Word: smokes
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Smoke Signals. Wichita is also well aware that its present heady prosperity is partly a matter of luck and geography, of being relatively uninvolved in those sectors of the U.S. economy that are in trouble and of participating heavily in those that are still flourishing. As a major regional market and processing center for the farm belt, it is riding with wheat and other farm products in their continuing record prosperity and with Kansas oilmen in the higher prices for their petroleum...
...smoldering fire of upturned garbage cans and old tires, long knives strapped to their thighs, drinking beer. Behind them lies the burnt-out hulk of the weekend's first sacrifice, an old sedan of indefinable lineage. Rising out into the bright night sky, thick acrid bellows of smoke reach for the high-scudding clouds. A spectral group of dancers passes by, cavorting to the raucous notes of a kazoo. Men and women are madly intertwined in their grimy jeans, holding out bottles of wine to balance their steps. Like shadows stretched across a brick wall, these forms stumble onward--players...
...Revson's helmet was painted into a big toothy smile, but he died setting a track record in South America. So far there have been no accidents this weekend. All at once I hear the crickets' song. The heat is over. From the bog floats a black cloud of smoke. It is feasting. Down from the sky plunge Navy parachutists, trailing red, white and blue chutes...
...about us people are rushing to the far side of the track. Apparently there has been a crash. Huge volumes of black, grimy smoke pouring towards us have caused the drivers to slow up on the track. The source, however, is the bog. Stranded in the middle of the mob is the charred hulk of a 40-seat Greyhound bus, bursting like popcorn as the children stone it. The burning continues through the Oldtimers' Race, a special side event this afternoon. Spinning clods of mud in the waning light, the motorcycles continue their catatonic sorties through the now near-solid...
...fire mirrored on their foreheads. Lurching into the warm at top speed comes a bog car to the tune of I'm the King of Rock and Roll. It runs head on into the bus. The night sky is consumed by a rising pillar of fire, weaving its eerie, smoke-obscured path across the entire breadth of the countryside. There is no end to the burning. I drift off to the garages to see the cars being taken apart. At 2:00 the bog still lights the western...