Suck It Up And Live!

One more post about buses and meets and then it is back to normal.  

Kudo’s to all of you for posting your pictures of the first annual soon to be in an RV Park near you BCI bus meet.  You have done an exceptional job.  I have enjoyed them immensely even tho‘ some of your camera’s appear to make me look rather portly.  Must be a chip problem or something?

Continue reading

What Was That You Said …

via Bus Nuts Online.  Another note from the basement of time.

images-1On the railroad a train with loads short of its final destination, say Dallas Texas, would be on the head-in of the train.  Loads south of Dallas to Houston, would be placed on the rear-end.

So if you were to hear over a radio, “185 go on down to the south-end, we will rip off your shorts and fill your rear-end.

Well, if you didn’t know what was going on, it would sound strange, that is understandable.. Continue reading

The Big Boy Buffet and BCI Countdown … March 2015

DSC01713Early Morning Musings:  This morning I have come to terms with some impotent issues, things that in the past have given me considerable cause for concern. 

So early in the morning, long before a few of you have even thought of getting up, I am hacking away at the demons that enter my world to destroy me. Continue reading

New Horizons …

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There is something being kicked around, a new vision on the horizon for bus owners.  People are discussing the possibility of bringing something back from the dead (no this is not Jerry Springer, this is the real deal), a de facto expired bus board pulled from the trash-bin and given new life.  Continue reading

Make Me An Offer …

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Now with the market for buses in the tank, and the soft economy and all, well selling a bus is for the most parts … Bad News.  Or as they say down south, this dog aint gonna hunt. 

There are times I want to sell mine, I truly do. 

I am sure you can relate to what I am saying here. 

When the new fuel filters are on, and it has lost its prime and it won’t start, that is a good time to think about selling it.  When you are stuck under the differential of an old Eagle because your belly is too big and your overalls are creeping up and the material is really biting into your crotch … well, make me an offer.

When it is extremely cold and all the fuel lines have frozen and the wrecker has not arrived, I think about selling it.  When I stand there at the fuel island and watch all those digit’s roll over and over, but the fill nozzle doesn’t seem to want to click off … well you know the drill.  

When I am sharing the rear bedroom outside of Gadsden, Alabama, with every known skeeter in the world, because the generator won’t start …

Do I have a bidder, make me an offer.

Life as we know it is full of trade-offs.  If I sold it I would not be able to appreciate the fundamental differences between depreciation and outright collector insanity.  Selling the bus would also free up the “where do I park this whale” issue, and I could buy something a tad bit smaller, like a used Aircraft Carrier. 

Being bus-less would severely reduce your ability to move huge rocks in the parking lot of Cracker Barrel when making a blind right-hander.  If you sold it, you could buy a smart car that gets about 800 miles per gallon and get back out in the Fast Lane … You remember the Fast Lane, right?

Think about it guys, if you sold your coach where would your wife store the sixty-nine pairs of shoes that she is taking to BCI bus meeting in Pahrump Nevada, a place where six billion people have never been.  What would YOU do with the multiple tool boxes and spare parts you lug around the country in the summertime for back of the lot repairs and for ballast in the winter.

If you sold your bus, you would have clean fingernails, levi’s without holes in the knees, and your lower arm would not have a patchwork of skin colored Band-Aids and purple bruises.  You could actually go back to using your given name, instead of your super-secret-CB-code name. 

The possibilities are endless.  You could put the pictures of the grandchildren back into your Droid and get rid of the …. “This is when I first got it” photo’s of the bus, sitting in someone’s back yard in Clovis, New Mexico.

Thinking it over.  It appears in my case the best thing to do is to hang onto it.  I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do know this …. Life is always better for me … When she has a place for her shoes.

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Driveway Queen

Tom Turner, our reader on the left-coast of America wanted some bus porn, so here is a little to whet his whistle.
Groom Texas is the site of the cross, largest cross on the North American Continent, or so it is said.

I wake up and my pillow is full of slobber, man, I hate that!  Forming a mental picture of my head on this pillow and my tongue hanging outside my mouth, sort of like those old blood hounds in the movie, Cool Hand Luke, and it just strikes me as revolting.

Deftly reaching up with my left hand, I wipe my face in a masculine manner (meaning with a bare hand because I do not have a handkerchief handy) and quickly look around (to see if anyone observes me doing this repulsive thing I have unconsciously done) and I quickly sit up in bed.  What is it that triggers a dream such as this?  Where you are prone to consume your own pillow.

Only in the mind of man, does something as bizarre as this occur.

Reaching out as if I almost in a state of disbelief, I touch the pillow and it is soaked to the bone as my grandmother used to exclaim.  What about the dream?  I am thinking hard, and I remember some people, a plate full of honey-covered brisket (if there is such a thing?) and vaguely, some off-color conversation, a handful of good-looking beautiful, robust, round shaped women.

I am mystified, “a plate full of honey-covered brisket?”

Coming from a long line of finger lickin’ chicken eaters kind of people (Donnie, don’t let the dawg get into them bones!), honey soaked brisket seems awfully foreign to me.  Meat and tators in our neck of the woods, flies in the butter, no brisket anything in this part of “Ameri-Kuh” as George Dubya used to say.

Same with touch football games and well manicured lawns, why I dream of these things, truly escapes me at the moment. I live in Oklahoma, where a large percentage of the population actually believes that wrestling on television is real, and in the southeastern corner of the state, the idea of gun control is to “hold it with both hands Earl.”  Where your first born child has three names … Billy Raye Littler.  Where people generally say, “Whadya mean you got a bus?  Did-ja mean a reel bus?  You mean like one of them Greyhound things, Oakridge Boys star buses, one of them?  Well, I’ll be.”


So you can readily understand why dreams of idyllic New England and front yards full of leaves of many colors, touch football just do not resonate with my country soul. Sweaters tied loosely around the neck and women with names like Buffy and Tiffany just do not register, nor induce slobber.

The absolute worst dream I ever had was the first night I spent in my Eagle in Alabama.  Our bus has an overhead mirrored ceiling that runs the entire length of the coach.  The first night I ever slept in it was in a rest area in Good Hope, Alabama (just a tad north of Birmingham) where I woke up abruptly and looked up for a moment “and actually thought I was being attacked by a naked skydiver!”

Now that … that … was a scary dream, but I digress, we are talking about this dream, sorry

In my latest dream, Big Jim lites up a cigarette and everyone in the waiting room at the tireshop is horrified, this must be a terrible thing, but I fail to see where it would induce slobber on the pillow.  Now if it were a beautifully painted up Detroit or Big Cam 600 Cummings, with chrome plated rocker covers and un-rusted exhaust pipes, steam cleaned and shining brightly, that would be a different story altogether.  Fresh paint on the body of the beast, new Armor-all on all the hoses, no grease … Ah, the dreams of man.  This would be enough to induce slobber or at best, provide that deer in the headlight look on most men.

Unfortunately most dreams are not of that pleasant nature.

Not that long ago, the wife, in the middle of the night, shook me awake rather violently.  I was, to say the least, rather startled and I might add, a bit confused.  I did not smell smoke, I did not hear the thunder, the wind was not howling, nor did I see any lightning.  In other words, all around me seemed, despite her apparent sense of urgency, rather normal for four in the morning.

I said to her, “What?  What?

What in the name of GOD ALMIGHTY is wrong woman!”

She said to me, “I have a dream.  We are in Wikiup, Arizona, in our bus, you drive off and leave me there!  Why do you do that?”  I sigh, a sigh I have learned to do almost habitually over the years, and I say to her, “This?  For this I am shook into a rather strange version of reality at this time of the morning?  You had a dream and I left you in Arizona?”

She looks at me, very much relieved and says, “Yes, yes that is it.  You drive off and leave me!”

At that point in time, I slowly lower my head onto my pillow (which has not been slobbered on here lately) and I mutter under my breath just loud enough to be heard, “go back to sleep woman, I will drive back and pick you up.”

“Life isn’t about how you survive the storm, but how you dance in the rain…”

You can travel east and west, but in the end, well, y’know the rest, dontcha?

(As my friend Bernice would put it … Life Is Good)

OOO

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Fortunate Pilgrim

 

Breakfast in New Mexico, The Land Of Enchantment.

This morning we find ourselves at the Flyin’ Hooker (Flying J Truck-stop) some 400 miles from the house in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Savoring a cup of coffee and taking note of my surroundings.  So far, I have discovered this.  Early morning coffee drinkers are a strange lot, some of us like it lukewarm and others piping hot. (Hey? That rhymes, I could be a poet and didn’t know it)  Now I ask you, can life get any better?  Fast food joints, breakfast in the morning, sleeping in the back of the parking lot in a truck-stop.

I-DON’T-THINK-SO.COM

For the most part, the joint is empty, a couple of freight hauling truckers sitting at the counter, two young kids in a booth, who seem to be “all over each other.” I study them intently, she has black lipstick, black fingernails, jewelry everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. It is in her ear, her nose, a spot above her eyebrows is pierced.

A picture of loveliness.  Every Mother’s pride and joy.

Now her not so apparent non-virginal counterpart, he is much the same, hair is askew, lip pierced, ear ring, and BOTH eyebrows have shiny appendages sticking out of them. I think to myself, “this kid is ripe for marriage, he is ready to go.”

He has endured pain and he has already bought jewelry.

Owning a bus makes life a little bit more interesting and somewhat better. It affords me the luxury of being able to get out and away from all those things in life that manage to drag me down.  It takes my mind off this ugly rash in my left armpit and the nation’s economy.  I have no Late Breaking … Live … Local Headlines to contend with, no cable bill, no sorry political viewpoint to consider on my television.  I have no user screen name or password retrieval issues to face this day … I am fine with the world.

Strangely I find myself riding a gentle wave of adventure this day. I have the road calling to me and some free time to answer up.  Don’t get me wrong, life in El Reno, Oklahoma is good.  But on the whole, at least today, I find that I would rather be somewhere else, somewhere far, far away.

The sun cracks the horizon and morning arrives.  Wrapped tight in my private thoughts, I hardly take notice.  Over in the corner of the parking lot I hear my Pig Iron Pony idling and I sense he is chomping at the bit, he is ready to run and I am to some extent, ready myself.  Daddy’s Hobby and his turbo charged big horses, want to get out and register a few serious miles.  I am obligated to oblige, droppin’ a couple of singles on the table I head out to the parking lot.

Today we will be westbound and down, “six on the floor and the other one out the dog-gone door, hammered down.” Our reserved spot in the fast lane waits for us.  Tomorrow this place will be just a faint memory.

Life is good … I am a fortunate Pilgrim indeed.

OOO

Possibly Related: Life Is Good Troubadour