Word: motorists
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...Kentucky Fried Chicken and bullet proof liquor stores, closed automobile factories, the now-deserted Motown records building, Cass Corridor--one of the nation's most crime-infested districts--several middle-class neighborhoods, and Bloomfield Hills, the nation's wealthiest per capita suburb. On a typical ride down Woodward the motorist is not likely to see buses; public transportation has never been a popular cause in the Motor City...
...Holiday. Though no thieves' holiday came to pass, there were scattered acts of vandalism, looting and violence. Three Chinese youths opened fire on police picketing outside the Ingleside station. An angry motorist ran down two police pickets at the Mission station. In some cases, police used their guns to defend themselves. Requests for private armed guards soared, coming mostly from the city's banks and financial houses. The guard-dog business was also brisk. Complained nonstriking Police Captain Jeremiah Taylor, with some exaggeration: "The kids-the kinkies -are tearing the town apart. We can't handle...
Lately, the intruders have become so confident that they amble about in broad daylight. An angry Pacific Palisades resident tells of how he, his milkman and a passing motorist "stopped in amazement one morning to watch a pack of four with two pups strolling up Sunset Boulevard...
...strength of a student film that had caught the eye of one of the executives. For the next four years, Spielberg directed television: episodes of Marcus Welby, Columbo, The Psychiatrist and a Movie of the Week called Duel, which amply demonstrated his talents. A chilling little tale of a motorist pursued through the Southwest by a semi whose driver is never seen, Duel got Spielberg his first feature, The Sugarland Express. It was a movie with the sort of brio and elaborate technical command that made Spielberg, in the producers' view, just the man for Jaws. "I wanted...
Even the most dedicated jogger must admit that his sport is purely hygienic. The bouncing exercise never allows the eyes to rest; the country seems to jiggle by on springs. The motorist glides on air and shock absorbers, but his speed undoes him. The scenery is a blur, the highlights only a few seconds in duration. And his exhaust clouds the air he travels through. The cyclist pedals between his two contemporaries. Neither pedestrian nor driver, he is a happy anomaly, a 20th century centaur. Away from trucks and taxis, he has no competition; all turf is his. The novice...