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Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 07:34:46 PM

Title: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 07:34:46 PM
introduction: Atman meets franksolich is payback to the Atman primitive on Skins’s island, for so rudely calling me out from Skins’s island last week when I was busy with something far more important than the richboy Atman.

The deal with shout-outs is that common courtesy and good manners demand that one respond to them, no matter how great the inconvenience it imposes upon one, and franksolich has no intention of being caught with his pants down not practicing common courtesy and good manners.

That was lousy timing, really lousy timing, on Atman’s part, and irked me to no end.

If the washed-up pretty boy wanted franksolich’s attention, well, he got franksolich’s attention.

I dunno if he’ll like this story or not, but that’s the spoiled brat’s problem, not mine.

Atman meets franksolich is a work of fiction, with some real-life descriptions slipped therein, observations of franksolich’s character and personality by others in real life.  I don’t know if I really am that way, but it’s an accurate description of my reputation.  Sometimes popular reputation and reality are one and the same thing, sometimes not.  I dunno what the case is here.

Atman and franksolich of course have never met in real life, but this is probably a pretty good picture of what’d happen if we did; it’d be something like what follows.

The whole story’s done, and all ready for launching—it’s not quite as long as the old “Mrs. Alfred Packer” tales—but it’s being released only in parts, at random unannounced times, so as to keep the gimme-gimme-gimme-gimme-right-now Atman on the edge of his seat.

And now begins the dolorous tale…..
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 07:37:01 PM
Atman meets franksolich.  The stranger drove into northern Nebraska from Iowa and headed west for a couple of hours, before he decided it was a good idea to stop somewhere to get the lay of the land.  He was now halfway across the country, but the last few days, he’d gone through Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Iowa in a mindless tupor, not paying attention.

However, the clean fresh always-changing air of this seventh state seemed to clear his cerebral-cells, making him amenable to sitting back, relaxing, and getting mellow for a bit, as he was tired.

The stranger had just gone through a whole world of woes back home.

He came to a small town out in the middle of nowhere, population 854, the biggest place for miles around according to the road-map.  He had already gone through towns of 225 or 210 or 119 or 57 or 8 inhabitants, spaced about twenty miles apart, and this one looked as if it had all the amenities of life as he’d known it back in the crowded congested east; a grocery store, a gasoline station, a hardware store, a post office, a convenience store, a telephone company, an enormous football stadium, a well-kept baseball field, two banks, nine churches, nine bars, an egg hatchery, a seamstressery, a gunnery, and a blacksmithery.

Everything one wanted, could be found here.

Excepting two of them; he was mystified by the lack of a restaurant, or more importantly, a motel.

Spotting a bar that looked likely to serve food, he parked and went inside.

The bar was crowded, it being early evening, but he spied an empty barstool next to a cowboy, a shorter wiry blond in his late 30s, who looked friendly enough.  The stranger sat down and asked for a menu; the waitress told him the list of cuisinery was chalked on the board behind him.

Most of the customers were dining upon steaks or hamburgers, but he ordered ichijū-sansai, along with a side of tsukemono, and a larger side of hatsu-gatsuo, which the waitress brought him in short order.

The cowboy next to him looked the stranger up-and-down; he had some qualities of a fairy, but not enough to make him a real one, and so the cowboy relaxed.  Probably just a soft effete rich doofus from the east—his motor vehicle parked outside had been noticed, along with the Connecticut license-plates and the surfboard tied to the roof.

“You’re road-worn, stranger,” the cowboy said; “you’re stopping here for the night?”

“I don’t know; I have no idea what’s beyond here,” the stranger said; “I’m headed out to California.

“You see, I’m a professional free-lance artist, a caricaturist, and…..” after which he continued on with his tale, which need not detain the reader more than this.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the cowboy said when the stranger was finished; “you were spoiled rotten as a kid, every whim catered to, and you signed up for the ‘Great Artists’ School’ advertised in comics-books and on match-book covers, found a woman with money to support you, withdrew and squandered all your trust-funds, got fired from your job, and your wife got tired of carrying your lazy ass, and threw you out.

“The only usable skill you ever learned was as a forklift driver in a camera factory, and those jobs are scarce in this 0bamaconomy, especially for some guy your age.

“You’re nearly 53, already all washed up and too tired to start all over.

“So you’re headed out to southern California, to live on the beach and surf your life away.”

The stranger bristled at this.

“Don’t worry about it,” the cowboy reassured him; “we’re not big-city rubes and hicks and yahoos out here; we know what’s going on. 

“Nobody’s perfect.  Here, let me buy you a beer.”

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 06, 2012, 08:03:05 PM
I always wondered what happened to those scholarships given to the artists that drew the best imitation of the "draw this" art in the periodicals of the time.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on June 06, 2012, 08:07:41 PM
Sooner or later, he's gonna blow up.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: DumbAss Tanker on June 06, 2012, 08:43:43 PM
I always wondered what happened to those scholarships given to the artists that drew the best imitation of the "draw this" art in the periodicals of the time.

He isn't in their league.  The buffoon cuts and pastes old public domain clipart to produce a primitive (What else?), simple to a fault, and unfunny sort of comic strip, and then gets huffy about his 'creative rights' in his 'intellectual property' if anyone puts one of the sad little things up on the internet.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 10:02:13 PM
He isn't in their league.  The buffoon cuts and pastes old public domain clipart to produce a primitive (What else?), simple to a fault, and unfunny sort of comic strip, and then gets huffy about his 'creative rights' in his 'intellectual property' if anyone puts one of the sad little things up on the internet.

Uh, in all fairness to my evil twin Atman, that's not him.

You're thinking of Fat Che's little brother, he of the expanded rectal aperture.

Atman's a sort of caricaturist, and by strangest of coincidences, there is a framed chalk caricature of franksolich as a prisoner in the gulag, during my time in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, hanging on the wall above the computer here, that could very well have been drawn by Atman, the style being eerily similar.

I would've posted it here a very long time ago, even used it as an avatar, excepting the damned thing's so large it can't be scanned.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: DumbAss Tanker on June 06, 2012, 10:04:28 PM
Ah, my apologies, your monickers for the idiots' own monickers throw me off at times.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 11:30:56 PM
Ah, my apologies, your monickers for the idiots' own monickers throw me off at times.

Sorry about that, sir, but it can't be helped.

Some of the official primitive screen-names are so stupid one hesitates to use them, and re-baptizes them something more appropriate.

"Atman" as a screen-name I guess is okay, though; it's a brand-name of women's lingerie touted by Richard Russell or Bill Simmons or somesuch; some obscure television personality.

I'm desisting from using "Pedro Picasso" because probably more people when using the nadin-machine, look up "Atman" rather than the name I gave him.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 06, 2012, 11:42:38 PM
continued

As the cowboy commiserated with the stranger, the stranger got around to mentioning that he thought he’d seek lodging for the night, and what was available out here?

“Oh, man,” the cowboy replied; “there’s some problems.

“You could go west of here, and maybe by the time the sun’s up, near Merriman or something, you’ll find a motel.  It’ll be first-rate, five-star, top-notch, and all that, but with Regency Park opulence and luxury, you got Regency Park prices.

“There’s a few mom-and-pop operations between here and out there, places from the 1920s that were miniature separated cabins, but now’s their busy season, and they got no room.  They’re full up with construction workers who rent by the month, and made their reservations last year.

“They’re nice places, neat and clean and all that, and the food can’t be beat, but you got no more chance of finding one with a vacant room than nadin does of marrying Prince Harry.”

Hmmmm, the stranger said.  “But where do people stay when they’re up here?”

“A motel would go broke around here,” the cowboy explained, “because there’s no call for one.

“For baptisms, weddings, funerals, family reunions, high-school class reunions, during blizzards and other sorts of disasters, hunting seasons, harvest time, people not from here just stay with other people, usually family and friends.

“We’ve got big houses here, plenty of room even for strangers, and it’s an insult to us if somebody doesn’t want to stay with us.

“There’s plenty of places to camp, and some privately-owned hunters’ cabins, and the weather’s fine right now, but you don’t look as if you’re tough enough to survive the outdoor life.”

The cowboy suddenly thought of something else.

“You know, stranger, it wouldn’t be a good idea to keep on going yet tonight.

“Right in front of you lays your most formidable obstacle to getting west, and it’s best to get through it during the day, never at night.

“Here, you’re on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska—Merriman, where dutch508 lives, is on the western slope—and you’re going to have to cross 250 miles of the most daunting, the most fearsome, the most grueling, the most arduous, the most draining, terrain in all of the continent.

“Going through the passes of the Rockies in a raging blizzard or speeding across the deserts of Nevada on a hot day in summer aren’t even child’s play, compared with getting through the Sandhills.

“The Sandhills are about a third of Nebraska, but only a few thousand people live out there, and usually on its fringes, not inside of them.  I have a neighbor however who grew up right in the middle of them.

“It was a good thing the pioneers headed west alongside the Platte River, but the Sandhills are north of that, and nobody at the time knew they were up there.  If they’d run up against the Sandhills, they would’ve turned around and gone back east, and the west would’ve never gotten settled.

“The Sandhills aren’t mountains, being rather rolling hills, and there’s plenty of water out there, but there’s something about the land and the sky that terrifies all but the most extraordinary sorts of people.

“When out in the Sandhills, one finally understands what Eternity, Infinity, God, is.

“The limitless of it all drives people stark raving mad; someone raised in the Sandhills of Nebraska would feel claustrophobic in the ‘Big Sky’ country of Montana, or way out on the moon.

“Of course, it’s only a perception distorted by the way the land and sky are, and the atmospheric and climatic conditions, but still, this feeling of seeing Infinity makes people feel uncomfortable; they don’t like it and want to get out of there as quickly as possible, to some other place where there’s boundaries and limits to what they can see and define.

“And that’s on a nice day in spring.

“A Sandhills storm is a sight to see—that is, unless one’s a native of there, in which case it’s rather ordinary and boring—lightning-bolts running horizontal with the ground a hundred miles away, 350 miles in length as it races across the land, a five-minute rain-shower that unleashes the electrical power of ten million Hiroshimas, the fury of relentless winds.

“Of course, such weather exists everywhere on earth, but in the Sandhills one can see it, grasping how large and terrible the forces of nature are, when compared with all the trite puny combined efforts of mankind to cool, or heat up, or pollute, the world.

“It’s best for you to go through during the day, not at night.

“Nebraskans—city-dwellers, country dwellers—are known, and deservedly so, for being a distinctive, hearty, robust, vigorous, moral and principled sort of people, but even we aren’t nothing, when compared with a Sandhillsian, someone who’s actually stood in the Presence of God, and seen God.”

Just then, someone passed by the cowboy and the stranger, pausing long enough to gently squeeze the cowboy’s upper left arm, silently indicating his presence, and then proceeded without a word on to the back of the bar.

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 09:23:39 AM
Sooner or later, he's gonna blow up.

No, there's no natural gas stoves in this story.

That's strictly for the stories of the hippywife primitive, Mrs. Alfred Packer.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 09:27:41 AM
continued

“Who was that, a friend of yours?” the stranger asked the cowboy as the sudden apparition melted into the darkness of the room beyond.   
 
“I’m his nearest neighbor,” the cowboy told the stranger, “six miles up the road from him.  We’ve known each other for a long time, even before either of us was up here.  I was born and raised here, and then came back thirteen years ago, and he came here ten, almost eleven, years ago.

“He’s from a good family, a well-known and –respected family—and a large family—but as he was born at the tail-end of it, and late, now he’s the last one left.  He’s got grown-and-married nephews and all that, but in his own family, he’s the last one left.

“He’s originally from deep within the Sandhills.

“People around here think rather highly of him,” the cowboy went on; “he’s the only adult male in the county who doesn’t carry a gun, because he doesn’t need to.  If he got into some sort of trouble, there’d be guns blazing from all directions, to get him out of it.

“Usually other people notice he’s in danger before he does; he usually doesn’t know until it’s over with.

“He doesn’t talk much.  A few times, he’ll open up a little bit, such as when he occasionally tells me about his two years wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants during the early 1990s.

“His friends, and what was still then left of his family, thought him utterly mad, and thought for sure he’d take the next plane home.  He left on a Thursday, and I myself thought I’d see him again the following Monday.

“There was a lot of concern about this, but he didn’t pay any attention.  He just went.  He was tired of having such a dull, unexciting life.

“He went there on his own, paying his own way and not ‘sponsored’ by anybody, knowing nothing whatsoever of the lay of the land or its languages, and because he was afraid all the excitement would be over with before he got there, he was in a hurry to get there; he went there before he had much money--$187 in American one-dollar bills, and no way to get any more…..but yet he lasted two months shy of two years.

“He was in the newspapers a lot back then, but unfortunately the excitement was all over with before he got there.  It was kind of like showing up in Berlin in May 1945, too late to see anything.

“He saw the socialist paradises from the bottom up, and obviously it was a rude eye-opener, an abrupt life-changer.

“When he was picked up at the airport after having been there, he weighed 137 pounds and looked like a Russian peasant…..from another century.  The friend who picked him up wanted to take him to the hospital to be looked at, but he insisted he was okay, and just needed some sleep ‘between clean sheets.’  He slept through two and a half days and nights straight, and when he woke up again, he said it was just jet lag.

“As you can guess, he’s 6’3”, and has since fattened up to, oh, about 175 pounds.

“To this day, he won’t even wear a wrist-watch, thinking it an ostentatious decadence in a world where so many have so much less.

“He was never a high-living materialistic money-grubber even before he left here, but after the profound shock of that experience, he’s raised personal spartan austerity to a whole new level.

“Others, like the primitives on Skins’s island, worry they don’t have enough; he worries that he has too much.

“He’s described some of things he saw, but only little parts of them.  As for the whole picture, he just says, ‘some things are so incredible they have to be seen before they can be believed.’

“To this day he says he left there, but he never, really, came back ‘here.’”

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Revolution on June 07, 2012, 10:10:44 AM
continued

“Who was that, a friend of yours?” the stranger asked the cowboy as the sudden apparition melted into the darkness of the room beyond.   
 
“I’m his nearest neighbor,” the cowboy told the stranger, “six miles up the road from him.  We’ve known each other for a long time, even before either of us was up here.  I was born and raised here, and then came back thirteen years ago, and he came here ten, almost eleven, years ago.

“He’s from a good family, a well-known and –respected family—and a large family—but as he was born at the tail-end of it, and late, now he’s the last one left.  He’s got grown-and-married nephews and all that, but in his own family, he’s the last one left.

“He’s originally from deep within the Sandhills.

“People around here think rather highly of him,” the cowboy went on; “he’s the only adult male in the county who doesn’t carry a gun, because he doesn’t need to.  If he got into some sort of trouble, there’d be guns blazing from all directions, to get him out of it.

“Usually other people notice he’s in danger before he does; he usually doesn’t know until it’s over with.

“He doesn’t talk much.  A few times, he’ll open up a little bit, such as when he occasionally tells me about his two years wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants during the early 1990s.

“His friends, and what was still then left of his family, thought him utterly mad, and thought for sure he’d take the next plane home.  He left on a Thursday, and I myself thought I’d see him again the following Monday.

“There was a lot of concern about this, but he didn’t pay any attention.  He just went.  He was tired of having such a dull, unexciting life.

“He went there on his own, paying his own way and not ‘sponsored’ by anybody, knowing nothing whatsoever of the lay of the land or its languages, and because he was afraid all the excitement would be over with before he got there, he was in a hurry to get there; he went there before he had much money--$187 in American one-dollar bills, and no way to get any more…..but yet he lasted two months shy of two years.

“He was in the newspapers a lot back then, but unfortunately the excitement was all over with before he got there.  It was kind of like showing up in Berlin in May 1945, too late to see anything.

“He saw the socialist paradises from the bottom up, and obviously it was a rude eye-opener, an abrupt life-changer.

“When he was picked up at the airport after having been there, he weighed 137 pounds and looked like a Russian peasant…..from another century.  The friend who picked him up wanted to take him to the hospital to be looked at, but he insisted he was okay, and just needed some sleep ‘between clean sheets.’  He slept through two and a half days and nights straight, and when he woke up again, he said it was just jet lag.

“As you can guess, he’s 6’3”, and has since fattened up to, oh, about 175 pounds.

“To this day, he won’t even wear a wrist-watch, thinking it an ostentatious decadence in a world where so many have so much less.

“He was never a high-living materialistic money-grubber even before he left here, but after the profound shock of that experience, he’s raised personal spartan austerity to a whole new level.

“Others, like the primitives on Skins’s island, worry they don’t have enough; he worries that he has too much.

“He’s described some of things he saw, but only little parts of them.  As for the whole picture, he just says, ‘some things are so incredible they have to be seen before they can be believed.’

“To this day he says he left there, but he never, really, came back ‘here.’”

to be continued

Just reminding myself this is the next part I need to read. Excellent so far, as usual.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 10:46:02 AM
A more than adequate description of the sandhills.
Miles and miles of hills with endless grass and sand.
Every now and then, you see and old windmill. Mostly old Aermotors with twenty blades as I recall.
On rare accasions, you might spot one fo those old fifty blade units.
Aermotors were bit robust and finding one still working is a treat.
Turn the car off, and just listen.
The old pump valve at the bottom of the hole, no longer works.
They just spin in circles, going *squeaksqueaksqueak* and produce nothing.
They remind me of DUmpmonkeys. 
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 07, 2012, 11:30:42 AM
Knowing and seeing are mutually exclusive, as are seeing and believing, with few exceptions.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 11:39:22 AM
Aermotors were bit robust and finding one still working is a treat.

The old pump valve at the bottom of the hole, no longer works.

They just spin in circles, going *squeaksqueaksqueak* and produce nothing.

They remind me of DUmpmonkeys.

Actually, some of them still do produce, endlessly pumping up water.

The business partner and I were in my old hometown in the Sandhills on May 30, and because it was on our way, we stopped off at an old nearly-abandoned cemetery out in the middle of nowhere, where the parents, two brothers, and two nieces are buried (their choices, I had no say in the matter).

There's a windmill at the top of the hill overlooking the cemetery, and it was ancient when I was young.

I was going to write about this at the time, but was too tied up with OSC.

Anyway, in the cemetery itself, someone had carefully laid out and ploughed a 40' x 40' piece of ground, and was cultivating marijuana there.  It wasn't the wild marijuana ubiquitous to Nebraska; it was some sort of higher grade than that.  Somebody was really taking care of it.

And what a place to put it; nobody goes out there.

It was being watered by four lengths of 60' hose running from the cistern of the windmill at the top of the hill.

Man, I thought that thing was busted when I was a little lad.

Well, the plants looked about ready for harvesting, surely no more than a week from then.  At this sacrilege, I took some sort of long flexible rod (a "leader"--I dunno) used with horses (the business partner's in the horse-breeding business too) and used that thing as a sort of scythe, walking up-and-down the rows, shearing them down.

When I was done, to make the dope utterly unusable, I dumped a gallon and a half of gasoline, a five-gallon container of linseed oil, and a couple of gallons of cheap low-grade horse-fly repellent, that the business partner had in the bed of his pick-up truck.

It was a hot sunny day, and of course everything evaporated.....after being absorbed by the cut-down plants.

And then I pissed on it, to make it even more unsalvageable.

I may have destroyed the Taverner primitive's secret stash, but oh well.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 07, 2012, 11:47:39 AM
^Since the little darlings like to name each variant of weed they produce maybe what you destroyed was sandhillssensimilla.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 12:51:51 PM
continued

The cowboy’s name was called; it was his turn at the pool table.

“Come along,” he told the stranger; “it’s just me, for practice, but if you want to play a game, we can.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk to that one guy,” the stranger said.

“But he won’t talk to you,” the cowboy commented; “I’m not saying you are, but you look like a dilletante and somebody who likes to admire himself in the mirror too much, and so he won’t be friendly to you.

“And in addition to that, given your former residence, and your hobb—er, professional career, you’re probably a Democrat, and he loathes Democrats.

“Doesn’t even want to breathe the same air they do.”

“Oh now,” the stranger said, “it’s not right to judge people on superficial appearances.

“Where’s this hospitality Nebraska’s famous for?”

“Well, there’s a bigger reason,” the cowboy admitted.

“He’s deaf, stone-deaf, born that way, from birth.  No ears.

“His mother, a nurse, was exposed to some sort of chemical at work, and that’s the way he came out.

“That’s why he wears his hair the way he does, to hide it.

“He wants people to believe he can hear them, but while he’s a good actor, the greatest since Barrymore, the only one who’s being fooled is himself.”

“Oh, that’s very sad,” the stranger said.

“He doesn’t see it that way,” the cowboy replied; “in fact, he considers himself the luckiest person he knows.  All he’s missing is a couple of ears, while other infants born the same way were missing a whole lot more than that.  He considers himself gotten off easy.”

The cowboy put the pool balls into the plastic triangular thing.

“Now wait,” the stranger insisted; “this guy is deaf, and he spent almost two years over there in Russia, all alone?

“How did he get by?”

The cowboy shot the balls.  “By teaching English.”

“No way,” the stranger let out.

“It was the old Soviet Union,” the cowboy explained; “people there were desperate to learn English, so as to join the civilized world.  And so he taught English.

“There’s a whole lot of workers and peasants running around over there, talking English like he does.”

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 01:46:09 PM
^Since the little darlings like to name each variant of weed they produce maybe what you destroyed was sandhillssensimilla.
Or sandhillscenseofsmella. :lmao: :cheersmate:
Stuff probably stunk to high heavens afterwards.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 02:42:06 PM
continued

After hitting the balls around the table for some minutes, the cowboy suggested, “I think I got your problem solved, partner.

“How about you spend the night at his place, and then tomorrow during daylight get through the Sandhills, after which you should pretty much coast all the way to southern California?”

“I’m not comfortable with that idea,” the stranger replied.  "I don’t know him, or this place.”

“Well, you’re out in the middle of nowhere as it is,” the cowboy reminded him; “a few miles further out into the middle of nowhere won’t make any difference, I think.

“Your choices are to head west for hours and hours, and you’ll come to a place with a motel, or the lake’s just a few miles away, and you can sleep under the stars—but as I said, you don’t look like the outdoors type; you’re too soft.

“I think you’d be better off with a roof over your head, on a comfortable bed…..inside.”

“But I don’t know him,” the stranger repeated; “I have no idea who, or what, he is.”

“Who and what he is,” the cowboy replied, almost belligerent in tone, “is a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet.

“He’s kept people overnight and for breakfast too, people in trouble, people stranded, people lost.

“And nobody has to ask him for anything; he instinctively knows what they need, to get them a hundred miles further down the road, or through the next twenty-four hours.

“Women, he treats with the utmost decorum and respect, as it’s not in him to be any way else.

“He’s a little cruder how he treats men though,” the cowboy added, as if trying to decide into which category the stranger fell. 

“Usually he ignores them as if they aren’t even there, and can take care of themselves.”

“Well, your word may be good,” the stranger replied, “but I don’t know.  He’s a stranger to me, and might be weird or something.”

The cowboy pushed his pool-stick too hard, ripping the green felt of the table.

“There’s something you’re not seeing here,” he said to the stranger; “yes, yes, yes, he’s a stranger to you, in a place strange to you.  And you’d be way out in the middle of nowhere.

“However.

“Look at it from his end; he’s deaf.  He has no idea what’s going on unless it’s going on right in front of his face.  You can cleave an axe into the back of his head, and he’d never know it was coming.

“He’s deaf.  He has no idea what’s going on, no defenses against possible hazards and perils.

“You’ve got a cellular telephone that you can use, to summon help if you’re in some sort of trouble.  If he’s in some sort of trouble, he can only hope that random chance and luck brings someone around.

“And while he has a couple of inches on you, you’ve got a good 60-70 pounds on him, and he’s not as strong as he looks; in fact, he’s rather frail, and tires easier than he lets on.

“He’s got more reason to be afraid of you, than you of him; he’s at your mercy, not you at his.”

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: thundley4 on June 07, 2012, 03:40:20 PM
Quote
“And nobody has to ask him for anything; he instinctively knows what they need, to get them a hundred miles further down the road, or through the next twenty-four hours.

Is that 24 business hours? 
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 04:47:45 PM
continued

The stranger ruminated upon that.

The cowboy reminded him, “Look, if I thought there was something queer or odd about you, I would’ve told you to keep driving through the night, and maybe about the time the sun comes up in the morning, you’ll find a motel.

“But you’re down and out, and harmless, and God compels us to be compassionate to fools.

“It’s a nice place—certainly better than any other free lodgings—clean, spacious, and well-stocked with provisions, modern and up-to-date.  The only thing is there’s no television, radio, or stereo, or any other noise-making apparatus, out there, but I’m sure you can stand that for a night.

“Trust me, he’s got no firearms, no dangerous explosives, no hidden closets full of whips and chains, no drugs, out there.  In fact, there’s hardly anything there, because of his ascetic way of life.  There’s not even a dirty book or magazine sitting around.  It’s sparse, but it’s clean and modern.”

The bartendress announced it was 10:50, ten minutes before closing time.

As the other customers got up and started towards the door, so too did the man in the back arise and walk slowly towards the door.  As he passed the cowboy and the stranger, the cowboy grabbed him by his elbow to stop him, after which they communicated with each other.

It was odd, the stranger thought; they were obviously “speaking” sentences, paragraphs, whole pages, to each other, but the only words actually said where when the man turned around to inspect the stranger, mumbling indifferently, “yeah, sure, no problem,” after which they all left.

They drove down the highway, the neighbor in his pick-up truck, the host in his car, and the stranger in his.

The stranger was impressed by the highway; back home, it would hold four lanes, in some cases five, but out here, it was just two lanes.  And for twelve miles, they passed no other traffic; they had the whole road to themselves.

And then the neighbor blinked his lights “goodbye” and turned north, four miles to home, as the host led the stranger south, two miles to home.

The stranger was also awed by the utter blackness of the night; far away from any urban congestion with artificial light, one could see that there were not just a few, but millions upon millions, of stars up in the sky.  Until now, he’d had no idea there were so many stars.

They came to a rise on a hill, the other side being a sort of large basin, in the middle of which stood a house surrounded by trees.  On the left, about a city-block, a city-block-and-a-half, away, was some sort of mound that in profile looked as if a miniature alpine Jungfrau.

There were lights on inside the house, and four cats stood sentinel at four of the many windows, looking out into the darkness, waiting for someone. 

The host pulled up to the front of a garage—it was a large galvanized steel building, decades newer than the house—and got out of his car, as did the stranger out of his.  “Go on in,” his host told the stranger; “it’s unlocked.”

The stranger balked about something, and it took a while for his host to understand him; his fears that someone during the middle of the night might come and steal his surfboard, strapped to the top of his car, and his surfboard was the most valuable thing he owned.

His host grimaced at him with disgust, but opened the garage door, revealing a clean, spacious interior capable of holding four motor vehicles and other things besides, but which was wholly empty.  After the stranger parked and came back outside, his host pulled down the door.

“It’s got no lock,” his host said; “it never had a lock.  No one’s ever been out here to steal anything anyway.”

After which they trod up the steps of the front porch, into the house.

to be continued
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: GOBUCKS on June 07, 2012, 04:55:57 PM
Still hoping Pedro meets a gruesome end involving multiple gory chunks.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 05:00:02 PM
I hope the stranger doesn't see the drawer of knives in the kitchen, before being offered a place to shower.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: thundley4 on June 07, 2012, 05:06:37 PM
Still hoping Pedro meets a gruesome end involving multiple gory chunks.

It would be fine with me if he suffocated in the William River Pitt pig shit.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 05:36:02 PM
Still hoping Pedro meets a gruesome end involving multiple gory chunks.

Well, as mentioned, it's already written, including the ending, but I ain't spilling no beans.

I'll leave it up to the reader to decide whether or not Atman got what he deserved.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 05:38:01 PM
I hope the stranger doesn't see the drawer of knives in the kitchen, before being offered a place to shower.

Oh damn.

That's something I should've mentioned in the story, but forgot to, and it's too late now.

The 1-3/8" S/K adjustable wrench.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 05:39:57 PM
It would be fine with me if he suffocated in the William River Pitt pig shit.

No, sorry.

The William Rivers Pitt, the 740-cubic-yard mound of antique swine manure from 1875-1950, doesn't figure in this.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 05:41:54 PM
Mr. Bates took that wrench to loosen the bolts holding the strangers surfboard to the top of the car.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 05:47:45 PM
Mr. Bates took that wrench to loosen the bolts holding the strangers surfboard to the top of the car.

For the illumination of primitives stalking franksolich, 1-3/8" is the spannage, not the length, of the tool.

It's 17" long, and weighs a lot.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 06:44:01 PM
For the illumination of primitives stalking franksolich, 1-3/8" is the spannage, not the length, of the tool.

It's 17" long, and weighs a lot.
That's tractor fixin' stuff. Doubles as a handy-dandy boinker, too.
I'm partial to half-inch breaker bars. I suppose it's the knob on the end that does it for me.  :lmao:
For Pedro, that's the width of the attachment thingy, not the length of the handle.
Generous application of either would subdue a small buffalo.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 07:09:28 PM
continued

Upon going inside the house, his host gave the stranger a brief tour; the kitchen, the bathroom, the exits, the dining room, the living room, his own bedroom, and then they walked down a corridor leading to four other bedrooms.  

“The guest bedrooms,” his host explained.  â€œThe original part of the house was built about 1890, and then as the family prospered, they added on more.  You can see the whole thing’s sort of jerry-built, and it’s no distinguished architecture—or even consistent architecture—but that wasn’t important.  They just needed more room.

“The place changed ownership a couple of years ago, and I’m sure that sooner or later, whenever the economy improves, probably after January 2013, it’s going to be torn down, and some new cabins put up, as it’s an ideal location for summer homes.

“You can’t see it right now, but the river’s over there, the grove of walnut trees are that way, and there’s meadows and woods all around.  Out in front, where we came in, there’s the William Rivers Pitt, and beyond that to the east, pasturage where someone else keeps his cattle and horses.

“This is a great place to live, if one likes to hunt and fish.  The vast flocks of wild turkeys and bald eagles especially drive the cats nuts.  Myself, I don’t care to; just cleaner, cheaper, and easier to go to the grocery store in town.”

The host opened the door to the first bedroom, which struck the stranger as looking very much like an exhibit in a museum, from the 1920s or something.  There was a 3’x4’ custom-framed copy of a portrait of the Duke of Wellington in old age hanging above the solid brass bedstead.

The stranger was shown the other three bedrooms.

“Of course they’re clean and all that,” his host reminded him.  â€œOnce every spring, and once every autumn, the caretaker’s wife comes into the strip the beds so as to launder things, and then make them again.”

The stranger looked at him blankly.

“Oh,” his host said, noticing it.  â€œThe past seven years, there’s been only two people who’ve used any of the bedrooms.  The bed-linen’s changed simply because it gets dusty, no other reason.  This part of the house, even though only a few feet away, just seems too ‘detached,’ too apart, from the rest of the house, and so most guests prefer to sack down in the living room instead.

“Also, in this part of the house, it tends to get too hot in summer, too cold in winter.”

When they walked back into the kitchen, his host remembered something.

“Oh, and if you need a night-cap, there’s a bottle of Haig & Haig whiskey in the cupboard above the sink.  I dunno how old it is; it says “4/5 quart,” no metric measure.

“I quit drinking when I was 23, and so I dunno if it’s any good.  It says it was eight years old when it was gotten.

“Or, if you have simpler tastes, the neighbor, the caretaker, and one of the guys who works across the road all have their stashes of beer here, so their wives won’t know about it.  It’s all in those four refrigerators parked against the back wall inside the garage.

“Feel free; they’re jammed full, so there’s plenty.”

The stranger decided he preferred sacking out on the couch in the living room, so as to better keep an eye on his host.  His host shrugged indifferently, and made up the couch with clean sheets and fresh pillows stored in the large ancient buffet of the dining room, after which he disappeared into his own bedroom.

to be continued, but a change in plans; it's too damned hot and steamy up here on the roof of Nebraska this evening; maybe tomorrow
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 07:23:09 PM
I remember the William Rivers Pitt, to be out back, off to the side of the corncob shed.
Well, at least at my Grandparents, it was.
Used to be a two-holer till the kids grew up and moved.
Gramps dug another, and was just one holer.
Catalogs and all.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 07, 2012, 07:32:16 PM
I remember the William Rivers Pitt, to be out back, off to the side of the corncob shed.
Well, at least at my Grandparents, it was.
Used to be a two-holer till the kids grew up and moved.
Gramps dug another, and was just one holer.
Catalogs and all.

But it needs pointed out, the newness of Nebraska.

Indoor plumbing and ready-made clothes, for examples, pre-date Nebraska.

When I was a little kid, in some of the rustic areas, there were tiny little shacks, but none of them had been used for years and years and decades.  They had seats, or benches, but the wood was all long-ago rotted.

What I could never figure out was the outdoor plumbing in the socialist paradises--they had nothing but a board laid across a hole in the ground.

There wasn't any way in Hell I was going to crouch down like that, and so I never did.  It was disgusting.

Yes, I managed to go 22 months without ever once having to use one of those things.

Of course, my personal situation was considerably ameliorated with my blue-and-gold passport; as I was the Amerikanskii, the first such being many peasants had ever beheld, they always took care to be sure their honored guest had the best sanitary facilities in the village (usually in the home of the local head of the secret police), which were at least porcelain with running water, and up to the standards of 1920.  Really tiny bases under the bowls.

Also, it helped that I was born with a tough intestinal system, and could hold it in, sometimes for days.

Intestinal fortitude.

Too, I never ate much, and what I ate, I knew exactly what it was I was eating.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 07, 2012, 08:23:31 PM
Ah-ha, you also recall those days.
Winters were always the worst, whether in the north of Nebraska or west-central Minnesota.
Those seats took on the life of the ice fairey.
One dare not sit, least they remain till spring thaw.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 08, 2012, 12:02:56 AM
The surf board could go missing, somehow innocently, and as the lib makes gas and restroom breaks, he might see the surf board go driving by, tied to someone else's car, like the trip I took once from Atlanta to Lumberton N.C. and as I drove the speed limit or slightly over, saw the same red corvette speed past me on at least 4 to 5 occasions. I guess at the speeds he was going he had to stop for a full tank every 100 miles or so.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 12:17:52 AM
The surf board could go missing, somehow innocently, and as the lib makes gas and restroom breaks, he might see the surf board go driving by, tied to someone else's car, like the trip I took once from Atlanta to Lumberton N.C. and as I drove the speed limit or slightly over, saw the same red corvette speed past me on at least 4 to 5 occasions. I guess at the speeds he was going he had to stop for a full tank every 100 miles or so.
....or had to pee.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 08, 2012, 12:20:16 AM
....or had to pee.
Oh, so that's it. Peanut bladder syndrome. Better than a peanut bladder and jelly sandwich I imagine.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 12:30:25 AM
Oh, so that's it. Peanut bladder syndrome. Better than a peanut bladder and jelly sandwich I imagine.
:asssmack: :asssmack: :chairshot:
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 01:27:47 AM
Well, back to the adventure of "the stranger".

I'm reasonably sure he didn't listen the wise advice of his host, and he soon struck out west from Thedford.
Stranger thought Hwy 89 and 2, was the scenic route.
Silly stranger, he should have listened. Ohhh, noo.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 07:29:05 AM
Well, back to the adventure of "the stranger".

Sorry about not showing up last night, but I was in a foul mood, and so didn't post the ending.

What happened (in real life, not the story) was in the "shout box" here; it was a miserably hot, humid, sunny day, in the 80s, when I was outdoors, on the top step of the front porch, and inexplicably suddenly went down.  I know how to fall so as to cause the least damage, but I fell on concrete to the ground on both my knees (about five and a half feet).

There was a hubbub; the femme had seen it, standing near her car, and wanted to take me to be seen by someone, as skin about the size of the palm of my hand was stripped off both knees, making a sordid bloody mess.

After I determined it was only superficial, being able to flex my knees in all ways with no pain or distress, I said I would just let it be, after which an argument ensued.

That was yesterday afternoon, and here it is, the following morning, my self-diagnosis having been proven correct.  It's just superficial, as there's no problem twisting and turning the knees any which way I choose to.

But it certainly unprettifies the legs, violently-dark red knees, and they burn like Hell.

I really despise hot weather, and so I was in a worse mood than she was.  Such things never happen in cold weather; only when the roof of Nebraska might as well be the Amazon jungle, unbearably hot and humid.

Sorry to whine like my evil twin Atman, but while a better man than he is, franksolich isn't perfect.

I'll post the final chapter sometime today.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 07:42:58 AM
I'm reasonably sure he didn't listen the wise advice of his host, and he soon struck out west from Thedford.

Stranger thought Hwy 89 and 2, was the scenic route.

Silly stranger, he should have listened. Ohhh, noo.

No, no, you guys are way off about the ending, but keep trying.

Nebraska Highway 2 is in fact the scenic route, but that's considerably south of here.  However, Highway 2 is "my" Sandhills, where I spent my youth.  This story takes place on U.S. Highway 20, the longest highway in North America (Boston-Portland), and while it too goes through the Sandhills, it goes through only the roof of the Sandhills, not the heart of them. 

But as mentioned in the story, even that easier stretch makes for the most daunting, the most arduous, part of Atman's cross-country trip.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 07:58:05 AM
The surf board could go missing.....

Nope, but keep trying to guess, as it's going to take me a bit, to get back into the mood to post the ending.

The surfboard, like the William Rivers Pitt (only cursorily mentioned, though), has had its cameo appearance in the story, and will be heard about no more.  The cowboy too has made his farewell from the tale; the rest is just Atman and franksolich.

I had entertained notions--but only very briefly--about Atman meeting the business partner halfway through the Sandhills, and then ending up at dutch508's place on the other side of the Sandhills (dutch508 and franksolich in real life live exactly the places as described in the story).

You weren't around back then, but when Atman was hanging around our old home some years ago, he and dutch508 had some, uh, colorful exchanges.  dutch508 remembers Atman fondly.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: dutch508 on June 08, 2012, 08:41:48 AM
The story would have ended rather quickly. I am now a LEO in the old hometown.
Atman arriving and stopping into the American Legion on a dance night...

There wouldn't have been much to pick up after the cowboys got finished with him.

Like scraping roadkill off the highway after an 18 wheeler ran him over.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: obumazombie on June 08, 2012, 11:25:58 AM
Yes, Pedro must somehow get mugged in a fashion that causes him to become acutely self aware of how wrong he has been for so long.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 12:45:23 PM
No, no, you guys are way off about the ending, but keep trying.

Nebraska Highway 2 is in fact the scenic route, but that's considerably south of here.  However, Highway 2 is "my" Sandhills, where I spent my youth.  This story takes place on U.S. Highway 20, the longest highway in North America (Boston-Portland), and while it too goes through the Sandhills, it goes through only the roof of the Sandhills, not the heart of them. 

But as mentioned in the story, even that easier stretch makes for the most daunting, the most arduous, part of Atman's cross-country trip.
One must take 89 south from 20, to get to 2.  :rotf:
I think I just hurt myself typing that. :lmao:
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 01:03:54 PM
The story would have ended rather quickly. I am now a LEO in the old hometown.
Atman arriving and stopping into the American Legion on a dance night...

There wouldn't have been much to pick up after the cowboys got finished with him.

Like scraping roadkill off the highway after an 18 wheeler ran him over.

Well now, if I'd extended the story past Atman and franksolich, I would've shown you showing him a good time, while the two of you waxed nostalgic about the good old days (Bush was still president then) at our old home.

I don't think I would've written it showing you in a franksolich predicament.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 01:22:36 PM
One must take 89 south from 20, to get to 2.  :rotf:
I think I just hurt myself typing that. :lmao:

Oh man, talk about the memories, growing up down south.

Down south of here, I mean.

On days like we're having here right now, the afternoons spent swimming in the river.

In case one isn't aware, Nebraska has more miles of rivers than any other state--more than even Alaska or Montana or California or Texas or other states much larger in size.

Friends and I used to do the North Loup River, the Middle Loup River, and the South Loup River.

You, sir, probably used to do this river that runs by here, the Elkhorn River.

And actually, the Platte River, w-a-a-a-a-y down south, despite being legendary for being a mile wide and an inch deep, is dangerous place to swim.  I dunno why, but it is.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 01:28:47 PM
Hmmmmm.

While I'm waiting for it to cool down--it's absolutely equatorial here--so I can post the ending, I figured since so many lurking primitives are following this tale, it'd be nice to show the cast of characters.

So I'm off to do some photobucketing, and will be back soon.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 02:15:29 PM
I'm really ill at ease about posting photographs to illustrate a story here; they give primitives stalking franksolich too much information.  But I'll risk it here by cutting out the Innocent, and obscuring other details.

(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/pedropicasso.jpg)

--the stranger, taken, oh, I dunno, maybe 20, 25, years ago

(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/rlh.jpg)

--the cowboy, taken in 2003, but he's changed hardly at all

(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/fs0809.jpg)

--the host, from summer 2009

Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 04:17:04 PM
continued

When the sun rose in the morning, streaming through all the windows, the stranger on the couch was awakened by a slight clatter coming out of the kitchen; his host was apparently making coffee.

The stranger sat up and looked out at the vast panorama before him, the Sandhills in all their summer glory, as seen through the seven large picture-windows there, and in the dining room adjacent.

When he went into the kitchen, his host had disappeared.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, the stranger decided he must’ve gone through the open door to the back porch, and went that way himself.

The stranger stopped in his tracks.

His host was leaning over, a lighted cigarette in hand, peering through a telescope mounted on the railing at the river beyond, his cup of coffee on a table nearby.

Sensing his presence, his host turned around and stood up straight, commenting, “there’s always people camping down there, on this property, and although I knew they were coming, I didn’t check on these last night.”

Brushing his hair aside so as to remind the stranger he had no ears, he sighed, “there’s a lake some miles over the other way, and some riverside public camping areas along the highway, but no, they must camp here, where state laws forbidding alcohol and drugs aren’t in force.”

As his host turned to pick up the cup of coffee, muttering under his breath about “damned primitives,” the stranger continued staring.

His host absent-mindedly paced around the porch.

“Well, either I could make breakfast for you if you want, or you can make your own breakfast, or I could buy you breakfast in town,” his host said.  “Also, I’ll pay to fill your gasoline tank when we’re in town, so as to help you along.  And as for breakfast, I prefer it to have it there—quicker, easier, and one doesn’t mess up the kitchen—but you’re the guest.

“Whatever you want, you get.”

His host leaned against the railing of the porch, and continued, “and since you’re headed that way anyway, probably by mid-afternoon you could be at dutch508’s place on the western slope of the Sandhills, and I’m sure he’d be happy to put you up for the night--you’d save on a motel bill, and for both supper this evening and breakfast tomorrow morning; dutch508 sets a good table.

“In fact, I’m rather confident dutch508 could show you a time you wouldn’t forget.

“Well, what do you think?” his host continued.

“Breakfast here or in town, your heading west on a full tank, stopping at dutch508’s digs for the night, would that work?  It’d save you some of your rapidly-depleting funds.”

The stranger was thinking, but not about any travel plans; there was happening a recrudescence of his long-ago adolescent confusion he thought he’d gotten rid of a long time ago, by marrying a woman.

Well, that had been some fun while it lasted, but it had lasted less and less over the years, as she found herself being turned off by his “me-me-me-me-me” self-worship.

Oh well, she was turning into a wrinkled old bore anyway, and he wanted something new.

And now, here they were, alone together out in the middle of nowhere, his host vulnerable, indifferent, and perhaps…..even willing; he didn’t look the sort who’d put up a fight.

He sidled closer to his host, noticing that he was mildly redolent of Preferred Stock cologne. 

His host pulled back, almost recoiling.  “Whoa, dude, that’s a little too near.” 

The stranger stepped back to size up the situation.  His host didn’t seem one who liked sudden surprises, instead preferring to be slowly won over.  A wrong move might turn him off.

He’d met such people before; teases who demanded some working over before they put out.  The old “playing hard to get” game.  After all, he hadn’t always been middle-aged and flabby, and had bedded half a dozen or so in his long-ago youth.

This guy was provocative, seductive, in ways he apparently wasn’t aware; only a faraway aloof indifference governing him.  He was so clean, so lean, so…..vulnerable.

On the inside, the stranger was working himself up into a frothing frenzy.

His host, standing against the porch railing, his arms crossed on his chest, looked as if he were watching a penguin suddenly gone spastic.

The stranger lunged forward, with the hopes of grabbing his head and kissing him.  His host pushed him away with the force of a single-thrust jack-hammer in the midriff just before their faces touched, gazing in stunned wonderment at the stranger.  His grey eyes were dull and vacant, as if seeing something else that was not this.

“Whoa,” his host said, as he walked away.  “I suppose this decides the issue; we’ll have breakfast in town instead of out here.  Don’t take it personally, dude, but you’re not my type.”

finis
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: GOBUCKS on June 08, 2012, 05:59:28 PM
Pedro is gonna be pissed at being outed as an aging queer.

All his DUmpmonkey buddies are following this thread.

It's been a bad year for Pedro, fired by the junkmailmeisters at Mission Control, DUmpmonkey candidates losing elections, and now outed by franksolich.

Pedro is seeking work as a freelance cartoonist with no artistic skills whatever.

Could be slim pickings ini the 0bameconomy.

Anyway, keep him in mind for all your cartooning needs.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 06:53:19 PM
Pedro is gonna be pissed at being outed as an aging queer.

Well, there should be penalties for bad manners.

Like, for example: it's okay to shout out to franksolich from Skins's island.

Sometimes, however, franksolich is very busy with something more important.

However, since it's good manners to respond to a shout-out, one is compelled to drop that, and address the shout out.  And franksolich is an avid practitioner of good manners.

It's perfectly okay for any primitive to shout out to franksolich.

But it's good manners if the primitive makes an appointment first, so as to not interrupt franksolich.

And now Atman has seen what happens, when one has bad manners.

Too bad for Atman.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 07:29:43 PM
 :lmao:
Poor Pedro. The lad hasn't had his "inkwell" dipped in years. :rotf:

Quote
You, sir, probably used to do this river that runs by here, the Elkhorn River.
Elkhorn was half a mile south.  Hwy 20/275, three blocks south. 281, two blocks to the west.  :-)  Yup, did it.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 07:57:56 PM
:lmao:

Somebody from eastern Connecticut was here.

Now, I'm not going to say it was Atman; all I'll say is I can guarantee it's not the late Chief S itting Bull, the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive, the Greatest Primitive Ever.

It appears franksolich has put his evil twin in a most unusual quandary now.

Atman wants to go back to Skins's island to whine about franksolich.

But if he does that, he'll attract the attention of primitives to this story.

And he doesn't want all this stuff to be known about him.

So.....what's Atman to do?

What a quandary, what a predicament.  Alas for Atman.  Too bad.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Ballygrl on June 08, 2012, 08:03:06 PM
So is Atman 1 of those leftists who are snobby and look down at what they view as the "little people"?
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: Ballygrl on June 08, 2012, 08:06:18 PM
continued
“They’re nice places, neat and clean and all that, and the food can’t be beat, but you got no more chance of finding one with a vacant room than nadin does of marrying Prince Harry.”
to be continued

:lmao:
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 08:08:07 PM
So is Atman 1 of those leftists who are snobby and look down at what they view as the "little people"?

You have got to be kidding, girl.

Please tell me you're kidding.

Atman makes the rich bitch kpete look egalitarian in comparison.

This after all is a guy who pipes Perrier water into his commode, because ordinary water isn't good enough for what he drops in there.

It's really odd, this royal attitude, because Atman's not part of the 1%.  Part of the 5%, but not the 1%.

A long time ago, I thought that Atman perhaps was a graduate of some elite college, like Yale, because of his attitude.  Much to my surprise, I later learned he has no college degree at all.  He's just one of those bums, supported by mom's investments in a camera company decades ago, who grew up lounging around on the beaches of Florida, and never got into college at all.

That threw me for a loop.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Ballygrl on June 08, 2012, 08:20:58 PM
You have got to be kidding, girl.

Please tell me you're kidding.

Atman makes the rich bitch kpete look egalitarian in comparison.

This after all is a guy who pipes Perrier water into his commode, because ordinary water isn't good enough for what he drops in there.

It's really odd, this royal attitude, because Atman's not part of the 1%.  Part of the 5%, but not the 1%.

A long time ago, I thought that Atman perhaps was a graduate of some elite college, like Yale, because of his attitude.  Much to my surprise, I later learned he has no college degree at all.  He's just one of those bums, supported by mom's investments in a camera company decades ago, who grew up lounging around on the beaches of Florida, and never got into college at all.

That threw me for a loop.

I know nothing about him at all, and find it amusing that the people they say they care about are the ones they turn their noses up at.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 08:21:17 PM
:lmao:

You know, I'm still wondering if perhaps Atman and franksolich haven't actually met in real life.

I spent the summers of 1978 and 1979--about two months each time--in the home of an ancient physician of Italianate derivation in Springfield, Massachusetts (he was later on 60 Minutes being asked why he was the largest recipient of Medicare payments in the country; I dunno what he said, for obvious reasons).

They were usually gone up to Maine, but that was okay.  The house was jammed with books.

I also took long walks around the city; my "landmark" was the home of some illustrator of children's books; it was supposed to famous, but I was indifferent about it.

Anyway, I wonder if at any of the stores, Atman and franksolich bumped elbows.  Atman was a forklift driver at a camera factory in Springfield those summers.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Chris_ on June 08, 2012, 08:23:40 PM
I know nothing about him at all, and find it amusing that the people they say they care about are the ones they turn their noses up at.
He showed up at our old home and tried to pass himself off as educated and worldly. 

It didn't work.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Skul on June 08, 2012, 08:28:57 PM
Too bad, so sad, for the atman primative.
Now that his sexual and financial shenanigens have been revealed, Will he ever have another "date" with some fine young man on Skimmer's island?
Pedro should have known better than to mess with the master.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 08:37:02 PM
He showed up at our old home and tried to pass himself off as educated and worldly. 

It didn't work.

I remember--oh, there's s-o-o-o much to remember--two of his faux pases in particular.

One of the two was when he alleged that there had never been polls showing a majority support for impeachment of William Clinton back in 1998.

miskie nailed him on that one, and good.

The second of the two was when he alleged that William Clinton had won both his presidential races by Reaganesque landslide margins.

franksolich had the honors of nailing him on that one; Clinton in fact was the only two-term president in American history who never got a majority of the popular vote in at least one of those two elections.

Most however remember his bouts with dutch508.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 08:39:46 PM
Pedro should have known better than to mess with the master.

Well, I dunno about that, but I hope to God the next time--if there's a next time (which there probably won't be)--he wants to shout out to franksolich, he checks first and makes an appointment, in case franksolich is too busy doing something else (in this case, OSC).
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Revolution on June 08, 2012, 09:48:13 PM
As usual, excellent work, sir.

Quote
Most however remember his bouts with dutch508.

I wasn't here. Maybe Dutch would care to illuminate me, and others who are interested.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: GOBUCKS on June 08, 2012, 10:02:05 PM
He showed up at our old home and tried to pass himself off as educated and worldly.
That's as laughable as when he showed up at the Mission Impossible junkmail firm and tried to pass himself off as an artist.

Imagine how incompetent one must be to be fired by a political advertiser during the runup to a national general election.

The ability to lick envelopes should assure employment at least until the end of the year.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: obumazombie on June 08, 2012, 10:02:46 PM
Was he genetically gay, and if so, was he also genetically a surfer ?
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Revolution on June 08, 2012, 10:08:17 PM
He might have webbed feet...
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 08, 2012, 10:49:06 PM
As usual, excellent work, sir.

Thank you, but I do have one regret.

I wanted to post a certain photograph of franksolich for the lurking primitives to see, but there's some here who don't like it, saying it doesn't show off my best side.

Quote
Maybe Dutch would care to illuminate me, and others who are interested.

For days, for weeks, dutch508 and Atman got into it about anything and everything, the bottom line being that every time dutch508 proved Atman wrong, Atman got all upset and threatened to sue him.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: GOBUCKS on June 09, 2012, 12:37:41 AM
Thank you, but I do have one regret.

I wanted to post a certain photograph of franksolich for the lurking primitives to see, but there's some here who don't like it, saying it doesn't show off my best side.
Thanks for your restraint.

Maybe you could persuade Lucinda to send that photo to DUmmy Pedro in a personal message.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: obumazombie on June 09, 2012, 12:59:38 AM
The adjustable wrench could have been used to personalize the surfboard "accidentally" even, as Snagglepus would say.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 09, 2012, 06:24:40 AM
Was he genetically gay, and if so, was he also genetically a surfer?

That was the most difficult decision I had to make, when writing the story.

Should I put a surfboard, or skis, atop Atman's car?

Atman skis too, although he's probably not good at it (for the record, franksolich himself has never put on a set of skis, so it's reasonable to assume that Atman tops franksolich in skiing), given the problems he had in real life, getting through one of the mountain passes in southern Colorado several years ago.

I wanted his car to stick out.

Well, motor vehicles with skis strapped to the top are as common as Cornhusker football fans in Nebraska, so I went with the surfboard, again, to make Atman stick out.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Skul on June 09, 2012, 07:55:38 AM
That was the most difficult decision I had to make, when writing the story.

Should I put a surfboard, or skis, atop Atman's car?

Atman skis too, although he's probably not good at it (for the record, franksolich himself has never put on a set of skis, so it's reasonable to assume that Atman tops franksolich in skiing), given the problems he had in real life, getting through one of the mountain passes in southern Colorado several years ago.

I wanted his car to stick out.

Well, motor vehicles with skis strapped to the top are as common as Cornhusker football fans in Nebraska, so I went with the surfboard, again, to make Atman stick out.
For some reason, that just creeps me out.  :tazeme:
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: franksolich on June 09, 2012, 08:18:12 AM
For some reason, that just creeps me out.  :tazeme:

Atman way back when wrote a few free-lance stories for a surfing magazine, and at a garage sale up here (but in the big city) some years ago, I found one with one of his stories.

As you know, I'm an avid collector of old magazines, generally those before 1941, when they started going downhill, and there were a few old surfing magazines included in a box of other magazines; one had to buy the whole box, which I did.

There was a story about some physician of Hebraic derivation, who'd given up his profession just to surf.

Yeah, that's right.

Atman thought him rather remarkable.

I googled the surfer, to find out more about him.  This was years and years after Atman had written his piece, and it was an eye-opener.  The guy had pulled his kids out of school (he graduated from medical school in 1946, so you know what "time-period" we're dealing with) and took them to live on the beach with him.

They grew up illiterate, and as adults turned against him.

He was still alive at the time I googled him, and his latest endeavor had been "surfing for Palestine" off the shores of Israel.

Atman really knows how to pick winners.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: obumazombie on June 09, 2012, 11:46:13 AM
Maybe Pedro learned how to pick winners from Al and Jesse as well.
Title: Re: Atman meets franksolich (story now complete)
Post by: Skul on June 09, 2012, 12:38:20 PM
Maybe Pedro learned how to pick winners from Al and Jesse as well.
Perhaps that's true, however, Al and Jesse are smart enough not to eat their own boogers.  :-)