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note: This story is, of course and quite naturally, a work of fiction, but it's a work based upon true-life events down in northeastern Oklahoma and some really odd events currently happening here up on the roof of Nebraska, and so this story is guaranteed to be at least circa 67-75% accurate, if not more. And it is, of course and quite naturally, as usual, written for and dedicated to Mrs. Alfred Packer's dear and good friend, the sparkling husband primitive.
Mrs. Alfred Packer does Memorial Day. The hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer was trying to doze off as hippyhubby Wild Bill roller-coasted U.S. Highway 20 on the roof of Nebraska. She had long ago grown bored with the drive from South Sioux City west to Harrison 450 miles distant; not that she found the scenery boring, but more so that she had seen it s-o-o-o-o many times.
In fact, she thought the scenery and its accompanying natural flora and fauna quite interesting; the hilly rich black-soil heavily-forested farmland of the eastern third with all its fattened cattle and wild rabbits--even some llamas--the panoramic unforested Sandhills of the middle third with all the deer and antelope playing all day, and the forests and buttes and bison and Bighorn Sheep of the western third, of the state.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills09.jpg)
But they'd been coming here every weekend since Easter.
She wished hippyhubby Wild Bill would give up on his unreasonable obsession with finding franksolich; it was just too much work looking for him, and with no point in it. Wild Bill argued, "But he insulted you, woman, what with betraying personal intimate details of our lives, using helicopters and questioning the neighbors and tapping our telephone and internet and opening our mail--there's no other way he could know this stuff unless he's been hanging around us at home, peeking through the windows. franksolich insulted you, woman, and he's got to pay."
Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed.
Actually, she thought franksolich's literary expressions of her life were funny, lightly entertaining.
And because the details, gathered from random sporadic fragmentary comments of hers, and thus based upon guesswork and speculation to fill in the missing blanks, Mrs. Alfred Packer thought franksolich had a shrewd, uncanny eye.
Not to mention his robust wit.
But she dared not tell hippyhubby Wild Bill that.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills07.jpg)
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Up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down went the Packer vehicle as it sped on U.S. Highway 20, one hill after another hill after another hill. There were only three of what one in a blue state might call "cities" the entire 450-mile stretch across Nebraska; South Sioux City with 11,000, Valentine with 2,000, and Chadron with 5,000.
True, there were lots of towns every 20 or 30 miles; towns with populations such as 180, 223, 79, or 141.
"Geezuz fried johnnycakes," Wild Bill swore; "this must be the only place where one person, one building, is called a 'town,' like that one we just passed through, 'Monowi' or whatever.
"You'd think that with so few people to choose from, franksolich would be easy to spot."
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Nebraska.jpg)
Mrs. Alfred Packer sighed. She wished hippyhubby would give up.
And besides, it didn't seem as if Wild Bill liked the place anyway; one time, when passing through a town, they passed a Unitarian church, the sight at which hippyhubby snarled, "Geezuz uncooked cornpone, there's fundies all over up here, more fundies up here than down home."
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills04.jpg)
In late afternoon, Wild Bill decided it was time to find a place to camp out for the night. Mrs. Alfred Packer was tired of camping out; she had hoped they would spend the night in one of those lilliputian mom-and-pop motels, which didn't charge any more than the campgrounds did, and where one could take a hot bath and sleep in a soft bed. They looked like such nice, homey places.
They stopped at a gasoline station, where hippyhubby purchased $30 of gasoline, paying with three $10 bills, and inquired of local camping accommodations. They were right alongside the Niobrara River, and so there were plenty of choices.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/niobr3.jpg)
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/niobr2.jpg)
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Wild Bill selected what he supposed would be the most isolated area, so as to have privacy while planning the search for franksolich, when much to his disappointment, an automobile with California license plates pulled up next to them, out from which emerged a woman with distinctively Italianate features, who looked to be in her mid-50s.
It was obvious she had once been very beautiful, as if an Etruscan goddess or a Messalina or Agrippina, but then she had gone to pot, probably recently. She seemed giddy, spaced out, and unsure.
"Hi, I'm Beth," she said, laughing.
"I'm from California," she added, laughing.
"This is one really weird place, Nebraska," she commented, laughing.
Mrs. Alfred Packer thought she laughed a rather lot.
"I'm out here looking for somebody," Beth said, laughing again.
At which hippyhubby Wild Bill arched his eyebrows; they didn't know this person, so best to keep his own motives to himself.
While everybody was setting up, another car pulled in, this one with Connecticut license plates, and a surfboard strapped to the top.
Out from which sprung a tall blond guy, early or mid-50s perhaps, and just now beginning to show the flaccidity and superfluity, the barely-perceptible sagging skin, of those going into old age after a lifetime of too comfortable, too secure, too affluent, of an existence.
He looked at the Packers and at Beth, and sneered, but decided to stay anyway.
Mrs. Alfred Packer got the idea he was contemptuous of them, but she didn't think much of him either; he seemed too much the never-grown-up frat boy type. And his body-odor was most peculiar, similar with that of dead fish. She didn't like this guy.
"Well, I'm here looking for somebody," the frat boy said, "but he's hard to find."
Beth, gobbling down a fistful of pharmaceuticals, interrupted, "Yeah, because everybody looks alike; they're all so, so, so.....tall and blond, all of them.
"They all look alike, they're all blonds," she repeated, laughing.
As the evening progressed and suppertime approached, other cars pulled up; one with Massachusetts license-plates bearing a New York Times best-selling author, another with Texas plates plastered with bumper-stickers promoting abortion, some big fat guy with a bandana around his head and his belly sagging out and down in front of him as if an apron, who said he was from Illinois, a short little lad with the elongated fingers of a pianist, from Ohio, a tall slightly-overweight older man of the Italianate type with a sinister gleam in his eye and a snarl in his voice, from Maryland, &c., &c., &c.
They all frankly admitted they were there "looking for someone."
Wild Bill decided to keep his own counsel; after all, they didn't know these people.
But that was no call to be unsociable with them, and so as Mrs. Alfred Packer started the campfire, hippyhubby announced, "Hey, I've got some steaks here, some great steaks. Most of them are Ozark steaks, but there's still a little bit of Native American steaks, and some Chinese steak too.
"You're welcome to the chow, but I'm hoping that by this time tomorrow, I can offer Nebraska steak."
"Oh, the world-famous Omaha Steaks," the frat-boy said.
"No, even better than that--Nebraska Sandhills steak," Wild Bill said.
Beth chortled and cooed and laughed.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/niobr.jpg)
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Sometime later on, when everyone was dining on the last of the steaks, only the stars overhead and the campfire on the ground burning, for illumination, a large CRASH! and scream emitted from the direction of the closest sanitary facilities, a two-seater far removed from the campgrounds.
It was that guy from Las Vegas, a leviathan with canoe-sized feet and an enormous bell-shaped body.
His wife, a little woman, came up to the group, asking for help.
Mrs. Alfred Packer had been a little bit leery of this former card-dealer, who had scarfed down, without even pausing to chew, more than everybody else put together, and it made her uncomfortable, the way he looked at her, as if assessing her caloric content, after it was obvious Wild Bill, who had been so generous in giving, decided to not give any more.
Everyone rushed to the sanitary facilities, where in the darkness they found found him foundering halfway down a hole, unable to either boost himself out, or to fall to the bottom. All the men in the group tugged and tugged and tugged, but they couldn't yank him out.
The best-selling author, by then in his cups, suggested they take the biggest motor vehicle any of them had, and with a chain attached to that, the blimp attached to the other end, to get him out.
But wiser heads prevailed; the county sheriff was summoned for assistance.
The sheriff scratched his head at the predicament. "Normally, we'd use the Jaws of Life, but but that's not strong enough to extract him."
Finally, a National Guard troop-carrier helicopter, a big one, was brought up from North Platte, and while hovering overhead, dropped lines, and after some exertion, managed to yank out the victim.
As the mess was being cleaned up, the sheriff stood next to the big guy's wife, writing out a ticket.
"But what's that for?" she asked, as he was writing.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I've got to do this; he did after all violate the law, a clearly-stated law."
The sheriff shone his flashlight on a sticker on the door of the sanitary facilities, showing her LOAD LIMIT 500 POUNDS--PENALTY FOR VIOLATION $500.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills06.jpg)
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The next morning, one of the group was gone. During the middle of the night, the sheriff had returned, for the best-selling author, to haul him in for questioning about an indecent proposal he'd made to a 12-year-old girl at a motel in Crawford, and it was obvious he wasn't coming back.
Still retaining the goodwill from the night before, everyone said their good-byes, each of them still secretive however about who, exactly, they were looking for, and all scattering different directions.
When they were alone again, hippyhubby Wild Bill promised hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer, "Today, I'm going to find franksolich."
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills02.jpg)
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Actually, the day did not look promising, what with a violently-pelting, incessant rain that hit the skin as if miniature darts. Wild Bill decided they probably wouldn't be able to have a campfire that night, rotissiering franksolich, but they did have a gas grill, although a new propane tank was needed for it.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills08.jpg)
Coming upon a Sandhills town, population 27, they found a convenience store, and Wild Bill declared that besides getting a new propane tank, he needed to unload all the steak he'd eaten the night before.
While Mrs. Alfred Packer stood inside, waiting for hippyhubby to do his business in the men's rerstroom, she scanned the place around her. It was a very large gasoline-station-convenience-store, two dozen gasoline pumps scattered over several acres, the store itself large and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows from which one could look outside, to the never-ending panorama of the Sandhills.
It was a pretty big place, but as it was the only place around, it got a lot of traffic, people coming-and-going from all over.
For no particular reason, something caught Mrs. Alfred Packer's eye.
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A dark grey sedan, perhaps a 2005 or 2006, pulled up to the most-distant gasoline pump, and a man emerged; he was a most peculiar sort of man, attired in a tan short-sleeved shirt, tan shorts, and a tan bush-helmet on his head.
He didn't look out of place; he just looked different, as if from Kenya or Uganda or Tanganyika rather than the Sandhills of Nebraska--but then and again, this place was very much like British East Africa anyway.
While pumping his gasoline, he took off his bush-helmet, tossing it inside the car.
Mrs. Alfred Packer thought he looked rather handsomely Welsh, as the Welsh are shown in movies or described in books; tall, thin, dark brown hair, Caernarfonian features, the usual Welsh look.
His hair though, seemed a little bit too long; not long enough to make a pony-tail like Wild Bill had, but long enough that it covered both sides of his head down to the neck.
Mrs. Alfred Packer wondered if he was single, and available.
The customer completed his pumping, and as he walked towards the station from underneath the gigantic canopy covering the pumps, suddenly the stormy clouds overhead parted, and the sun shone through.
A dove alit from the air, onto his shoulder.
Children rushed over to dance around him, dogs and cats greeted him, and he kissed an ugly old woman, for a minute making her look pleasant and attractive. A gnarled old man, when speaking with him, miraculously became strong-backed and young and vigorous again.
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When he came inside, Mrs. Alfred Packer got a better look at him; he was probably older than he looked, and Mrs. Alfred Packer wondered if he might be closer to her own age, and single and available.
His eyes--and even his whole face--betrayed that he had seen much of the sufferings and sorrows of humanity, and that it all had affected him greatly, but yet his countenance seemed to retain an indefatigable optimism, a defiant confidence. This was a man eternally solid, but at the same time wistfully fragile.
Mrs. Alfred Packer was intrigued however, that while he seemed well-built and athletic, that there was some sort of infirmity there, that he was hiding. She couldn't put her finger on it; it was something, and it was there.
As he walked by her, he nodded and faintly smiled at her; as they were strangers, it was just a formal courtesy, nothing else.
He paid his bill, and left.
Mrs. Alfred Packer watched as he walked back to his automobile, still wondering if he might be single and available.
Wild Bill emerged from the men's restroom, boasting, "You know, I left plenty in there; they're going to have to call Roto-Rooter to clear the pipe. Too bad, but they're all only fundies anyway."
Wild Bill got one of those five-gallon canisters of propane for the outdoor grill, and while pulling out three $10 bills to pay for it, asked of the clerk, "Would you by any chance know franksolich, where he's at?"
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/Sandhills10.jpg)
The clerk's eyes lit up. "Yeah, sure, franksolich. A nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, franksolich.
"You just missed him," the clerk said, pointing to a dark grey sedan already far down the highway, at the edge of the horizon.
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It's not as polished as I hoped it to be, it's just a first draft, but I ran out of cigarettes and need to go to town to get some more, and so here it is.....
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The gang's all here. :lmao:
That was good.
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And the hits just keep on coming. Another fine tale, coach.
His eyes--and even his whole face--betrayed that he had seen much of the sufferings and sorrows of humanity, and that it all had affected him greatly, but yet his countenance seemed to retain an indefatigable optimism, a defiant confidence. This was a man eternally solid, but at the same time wistfully fragile.
You should have pointed out his boundless, self-effacing humility. The DUmpmonkeys will love this story.
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They didn't stop in O'Neill??
Why did they pass up a couple good Irish taverns in O'Neill.
Stupid racist hippies.
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They didn't stop in O'Neill??
Why did they pass up a couple good Irish taverns in O'Neill.
Stupid racist hippies.
You know, sir, I always forget about O'Neill, one of the most interesting and hardest-drinking towns in Nebraska. I have no idea why; I have no unpleasant associations with O'Neill, but I always forget about O'Neill for some reason. I never fail to remember Neligh, however.
But most of this took place a little further west of O'Neill, and all the photographs of those are of the Sandhills of Nebraska, no other locale.
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And the hits just keep on coming. Another fine tale, coach.
Well, I'm hoping I don't have to write any more of them.
As you know, sir, this is my revenge to the sparkling husband primitive, who won't shun me.
I fully intend to shun him, and as shunning is a two-way street, I'd like him to shun franksolich in return.
But as long as he keeps calling me out, myself being a nice guy, courtesy obligates me to respond to him.
The primitives don't know excresence about getting along with people.
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Not done yet, I have to step out, but I'm LOLing at Beth LOLing.
LOL.
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A dove alit from the air, onto his shoulder.
Children rushed over to dance around him, dogs and cats greeted him, and he kissed an ugly old woman, for a minute making her look pleasant and attractive. A gnarled old man, when speaking with him, miraculously became strong-backed and young and vigorous again.
And humble, too!(http://i237.photobucket.com/albums/ff68/kayaktn/smileys/laughing.gif)
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Not done yet, I have to step out, but I'm LOLing at Beth LOLing.
LOL.
Not to worry, madam.
That's the nice thing about the written word, as compared with the spoken one.
I've pointed this out countless times to hearing people, but I might as well've been screaming into the wind.
The written word is better than the spoken one, when it comes to convenience.
The spoken word is an instance of "PAY ATTENTION TO ME! NOW! I DON'T CARE IF WHAT YOU'RE DOING IS MORE IMPORTANT! I'M SPEAKING TO YOU! SO PAY ATTENTION TO ME, AND SCREW WHATEVER ELSE YOU'RE TRYING TO DO! NOW! PAY ATTENTION TO ME NOW!"
The written word is laid back and mellow; it just sits around patiently waiting until it's convenient for someone to read it. It's not going anywhere; it'll still be there when one has time to read it.
As you might imagine, madam, franksolich in most jobs has been a big memo-generator, not a chitchatterer.
I always considered it a courtesy; after all, the person to whom I was conveying the message might be engaged in something more important, and a memo's perfectly happy, perfectly content, to sit around until one has the time.
For some reason, however, hearing people don't see it this way.
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And humble, too!(http://i237.photobucket.com/albums/ff68/kayaktn/smileys/laughing.gif)
Well now, let me clarify something here.
My ending had shown a much more modest role for myself, franksolich, a casual brushing of elbows, nothing more.
But when I was writing the ending last night, there were two guys over here drinking beer--the neighbor and a cowboy who works for the guy who rents this place for me--and they thought I was being too modest.
So, to break all this down:
(a) my attire, reminescent of Lord Baring in British East Africa during the 1950s, is well-known in this area, and not thought the least bit odd. franksolich, like the Bostonian Drunkard, looks stupid in "cowboy" gear. although not quite as stupid as Chief S itting Bull, the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive, in his "cowboy" gear. franksolich was born with the manners and style of a different era, different place.
And franksolich happens to live in an area strongly reminscent of British East Africa, so the attire is considered eminently suitable, and not odd at all.
(b) the description of my physical appearance comes from what's been told me since I was a little lad; that I most-strongly resemble my Welsh forebears, although on the inside I'm Carpatho-Ruthenian. This description of franksolich is the description of other people, not my description.
(c) the clouds parting and the dove descending were the creation of the cowboy who was here.
(d) that franksolich looks much younger than his actual years is a cause for frequent comment (I credit it to my staying away from the too-easy, too-comfortable, too-affluent, sort of life); in fact, many times franksolich is mistaken for being one of his nephews.
(e) the initial description of my face is the perception of the neighbor; "indefatigable optimism" comes from a written comment of the surgeon last week, "defiantly confident" has always been my own description of my attitude about things, "wistfully fragile" is from, alas, women who have been endeared to franksolich.
(f) the description of my character is not mine--the part about being "a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet"--but rather, was first used by a guy of Italianate derivation when I lived in New Jersey. He was not referring to "nice" as in "sucker" or "pushover," but "nice" in being socially tolerant and accepting of all who come my way.
So I admit, I had help writing that ending. My own ending was to have franksolich come inside the station, and while walking up to the counter to pay for the gasoline, brushing the elbow of Mrs. Alfred Packer, nothing more than that, and no description of myself.
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Great read, Frank, and I loved the photos, too. Especially the one where the clouds look like an ocean.
I prefer the written word myself, Frank. I hate phonecalls. Fortunately at work, we do most of our communicating by email, even next door to each other. So, little interruption of chains of thought by the jolting ringing of the damned phone.
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A lot of primitives are stalking franksolich--there's been a lot of them reading this, and perhaps commenting to each other upon it, so in the primitive perception, that must mean they're stalking franksolich in real life, too, presenting a threat to him.
Which of course is utter nonsense.
Anyway, to the lurking primitives, the "back-story" on this story, from two weeks ago:
"screw the primitives"
http://www.conservativecave.com/index.php/topic,59220.0.html
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Great read, Frank, and I loved the photos, too. Especially the one where the clouds look like an ocean.
+1 to this. Please keep adding photos.
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Please keep adding photos.
Oh, but people from blue states always whine about the scenery in Nebraska; they don't like it.
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Oh, but people from blue states always whine about the scenery in Nebraska; they don't like it.
I hope they continue to exercise their right to FLY OVER it, then. :-)
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I hope they continue to exercise their right to FLY OVER it, then. :-)
So do we, sir.
In fact, there's a real organization (based in Omaha), KNFN, "Keep Nebraska For Nebraskans."
They're against all and any publicity about the virtues of this state.
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Oh, but people from blue states always whine about the scenery in Nebraska; they don't like it.
Weeeell, coming from this blue state inhabitant, I'd surely like to visit, based on your pictures of the scenery, Coach.
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Weeeell, coming from this blue state inhabitant, I'd surely like to visit, based on your pictures of the scenery, Coach.
I meant blue people from blue states, sir.
I'm thinking of how the bitter old cali primitive and the garybeck primitive ruined Vermont by moving there--Vermont, once one of the most-distinctive states in the union--or how Oscar Wilde of New York is fouling up Florida, by moving to those places.
They foul their own nests, and then move on to a new unfouled nest, and foul that one too.
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...one time, when passing through a town, they passed a Unitarian church, the sight at which hippyhubby snarled, "Geezuz uncooked cornpone, there's fundies all over up here..."
Pure genius, Frank. H5!
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Pure genius, Frank. H5!
Thank you, sir, a high honor.
I wondered if anyone would notice that; in the primitive perception, someone who says grace over the turkey at Thanksgiving, and goes to church on Christmas and Easter, nothing more than that, is a "fundie."
But I've always also wondered if anyone's noticed franksolich is no good, no good at all, on dialogue, not hearing accents and all that. All characters, no matter what part of the country they're from, Massachusetts to California, Maine to Alabama, come out talking like.....Nebraskans.
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I think your dialogue is fine. From what I have read, dialogue is one of the most difficult things for a writer to express on paper. Mark Twain comes to mind.
I caught the fundie thing too, since nobody in this part of the country would consider a Unitarian a "fundie". Except for Wild Bill, I suppose. :-)
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I think your dialogue is fine. From what I have read, dialogue is one of the most difficult things for a writer to express on paper. Mark Twain comes to mind.
I caught the fundie thing too, since nobody in this part of the country would consider a Unitarian a "fundie". Except for Wild Bill, I suppose. :-)
You know, sir, Tanker's comment motivated me to try to improve, on this dialect thing.
I have to go to the hospital w-a-a-a-y out in the Sandhills for a post-surgical examination tomorrow (Saturday; it should all be good, because nothing out of the ordinary's happened), but then sometime over the holiday weekend, I'm going to do a new story, where the primitives stalking franksolich go to a flea market up here on the roof of Nebraska.
This is going to be doubly difficult, because besides working on dialogues, I'll have to deal with the "flea market" culture, and I know as much about flea-markets as I do about breeding silkworms.
Flea markets of course are a part of the popular culture, but I never paid attention to them.
I look at it as a challenge, putting together a credible "picture" of the primitives at a flea-market (while stalking franksolich, which goes without saying).
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There was a thread somebody rowed over from the DUmp on flea marketing primitives. Perhaps that would be fertile soil to work with.