Word: driver
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...want to be a professional driver," says Erica, a blond senior at Valencia High School. She's usually the only girl out here, and you can see that's part of the thrill--to draw in some slacker with nothing but an art-project hairdo and more hormones than r.p.m. and then smoke him. A slack-eyed Fonz named Marcus gets out of a car and spins over to impress Erica with how many times he can say cool in a sentence, a rebel without a clue. She isn't here to talk...
...didn't need a name like Wayne or Eric or Jaromir to be playing hockey in the Olympics last week. You could have been Angela Ruggiero, just 18, still in high school and with no driver's license. Or Lisa Brown-Miller, 31, married back in 1995 but so busy training and touring that she hasn't had time for a honeymoon. Or Katie King, 22, and Karyn Bye, 26, the team's leading goal scorers. Or you could be named Cammi (short for Catherine) Granato and be captain of the first U.S. Olympic women's hockey team ever...
...many times you use an International Sign for some-thing every day. Say you're on your bike, and a car zooms by and almost kills you. You raise your right hand and your middle finger, signaling through international convention that if you ever catch up to that driver, the next person to see your bike lock will be their proctologist. Or say you're shopping with a female friend, and she has just spent the last 3 hours trying to find the perfect brown shirt-the last 3,000 shades of brown are unacceptable because apparently they make...
...kinks showed up: the Olympic torch kept flickering out, and the first "suspicious package" swooped down on by security forces turned out to be full of toilet-seat warmers. But the point of the Olympics is to make embarrassment irrelevant. "Clinton has a chotto scandaru [little scandal]," a taxi driver chuckled last week. "It's a pity. No one will be thinking of our Olympics." As the Games began, the athletes were proving him--triumphantly--wrong...
...horsemeat and pond snails and crickets. In a chestnut-filled village just 30 min. from central Nagano, a ruddy-faced high school boy gets off his bike to walk a visitor to his destination. An old woman at a country bus station counts out change with an abacus. The driver of a Highland Express cab (working 24-hr. shifts) is a robust woman with a basket of huge apples by her side. Nagano is a world of deep, ancestral sounds: the traditional melody of a potato seller audible downtown; the mournful strains of an enka ballad (often known as Japanese...