I'm still waiting for my first glowing bug of the year. When does the contest start?
That is a nice photo. It's been raining here for what seems like a month. It's nice to remember that skies can be blue.
Hobo Jungle
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penncentral8885
- Posts: 3012
- Joined: Wed Aug 17, 2005 10:09 pm
- Location: Indiana
Do you live in one of those gated communities?
Yeah! It's called the "Nut house"http://www.indianarailwaymuseum.org/
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
Thanks to some serious studying (and a few shots of Redbull and vodka), I've engineered an "improved" siding plan that will let my layout and my 3rd Rail engines co-exist in harmony. 
That was three quarters of the battle. The last part will be to ditch the wife and son for a half a day to implement it. 
That was three quarters of the battle. The last part will be to ditch the wife and son for a half a day to implement it. 
I finished the first draft of my fourth novel this afternoon. I think that calls for a round of beverages. Christ, I was up writing between 3 and 5AM, then rose again at 7. Sometimes you just have to stay with it.
Cheers!
Cheers!
Last edited by Tramp on Sat Jun 10, 2006 5:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Thanks, Roger. Here's the first chapter.
CLIP
Chapter One
You watch a piece of film. It’s a short segment, only four or five seconds long. It’s not actually film of course: it’s an image on a computer screen. But the format doesn’t matter. What matters is that it has changed your life. Drastically changed your life. That’s the point here.
You probably want to know what’s on that segment of film, but I can’t reveal that now because it wouldn’t mean anything to you at the moment. It will mean something to you later in this narrative though I doubt it can ever mean as much to anyone as it does to me. It means far too much to me. Some people have that with a certain place, or person, or animal, or even a song. I have it with this short clip of film.
If you want to know if you truly love someone, just imagine them dead. How big is the hole? That can tell you a lot.
I’m always suspicious of first-person narratives. Is the author trying to be someone else, talk in someone else’s voice, is he or she telling you the truth? Can anyone ever be completely honest about themselves?
If Brad Wilkins wrote a personal ad for himself, it might read something like this:
WM, artist, has been called a genius by some (has no idea why), easygoing, enjoys mystery, travel, humanity, peace and the art of love. Tall, friendly, blonde, likes a cold beer on occasion after mowing the lawn.
If Cody Ballard wrote a personal ad for Brad Wilkins, it would read very differently. The one line that might remain would be, “Tall, friendly, blonde.” As for Brad’s other claims, Cody would have laughed bitterly. But these conflicting ads would only have been written much later, almost fifteen years later when they were both closing on forty, and the actual truth about Brad was most likely somewhere between the two viewpoints. And the truth about Cody?
Their lives first overlapped in Bennington, Vermont during the eighties. Cody was living in town, working as a house painter; Brad was in a graduate program at the college. They were sitting next to each other in a local bar.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” Brad offered a smile.
“Do I know you?” said Cody. He was hunched over a draft and in no mood for conversation. Besides, he’d immediately taken a dislike when the guy had first come in and chatted with the bartender. The guy seemed too taken with himself, too self-satisfied, too tall and blonde, his smile too white. From the college no doubt. He avoided anything to do with that place.
“Do we ever really know anyone?” said Brad with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing with his cigarette. “I mean, really know them?”
Cody picked up his beer and chose another stool along the bar as far away from the guy as possible.
“Have a great evening,” called over Brad. “It was so satisfying talking with you.”
Cody added sarcastic to the list and didn’t bother to glance toward the voice.
The next time they met, Cody was trying to change a flat on the new section of Route 7 headed into Bennington. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the year-old Camaro U-turn twice and crunch to a stop behind his pickup truck. He heard the door open and the footsteps. Though he didn’t want to look up, he did.
The freshly washed hair hung to the shoulders, narrow and sloped. “Hey there, need a hand?” said the winning smile again.
The annoying thing was he did. “Kinda. My damn spare is flat too.”
“Throw it in the back. We’ll get the fucker pumped up in no time.”
Was the guy gay? He looked kinda gay. What did he want? After the tire was repaired—Brad insisting on waiting until the hole was plugged and the wheel back on the pickup—Cody, without intending to, invited him for a beer. By coincidence they ended up on the same two stools as the first night.
“You were in a bad mood the other evening, weren’t you?” said Brad, sipping a rum and coke, lighting a cigarette.
“What’re you talking about?”
“That other time. Remember?”
He shook his head.
“I sat beside you right—”
“You at the college?”
Brad nodded. “I’m doing a residency.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m an artist.”
“Aren’t they all up there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doesn’t every one at that damn place think they’re a brilliant artist?”
Brad grinned, directed a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Maybe. Who knows?” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the women up there though. Lovely and sensitive.”
Cody didn’t comment. Maybe the guy wasn’t gay, but he didn’t want to discuss women. It had been too long since he’d had a girlfriend, and the subject frustrated and depressed him.
“They love art.” Brad sipped. “Are you interested in art?”
“No.”
“What’re you into?”
“Motorcycles.” It annoyed him to have revealed that.
“No shit. I’m into bikes too.”
“Yeah?”
“****** right, man. Bikes are awesome.”
“Whaddaya got?”
“Got?”
“What kind of bike?”
“I don’t have anything at the moment, but I’ll be getting something real soon. You?”
“Just a track bike.”
“Was that the one in the back of your pickup?”
He nodded. “Listen, I gotta run.”
Brad looked surprised, but Cody walked out of the place anyway.
And so it began. How did I know at the time it was going to change everything. It’s odd how the most incidental occurrence can start a fragile spreading ring, an inexorable ripple that grows unnoticed until it becomes a monstrous wave. A wave that you finally notice on the horizon bearing down on you after it’s too late. Seeing it from a distance tells you nothing about its size or its fury. If I’d only continued to avoid Brad as I sensed I should, everything would’ve been entirely different. If I hadn’t ignored him that first evening in the bar, would he still have been so intrigued by me? If only I’d just chatted politely maybe he’d have lost interest and latched onto someone else. It took way too long for me to realize what he was up to. It was almost ten years for the worst of it to manifest. Then I began to become obsessed myself. Was it my fault or his? I still don’t know.
This all happened way before I received the clip in an email. That murderous damn clip of film.
CLIP
Chapter One
You watch a piece of film. It’s a short segment, only four or five seconds long. It’s not actually film of course: it’s an image on a computer screen. But the format doesn’t matter. What matters is that it has changed your life. Drastically changed your life. That’s the point here.
You probably want to know what’s on that segment of film, but I can’t reveal that now because it wouldn’t mean anything to you at the moment. It will mean something to you later in this narrative though I doubt it can ever mean as much to anyone as it does to me. It means far too much to me. Some people have that with a certain place, or person, or animal, or even a song. I have it with this short clip of film.
If you want to know if you truly love someone, just imagine them dead. How big is the hole? That can tell you a lot.
I’m always suspicious of first-person narratives. Is the author trying to be someone else, talk in someone else’s voice, is he or she telling you the truth? Can anyone ever be completely honest about themselves?
If Brad Wilkins wrote a personal ad for himself, it might read something like this:
WM, artist, has been called a genius by some (has no idea why), easygoing, enjoys mystery, travel, humanity, peace and the art of love. Tall, friendly, blonde, likes a cold beer on occasion after mowing the lawn.
If Cody Ballard wrote a personal ad for Brad Wilkins, it would read very differently. The one line that might remain would be, “Tall, friendly, blonde.” As for Brad’s other claims, Cody would have laughed bitterly. But these conflicting ads would only have been written much later, almost fifteen years later when they were both closing on forty, and the actual truth about Brad was most likely somewhere between the two viewpoints. And the truth about Cody?
Their lives first overlapped in Bennington, Vermont during the eighties. Cody was living in town, working as a house painter; Brad was in a graduate program at the college. They were sitting next to each other in a local bar.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” Brad offered a smile.
“Do I know you?” said Cody. He was hunched over a draft and in no mood for conversation. Besides, he’d immediately taken a dislike when the guy had first come in and chatted with the bartender. The guy seemed too taken with himself, too self-satisfied, too tall and blonde, his smile too white. From the college no doubt. He avoided anything to do with that place.
“Do we ever really know anyone?” said Brad with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing with his cigarette. “I mean, really know them?”
Cody picked up his beer and chose another stool along the bar as far away from the guy as possible.
“Have a great evening,” called over Brad. “It was so satisfying talking with you.”
Cody added sarcastic to the list and didn’t bother to glance toward the voice.
The next time they met, Cody was trying to change a flat on the new section of Route 7 headed into Bennington. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the year-old Camaro U-turn twice and crunch to a stop behind his pickup truck. He heard the door open and the footsteps. Though he didn’t want to look up, he did.
The freshly washed hair hung to the shoulders, narrow and sloped. “Hey there, need a hand?” said the winning smile again.
The annoying thing was he did. “Kinda. My damn spare is flat too.”
“Throw it in the back. We’ll get the fucker pumped up in no time.”
Was the guy gay? He looked kinda gay. What did he want? After the tire was repaired—Brad insisting on waiting until the hole was plugged and the wheel back on the pickup—Cody, without intending to, invited him for a beer. By coincidence they ended up on the same two stools as the first night.
“You were in a bad mood the other evening, weren’t you?” said Brad, sipping a rum and coke, lighting a cigarette.
“What’re you talking about?”
“That other time. Remember?”
He shook his head.
“I sat beside you right—”
“You at the college?”
Brad nodded. “I’m doing a residency.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m an artist.”
“Aren’t they all up there?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Doesn’t every one at that damn place think they’re a brilliant artist?”
Brad grinned, directed a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Maybe. Who knows?” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe the women up there though. Lovely and sensitive.”
Cody didn’t comment. Maybe the guy wasn’t gay, but he didn’t want to discuss women. It had been too long since he’d had a girlfriend, and the subject frustrated and depressed him.
“They love art.” Brad sipped. “Are you interested in art?”
“No.”
“What’re you into?”
“Motorcycles.” It annoyed him to have revealed that.
“No shit. I’m into bikes too.”
“Yeah?”
“****** right, man. Bikes are awesome.”
“Whaddaya got?”
“Got?”
“What kind of bike?”
“I don’t have anything at the moment, but I’ll be getting something real soon. You?”
“Just a track bike.”
“Was that the one in the back of your pickup?”
He nodded. “Listen, I gotta run.”
Brad looked surprised, but Cody walked out of the place anyway.
And so it began. How did I know at the time it was going to change everything. It’s odd how the most incidental occurrence can start a fragile spreading ring, an inexorable ripple that grows unnoticed until it becomes a monstrous wave. A wave that you finally notice on the horizon bearing down on you after it’s too late. Seeing it from a distance tells you nothing about its size or its fury. If I’d only continued to avoid Brad as I sensed I should, everything would’ve been entirely different. If I hadn’t ignored him that first evening in the bar, would he still have been so intrigued by me? If only I’d just chatted politely maybe he’d have lost interest and latched onto someone else. It took way too long for me to realize what he was up to. It was almost ten years for the worst of it to manifest. Then I began to become obsessed myself. Was it my fault or his? I still don’t know.
This all happened way before I received the clip in an email. That murderous damn clip of film.
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P&R Pete
Damn, Pete!! Does John D. Rockefeller live next door?
Tramp, you don't exactly live in a hobo shack yourself. As a matter of fact Pete happened to mention at the Mountain Spring Bar that your palace was built and owned by Capt. Jean LaFoote, the craftiest of barefoot pirates ever to roam the high seas!! And that LaFoote made his fortune right there at your house supplying Washington's Army with Rum, black powder, and booty. Mostly booty, though (according to Pete)Hence the name "Booty Palace". Which is northern for a southern mansion usually refered to as a hoochie-choochie.
Tramp, you don't exactly live in a hobo shack yourself. As a matter of fact Pete happened to mention at the Mountain Spring Bar that your palace was built and owned by Capt. Jean LaFoote, the craftiest of barefoot pirates ever to roam the high seas!! And that LaFoote made his fortune right there at your house supplying Washington's Army with Rum, black powder, and booty. Mostly booty, though (according to Pete)Hence the name "Booty Palace". Which is northern for a southern mansion usually refered to as a hoochie-choochie.
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P&R Pete
LMAO!!!
Tramp's living the legacy. When he walked me down to his local, ladies were swooning, dropping their packages, walking into lightpoles. Alarming!
(Might have been the cape, feathered hat, pantaloons and black boots).
Jon, don't be fooled. With careful editing, you can't see the landfill, truck stop, nuclear waste dump, and sewage treatment plant that abut our property!
And Tramp, here's the movie star:
(Nothing like an Escort to make a girl look classy!)
Unfortunately, she has to endure her hayseed brother!
Pantaloons? HARR, HARRR, ARGHHH, Skipper!!! No doubt another rare and coveted gift from the pistola tourneys in France!! (Rumor has it Tramp was the only one that showed up with a weapon!!!) How could he lose?:lol:
Pete, beautiful shots of the youngsters!! Thanks for sharing. I miss that Escort already!!!
Pete, beautiful shots of the youngsters!! Thanks for sharing. I miss that Escort already!!!
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P&R Pete
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