Word: bartleys
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...begun voicing their dissenting views. Chief maverick is Nicholas Johnson, 34, a former law professor at the University of California, who argues: "We haven't got any plan, we have no goal, we have no idea of where American communications will be in 20 years." One commissioner, Robert Bartley, openly argues for the FCC's abolition and the division of its functions among three new agencies. "Let's burn down the old house with all its junk," says Bartley. "Let's start over again...
Would that be fair? The TV networks might not think so, especially if Bartley's idea is to create a new agency that would really get down to the job of regulating them...
...star of Bartley's is Florence, the heavyset, bespectacled waitress who works from midmorning to mid-afternoon. During the rush hour she takes charge like a floor manager at a Demoratic convention. Try to get to know Florence. She is an amateur astrologer. If she likes you, She is an amateur astrologer. If she likes you, she will cull information for your horoscope by asking for your birthdate and the days on which you have broken bones. Then, weeks later, Florence will predict your future in a handwritten report which may run upwards of nine pages. Afterwards you will...
Blitman, surrounded by white levis and old tweed jackets, orders a Bartley's Buns 21. The price--$1.10--is steep, but, after all, this is lunch. The Buns 21 boasts two Bartley burgers, two buns, and some scattered potato chips. Accessories include a little paper cup of cole slaw--about one blue plastic forkful--and a pickle. Two pickles if you know Florence. He also orders a large coke for twenty-five cents. Five minutes later, he's done. A ten cent tip for Florence. And don't forget to get a twelve cent box of crackerjacks at the cashier...
...punched for forty cents. Although he doesn't like Hazen's much, Blitman does get a big kick out of the way his plastic sanitary straw stands straight up in his shake. And he likes to observe the teen-bopper subculture in action. At night, Hazen's absorbs the Bartley crowd. During the weekdays, it becomes a Cambridge streetcorner moved indoors, a refuge for the lustful, sallow, acne-splattered teen set. Precocous little girls with rampaging breasts bump and grind to the Seeds and the Stones. Cheeseburger boys in thick maroon coats and plaid pants leer through clouds of smoke...