The brown one Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 $4.41 per gallon down here And in summer time, with the daily drives from the beach to the office and back, it really can hurt <{POST_SNAPBACK}> $5.57 per gallon here(NL) but we're used to that by now Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
machinehead Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 Ben groaned in exasperation, as a slow truck held him and the car ahead of him down to 35 mph on the two-lane rural highway. It had been a frustrating day. To attend the funeral of an elderly relative in his hometown, he'd had to leave the Eccles Building in the late morning -- inconveniently missing lunch -- and take a cab to Reagan National. The closest flight he could get was to Myrtle Beach. Then just as he was starting the rental car in the airport lot, his cell phone rang. He was patched into a Board conference call. The maddog anti-inflationists were raging again, as they had at the December meeting, agitating for an inter-meeting rate hike. Ben backed the Chairman all the way, defending his "statesmanlike" handling of the "measured pace" of accommodation removal. After all, hadn't the Chief and Donald Kohn spotted his talent at the 1999 Jackson Hole conference, when Ben presented his paper proposing drastic rate cuts to pre-empt deflationary psychology? Ben wasn't going to let down his sponsors now. As the conference call was winding down, his phone beeped an alert, to inform him that the battery had died. Fuming as he headed inland from Myrtle Beach, he then proceeded to miss an exit in Conway, ending up westbound on an older highway which would add twenty miles to his journey. Now as he approached a long straight stretch leading to a bridge, thinking that the dimwit in front of him probably wouldn't make a move, Ben floored it to get around both vehicles ahead. But just as he crossed the centerline, the driver in front, oblivious, swerved left to pass also. Ben stomped the brakes, sending the rental car skidding sideways down the middle of the highway, scrubbing off speed. As the tail spun all the way around, his car crossed the oncoming lane, and stopped with the front wheels on the far shoulder, and the back wheels on a steep grassy embankment which sloped to a drainage swale at the bottom. Ben tried to ease forward back onto the road. But the rear wheels spun uselessly in the steep, slick grass. Instead of moving forward, the car slid backward until the front wheels slipped off the shoulder too. Then, with Ben holding the wheel helplessly, the car slowly rolled diagonally backward all the way down the embankment and stuck with a plop in the thick muddy grass at the bottom. In the rearview mirror, Ben could see the swale ending in the dark blackwater of the Little Pee Dee River, flowing beneath the highway bridge. Cursing the thoughtlessness of the other driver, Ben hiked back up to the highway, hoping to flag down a passing vehicle. Several cars went by before a gray pickup stopped and the passenger-side window rolled down. "Are you lost?" the male driver asked him, evidently noticing the incongruity of Ben's sport jacket and slacks, on a road where the only other people to be seen were in overalls, fishing off the bridge. "No, I got run off the road, and my car is stuck down there." The man leaned over and craned his neck to see where Ben was pointing. "You wouldn't know where I could find a tow truck around here, would you?" Ben asked. "Yeah, I know a guy back in Gresham who's got one. I'm goin' back there, after I run a couple of errands over here. Jump in, I'll take you, if you don't mind a little extra ridin' around." Not seeing that he had much of an option, Ben gratefully accepted the offer and climbed into the high cab, as the driver headed back toward Conway, in the direction Ben had been coming from. The man looked to be in his forties, cherub-faced, with curly sandy hair. "I'm Jimbo," he said, by way of introduction. "Ben," Ben responded. "Where you from, Ben?" asked Jimbo. "Well, I grew up down here in Dillon," Ben responded, starting to drawl a little already to cover up any unwelcome, alien Harvard intonations. "But now I'm workin' as a fi-nancial administrator in Washington Dee Cee," he added, stretching the 'Dee' and 'Cee' like so much taffy. "Yeah, I've got some cousins up around Dillon," Jimbo nodded, not caring to inquire further into the remote, abstract world of a 'fi-nancial administrator.' Pointing with his thumb to some sacks behind the seat, he added, "I'm takin' these groceries to an old guy who lives by hisself. He must be about ninety, and don't have nobody to look after him anymore." After several turns, they ended up at a small, delapidated frame building, set back from the road. Helping Jimbo carry the groceries, Ben followed him onto the back porch and through a curtain screening the back door. They emerged into a small, dimly-lit room. An elderly black man sat in a rocker near the only window, a quilt spread over his lap and legs. On the wall above him was a faded photograph of people on the front porch of a house, in stiff nineteenth-century poses, and above the photo hung a portrait of Jesus. The old gentleman welcomed both of them, thanked them for bringing in the groceries, and invited them to stay awhile. Jimbo demurred, explaining as they edged out through the curtain, "Naw, we gotta help Ben get his car out of the ditch. He's visitin' from Washington Dee Cee." Retracing their path, they were soon back on the highway, approaching the spot where Ben's accident had occurred. "I gotta stop and get some beer," announced Jimbo, pulling off the road onto a red dirt driveway leading to a nondescript concrete block building. "It's a dry county across the river," Jimbo explained. Pulling under a carport beside the masonry wall, Jimbo honked. A small aluminum-sashed window lifted up, and a grizzled face appeared. "Cold case of Busch, Ed," said Jimbo. Soon it was handed out the window to them, in exchange for some crumpled bills. "Care for one, Ben?" asked Jimbo. Ben demurred. Ignoring the "No drinking on premises" sign, Jimbo popped the top on a can, producing a small spew of foam, and after putting the rest of the case behind the seat, pulled back onto the highway. As they approached the bridge, Ben was relieved to see his car still there, at the bottom of the embankment ... not that anybody was going to drive it out of there. By the time they crossed the bridge, Jimbo had already downed a second beer, and was starting in on his third. "Hell, I gotta take a leak," he remarked soon afterward, turning onto a dirt road and then stopping at a farm gate about a quarter-mile off the highway. Getting back in the truck after a couple of minutes, Jimbo explained, "I'm celebratin' ...today makes one year since I got my pardon from the governor. Here, I'll show yuh," he said, taking a folded paper from the glovebox and handing it to Ben. "Now that I'm pardoned, I can carry a weapon again," Jimbo asserted proudly, pulling a red shop rag out from under the seat and unwrapping it to reveal a dark, snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver. "It ain't worth shit for accuracy, but it's pretty good for personal pertection." Trying to ignore the pistol in the hope that it would go away, Ben scanned the paper that Jimbo had handed him - a certificate from the state Bureau of Pardons, with the governor's name and official seal at the bottom. In the blank for "Offense(s)" was noted, "Sodomy." Jimbo saw Ben's eyes widen. "Yeah, they said I was queer. I don't even normally swing that way, if you know what I mean. But I was drunk and that young steroid-pumped seducer got in the truck and pulled down his fly and egged me on to do somethin' I didn't really want to do. Sloe-eyed little goober," Jimbo added with a sniffling grimace, a tear rolling down his cheek as he reflectively cradled the revolver in his palm, turning it this way and that. Ben stared wide-eyed at the gun, uncomfortable with certain undeniable parallels between his plight and that of the "sloe-eyed little goober." "It isn't fair, is it?" sympathized Ben. Ridiculously, the only thing that entered his mind was an essay by some goldbug crank, calling him an "economic sodomist." "Hell, it ain't even a crime any more, is it? These days I could have married his sorry little ass," Jimbo responded. To Ben's immense relief, Jimbo stopped sniffling, rewrapped the pistol in the shop rag, stuck it back under the seat, and reversed the truck onto the dirt road. Soon they reached the hamlet of Gresham at a highway intersection. "Gresham's Law," thought Ben. "Bad money drives out good." Jimbo swung by a plain brick bungalow on a barren lot, but the driveway was empty. "Ray ain't home with the wrecker, but he's always around. Maybe he's out on a call. Let's hang out at my brothers' place for now, and later we'll come back here and find Ray." Not waiting for a response, Jimbo backtracked a couple of blocks to the highway, drove several miles out of town, turned onto a paved road, then onto a dirt road which brought them to an old asphalt-shingled farmhouse. In the front was a veteran Volvo and two pickups. To the side was a stakebed truck, an ancient Ford tractor with assorted implements, and a wrecked white pickup next to a tree, in front of a shambling garage. "Come on in," invited Jimbo, leading Ben into the screened front porch, which was stacked with cabinets, bottles, road signs, bric-a-brac, arrowhead collections, even an old refrigerator. Jimbo leaned in through an open window into the front parlor and yelled, "Brother Bill!" "Hey, you slacker!" replied a bear of a man with long gray hair and beard, from the room inside. "Where the hell's our beer? I hope you didn't drink it all on the damned highway!" "Naw, only half of it. Ben here drank the other half, the damned lush. Go on in, Ben," urged Jimbo, motioning him through the open front door next to the window. Ben noticed that Jimbo returned quickly to the truck to retrieve the case of beer. Bill the mountain man laughed and motioned for Ben to sit down, indicating the chair with a glance of his bloodshot blue eyes. "This here's my brother Robert," he said, indicating a younger (though still gray), less hirsute version of himself on a smaller couch against the front wall. "And this is our friend Dickey," he specified, pointing to a thin, bald-headed guy in jeans on a chair near the back wall, plinking on a mandolin. Ben looked around the room. The plank floor sagged noticeably from the edges to the center. The walls were finished in 1970s-era 4' x 8' wood paneling ("oak"). On the side and back walls were many shelves filled with old vinyl LP records. Above the turntable hung a Dixie flag, and at the back corner of the room, the midnight blue South Carolina flag. Ben had always felt a little ambivalent about his home state's flag, to tell the truth. The white crescent next to the palmetto tree reminded him of the star-and-crescent design of several Islamic nations' flags. Why couldn't it have been a ... a full moon, or an eye, or a pyramid or something? Jimbo strolled back in the door, having stowed the fresh case in the front porch refrigerator. He handed out cold beers for all five of them. Ben, thirsty, began absently sipping at his, wondering how he could extricate himself if Jimbo got too drunk to drive him back into Gresham. Brother Bill, who had been busily working at something behind the clutter of beer cans on the coffee table in front of him, displayed his handiwork -- a fat joint, which he proceeded to light and pass around. At his turn Ben, not wanting to appear impolite to this crowd, puffed shallowly at it while trying not to inhale. The smoke was quite sweet and pungent in his mouth, though. "Ol' Dickey used to play in a bluegrass group up in Greenville," said Bill in a wavering, clenched voice, as he slowly exhaled a hit at the same time. "Yeah," said Dickey, reaching up from the mandolin to finger his scraggly beard. "You get a different mix up there. Blues and funk music from the lowlands. Gospel music, African themes, call-and-response vocals, from the coast. Bar and roadhouse music. Bluegrass and Irish folk out of the mountains. It makes a unique mixture." "What's that mixture called?" inquired Ben politely, intrigued. "Rock and roll." Dickey looked deadpan at Ben for a full five seconds, then commenced to chuckle hoarsely, finally slapping his thigh for emphasis with his right hand as the others joined in, while he held the neck of the mandolin in his left. A feline face appeared in the back window behind Dickey. "Raise up the window, Dickey," urged Brother Bill. An ancient tan-and-white tabby cat hopped from the sill onto the floor. "Botchalegoo!" cried Bill, addressing the cat. "Botchalegoo's 22 years old," he remarked to Ben, as Jimbo handed out another round of cold beers to wash down the smoke. "Aren't you, baby?" he added. "Yes-s-s-s-s," he cooed, as the old cat rubbed and purred against Ben's leg. Robert passed Ben another joint, or maybe it was the third one. Bill reached under the coffee table and handed Ben a newspaper clipping. The photo showed a young man in sunglasses and headband, standing on a sloped, partially shingled roof. "Roofer Peter Gosinya installs shingles on a new apartment building in Socastee," the caption stated. "That's my nephew Hootie," explained Bill. "Young female cub reporter comes snapping pictures at the construction site. He tells her his name is Peter Goes-in-ya, G-O-S-I-N-Y-A. She didn't have no clue, and neither did her editor. Hootie's a local hero now." Ben laughed despite himself, unable to imagine how such sophomoric badinage would go over at his sober-sided, buttoned-down workplace in Washington. "Yeah, I miss havin' Hootie workin' with me in the shop," mused Robert, speaking up for the first time. "What did y'all do?" inquired Ben, lapsing into his boyhood idiom. "Built mobile meth labs," replied Robert. Ben started to snicker, thinking Robert was having him on, but nobody else joined in. "It was a great business while it lasted, but then aluminum channel, copper tube, stainless pipe, welding rod, acetylene gas, all that stuff went through the roof. The inflation was eating us alive. So we shut it down." "But one thing I noticed," Robert continued, "is that our customers didn't want to hold dollars anymore." "Damned worthless yankee money," interjected Dickey. "They started buyin' gold coins," Robert nodded. "I've been supplyin' 'em, tradin' with 'em, informally. But I'm thinkin' to set up a shop in town, 'cause I need some 'legitimate' customers too. Just have to decide what to call the place." "FOOL'S Gold!" cracked Bill. "CUERVO Gold," yelled Dickey, hoisting his drink aloft. Suddenly Ben had a brainwave. "GOD, GUNS AND GOLD!!!" he shouted, leaping from his chair. Ben began to titter, and, being much more stoned than he realized, slipped into a full-blown reefer laughing jag, until he collapsed to the floor, clutching at his heaving sides, with tears streaming down his cheeks. He was home. It was good to be back on South Carolina soil. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
wndysrf Posted January 7, 2005 Author Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 This one is going to break soon, one way or another. Metamucil posted the TTH earlier. This is the biggest component. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bernard_Barouk Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 That was Monday, this is now..........stops after stops run on downside this week. I bet Specs are close to net short and Commercials close to long now long.....extremely bullish in this metal, as you have certain large % of commercial producers short for real world reasons . Did you hear Hulbert reports that Gold Advisors are actually SHORT (keeping in mind they have stoolish track record?) Also, get your charts out and look at last week of July and now......twins. I was not already all in, I would go all in right here. BB My Webpage Still over 100k spec longs in gold maybe it aint over yet CFTC COTR <{POST_SNAPBACK}> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 mh - MORE! can't shut the book on me right in the middle of the story! more more more! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
wndysrf Posted January 7, 2005 Author Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 Posted by Cleartrader. SOX ticked off an exact 50% retracement. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dozer Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 MH....yowza wowza....that was an epic. I hope the next installment is coming soon....like....less than an hour dude! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Grand Poopercycle Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 Ah'm wonderin'- izz summboddy agonna be 'squealin' LAK A PIG!' next chapter? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 Don't Bogart that joint, MH! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DrStool Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 Me too! I was spellbound! How you know so much bout sath calina, boy? :lol: I've been on many those back roads, myself. It's different. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lesser Fool Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm raising a glass in admiration to the multi-talented machinehead. And while I'm at it, another in honor of the literary and analytical talents of messrs surf and jickiss. And <hic> another to Dr. Shtool <hic> An anuthr <hic> . . . Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dozer Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 I'm hoistin' one to Shorty, who has me in stitches every damn day :D Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jickiss Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 jickiss is back! and Dear Machine Head: ohmigod! there is a Fed in Atlanta. Do they go to Georgia, next, in Chapert 2? do they keep canoes in the back of the pickup?? hurry up, and write more of this story..... "The Story of the Fed," by MachineHead The Greatest Deception Ever Sold. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
jickiss Posted January 7, 2005 Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 jickiss is back! and Dear Butterfield 8: your jickiss is watching the beans. will beans declare, soon, to the upside, which will enable Silver to run??? keep watching. jickiss is.... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
wndysrf Posted January 7, 2005 Author Report Share Posted January 7, 2005 6:27pm 01/07/05 New Century Dec loan production up 43% to $4.3B (NEW) By August Cole SAN FRANCISCO (CBS.MW) -- New Century Financial Corp. (NEW) said late Friday that its December loan production rose 43 percent over the same period last year. For the year, production increased 54 percent. "Do or Die" on the trendline. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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