Hobo Jungle

[penncentral8885]

Nice,,,,,,

[edfigler]

[2railjon]

A fine compressed Monday off in the South with my Son. This was his first opportunity to see the Virginian in action. I thought his eye's were going to pop out of his head!!!!!! What a treat!!!!!

[Mitch]

Friday nite while surfing the net and listening to my favorite Doo-Wop station, the DJ put out this little bit of data. "The average American consumes 22 gallons of beer annually". On the other hand, if your handle is Highrailjon or Tramp....................... Somebody has to keep those averages up for those who don't partake.

[Tramp]

Jon, I think the boy knows a good engine when he sees it. Or maybe it was something else?

[penncentral8885]

I'll tell you what,Man I am soooo glad you guy,s don't get on here and say stuff like,"Oh the weather is nice here today, I think it might rain later, I went to the store,,,,,SHEWWWWW, man! some of these other sites
Makes me wanna break something!

[2railjon]

22 gallons of beer annually

LOL, Around here that's a light weekend!!!

Or maybe it was something else?

Tramp, Naaa. The Virginian stole the show!!!!!!!

Makes me wanna break something!

Penn, Do it!!!!!!!

[P&R Pete]

Hobo drains the last of the suds from his glass, spins on his stool, and puts another coin in the jukebox, punches the buttons. Sitting back down , he catches the eye of the barkeep, orders a round for the house, as the music begins to fill the room...

My friends tell me, that I’ve been such a fool,
And I have to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin’ you.
Drown myself in sorrow, and I look at what you’ve done.
But nothin’ seems to change, the bad times stay the same, and I can’t run

Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel,
Like I been tied to the whipping post
Tied to the whipping post,
Tied to the whipping post,
Good Lord, I feel like I’m dyin’.

[Tramp]

Pete, my goodness! Did the Escort implode again?

RRRocky, thanks for some of your posts on the other side.

[penncentral8885]

Just emptied my last jug of burbon,,, Need to make a run later! At work now, can't go shoppin' for awhile, need to decide what to get next to keep in the train room cabnet,,,,,Makers mark?, Beam?, I dunno,,,
Wish I could get my hands on some good ole' lightning!

[P&R Pete]

Tramp, nah. The windows were down and the sun was warm and I had the Allman Bros. blaring on the way in to work. Been running through my head all night, which isn't a bad thing.
Better than having the "Oscar Meyer Weiner" song on the brain all night, like Penn!

[penncentral8885]

"Oscar Meyer Weiner" song on the brain all night, like Penn!

WHAT?????

[Del Mar]

Thanks for the poetic memory, Petey. In the "Got to pay your dues if you want to play the blues" category. Heartfelt and real.

Follow up the Allman Brothers with more Southern Boy rock and roll swamp music: Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Whisky bottle,
Brand new car,
Oak tree you're in my way.

Leonard Skinner was the name of the gym teacher of the boys who went on to form the band. He once told them, "You boys ain't never gonna amount to nothin'." Ronnie Van Zant held down lead vocals and was the primary songwriter (from 1964 until death in 1977). Now here is the stretch to someone associated with O-Gauge model railroading (from wikipedia):

Since the singer's interment in 1977, rumors have existed that Ronnie Van Zant was buried in a Neil Young T-shirt as a supposed curse against him, although truthfully there was no feud between the two (see above, band history). Some fans believe this rumor was the reason the gravesites of Ronnie Van Zant and Steve Gaines were broken into on June 29, 2000, in Orange Park, Florida. Others believe that this desecration was motivated by the 1986 Dead Kennedys track A Commercial [2] which mockingly referred to exhuming the bodies of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Van Zant's casket was dragged onto the grounds, but was not opened. Gaines' cremated remains, which were in a plastic bag in an urn, were scattered on the ground near his site. 99% of his ashes were recovered. The families decided to move their remains to an undisclosed location, leaving the mausoleums as memorials for fans to visit.

But, I digress. Here's one to Jackie Blue. Toast!

San

[2railjon]

Here's a few shots of my brothers first attempt at customizing his stock Harley. I'm pretty proud of the youngster. Especially the bar-hopping seat. I wonder what Luke would think of it?

[Tramp]

My answer to your brother:

A week later Buck called.
“Listen, I can’t lift today. The Skulls are having a pig roast and I need to check out some things. You wanna go?”
“Where is it?”
“Down near Standish. You can have the chopper. Me and Felice’ll take the black bike.”
“Isn’t the chopper hard to ride?”
“You can handle it.”
“But you never ride it.”
“Be here in an hour.” He hung up.
I pulled on my leather, gloves and goggles, and motored my bike over to Buck’s. I knew without asking that you didn’t attend an Iron Skulls meeting on anything but American iron. The chopper was an early hardtail, which meant the rear wheel was bolted directly to the frame, so every bump shot through the tiny seat like a bronco bucking. It had a delicate spoked front wheel without a brake, had certainly never earned a sticker or a legal license tag. The rear-brake lever was about six inches above the foot pegs, and the bike wouldn’t stop, it just gradually slowed down. The engine was a bored-over Harley Panhead that on clutch release felt as if you were being grabbed by the devil’s hook. It was a project someone had whacked together years ago that Buck had inherited in lieu of a drug payment. The creator was probably high at the time.
As we reverberated side by side through the brick corridor of mills and headed south out of town, Felice in black leather chaps kept smiling at me with her yellow eyes. I focused on the road. The bike required concentration. The long fork with its tiny chrome headlight sparkled in the sun, hayed fields of pungent grass surrounded the occasional farm, we followed the river, the brown water churned blue over the rocks. I passed Buck and Felice on a few straight stretches—the chopper hated corners.
“You were getting the bounce off the seat like a foot in the air,” she said when we pulled up at the party. It was in a weedy meadow next to a modern log home. Bikes were parked everywhere and the pig pit smoldered. There was the clank of horseshoes and the tinny bellow of a rock band through speakers positioned in the cabin’s windows.