Word: admitting
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...hard to imagine a sum of money high enough to make you admit that Liza Minnelli can beat you up. But for Minnelli's ex, producer David Gest, it took $10 million. That's what Gest says he wants in a complaint filed last week alleging that the 5-ft. 4-in. diva flew into violent, vodka-fortified rages during their 16-month marriage. Minnelli denied the charges in a statement, saying she had "hoped very much that the end of my marriage would be handled with mutual respect and dignity." No such luck. In the complaint, which leaves...
RICHARD: Yeah, in film after film after film. [Much laughter.] I've got a terrible thing to admit. Whenever I look at the end of the movie, when Hugh's in front of that audience and they're all clapping and he does that little wave and disappears, I keep thinking, I hope that when he dies, that's the bit they show at the end of the news...
...just art. Arbus worked at the point where the voyeuristic and the sacramental converge. She lies in wait for your first misstep in her direction. Then she dares you to stare at something--a little boy with a toy hand grenade, a dominatrix embracing her client--until you admit your own complicity with whatever it is in there that frightens you. At that point, all the picture's traps unfold, and it confers its rough grace. Like...
Happy customers like Nancy Serafini, 55, freely admit that the amenities led them to pedaling. Serafini would never have taken the trip through the Burgundy region of France offered by DuVine Adventures of Somerville, Mass., this past June if it hadn't also included two daily yoga sessions. "I'd never been on a bike trip before, but I love yoga," the interior designer from Boston says, "and that's what attracted me." Of course, after a week of cycling through rolling vineyards and lavender fields, she was hooked on biking too. But the yoga seemed to be the real...
...never have been, Freedonian. Freedonia, as you may recall, is the fictional country Groucho Marx rules in Duck Soup; for a few weeks at the beginning of freshman year, I claimed it, with a straight face, as my homeland. Because Harvard first-years are loath to admit their ignorance, my declaration of citizenship went mostly unchallenged. Sometimes my fellow first-years, brows furrowed, would ask where Freedonia was, again, and—because these conversations generally took place over dinner in Annenberg—I’d sketch a map of the Balkans on a paper napkin...