Mitch wrote:Hev, could you tell me where that field is located. I won't tell anyone!
hev
Hobo Jungle
Mitch, you certainly know your older Chevys. Thanks! Pulled the plugs today and I've rarely seen better looking porcelain. Like pale female skin. You know where.
GP weekend! Italy. Seven time world champion up against the young Australian kid on the Ducati.
GP weekend! Italy. Seven time world champion up against the young Australian kid on the Ducati.
Last edited by Tramp on Sat Jun 02, 2007 9:14 am, edited 1 time in total.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Mitch, I need to pull the rear drums and replace the shoes. The fronts were done a couple seasons ago, but the rears haven't been touched in 8 years. I have a slow leak somewhere and I bet it's in a rear wheel cylinder. With the new shoes the parking brake might work fine. I added a dual master cylinder when I bought the car.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
Jon, your son is a very fine looking boy. I'm sittin' here thinkin', hmmm, his mom must be a fox 'cause he didn't get those looks from you!
When my kids were little, it was He-Man and the Masters of the Universe.
Should we build a fire tonite? Drink a little beer, shoot the shit a little? Will anybody show up in camp? Naaahh. Nobody does that anymore.
When my kids were little, it was He-Man and the Masters of the Universe.
Should we build a fire tonite? Drink a little beer, shoot the shit a little? Will anybody show up in camp? Naaahh. Nobody does that anymore.
If you agree with the Progressives, it's freedom of speech. If you disagree, it's hate speech. There are no alternatives.
SOME EVENINGS
Poet found unconscious on Main Street.
"He looked like a shooting star in front of my headlights."
Forgive this wicked world for being so beautiful,
Forgive the madness coursing within my blood,
Forestall my inexorable return to dull normalcy, but
Fade the recollection of these few perfect moments,
So I may live with at least a half-stilled heart.
All that I have suffered,
The pain of that—now—
Drawn like a splinter from a hand,
Against this summer evening.
To walk down the hill to the harbor at dusk,
This century or older Main Street,
This New England brick and glass,
As the pale green stroke
of harbor heralds like a call.
I pass my local and Friday night pulses within;
The owner launches a bar rag at the door,
At my grinning face through the screen,
And the bartender comes to ask,
"Hey, are you coming back?"
(He'll burrow a few bottles of ale
into the ice as a gesture.)
And I walk out on the docks at high tide,
I walk to the furthest dock to the setting sun,
And I use a cold metal cleat as an opium pillow,
And I hear a bagpipe angling across the bay.
(This sky over the water can not be written.)
I give you this poem because my father died young,
I give you this poem because my father has not seen,
What I wish to show him. I give you this poem because
My father and I have never sat in my local together,
Because when I sit alone drinking I pour a beer
Into the ground so my father won't be thirsty.
I give you this poem because
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I walk back up the hill.
And turn in at the bar door.
I hand the bartender a ten
And ask him to ring the bell twice.
It rings like a poured out beer for the dead.
Poet found unconscious on Main Street.
"He looked like a shooting star in front of my headlights."
Forgive this wicked world for being so beautiful,
Forgive the madness coursing within my blood,
Forestall my inexorable return to dull normalcy, but
Fade the recollection of these few perfect moments,
So I may live with at least a half-stilled heart.
All that I have suffered,
The pain of that—now—
Drawn like a splinter from a hand,
Against this summer evening.
To walk down the hill to the harbor at dusk,
This century or older Main Street,
This New England brick and glass,
As the pale green stroke
of harbor heralds like a call.
I pass my local and Friday night pulses within;
The owner launches a bar rag at the door,
At my grinning face through the screen,
And the bartender comes to ask,
"Hey, are you coming back?"
(He'll burrow a few bottles of ale
into the ice as a gesture.)
And I walk out on the docks at high tide,
I walk to the furthest dock to the setting sun,
And I use a cold metal cleat as an opium pillow,
And I hear a bagpipe angling across the bay.
(This sky over the water can not be written.)
I give you this poem because my father died young,
I give you this poem because my father has not seen,
What I wish to show him. I give you this poem because
My father and I have never sat in my local together,
Because when I sit alone drinking I pour a beer
Into the ground so my father won't be thirsty.
I give you this poem because
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I walk back up the hill.
And turn in at the bar door.
I hand the bartender a ten
And ask him to ring the bell twice.
It rings like a poured out beer for the dead.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
-
P&R Pete
Present and accounted for!
Jon, that is one seriously good-looking lad. Another great picture, and another keeper. No greater gift, indeed.
And some beautiful background! Looks idyllic!
And good thing there's a Power Ranger on the scene, taking care of that pink alien!!
Guys, get ready. Hobo birthday tomorrow. One great guy and awesome friend, with a special garden
, from the old PRR mainline, who would give you the shirt off his back, help you put it on, and then feed you. Now I'm not naming names, but 'if you want to find history', this'll be your guy.
Jon, that is one seriously good-looking lad. Another great picture, and another keeper. No greater gift, indeed.
And some beautiful background! Looks idyllic!
And good thing there's a Power Ranger on the scene, taking care of that pink alien!!
Guys, get ready. Hobo birthday tomorrow. One great guy and awesome friend, with a special garden
, from the old PRR mainline, who would give you the shirt off his back, help you put it on, and then feed you. Now I'm not naming names, but 'if you want to find history', this'll be your guy.Return to “The Club Car Lounge”
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