- By Fat Nakago
- 15 July, 2012
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In the little train stations in my mind, a few things seem remarkably better than I can recall them being of late, but there are still good reasons for me remain silent, and still, and hope no one comes around to give those stations a new roof or a fresh coat paint. That would be the kiss of death I’m afraid, and I can’t allow that to happen. So there it is, cryptic as it can be. A moment of freedom, (as if) (like a) the strong furious comfort of a hot intermodal rattles the windows of wonderful sleep in the middle of night as it quickly disappears down the line into the blackness and the silence like an actor who has suddenly gotten stage fright and bolted from the stage…red light blinking blinking until it all falls asleep again.
There are, to be honest, too many things to say and I just don’t have enough descending series of moment to chronicle and count every little thought, fact, and speculation, anymore than you have time to read and absorb them. Ironically, it’s the doldrums between EPL, Bundesliga, La Liga, Ligue 1, and so on seasons when NOTHING is happening but transfer rumours and club friendlies and training camp that make it so difficult to grasp hold of something. After all, I’ve already said everything that needs to be said about the John Terry Racism Trial® and now that the NOT GUILTY has been handed down, what can I add other than to rehash my thoughts and conclude that Anton Ferdinand is, after all, merely Anton Ferdinand. He was little dink before this all began, and he still is a dink ((and so is his older brother Rio…who has racially abused John Terry’s teammate, Ashley Cole by calling him Chocolate Ice…yeh, THAT was clever)). So part of what I can conclude here is that it’s soccer that is driving what I write about sports, and not NASCAR anymore.
That’s an odd realization that I’ve just come to as I sit here at the station agent’s desk, tapping this missive out on the telegraph key. The NASCAR regular season has been trumped by the English Premier League. It’s all come down to this. I never would have thought it could have happened. I feel as though I should apologize to Matt Kenseth, Rusty Wallace, Tony Stewart, Brad Kesolowski, The Biff, That Homo Jeff Gordon®, Junior and Junior Nation, Kyle Busch, Kurt Busch, the late Fireball Roberts, and yes, even The Carl. I’m so very sorry guys that appointment of Chris Hughton as the gaffer at Norwich City and their signing of Grant Holt to a long-term deal trumps whatever y’all are doing or have done. In a few minutes that lads will tee off at Loudon with the aforementioned Kyle Busch on the pole. But instead, I’m in knots and pieces over whether I should write a few words about whether or not Chelsea signs Oscar for £20 million, or speculate on the fate of the Newco Rangers who’ve been banished to Scotland’s 3rd division over their recent financial woes.
While I’m thinking about that, a few sharp ones among you will notice that the freight train in the picture above is NOT a westbound, but an eastbound freight. Do I have to explain that? Okay okay….for those of you who don’t know that this stretch of the Union Pacific Railroad was once part of the late great Chicago & Northwestern, I have now told you. And because of that heritage, this line is left hand running, thus the freight is heading east to Proviso Yard in Melrose Park. I used Westbound Freight in the title because I thought it sounded cool and more romantic and somehow hopeful. Honest.
But if it’s a westbound freight you want, well…..here ya go…
There’s we go. Into the west. Just like the focking ELVES!
The first is a UP hot intermodal, the 2nd a hot BNSF intermodal, the 3rd is a UP intermodal that is heading into Global 3 just west of Rochelle…the sharp-eyed will notice a distributed power unit just under the far signal tower.
Amtrak 8, as I tap this last bit of Morse code, is running 1 hour and 41 minutes late. About how late I am for the start of the Lenox Industrial Tools 301 at Loudon….so whether Hamlin is in the lead at the moment, or his erstwhile teammate Kyle Busch, it really wont matter until the train arrives, at the station, and the passengers begin to emerge, down the platforms and through the train stations of the mind and out into the street.