thought of the past and the coming year. As the city of New york was celebrating the event from Times Square for the 100th year in a row, Dick Clark was missing the event for the first time in a century. His replacement was that wimpy little Regis Philbin. What venue does not have that monkey face of his staring out at you? I could put up with Richard Simmons as well as Regis, but that's another story. While most Americans think of resolutions and grow introspective about losing weight, getting out of debt, or growing healthier, I think of the past and peruse some of the paths that I've taken that maybe might not have been the better of the selections offered. You know like Robert Frost's poem.When I was a child growing up in Lincoln County we virtually lived and played along a little creek that is a tributary of Green River. Green River has its humble beginnings not far from my boyhood home as a little spring in the community of appropriately enough, Green River. As we played, hunted, and fought along, and in the creek we always knew that in the fall the dreaded "Dog Days" would appear. This was the dry season and the little creek would evaporate to muddy little pools, and then into foul smelling troughs where all the fish and aquatic life would die.My grandmother always cautioned us that cuts and scrapes would not heal during dog days and tried in vain to keep us from capturing the normally elusive fish as they floundered around in the foul muddy pools. As with all seasons we realized with the coming of late fall and early winter good clean rain would revitalize our creek and once again the sparkling waters would sweetly flow , and we would see the flashing bodies of the minnows and sunfish as they teased us with their underwater freedom. We never did figure out where mother nature replenished the fish from , but the important fact was their reassuring existence. I bring all of this past experience up because I have come to realize that in my own personal life my creeks have gone dry. I have worked at the same job for nearly 27 years, I've lived in the same house for 32 years, and I've been married to the same woman for over three decades. Everything I own or have bought in those past years has been old and worn out by previous owners. My principle address was roughly built in 1869 and every year shows. I think I suffer from Adult Deficit Disorder, and I'm definitely past middle age crazy as I don't have the money for younger women or sports cars. I've come to believe that men my age look dorky as they cruise around in little two seater convertibles, their bald spots shining or dyed hair ablaze in the sunlight. I've gotten too stiff in my knees to even crawl up out of a roadster.People come up to Sandy and give her condolences as they meet her for the very first time. My wife even led me out of a Christmas party a couple of weeks ago on the weak pretense that I was heckling and baiting some of the other revelers at the event. Heck, I just thought I was adding to the social scene. Sandy didn't tell me about her holiday company party until a week after it was over.I had been reading quotes and reviewing proper etiquette in hopes of redeeming myself from my earlier faux pas, but that was not to be. I admit that I do say some minor things to THE OLD GIRLS, i.e. Sandy's friends, but sometimes I don't think they are as mad or embarrassed as they act. I have to say that part of my problems started in college as the women were of the Hippy persuasion and thought that my cynical ways and sarcasm were ok. In hindsight maybe they were a little drunk or under the influence of marijuana ,but none the less I didn't have the degree of controversy with women as I have now. I think most of my attraction from females died about the time that Jerry Garcia checked out. By now any one can tell that I'm quite a piece of work. Unlike the Dog Days of mother earth , I see no winter rains in my own existence. My creeks have dried up and all of my pools are filled with ragged looking carp as they they float around in slimy green algae. I don't see any rain clouds on the distant horizon so I think those old carp have some rough days ahead. The hippy girls have all grown up and only fly Southwest to San Francisco, and they never,never ,ever wear flowers in their hair. Sandy detests Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and likes The Irish Tenors. What can I say ? She's the only element in my life that's not old and worn out, and she has put up with more than a few antics in life from me.The only thing to say is "Play that funky music , White Boy".

You Are What You Eat

Being a country boy born and raised in central Kentucky I never gave much thought about what I ate until I was thrust into middle age . Now it seems that every means of mass communication screams at what you're eating isWRONG WRONG WRONG. I get so tired of hearing about this diet or that new study showing how bad pickle bologna is for you to consume. What ever happened to the basic food groups we were supposed to follow for good health when we of my generation studied them in school?For years I thought that "Twinkies,Ho Hos, and Dingdongs" were basic necessities for a healthy lifestyle.Now we have armies of little old skinny-assed people telling us they are not good for your body. They want you not to drink Milk unless it has a blue tint and a percentage of something in on the label. There was nothing closer to heaven than going to Mrs. Young's grocery store and having her serve you a baloney sandwich on Butternut White bread. I did say White Bread to all you health fanatics. She would slice it with a big old butcher knife and wrap it in waxed paper. You could add mustard or mayonaisse, anything else would take away from the baloney. It was only after I married that I realized that eating white bread was anathema to some people.My mother-in-law would tell guests at her dinner table that"Steve is a good bread-eater." Only after years of observation did I realize that being a "good breadeater" was not a compliment.If my inlaws ate bread at all it was whole wheat or rye. Yuck! In all fairness they were cityfolk and I was country. They called pie filling pudding. Go figure! I fell in love with Andi Mcdowell in the movie "Michael" with John Travolta. Why? She sang that song about Pie and sang it in her North Carolina Accent. I don't know of any country boy who wouldn't feel the same way, you know like we all felt about Dolly Partin when she and her attributes first appeared on the Porter Waggoner show. While I'm confessing I have to admit that I miss Vienna Sausage and Potted meat at lunch. And what would I give for a little can of VanCamps beanie-wiennies?Do you think Spell Check is going to handle Wiennies like I spelled it? People would have you to believe that vienna sausage is lethal right out of the can. People even take the skin off of fried chicken. Elvis deepfried all of his food , and if it's good enough for the King then I guess it'll be ok for me. Somehow I feel all of this food business is aCommunist plot. Does noone remember Nikita Khruschev pounding his shoe in rage and threatening to bury us in Communism? Well I do,as I was laid up in bed eating fruit cocktail to purge my body of the chickenpox the day I watched him in marvelous snowy, black and white television. I thought even then with my fifth grade mind that old Nikita needs to eat a little chocolate pie fillin and ease up on the world. Little did I know then that 45 years later we would have this legion of Bony-assed do gooders telling us what to eat. Maybe old Nikita won after all. I think I'll defer to another American Icon who said it best with,"I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes ....Heinz 57 with French fried potatoes." If it's good enough for Jimmy then I'm ok.

New Business Opportunity

I often drive long distances to visit with clients or to meet on jobsites where our firm has installations in some degree of completion. Perhaps my favorite places to work are the coalfields of Eastern Kentucky. I love Hazard,Harlan, Whitesburg , and Hyden.The people in this region are without a doubt the most honest , hardworking ,and friendly that you will ever meet.A handshake is all that is necessary to seal a$100,000 contract. They give you their word and you'd better reciprocate.I've always been fascinated that there are still pockets of people hidden away in little churches up deep hollers that believe in showing one's faith by handling serpents. I mean honest timber and diamond back rattlesnakes and copperheads. A Biblical passage tells them that they can take up serpents and drink poisonous liquids without harm. Their faith will carry them through it.Every year practitioners of the art are bitten and a few die. The thing that most have in common is their reluctance to seek medical help. You can see people on the streets of Eastern Kentucky , West Virginia ,and Tennessee who are missing fingers which is what happens to a venemous bite without medical attention(if the victim survives).To this direction I had a brainstorm one day as I was driving through Pike County. I could corner the market on the serpent commodities and sell reptiles to the churches! Further thoughts produced a delivery van much like the dog truck in Dumb and Dumber, but with a snake motif. I would call the business"Send A Serpent", and deliver 7 days a week. The trucks would say"Radio Dispatched" and would have masculine drivers like the Crocodile Hunter who would wear khaki shorts and work boots and say things like,"Would you just sign here. Boy, these Diamondbacks are little beauties!Crikey, watch ' em Mate they're fast". They could be packed in round tubes and opened only when necessary. A major selling point is that they could have snakes year round, as native reptiles hibernate during the cold winter months. I'd keep an inventory on hand year round so they wouldn't have to look under rocks for the ill-natured creatures. If they wanted something really special I might even branch out and try to find some exotic species like a 10 foot spitting cobra. Now wouldn't that be interesting aloose in a packed congregation ! Crikey! This is played with Steve Earl's COPPERHEAD ROAD blaring in the background.You wouldn't expect Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring would you? Leave a message if you are interested in Franchise details.

Gun slingers

In 1777 the community of Logan's Fort( now Stanford) was beseiged by a large mob of howling Indians and British sympathizers. The seige lasted nearly a month, and is today considered a battle of the American Revolution. Two men were killed,and one of the bodies was recently excavated by an archaeological excavation.Today, over 200 years later there are no doubt many more guns in Kentucky than in pioneer days. Thanks to Rep. Robert Damron(ironically a Lincoln County native ) we are allowed to obtain a concealed carry permit and pack weapons of deadly force to your hearts content. Liberals decried the bill and said it would herald in a blood-bath on the streets of Kentucky. Needless to say this hasn't happened. My theory is that everyone who got their permit were already packing concealed, and this only made them legal. I myself have been a proud holder of my permit since day one, and I haven't even thought about looking for my gun. My brother on the other hand carries a small handgun everywhere he goes. Since we work together and travel often together I am under his shield of shelter.I'm somewhat worried about his choice of weapons as a derringer doesn't comfort me much. My weapon of choice is a Ruger Super Blackhawk 44 magnum, the same caliber that Dirty Harry said would "blow your head clean off". The only problem is that this pistol is as big as a violin and doesn't conceal very well. I guess there could be some initial benefits gained by just jambing the barrel down the front of your trousers, but that could be dangerous as well as false advertising. Sometimes I carry a small snubnose 38 in my coat pocket, as well as my cell phone. Since most of our work involves banks and banking interiors we are often behind the tellers counters as much as the tellers. I live in fear that my phone rings, and I reach in my pocket and pull up a Chrome plated six shooter to my ear. If that doesn't bring the police nothing will.One evening my wife andI and our in-laws went to a little restaurant in the little community of New Salem.Being a rustic little place, the floors were concrete, and as we were leaving my father -in-law knocked over a tall wooden chair, which fell against the hard floor with a resounding crack much like a 22 pistol shot. Immediately most of the fine patrons in the restaurant went for the pieces they were packing. Men went to shoulderholsters,ankle holsters, or their pockets. Women went for their purses . A few even ran out the back door.Me, I just held up my hands and said"Sorry!"Calmer heads prevailed and the crises was over . Adam (father-in-law) never realized the imminent danger and we went home, secure that the world was as it should be.

Miracle in Corbin

On one of my frequent trips through Eastern Kentucky I happened to stay on US 25 and cruised through downtown Corbin.Over the years Corbin has had more than its share of firsts and brushes with fame. You can motor right by the first Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant where Colonel Harlan Sanders gave birth to his secret herbs and spices that made Kentucky fried chicken a global power. It was only after Gov. John Y. Brown acquired it that it grew like a cholesterol flood across all national borders and covered the globe with its brown gravy- slimed mashed potatoes. Yes, you can step into the most sacred of sacred restaurant shrines where Mr. Sanders morphed into the Colonel.I think that perhaps the spread of KFC into the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc nations singlehandedly caused the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the USSR. Maybe that's why Premier Putin is such a small man in stature. There's a dissertation in there someplace. As I progressed through Corbin I turned off from mainstreet and came upon a bizarre sight. There, parked along side a small business was this big old steamboat Lincoln Continental. It was the old style body, you know the kind that was all square with chrome everywhere, and the big humongus Mack Truck grill. The car had been one of those Designer editions with a half-vinyl top and those port hole opera lights in the roof. All in all , like Colonel Sanders it was what made America seem overdone to the rest the world. What really set the car apart was that it looked to have lost in a demolition derby. One whole side was caved in and chrome was dragging on the ground. What small area that wasn't dented was filthy dirty.It was a testimony that the thing had come to town on its own power. The truly wonderous part of this picture was a license plate on the front that proclaimed"GOD COPILOT'.Can you visualize the mentality that would brag about that? Maybe if he or she had let God have more of a role their car wouldn't have been such a mess.What sort of Cro-magnon believes God is subordinate to them as they tool their designer series Lincoln through the streets that once saw the dreams of the Colonel come to life?"My pappy said, 'son you're going to drive me to drinkin' if you don't stop drivin' that hot rod Lincoln' "

Out of its element

On the coldest day of this winter we decided to drive up Hwy 27 to Lexington to finish up Christmas shopping(that's Holiday Shopping for you left-wingers) at one of the shopping centers. The weather was, and still is, horrible with temperatures in the teens and blowing snow. The roads were mainly clear due to the efforts of highway workers applying salt and scraping. There were several cars off the road , and a couple were actually turned upside down outside of Lancaster. This is not the Weather Channel and I'm not Paul Goodloe, but I'm setting the stage for this narrative . As we pulled in to Best Buy it became obvious,and completely expected that all close parking spaces within two acres were taken . Those about to be vacated had motorists hovering like vultures , waiting for the coveted parking space. As I didn't care to walk we parked way up next to Nicholasville Road and started to the store. I immediately saw a nearly new Corvette wedged between two SUVs. The driver no doubt was joyful at finding the close parking to the front door ,and had driven the black convertible between the behemoths. I didn't see her, but this was without a doubt a woman driver because NO male Corvette owner would willingly drive his car between two parked vehicles. Corvette owners are usually slim because they only park miles away from other cars, and they will not take them out on rainy or snowy days. This beautiful car was covered in road grime and nasty salt.The black cloth top was equally filthy. It had to be a girlfriend out on a lark with a middle- aged crazy guy's car. I hope he doesn't see the shape it's in.There's a lot of women in the world but a limited number of black,kick-ass Corvettes.Whoever the guy is that let the chick sneak out with his Vette on a snowy day you are a dumbass. If you find out ,do the honorable thing and take her keys away!I'll bet she's got that Clay Aiken Christmas cd in the player. Double shame on your ass!

The death of ODB

I was listening to the news and they were telling of the death of Old Dirty Bastard and I had to suddenly pinch myself to see if I, or one of my close associates had died.Sure enough it was a rapper that I have shared a common name with for several years. He was Russell Something and I found he died of some drug mixture . He was 30 something years old. Do you suppose his frieds/family will have Old Dirty Bastard engraved on his tombstone?I must admit that I cannot relate to rap or this genere of music. I was cruising through Clay City way too fast yesterday listening to Smokey Robinson as he sang his greatest hits. I don't own anything by Snoop Dog, nor will I, but I got a lecture from a friend in NYC when I asked the Nigerian cab driver who he was playing on the cd. He said "R. Kelly" and I kinda liked it. My friend said he molested women and younger girls, and that I shouldn't like him(R. Kelly). This same colleague loves Clay Aiken and gave me his new Christmas tape. I honestly think the tape sucks on its own merits. I think I'll buy the R. Kelly cd. I also must admit I speed very fast when Radar Love comes on the radio.I think I'll miss old Dirty Bastard because he found an identity he was comfortable with. Maybe I can speed through Eastern Kentucky listening to R. Kelly, but I won't admit it.

Funny Kentucky weather

Life is truly stranger than fiction. I was travelling to a job site in Lexington on Monday morning December 13th at around 9 o'clock in the morning, and as it started to really develop into a mini blizzard on US 68 (Harrodsburg Road) I thought that this is a bit overdue as we have been blessed with a very warm,but wet fall.Imagine suddenly being confronted with a character blazing out of the near white-out snow storm riding a commercial lawnmower cutting grass!! Honestly this employee of the horse farm was cutting the fence row on a speeding stand up ,commercial lawnmower. I felt I was either on the set of some bizarre Chevy Chase Christmas movie or that I was having a reaction to my Lipator or BLOODPRESSURE MEDICINE. Maybe being 55 years old has caused me to lose some of my ability to not be surprised by the out of ordinary. On a more sane note my wife wished me happy Anniversary this morning as I fell out of bed. She's a wonderful woman who gave me a fighting chance at being thoughtful by telling me first. Happy anniversary Sandy.You deserve George Bushes highest civilian honor for putting up with me for 31 years. Tommy Franks probably had a better tour in Iraq than you did for most of those 31 years. And Tommy got the award today.