Word: gravell
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Colbert makes you think and he has a real contribution to make to political dialogue—at least as much as other long-shot Democratic hopefuls like Mike Gravel or Dennis Kucinich do. So let your native son back on the ballot, South Carolina! This is, after all, a man who “tripled” the population of African elephants by getting his viewers to alter their Wikipedia page. Just think of what he can do for Iraq...
Pennsylvanians had been clamoring for a new road between Philadelphia and Lancaster for years, but the government just couldn't afford it. So in 1792 the state chartered a company that would build the nation's first private turnpike--62 miles (100 km) of stone and gravel--in exchange for the right to collect tolls. Today Pennsylvania finds itself in a similar bind, with the money it needs for roads and bridges far outstripping the money it gets from the gas tax and other revenue streams. So Governor Ed Rendell is turning back the clock, proposing a slew of deals...
...unhealthy amusement for children. To give me an idea of the level of detail (which is a term of art at Bungie, known as LOD), an audio engineer demonstrates, one by one, the sound of the Master Chief's footsteps, which change when he walks on ice, on gravel, on wood, on rubber, on grass, on sand, on glass and so on. Whenever the Master Chief fires his weapon --he tends to do that a lot--his gun ejects a shiny, jingling shell casing. "We actually are insane," the engineer says, "because we track the impact of each shell casing...
...just a few hours, Mike Gravel's spokeswoman messaged: "No time for new pics. Too busy accepting new friends. To save the world. It's the only thing that can, so please use it wisely." Although I have no idea what she meant, I liked the Gravel spirit. Sam Brownback's spokesman wrote back: "New pics, you say? Hmmm ... ok. I think we will. Hope you feel special when we put up a new default picture! ;)" This was the kind of friend I wanted. Someone I could influence...
...same. Pulling out of Kuehl's headquarters, our humvee drives through several inches of dark green sludge that has been seeping out of a broken sewage pipe for a week. We turn toward the center of Mansour, driving along a familiar set of railroad tracks. Looking across the gravel berms, I can see our old street. I see the empty corner where a group of brothers used to grill giant splayed carp, called masgouf, over open coals every evening. Down farther is the flat-roofed house where we lived and worked. I haven't been back there since March...