Hobo Jungle
Tramp wrote: Our Labatts are E16. What do you have?
CIRCLES
Several hobos are having Labbatts in the jungle today.
D posted a photo called NIPS. There is a mantle clock in the photo that looks like a Seth Thomas black mantel adamantine clock.
Adamantine is a fictional chemical substance and metal alloy in the Marvel comics' universe. Adamantium is one of the most durable substances ever to be created by Earth science. The chemical and metallurgical processes needed to create it are incredibly difficult to achieve, exceedingly expensive, and its creation process is known to only a very few organizations, individuals, and governments in the Marvel Universe. Adamantium is, most famously, the metal bonded to Wolverine's entire skeleton.
A Wolverine fan, Andrea Zenk of Germany, drew this picture of Wolverine:
Medium: Wallpaint on wood
http://wolverine.x-knights.com/fangallery53.html
We have come full circle, back to Labatts.
----Wayne----
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
Check out this video! Looks like a stunt we would have pulled off if we knew each other back in our youth!!! 
http://www.glumbert.com/media/traincoaster
http://www.glumbert.com/media/traincoaster
Running that red block Charlie.
This is what we would have tried.....................................
(Ya need YouTube account to view)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33PnwYpXgf8
hev
If you want to find history, follow the train man..................
-
alexweihmann
- Posts: 84
- Joined: Fri Mar 09, 2007 8:53 pm
- Location: PA
- Contact:
hev52 wrote::lol:
This is what we would have tried.....................................
(Ya need YouTube account to view)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33PnwYpXgf8
hev
that video is giving me bad ideas
Here'a a summer (June) poem I wrote in 1975.
ATLANTIC
On light wings we came
Following pretty girls in old cars,
Salt brine reaching our nostrils
Steaming from our pores.
With our youthful energy
We hot-highway-determined
Pulled the ripe scent of the country
Into the hanging mouth of the city
Noon sun flooding the windshield.
We found the familiar Poolroom
But all friends had since moved away,
Those times left in the dusty stale air
And on the wide dark stairs.
New addresses, an old Italian barber
giving us directions (a hundred hands)
We found only empty warehouses,
The freight yard with
Its barren ghost noises
Tar stench
No one.
Thus hot and bare-chested
We drove past the city blocks
(Dark-skinned girls gleaming on the cement corners)
Listening to the wailing strains of Charlie Parker,
Rolling smokes, gunning up the highway
Under nameless signs, The humid afternoon
Blasting through the windows
Into our hair.
Then the sun settling, spinning itself
Into the dusk-black sands of Cape Cod.
First lights blinking on,
Blushing evening, brush-stroke moon.
Other friends found with lone pay phone,
Hot coffee thoughts,
The last easy miles,
Grinning faces at the cambered porch,
The outstretched blue arms of the Atlantic.
Midnight we swam,
Salty, cold, naked, dangling,
We yelling into that huge caldron night,
The moon a perfect scratch in the blackened metal:
Silver, new, curled—and our voices
seasoning the mild ever-retreating air.
The morning opened
Hinged on the horizon of the ocean,
We followed the coastline north, uncomplaining
Hungry for every moment,
The small Porsche our home,
The glove box lid our table,
Eating powdered sugar donuts,
Splashing down sweating cartons
Of cold milk.
Kris, your straight nose in the sun,
Your hairless chest shining,
Your eyes licking the long green hills.
So the miles laid themselves short,
So we tore them off as if the road
Was a long strip of paper,
So we saw all the tanned faces
Followed all the trucks
Smelled the summer night deep
The silver ocean,
Rumbled by all the June days
Like a kick stone
Down a smooth hill.
II
That last night at Hal's cabin,
We three rattled over dusty dirt roads
To the Spring Hill Diner.
And under the flickering neon,
We grumbled out of drunk night
To the bright white counter,
The wall menu, the thick cups of coffee.
Hal went to bed early that night
As he does often now:
His energy burning out early,
His poetry like a long-since-shaved beard,
Life hung on his strong shoulders
Like great flour sacks of earth,
His days hard beside an angry woman.
Yet still his eyes searched out
The fruit of the night
Its juice wetting his lips.
That last night, over the last beers,
Our words grafted us together;
The beer cold in the swooning June air,
Flies aiming for a hole in the sky.
And you—Kris
Your eagerness lighting in your smooth face,
Your ego like a draft,
Your lack of attachment supposedly a vision.
We slept on the cabin floor,
Morning the rooster woke us,
Hal rummaging back
Into the pattern of his days:
A clean shirt
His honest good-bye
A poet's finesse
Still on his eyebrows,
Lost only
In an angry world.
ATLANTIC
On light wings we came
Following pretty girls in old cars,
Salt brine reaching our nostrils
Steaming from our pores.
With our youthful energy
We hot-highway-determined
Pulled the ripe scent of the country
Into the hanging mouth of the city
Noon sun flooding the windshield.
We found the familiar Poolroom
But all friends had since moved away,
Those times left in the dusty stale air
And on the wide dark stairs.
New addresses, an old Italian barber
giving us directions (a hundred hands)
We found only empty warehouses,
The freight yard with
Its barren ghost noises
Tar stench
No one.
Thus hot and bare-chested
We drove past the city blocks
(Dark-skinned girls gleaming on the cement corners)
Listening to the wailing strains of Charlie Parker,
Rolling smokes, gunning up the highway
Under nameless signs, The humid afternoon
Blasting through the windows
Into our hair.
Then the sun settling, spinning itself
Into the dusk-black sands of Cape Cod.
First lights blinking on,
Blushing evening, brush-stroke moon.
Other friends found with lone pay phone,
Hot coffee thoughts,
The last easy miles,
Grinning faces at the cambered porch,
The outstretched blue arms of the Atlantic.
Midnight we swam,
Salty, cold, naked, dangling,
We yelling into that huge caldron night,
The moon a perfect scratch in the blackened metal:
Silver, new, curled—and our voices
seasoning the mild ever-retreating air.
The morning opened
Hinged on the horizon of the ocean,
We followed the coastline north, uncomplaining
Hungry for every moment,
The small Porsche our home,
The glove box lid our table,
Eating powdered sugar donuts,
Splashing down sweating cartons
Of cold milk.
Kris, your straight nose in the sun,
Your hairless chest shining,
Your eyes licking the long green hills.
So the miles laid themselves short,
So we tore them off as if the road
Was a long strip of paper,
So we saw all the tanned faces
Followed all the trucks
Smelled the summer night deep
The silver ocean,
Rumbled by all the June days
Like a kick stone
Down a smooth hill.
II
That last night at Hal's cabin,
We three rattled over dusty dirt roads
To the Spring Hill Diner.
And under the flickering neon,
We grumbled out of drunk night
To the bright white counter,
The wall menu, the thick cups of coffee.
Hal went to bed early that night
As he does often now:
His energy burning out early,
His poetry like a long-since-shaved beard,
Life hung on his strong shoulders
Like great flour sacks of earth,
His days hard beside an angry woman.
Yet still his eyes searched out
The fruit of the night
Its juice wetting his lips.
That last night, over the last beers,
Our words grafted us together;
The beer cold in the swooning June air,
Flies aiming for a hole in the sky.
And you—Kris
Your eagerness lighting in your smooth face,
Your ego like a draft,
Your lack of attachment supposedly a vision.
We slept on the cabin floor,
Morning the rooster woke us,
Hal rummaging back
Into the pattern of his days:
A clean shirt
His honest good-bye
A poet's finesse
Still on his eyebrows,
Lost only
In an angry world.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
"We found the familiar Poolroom
But all friends had since moved away, "
Everything changes as we move on through life.
Beautiful poetry Tramp.
"Looks like a stunt we would have pulled off if we knew each other back in our youth!!! "
I think we did Jon. Remember this:
But all friends had since moved away, "
Everything changes as we move on through life.
Beautiful poetry Tramp.
"Looks like a stunt we would have pulled off if we knew each other back in our youth!!! "
I think we did Jon. Remember this:
----Wayne----
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
Back when I was growing up, if you didn't start someth'n, there wouldn't be noth'n.
--Merle Haggard
Tramp, I think the poem gives me memories I never really had.
Wayne, I tried that with a Marx set after I got wy first Lionel set in 1946.
The Marx got bent a little but kept on running.I wonder if the Lionel would or could.I didn't try with the Lionel because it was too expensive.
Wayne, I tried that with a Marx set after I got wy first Lionel set in 1946.
The Marx got bent a little but kept on running.I wonder if the Lionel would or could.I didn't try with the Lionel because it was too expensive.
roger
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
I support thread drift.
If God didn't want women to be looked at, He would have made 'em ugly. RAH
Dennis, Glad to see you got a break!! I can't wait to see the "results" of your efforts!!! The lack of traffic here is pretty much to with Summer projects and outdoor things. The jungle usually picks up speed in the Fall. Of coarse theres always a few passed out hobos in the alley behind Gomers.
Running that red block Charlie.
Dennis, is this the week you're going to go on your binder in the Jingle?
Wayne, I lived above that poolroom for a while in 1974. When I went back the first time a year later as mentioned in the poem, everyone I knew had moved away. When I returned fifteen years later, everything was gone, the entire neighborhood had been removed. Here's the start of a short story.
TWENTY-DOLLAR KID
I hadn’t thought of Bobby Brown for twenty-five years. Couldn’t even remember his name. That was until Irene visited.
All those years ago I had lived in Providence, Rhode Island, staying in a third-floor loft above Duke’s poolroom, and I’d spent my afternoons playing pool, either there or in Pete’s around the block. At that time, Duke’s was run by Italians, had new tables, a linoleum floor instead of warped hardwood, and housed most of the local gambling action. Pete, a white-haired black man, owned the other room, and though he charged less, his pool tables were about as ancient and level as the floor—too uncertain for real money play. Both halls were second-floor walkups with city views reminiscent of the Depression. Tucked next door was a Greek diner that offered bowls of soup and stale bread for a quarter. Across the avenue was the Ocean Theater with its spire of swirling Deco neon, turquoise waves rippling mechanically down the marquee every evening. Around the corner along an alley, a bar with fifteen-cent Pickwick drafts, sawdust, and angry whores.
That autumn I’d been riding freights across the country and came back east to search out a friend. He was living above Duke’s with the rest of his grumpy rock band. They allowed me a corner in the loft for my blanket and gave me a job lugging their equipment at gigs. At eighteen I was underfed and wore a slouch cap like a twenties newsboy. I dressed out of Goodwill in baggy wool suits that rarely cost more than a dollar, and I smoked a pipe. Corncobs, briars, one was fired up constantly like the stack of a tramp steamer; pipe tobacco was not to be skimped on. Maybe I hoped it drew attention away from my bad skin.
Within a week I was confronted by Bobby Brown. He was much larger and more impressive than me—and he had a rep. His rep was for gambling, guns, robbery, and everyone in the two poolrooms avoided him if they could. His body moved in a bored, muscled way, his face unreadable. Being from Maine, at that point in my life I’d had only minimal contact with black people, though I talked quite a bit with Pete. His poolroom was usually empty in the afternoons, and I favored the quiet, the cheap rates, and playing pool with him. By evening I was hauling amps and cables, or drinking beer, and mornings were for sleeping. Duke’s jukebox was my alarm clock, the thump rising through my blanket at around noon. Somewhere in me I still carry the bass line of Rock The Boat, which was the consistent morning favorite. During one of our talks, Pete warned me about Bobby Brown.
But it was in Duke’s that I glanced up from a shot to see Bobby holding me in the sights of his bored scowl.
“What’s you looking at?” he said.
I waited.
“I ask you a question. Who you think you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“You calling me a nothing?”
“I’m not calling you anything.”
“But you looking.”
“I guess so.”
“You think you can just look at who you want?”
“I’ll try to be more careful.”
He considered this. “You be watching who you look at.”
I nodded and went back to my game, but it didn’t end there. It started something with Bobby. Every time he saw me, he’d say, “Man, I want to shoot you,” or, “I wants you. I wants you, boy,” pointing a finger. I didn’t want to play Bobby or have anything to do with him. Pete had filled me in. Bobby only played for money, he intimidated his opponents into missing, and he got violent if he lost. The rock band paid poorly, and even my coffee I managed by convincing a floor girl at the A&P into saving the sweepings from around the grinding machine—a free mix: Eight-O’clock to Bokar. I didn’t need Bobby taking my money, but what bothered me more was that I thought I could beat him. I didn’t like to lose either. I’d been hustling pool since I was fifteen and knew all the gambits. Or thought I did.
Wayne, I lived above that poolroom for a while in 1974. When I went back the first time a year later as mentioned in the poem, everyone I knew had moved away. When I returned fifteen years later, everything was gone, the entire neighborhood had been removed. Here's the start of a short story.
TWENTY-DOLLAR KID
I hadn’t thought of Bobby Brown for twenty-five years. Couldn’t even remember his name. That was until Irene visited.
All those years ago I had lived in Providence, Rhode Island, staying in a third-floor loft above Duke’s poolroom, and I’d spent my afternoons playing pool, either there or in Pete’s around the block. At that time, Duke’s was run by Italians, had new tables, a linoleum floor instead of warped hardwood, and housed most of the local gambling action. Pete, a white-haired black man, owned the other room, and though he charged less, his pool tables were about as ancient and level as the floor—too uncertain for real money play. Both halls were second-floor walkups with city views reminiscent of the Depression. Tucked next door was a Greek diner that offered bowls of soup and stale bread for a quarter. Across the avenue was the Ocean Theater with its spire of swirling Deco neon, turquoise waves rippling mechanically down the marquee every evening. Around the corner along an alley, a bar with fifteen-cent Pickwick drafts, sawdust, and angry whores.
That autumn I’d been riding freights across the country and came back east to search out a friend. He was living above Duke’s with the rest of his grumpy rock band. They allowed me a corner in the loft for my blanket and gave me a job lugging their equipment at gigs. At eighteen I was underfed and wore a slouch cap like a twenties newsboy. I dressed out of Goodwill in baggy wool suits that rarely cost more than a dollar, and I smoked a pipe. Corncobs, briars, one was fired up constantly like the stack of a tramp steamer; pipe tobacco was not to be skimped on. Maybe I hoped it drew attention away from my bad skin.
Within a week I was confronted by Bobby Brown. He was much larger and more impressive than me—and he had a rep. His rep was for gambling, guns, robbery, and everyone in the two poolrooms avoided him if they could. His body moved in a bored, muscled way, his face unreadable. Being from Maine, at that point in my life I’d had only minimal contact with black people, though I talked quite a bit with Pete. His poolroom was usually empty in the afternoons, and I favored the quiet, the cheap rates, and playing pool with him. By evening I was hauling amps and cables, or drinking beer, and mornings were for sleeping. Duke’s jukebox was my alarm clock, the thump rising through my blanket at around noon. Somewhere in me I still carry the bass line of Rock The Boat, which was the consistent morning favorite. During one of our talks, Pete warned me about Bobby Brown.
But it was in Duke’s that I glanced up from a shot to see Bobby holding me in the sights of his bored scowl.
“What’s you looking at?” he said.
I waited.
“I ask you a question. Who you think you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“You calling me a nothing?”
“I’m not calling you anything.”
“But you looking.”
“I guess so.”
“You think you can just look at who you want?”
“I’ll try to be more careful.”
He considered this. “You be watching who you look at.”
I nodded and went back to my game, but it didn’t end there. It started something with Bobby. Every time he saw me, he’d say, “Man, I want to shoot you,” or, “I wants you. I wants you, boy,” pointing a finger. I didn’t want to play Bobby or have anything to do with him. Pete had filled me in. Bobby only played for money, he intimidated his opponents into missing, and he got violent if he lost. The rock band paid poorly, and even my coffee I managed by convincing a floor girl at the A&P into saving the sweepings from around the grinding machine—a free mix: Eight-O’clock to Bokar. I didn’t need Bobby taking my money, but what bothered me more was that I thought I could beat him. I didn’t like to lose either. I’d been hustling pool since I was fifteen and knew all the gambits. Or thought I did.
That a life will be spent gaining inches,
When this distance is read in miles.
When this distance is read in miles.
highrailjon wrote:Hev, Did you see where the bidding ended on that other Williams brass Atlantic and no one bought it at that price?
I could have saved myself 50.00!!!!!
Yep.....................I seen it. Can't believe no one bought it either. The Williams 5200 O Gauge PRR B6 0-6-0 Engine & Tender didn't sell either . That was the same price. Maybe he will relist them again.......................
hev
If you want to find history, follow the train man..................
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