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Thu, 31 Jan 2008

The Bloodless Abattoir

Even when there were no accidents, traffic on this section of Interstate 80 often slowed to a congested crawl: a rather substantial hill several miles ahead inevitably caused even those truck drivers most oblivious to the posted speed limits to yield to the inexorable pulls of gravity and gearing, slowing down to a near crawl, thus forming an arteriosclerotic clot consisting of eighteen wheelers intermingled with the inevitable cars stuck behind or between them. These traffic plaques would then spread backwards down the road at (to use a phrase) highway speeds, as formerly unencumbered drives slowed down and stopped, trying to navigate through the morass.

But today, for once, the traffic was moving at a sprightly pace, Gerald Roth thought, as he guided his car around the swooshing on-ramp that led from his home town onto the great six-lane highway through northern New Jersey. He had not heard any alerts in the radio traffic reports as dressed, filled his travel mug with coffee, and scooped a corn muffin from the box atop the refrigerator to nibble on en route. For Jerry, this was what often passed for "eating breakfast", but his commute was long enough on a good day, and this way he could sleep twenty minutes later than he would otherwise be able to do.

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Posted Jan 31, 2008 at 18:42 UTC, 3534 words,  [/richPermalink

No Bridge

I like to sleep outdoors on the ground in the woods during the winter. Most people accustomed to Tempur-Pedic® plafondized comfort in fossil fuel powered thermostasis are at a loss to understand my attraction to this apparent insanity. It's cold out there. Surely you'd die.

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Posted Jan 31, 2008 at 01:51 UTC, 3760 words,  [/danPermalink