Some Live 'Urban Legends'

photo: group, todd, marion, tim

Todd Sanders, Marion Nowak and Tim Cissell - all
living 'Urban Legends' and in Paris.

Such As 'Marion's Moving Day'

Paris:- Thursday, 15. March 2001:- Yesterday I received an interesting letter from the electricity and gas people, who are known in France as the EDF-GDF, which sounds like a political duo but isn't.

This message insisted that I get up today at 8:00 so that their metre-reader could check out my numbers, to find out how late at night I stay up fooling around. The interesting part was the claim that this has not been done since September 1999.

As it happened, this monsieur - who looked like a hit-man for the meat-packers mafia - didn't show up until 10:30. Telling him I never have to get up in the middle of the night for the water-metre reader, ran off his canvasback like oil off a duck.

"We ain't the same outfit," he said, adding, "Try running your lightbulbs on H20!" I hope I can think up a snappy answer to this before 2003.

This will explain, if an explanation is necessary, why I am so droopy when I get to the club. Slices of sunlight in the café hurt my eyes and I don't want to think about what they will do to today's photos.

Officially, today's meeting is the 24th one of the club's second year. It is the club's 75th meeting too. Thephoto: hat of the week, todd sanders calender says it is the 'Ides of March,' which was explained by a member last week. I don't see any senators with knives around, so I'm not expecting trouble.

The club's first 'Hat of the Week' has Todd Sanders under it.

Tim Cissell, who left early last week, arrives first this week - much more wide-awake than I am. Almost on his heels is Todd Sanders and his hat, from Rochester in New York. Before I forget, this is the 'Hat of the Week' and this is official!

When I tell Todd about the official club pens - and mention I don't want them boosted - Tim says I should let members steal them for 25 cents each. I shouldn't have mentioned it because so few club pens go missing that the total take might amount to $1.25 a year.

For no particular reason, Tim and Todd launch their tales of 'Urban Legends.' One of Tim's is the story about his uncle who sends out 100 emails a day because he's supposed to get a nickel for each of them. This sounds much better that the 25-cent club pen scam.

I am so droopy that I ask if 'Urban Legends' have rural counterparts. Todd says, "'Urban Legends' are custom-made by a 'guy named Kosinski who lives in a remote cabin in the Dakotas." Todd really does say this.

But he has no precise details, such as pinpointing South or North Dakota - so it must be true, like the nickel-per-email thing.

While I am trying to remember if any of the Dakotas can be considered to be 'urban,' Matt Duket arrives from Seattle, with freshly minted 'Urban Legends' about earthquakes.

Apparently several thousand of them were spontaneously created there, in an urban place, within about 4.38 seconds a couple of weeks ago.

Besides having seen, with his very own eyes, brick walls jiggling like jelly, Matt says that a bunch of buildings with brick false-fronts had them fall off. "Billions of dollars in damage," he says.

This just goes to prove that the far west is still true to its heritage, with buildings with movie-set-like false-fronts - but modern, because they are made with bricks instead of cheapo shiplap.

In a brief lull in the conversation long-time member Marion Nowak makes a surprise entrance, endingphoto: blurred laugh of the week, tim cissell all further lulls in conversation.

She's come to town to oversee some burly German movers with rounding up her stuff to truck it home to Cologne where she lives now with Stephen Nowak, who is working today to pay for the movers.

The light-slices have stopped, I shoot, Tim laughs, blurs occur - but see how sharp the background is!

Her 'Urban Legend' is about the mover who ignored the warning not to take the refrigerator down in the flimsy French elevator, and what he said about it later after being stuck in it for 25 minutes.


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