Hobo Jungle
Hey Jon. Stay safe. Our thoughts will be with you.
Too (O)ld for (n)scale by (30)years.
http://raspberrygulch.org
http://raspberrygulch.org
Jon, I think taxes should pay for the roadbed, just like roads, but the railroad should be private to generate fair competion between carriers. Of course oil interests won't allow it. Think how much less oil we'd need. It would be stunning.
It's been calculated that coal and steam would now cost a tenth of diesel.
It's been calculated that coal and steam would now cost a tenth of diesel.
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San Diegan
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P&R Pete
Trains and Mopeds. They don't have the cachet of my Harley and Tramp's Ducati, but it's hard to argue with the mileages. And screwing the oil 'cartel', american and arabian, would be sweet.
One word on the 'media'. The pictures coming out had a HUGE hand in the galvanization of action.
I dread what this country would be, without whistle-blowers, on every level.
But it would have been a hugely whole lot more impressive if they had done their talking while bringing in and unloading some water and food, diapers and formula, medicine and oxygen and insulin, or doing their talking while airlifting sufferers, in all the transportation they obviously had at their disposal. NOT doing that was egregiously unconscionable.
In regards to the trash shooting at police and rescuers: I could have pulled the trigger on those scum myself, and slept like a log that night.
One word on the 'media'. The pictures coming out had a HUGE hand in the galvanization of action.
I dread what this country would be, without whistle-blowers, on every level.
But it would have been a hugely whole lot more impressive if they had done their talking while bringing in and unloading some water and food, diapers and formula, medicine and oxygen and insulin, or doing their talking while airlifting sufferers, in all the transportation they obviously had at their disposal. NOT doing that was egregiously unconscionable.
In regards to the trash shooting at police and rescuers: I could have pulled the trigger on those scum myself, and slept like a log that night.
I'm knocking back a few Sam Adams before I leave again. Cheers!!!
Jon, D read me these two poems tonight out on the porch. If only you could've heard her read them.
BUT
There is a compulsion to drive north:
The belief that if you could only go far enough,
Past the Maritimes, past the Gaspe Peninsula,
Across the St. Lawrence River, over
The last tenable roads, that there
You would find an outpost tavern
Held over from the days of the lost North,
With spar-varnished snowshoes stacked
And a monstrous fire of arm-spread-wide birch
And iron cauldrons of bubbling stew
And pewter tankards of rare ale,
Laughter and thick wool shirts
In dark and gaudy plaids.
And the jokes would be funny
And the stories long and true,
And the women would embrace you
With firm and bountiful chests,
And the ale would be cheap and fresh,
So when you fell drunk before the hearth
A grinning voyageur would cover you
Gently with a massive wool shirt
While you dreamt dreams as clear
As a vision in the arctic dark.
HEAT
Something about this heat
Makes me want to drive down
Streets in Chicago or Detroit and
Listen to Al Green loud, the best of,
Those songs, loud in the heat with
All the windows cranked down and
No AC, just that dusty sticky
Summer wind, the sky chalky as dried clay
And the asphalt and cement--mean
In the dull sunlight.
You think of wanting rain, but
don't want to give it up yet.
And we'll find the last great
Cocktail lounge--dark and hot--with a
Horseshoe-shaped bar and a bar back:
Mirror and pink neon, and we'll drink
Gin with tonic, all those distilled
Botanicals, and the glasses will
Sweat insanely . . . and we'll
Play soul music on the jukebox
Glittering with multi-colored
Lights and the gin
Thinning our blood.
Man, I don't want a car with decals
I want chrome, lots of chrome.
BUT
There is a compulsion to drive north:
The belief that if you could only go far enough,
Past the Maritimes, past the Gaspe Peninsula,
Across the St. Lawrence River, over
The last tenable roads, that there
You would find an outpost tavern
Held over from the days of the lost North,
With spar-varnished snowshoes stacked
And a monstrous fire of arm-spread-wide birch
And iron cauldrons of bubbling stew
And pewter tankards of rare ale,
Laughter and thick wool shirts
In dark and gaudy plaids.
And the jokes would be funny
And the stories long and true,
And the women would embrace you
With firm and bountiful chests,
And the ale would be cheap and fresh,
So when you fell drunk before the hearth
A grinning voyageur would cover you
Gently with a massive wool shirt
While you dreamt dreams as clear
As a vision in the arctic dark.
HEAT
Something about this heat
Makes me want to drive down
Streets in Chicago or Detroit and
Listen to Al Green loud, the best of,
Those songs, loud in the heat with
All the windows cranked down and
No AC, just that dusty sticky
Summer wind, the sky chalky as dried clay
And the asphalt and cement--mean
In the dull sunlight.
You think of wanting rain, but
don't want to give it up yet.
And we'll find the last great
Cocktail lounge--dark and hot--with a
Horseshoe-shaped bar and a bar back:
Mirror and pink neon, and we'll drink
Gin with tonic, all those distilled
Botanicals, and the glasses will
Sweat insanely . . . and we'll
Play soul music on the jukebox
Glittering with multi-colored
Lights and the gin
Thinning our blood.
Man, I don't want a car with decals
I want chrome, lots of chrome.
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