Word: brainpans
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...overnight American superstar rapidly descending to the white-dwarf stage. His act, something along the lines of Alice Cooper's, only more so, included a routine in which he crawled out of an elephant's behind and dueled with a baseball pitching machine. Now, his brainpan made porous by drugs, Pomeroy has withdrawn to Key West, where he maniacally stalks his old love Catherine. A man with a lot less charm or interest than the author imagines, Pomeroy is given to such gestures as nailing his hand to Catherine's front door with a gun butt...
...pitch-black Snake Charmer reigns at Paris' Jeu de Paume. She makes immense cold phallic serpents writhe into the moonlight, sleepily. One may identify with her, or them, but either way one finds Rousseau's image pasted permanently to the back of one's brainpan. Those serpents keep on slithering through the jungle of one's own nerve endings, while that level flute pours silence drawn from striped pools. Gilbert Stuart's Flautist is a man cut off from that silence, from wife and children, village, home. He sits soulnaked, haltered in other...
Behind his newspaper, the man in the train is having a fight with his face. First his mouth wambles in a wild Watutsi, then it gapes wide in a silent scream. All at once his eyebrows make a break for his brainpan, the tendons of his neck bulge in sudden constriction. Apoplexy? Withdrawal pains? Hangover? Not at all. Only a commuting executive giving himself his morning facial. Back home, blessedly unobserved, his wife is doing the same thing at the bathroom mirror...
...tops of their skulls. For the second time since the operation which separated them (TIME, Dec. 29), Plastic Surgeon Paul W. Greeley was busy with skin grafts. First, he had taken skin from Rodney's forehead and moved it back to cover part of the open brainpan. Now he set about taking skin from the baby's back to cover his forehead...
...literary curiosities of modern times was reissued on the U.S. literary counter. Hadrian the Seventh might seem caviar to some, to others only a mess of purple eggs laid by a very odd fish indeed. To all, however, it offers one of the wildest sights ever flashed on the brainpan of a madman, a kind of interior cinema of a grand delusion. The author's life is a necessary prologue to the book-and its inevitable epilogue...