Pete's got 'er bad.
We're making popcorn and about to watch High Noon. I can't remember when I last made popcorn.
28 degrees and fallin'. Might reach 17 tonight. Wood stove pumping and breathin quietly like an old cat.
Hobo Jungle
Last edited by Tramp on Fri Nov 18, 2005 7:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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P&R Pete
Marshal Kane!
GD, I love that movie. I have a copy of my own.
No GD beer-drinkers in THAT town, bunch of pussies. Coulda had a gun in every window, mowed those guys down like my bush-hog over timothy.
But what tension, what film angles, what cinematography! Clock tickin', tickin', tickin, bad dudes waiting heavy at the station in the dust and the heat, straining for that first note of steam on brass whistle, Will Kane running back and forth around town, not a damn soul willing to stand by him...
If that'd been Marshal Tramp, he'd had a whole roomful of hoboes to cover his back.
And Grace Kelly as Amy Kane... umm-ummm.
I'd have done her.
GD, I love that movie. I have a copy of my own.
No GD beer-drinkers in THAT town, bunch of pussies. Coulda had a gun in every window, mowed those guys down like my bush-hog over timothy.
But what tension, what film angles, what cinematography! Clock tickin', tickin', tickin, bad dudes waiting heavy at the station in the dust and the heat, straining for that first note of steam on brass whistle, Will Kane running back and forth around town, not a damn soul willing to stand by him...
If that'd been Marshal Tramp, he'd had a whole roomful of hoboes to cover his back.
And Grace Kelly as Amy Kane... umm-ummm.
I'd have done her.
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P&R Pete
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Frank53
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P&R Pete
Took the kids with me on the way into evening-shift yesterday, (the redhead, working day-shift, brings them home), and passed the home of Tanner Racing. Denny had been repairing the fiberglass body from the season's-worth of the slings and arrows of outrageous action in the corners, and had the body up on a frame with a fresh coat of paint. There would be no debate, nor worry of termination for being late: we had to stop and ogle a minute. Then we moved on.
Aaron had drawn a picture for Denny, an 8x10 in colored pencil, of Denny driving a victory lap with checkered flag aflutter in his right hand, complete with the the sponsor decals on the body, the track, wall, caution lights, concrete turtles, exit ramp, woods in the background, the works. Spent a good long time on it, as an artist in a labor of love will do.
Denny calls the unit. He had seen us, and had been putting on his shoes, and wondered to where we had disappeared. So Kim stops after she left work, and Aaron gets to give Denny his picture. Denny said “Sweet!”, makes a big fuss, and tells Aaron he’s going to get it framed. But then he and his wife pull out a gift for Aaron, a die-cast go-kart with working suspension, interchangeable spare parts and tires, spare nuts and bolts, and working tools. Kim said later he drove her crazy (not a long trip) by “making go-kart noises in the back seat...all...the...way...home”. Today, he spent the better part of the previous hour making those same noises, whipping the car around the perimeter of an oval rug, sliding out in the corners, counter-steering. Then it was 15 minutes in the pits to swap-out the tires, and now the next race is on.
This is a kid with passions. If he’s not gunning and wheeling and going airborne with his dirtbike around our fields, he’s out with his grampa in sub-freezing weather, in camouflage gear and orange hat, with his Daisy Red Ryder BB-gun, with a bad case of deer-fever, aiming to bag himself the biggest buck in the county.
And today it is November 20, and today he is 8 years old.
One of his gifts will be the coveted “840 Grizzly”, another BB-gun which I guess will become his bear-rifle, and we’ll soon be regaled with stories of the lucky 690-pound black bear that just limped away in the south field.
I’ll also soon hear his daily mantra: “Dad, when are you going to buy me a go-kart?”, and I’ll tell him again, “too expensive...and we can’t afford a truck to carry it around to the racetrack”, and he’ll table the discussion until the following day.
But who knows...if I take the two bench seats out of the redhead’s Town-and-Country van... put in some shelves and wall racks for tools, tires, extra gear sets... hell, we can slap on some WiseCo Pistons and Maxxis Tires and Axis Shocks and AMS Oil decals under the windows, paint it fire-engine-red with a great big “HOBO RACING” on each side,... smile grimly as we pull into the pits among the professional panel trucks and tractor-trailer outfits and back our racer down a pair of mismatched planks, endure the stares and chuckles and pointed-fingers, the catcalls and sarcasm...
And then he'll gun it onto the track, find his line, work it down the straightaway, rip a tear-off as the flying clay obscures his visor, draft the front-runner amid the noise and unburnt racing fuel, until he gives him a bump and dives underneath him, just skimming the turtles in the corners, and then we’ll bask in the open mouths and sheepish stares and cheers from the crowd, after Aaron smokes the whole dang lot of them, fist pumping in the air, pulling-away by a half-lap in the Feature-Race!
He’s already got it all worked out in his head.
Many happy returns of the day, sonny. It’s been a privilege being your dad.
Aaron had drawn a picture for Denny, an 8x10 in colored pencil, of Denny driving a victory lap with checkered flag aflutter in his right hand, complete with the the sponsor decals on the body, the track, wall, caution lights, concrete turtles, exit ramp, woods in the background, the works. Spent a good long time on it, as an artist in a labor of love will do.
Denny calls the unit. He had seen us, and had been putting on his shoes, and wondered to where we had disappeared. So Kim stops after she left work, and Aaron gets to give Denny his picture. Denny said “Sweet!”, makes a big fuss, and tells Aaron he’s going to get it framed. But then he and his wife pull out a gift for Aaron, a die-cast go-kart with working suspension, interchangeable spare parts and tires, spare nuts and bolts, and working tools. Kim said later he drove her crazy (not a long trip) by “making go-kart noises in the back seat...all...the...way...home”. Today, he spent the better part of the previous hour making those same noises, whipping the car around the perimeter of an oval rug, sliding out in the corners, counter-steering. Then it was 15 minutes in the pits to swap-out the tires, and now the next race is on.
This is a kid with passions. If he’s not gunning and wheeling and going airborne with his dirtbike around our fields, he’s out with his grampa in sub-freezing weather, in camouflage gear and orange hat, with his Daisy Red Ryder BB-gun, with a bad case of deer-fever, aiming to bag himself the biggest buck in the county.
And today it is November 20, and today he is 8 years old.
One of his gifts will be the coveted “840 Grizzly”, another BB-gun which I guess will become his bear-rifle, and we’ll soon be regaled with stories of the lucky 690-pound black bear that just limped away in the south field.
I’ll also soon hear his daily mantra: “Dad, when are you going to buy me a go-kart?”, and I’ll tell him again, “too expensive...and we can’t afford a truck to carry it around to the racetrack”, and he’ll table the discussion until the following day.
But who knows...if I take the two bench seats out of the redhead’s Town-and-Country van... put in some shelves and wall racks for tools, tires, extra gear sets... hell, we can slap on some WiseCo Pistons and Maxxis Tires and Axis Shocks and AMS Oil decals under the windows, paint it fire-engine-red with a great big “HOBO RACING” on each side,... smile grimly as we pull into the pits among the professional panel trucks and tractor-trailer outfits and back our racer down a pair of mismatched planks, endure the stares and chuckles and pointed-fingers, the catcalls and sarcasm...
And then he'll gun it onto the track, find his line, work it down the straightaway, rip a tear-off as the flying clay obscures his visor, draft the front-runner amid the noise and unburnt racing fuel, until he gives him a bump and dives underneath him, just skimming the turtles in the corners, and then we’ll bask in the open mouths and sheepish stares and cheers from the crowd, after Aaron smokes the whole dang lot of them, fist pumping in the air, pulling-away by a half-lap in the Feature-Race!
He’s already got it all worked out in his head.
Many happy returns of the day, sonny. It’s been a privilege being your dad.
Happy Birthday, Aaron. Airborne Aaron. Pete, I wonder if he knows that the only two things I wanted to be were either a racing car driver or a painter. I would have chosen the first if I'd had any money or a dad like you. Of course my father didn't want me to be a painter either. I should've listened, I guess.
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