Word: barrenness
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...evidence are painted onto the sides of a tricked-up Rambler with its name--Impatience--emblazoned on its sides. Long lines of eager participants inch forward slowly, racing their motors eagerly. After negotiating a path between the bumpers of the cars crowding the waiting ramp, visitors cross a barren patch of dirt to get to the bleachers. Pot-bellied silhouettes with gleaming headphones and walkie-talkies loom ominously from the dark hulk of a conning tower, floodlights throw stark shadows, and arching billows of steam and smoke uncoil overhead. It's only too easy to imagine being picked off from...
...where is Radovan Karadzic? Probably in Serb-held Herzegovina, a barren wedge of land running from eastern Bosnia south toward the Adriatic. "He's here," says Bozidar Vucurevic, formerly of Karadzic's Serb Democratic Party in the region, "And he's defended not by any special troops but by the people." Says a local party member: "It's not easy to make an arrest in Herzegovina. We're not cowards. It wouldn't happen without consequences...
Barry Rosen did not have to imagine. He was there. As the embassy's press officer in 1979, he was not only taken hostage at gunpoint but also accused of leading a spy ring and subjected to a mock trial. His punishment included months in a barren prison cell, where an always burning light bulb and constant stress made it almost impossible for him to sleep...
...Jean-Michel then he does how to find the lost regiment. His heat-stroked, knock-kneed peregrinations around the desert land him into new trouble, especially when he steals water from a Bedouin maiden. The resultant man-hunt sends Augustin hiding in a deep crevasse in a large, barren plateau, but no sooner has he escaped their swords than he runs into a whole new set of daggers, this time in the mouth of the leopard who has claimed the cave as his own. The Frenchman thinks his luck has, like everything else in the desert, finally evaporated...
...interior of his silver Buick Park Avenue. Playing softly on the stereo is his favorite cassette, Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic's Saint-Saens. For a moment, at least, the melody seems to have transported him away from this place he calls the "killing field," an eerily barren patch of inner-city landscape that glows starkly in his headlights...