Hobo Jungle
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San Diegan
Hey, thanks for posting that, J*n! That's a photo of my great great uncle Noah Rondeau, famous poet hermit of the Adirondaks. No great physical similarity besides perhaps the nose.
That's his hut he built where he did all his writing. It says Town Hall because he declared himself Mayor of Cold Springs, population 1, as in himself. What I was wondering was if anyone could help me figure out what those white things are he has hanging up on that shack. Such a curious man. I supposedly sat on his lap once as a tiny baby just before he died. Maybe he transferred some of his dreamy nature to me.
ps. Therapist! Oh, therapist!
That's his hut he built where he did all his writing. It says Town Hall because he declared himself Mayor of Cold Springs, population 1, as in himself. What I was wondering was if anyone could help me figure out what those white things are he has hanging up on that shack. Such a curious man. I supposedly sat on his lap once as a tiny baby just before he died. Maybe he transferred some of his dreamy nature to me.
ps. Therapist! Oh, therapist!
Last edited by Daisy on Sun Mar 06, 2005 4:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I was just running the Berk, trying to see it with your eyes. I couldn't. It's the damnest lemon I ever saw. Remember Mary?
At a stop sign onto Market Street, she eased the Fiesta up behind a van. She waited, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel, until the van finally pulled forward toward a gap in traffic. But when it was perhaps three yards away, it stopped and its backup lights flared. She pounded her horn, got the feeble bleat, and the van rammed her car with a sickening crunch.
Mary implored time to grant her another chance, to chose another day, to chose someone else, but as usual, nothing happened. She considered abandoning the Fiesta and just heading for the office. Instead she glanced behind her. The van had shoved her within inches of a pickup truck—one of those vehicles that drove around waiting for an insurance claim. A soul mate for the Fiesta.
Retrieving her briefcase from where it had landed on the floor, she got out her cell phone, pressed 9-1-1, and gave the dispatcher the location of the accident through a crackle of poor reception. For a moment she just sat, her heart pounding, then she rang her office. The front desk answered.
“Clicksave, marketing your internet future, may I help you?”
“Deirdre, it’s Mary MacKensie. Something unexpected’s come up, and I’m afraid I’m going to be late. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll definitely be there by nine for the meeting.” She wasn’t about to explain. The other execs had already made enough stupid jokes about the Fiesta. “That thing’s not even a lemon. It’s a lime.” Well, they’d be delighted. Now it was a squeezed lime.
At a stop sign onto Market Street, she eased the Fiesta up behind a van. She waited, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel, until the van finally pulled forward toward a gap in traffic. But when it was perhaps three yards away, it stopped and its backup lights flared. She pounded her horn, got the feeble bleat, and the van rammed her car with a sickening crunch.
Mary implored time to grant her another chance, to chose another day, to chose someone else, but as usual, nothing happened. She considered abandoning the Fiesta and just heading for the office. Instead she glanced behind her. The van had shoved her within inches of a pickup truck—one of those vehicles that drove around waiting for an insurance claim. A soul mate for the Fiesta.
Retrieving her briefcase from where it had landed on the floor, she got out her cell phone, pressed 9-1-1, and gave the dispatcher the location of the accident through a crackle of poor reception. For a moment she just sat, her heart pounding, then she rang her office. The front desk answered.
“Clicksave, marketing your internet future, may I help you?”
“Deirdre, it’s Mary MacKensie. Something unexpected’s come up, and I’m afraid I’m going to be late. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll definitely be there by nine for the meeting.” She wasn’t about to explain. The other execs had already made enough stupid jokes about the Fiesta. “That thing’s not even a lemon. It’s a lime.” Well, they’d be delighted. Now it was a squeezed lime.
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