Whether I’m pursuing goat eyeball tacos or iconoclastic farmers, my brain, nose, and palate are trained to dig out the obscure or novel. It seems I’m always on the hunt for the story about a former Wiccan high priestess CIA agent who chucked it all and became a sushi chef. What’s been there everyday just seems to fade into the background. For example, because most of my family still resides in southeastern Michigan, I’ve been driving the stretch of I-94 between Chicago and Detroit almost every month for more than seven years. With its ubiquitous orange construction barrels, or, as we call them, Michigan flowers, and because of lobbying of Hoffaesque union folk for continued work, some part of I-94...
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