Word: boulevards
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This is the latest exposition of U.S. fiction's post-Socratic theorems: Find Thyself and Express Thyself. From Madison Avenue to Greenwich Village, from suburbia to Sunset Boulevard, the heroes of unnumbered novels are digging for their treasured psyches. In most instances, there is no treasure worth unearthing, all of which leads to another popular precept: Pity Thyself...
...comeback it was not Sunset Boulevard. But when Eddie sang People Will Say We're in Love and So Far, the Rodgers and Hammerstein schmalz was chicken fat of the highest quality. He threw Yiddish words into the German version of Mack the Knife and kept a straight face while delivering Never on Sunday in Greek (Spyros Skouras had sent a telegram spelling out the lyrics...
...lane highway that leads inland to Mecca from the Red Sea port of Jiddah, pilgrims were ministered to by mobile hospitals, reservoirs of ice water, and troops of Moslem Boy Scouts. In the capital of Riyadh, lights burned late in the massive ministries along the main, four-lane boulevard, and a Saudi businessman rejoiced: "Now you get decisions even without going personally to the top." Said another: "Formerly when King Saud built a new palace, that was news. Now it's news when he inaugurates a new factory for making bottled gas, as he did recently in Riyadh." Inside...
...owner has one big concern: Should he entrust his car to just any parking attendant when he goes out to dine? In Hollywood last week, Rolls-Royce owners rejoiced over the news that this had ceased to be a problem. A new restaurant, the Fairchild, opened on La Cienega Boulevard's restaurant row, with two collegiate parking attendants, one of whom handles just any old American car, the other babies the foreign jobs, especially the Rollses. In fact, the fellow fits covered, foam-rubber pads on the bumpers before he gets behind the wheel (Rolls owners...
...clock every weekday morning, a small, wiry man in a khaki shirt and faded blue jeans hurries across Los Angeles' San Vicente Boulevard, enters a grimy old commercial building, and climbs the stairs to a large studio. There, Painter Rico Lebrun finds himself in what looks like a cooled-off hell. The walls are lined with massive, tortured figures drawn on huge pieces of parchment. A decapitated man holds his head in his hands; an adjoining figure is riven from neck to thigh; a third figure turns slowly into a serpent. These, along with similar drawings on display this...